He woke to the far off bellows of thunder. He sat up right in short breaths and heard the marching waters above him, the pitter-patter of that which was heaven sent sliding off the shingles on his roof. Moonlight shone through parted shades and the windows were slick with wet, slick like the sweat in his hair, the damp cling to his nightshirt. Slick like an authentic Carrara marble tub with a golden faucet; Slick like the leather on a three-thousand-dollar bomber jacket —a gift from Hillary. Slick like the wax on a new luxury model Tesla charging in the garage. Slick like...well, himself no? I mean for chrissakes he was Tom Perez god damnit and he had every right to be. I mean hadn’t he gotten away with it? Wasn’t he currently *getting* away with it? Sure they stumbled a bit in Iowa, he would be the first to admit, but they were rusty back then —unorganized and in these past few weeks the game had changed, hadn’t it? It was all his now. He had it all figured out —all planned out, and so far sans Iowa—and even in that case he and the others slid out of the backlash none too worse for wear—he had done a good job, was *doing* a good job, so said Barack and what Barack said stuck, so why then did he feel so uneasy? Why then hadn’t that hole in his chest, that void-well of dark nothing, been closed? Slick...He was feeling slick alright, but slick in the wrong way, like the slime mold that rimmed the walls of his void-well heart, like oily sludge glistening on the sides of a sewage pipe.

“Talk to me,” a voice. It was his wife's voice. She was awake beside him and rubbing his back. How long had she been doing that? “Another Nightmare?” she asked. And then he remembered. At that moment he recalled the reason for all of this, why he was awake and in his thoughts in the middle of a thunderstorm, cold with sweat and being consoled by a sleepy wife: It was the dream. Tom shivered because what was once the innocent patter of rain from above, was now the thundering rush of some demented laugh track, where the laughs were not laughs at all but feverish, audible licks of madness. Tom tried to swallow in his not-so-slick-now mouth. “It was different…” He said, “I felt... I felt a great disturbance in the DNC. It was as if millions of youth voters cried out in rage, and were suddenly...Jokerfied.” Tom’s wife said nothing, she continued to rub his back and wondered if there was anything she *could* say. Outside the rain continued to pour.

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