Well Timed Promises

“There he is!” A woman yells out, cuing the roar of addressees.

“Mr. Weston!”

“Robert! Robert Weston!”

“Mr. Weston! Look over here!”

The rapid and bright flashes and the interminable camera clicks in the surrounding mob of bodies force Robert to cover his face and squint as he exits the rotating door to the front of the hotel. He quickly forces his hand down and puts on a big smile, stopping for a second to allow the press to get there clean shots in. He has always been a bit camera shy, but having recently become a star he’s had to learn to deal with the media throng.

He begins to run the gauntlet, performing the prosaic promenade of signing autographs, shaking hands, and the ceaseless thanks and gestures, even the occasional kissing of pudgy baby faces as he slowly makes his way toward the curb where the chauffeur waits to open the door to his limousine.

How did all this happen anyways? Just fifteen years ago he was a used car salesman just trying to make ends meet. Now he’s running for Presidency. Who knew a few well timed promises could bring him so much?

Finally reaching the vehicle, the Chauffeur opens the door. Robert turns to greet the crowd one last time.

“We can do it!” He yells out, waving proudly. “We can change the world.”

The eruptions are sudden, two loud bangs, one after the other. The crowd ducks down almost in unison and begins to dart away from the source as a woman screams at the top of her lungs.

Robert reaches up to cup his chest. Pulling his hands away he stares down at the deep crimson flow that coats them.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen.” He states, falling to his knees. “Not to me.”