Franken-Lies-And-the-Lying-Liars-Who-Tell

Florida Secretary of State Katherine Harris during the entire thirty-six day fiasco, the depiction
of a sexual affair between the two of them is purely fictional. As far as I know.
Florida. November. A forty-three-year-old woman named Katherine Harris paced
back and forth on a colorless carpet in an office that smelled of sweaty seersucker and dayold
perfume. Nearby, a trim, goateed man was fanning himself lazily with a Panama hat
while lying on the couch. "I swear, Katherine, I'm sweating like a nigger on Election Day.
Can't we crank up the AC in here?"
"Just tell me what to do, Mac. Just tell me what to do."
"I told you what to do, baby. I told you to turn up the AC. The important thing is that
you don't lose your cool."
"Mac, you don't understand," Harris said, worrying a blood-red fingernail. "When I
was elected secretary of state, I never suspected I'd actually have to do anything."
Stipanovich chuckled, then lifted a haunch and let out a long, rattling fart. "You have
to bring this election in for a landing." 1
"I'm not cut out for this, Mac. I've never stolen an election before," Harris said, her
voice quavering on the edge of hysteria.
Stipanovich stood up sharply, took three long strides across the office, and slapped the
trembling woman across the face. Hard. "I'm only going to say this once, Kathy. I'm not leaving
this office until the Texan's in the White House. I'm here to take care of you, Kathy. In
any way I can."
A wave of calm, mingled with desire, washed over Florida's highest-ranking election
official. It was a good to have a man around. A real man. Not one of those country club milksops,
but a living, breathing, farting man. Everyone who mattered in Florida knew Mac Stipanovich.
For corporate interests in the Sunshine State, Stipanovich was the man to see for
the project that absolutely had to be approved, the bill that simply had to pass. 2 Stipanovich
knew where the bodies were buried. Hell, he had buried more than a few of them himself.
"Hold me, Mac, I'm scared."
"I'll do more than hold you, baby," he said, crushing his mouth to her lips.
Harris recoiled at the acrid taste of cigars and rye. "You stink, Mac."
1
Jeffrey Toobin, Too Close to Call: The Thirty-six Day Battle to Decide the 2000 Election. New York: Random
House, 2001, p. 69: "You have to bring this election in for a landing." (Other dialogue is pure conjecture.)
2
Ibid., p. 68.