Creative Writing – Crook

Fearing his sweaty palms will give him away, he quickly wipes them on the inside of his expensive, suit pants pockets, takes a long, deep, calming breath and steps out of the purring car to face the fervent crowd. His flushed face is a red carpet of fake smiles, his eyes are twinkling cubic zirconia’s, as he raises his hands to a giant roar from the gathered masses; the working man’s hero, in this great pantomime of an election campaign.

He continues shaking hands and kissing babies – an actor on a stage, selling promises he knows he won’t keep to an audience greedy for more – He’d sell his own grandmother at this stage of the game – he’s in too deep, a puppet for some unseen, looming shadow.

Silly compromises in his younger days, too greedy, hungry for that little bit of extra power, but little white lies turned grey, and now they weigh heavy on him. Now his words are coal pit black, the only chink of light left in him emanates from his perfectly whitened teeth, through which lie after lie tumbles out.

He can’t help himself; he can’t back down or they’ll expose him, so he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. If he wins, they’ll use him of course; but the way he sees it, more power means more ways he can fight his way out of this political sh*t-storm waiting to happen – so for now, he keeps on smiling, kissing and shaking – telling the drooling masses exactly what they want to hear.