An aide knocked on his door, having learned through hard experience never to bother Scottie when the frenzied squeaking could be heard, nor when the smell of celebratory cigar smoke crept under the door. "Governor? Governor Walker? May we talk?" Walker sighed, taking off his souvenir Pepe Le Pew tail from Six Flags Over Illinois, a souvenir of that remarkable night, at 16, when, upon seeing that Rattus norvegicus Berkenhout (he now prided himself on his taxonomical dexterity) behind the elephant ears stand, he realized his destiny, and his need. He put on a sweatsuit and tie - it was important to him that, like his hero Ronald Reagan, he not disrespect his office - and padded to the door.
"Yeah, but this better be important. As in Prosser attempting-to-choke-the-shit-out-of-another-judge important." Another giggle slipped out, Scott always felt so high following his afternoon delight.
"Sir, the fundraising numbers are in for the first quarter." In trying to maintain his composure, his voice dropped to a near whisper. "Thirteen million dollars!"
"Yes, goddammit, YES! I knew it! My people love me!" Walker pumped his fist and did a rhythmless dance, as always with the constant refrain of Muskrat Love running through his head.
"Governor Walker, over eight million came from out of state, sir."
"What, do you think I meant the suckers of this state? I'm talking MY people, stupid! Charles and David, Mr. Adelson, Mr. Friess, and Grover, sweet Grover, such a lovely, ratty neckbeard..." Walker drifted off in reverie. The aide, having payments remaining on his Lexus, edged away, not even daring to touch the door to close it, until out of sight, then broke into a sprint, thinking of baseball.