The local evening news had become a source of morbid fascination for Chris, watching his accidental creation wreak havoc on the political landscape of his town. He sat on the edge of the living room sofa, a bowl of cereal in his lap that he wasn't eating, and watched the screen with focused attention.
A well-coiffed news anchor with a serious expression was recapping the latest developments in the mayoral race.
"The Buckhannon recall election enters its final week," the anchor said, a graphic of the three human candidates and a blurry deer appearing over her shoulder. "The campaigns of Ralph Hardwick, Milla Slater, and Skip Jenkins, all suffering from historically low poll numbers, have taken a dramatic and unified new turn, shifting their focus from attacking each other to attacking the mysterious frontrunner, 'Bucky Watcher.'"
The segment highlighted the disastrous individual campaigns of his three rivals, with unflattering photos and embarrassing video clips. It then cut to a series of new, aggressive statements, all with a unified target: him.
The first attack came from the establishment. Ralph Hardwick's campaign had released a formal statement that was immediately posted to the Upshur County Community Forum and the Buckhannon Record Delta website. Chris had already read it three times; just paranoid political jargon.
"We must ask ourselves," the statement read, in Hardwick's stuffy prose, "who this 'Bucky Watcher' truly is. This anonymous online agitator, this faceless agent of chaos... could this be an outside interest, a shadowy force from the big cities, seeking to undermine our cherished small-town values from afar? We need a mayor we know, a leader we can trust, not some mysterious nobody hiding behind a fake name and a blurry picture."
Does he think I'm a Russian bot? Chris thought, a flicker of amusement cutting through his anxiety. I can barely get myself to the grocery store, let alone conduct an international espionage campaign from my bedroom.
The second attack came from the capitalist. A new radio ad from Milla Slater had begun to air on the local station, a slick, professionally produced piece of condescending concern-trolling. He had heard it playing from the kitchen while his mom was washing the dishes.
"While I have a detailed, ten-point plan for our town's budget, a plan rooted in sound fiscal principles," Milla Slater's smooth, condescending voice purred over a background of inspiring, generic music, "Bucky Watcher has offered nothing but silence. This silence is not leadership; it is fiscal irresponsibility. We simply cannot afford a candidate with a blank check."
A blank check? Chris thought, looking at his HUD which currently displayed his worldly wealth: $365.43. Lady, I could barely even afford a blank check.
The final attack came from the football legend. Skip Jenkins had posted a new selfie video from his farm, attempting to frame the issue as a matter of personal courage and good, old-fashioned, face-to-face accountability. He stood in front of his barn, a determined look on his face, and pointed a calloused finger at the camera.
"I'm a man who looks his neighbors in the eye," he said, his voice a serious drawl. "I'm not afraid to answer the tough questions. This Bucky Watcher is a coward, hiding behind a picture. So I'm issuing a challenge. I challenge you, Bucky, to show your face and debate me like a real man!"
A debate? Chris's thought, bemused. A duel? Does he want me to show up in a deer costume? I can't debate anyone. My primary debate skill is leaving the room when an argument starts.
Chris watched these coordinated attacks unfold online, a conflicted hope blooming in his chest. A part of him was anxious and slightly terrified. They were all coming after him. They were trying to unmask him. They were trying to drag him out into the light.
But a larger part of him thought this was his ticket out. This was the moment the dream, or rather, the nightmare, would finally end. These were real politicians, with real campaign managers and real strategies. Surely, their coordinated, multi-front attack would damage the Bucky Watcher persona. The public would see that it was all just a joke. His [Approval Rating] would sink below the required 10%, he would fail his [Campaign Trail] quest, and he would be free. He was desperately rooting for his own downfall. Come on, people, listen to them! he pleaded with the anonymous citizens of the internet. I am a mysterious nobody! I am fiscally irresponsible! Please, for the love of God, stop supporting me!
The community forum, which had embraced Bucky Watcher as their anti-establishment hero, rushed to the deer's defense with speed and ferocity.
The first reply to Ralph Hardwick's paranoid statement was from a user named "WV_Mom_of_3."
"An 'outside interest'? Ralph, it's a deer. A literal, actual deer. I think I saw him eating the tulips in my front yard last week. Calm down."
The comment was immediately followed by a new meme, a picture of the blurry deer photo with a tiny, poorly photoshopped tinfoil hat on its head. The caption read: "THEY'RE ON TO US." The forum treated his dark, conspiratorial rhetoric as the absurd, paranoid ramblings of a man who had clearly lost his grip on reality.
The response to Milla Slater's radio ad was even more savage.
"HOW IS A DEER ′FISCALLYIRRESPONSIBLE'?" Gary L. had posted, his all-caps fury now directed at the new target. "DID IT TAKE OUT A SECRET, SUB-PRIME LOAN WE DON'T KNOW ABOUT? I'M PRETTY SURE A DEER'S TEN-POINT PLAN FOR THE BUDGET IS JUST 'EAT GRASS AND AVOID CARS,' WHICH IS HONESTLY MORE SENSIBLE THAN ANYTHING THE LAST MAYOR PROPOSED."
The reaction to Skip Jenkins's call for a debate was protective mockery.
"Leave the deer alone, Skip! He's a public servant, not a prize fighter!"
"Yeah, Bucky is too busy watching out for us to waste time on your political grandstanding!"
The attacks had failed. The public, seeing the three, flailing candidates as a pack of petty, desperate bullies ganging up on their beloved, silent folk hero, had rallied with a renewed passion.
Chris, his last hope of failure dying, checked the Record Delta's nightly online tracking poll. He had been refreshing it over and over again, waiting, praying for the numbers to drop.
The poll updated.
Bucky Watcher's approval rating had surged to an astronomical 82%.
Chris stared at the number, a feeling abject horror washing over him. His rivals' clumsy attempts to tear him down had only made him stronger. He was like political Teflon. Nothing stuck to him. He was an unstoppable political force. And he definitely didn't want the job.