A Little Humor

This is a parody of this series of events that I think I will make into a short fantasy script for a television show, or maybe a Public Service Announcement we can run on local TV, help pay for the website, as follows:

Title: Elected and Regrettable, by anonymous

Chapter 1: The Internet Is Forever

The Commissioners Conference Room smelled like burnt coffee and old carpet—a combination that had seeped into the walls over thirty years of budget meetings and zoning disputes. Three mismatched chairs sat around a fake wood table that wobbled whenever anyone leaned too hard on the left side. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, one of them flickering in a rhythm that had driven the previous county clerk to early retirement.

Pam Hendricks, Commissioner President and part-time boat motor expert, sat at the head of the table with her hands folded in front of her like she was waiting for someone to tell her what to do. Her reading glasses hung on a beaded chain around her neck, and she kept reaching for them, then stopping, as if picking them up might commit her to actually reading something. “So,” she said, then stopped. She glanced at Doty, the Administrative Assistant, who sat in the corner with her laptop open, fingers poised over the keyboard like a court stenographer waiting for something worth recording. Doty’s face was professionally blank—a skill she’d perfected over six years of watching commissioners argue about whether the county fair needed porta-potties or “real facilities.”

“So,” Pam tried again, “Jim saw something.” Brad Cullerson, former farmer and current commissioner who’d once tried to expense a bag of cattle feed as “office supplies,” looked up from his phone where he’d been playing Solitaire. “Jim saw what?” “On the internet,” Pam said, like she was announcing someone had spotted Bigfoot.
Randy Kowalski, ex-Fire Chief and the only person in the room who’d ever actually managed anything successfully, leaned back in his chair hard enough to make it creak. “Well, Pam, what’d Jim do? Google himself again?”

“He Googled us,” Pam said, her voice dropping like she was confessing to a crime.
Randy’s chair came forward with a thunk. “What?”

“There’s a website,” Pam said. She pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her purse—Jim had printed it out at the library because their home printer was out of cyan. “Someone made a whole website about us. About the county. About… things we’ve done.” Brad squinted at the paper like it might bite him. “What things?”
“Junk vehicles,” Pam said. “Good Grief” Randy muttered.

“It says we’re incompetent,” Pam continued, her voice getting smaller. “It says we don’t follow our own ordinances. It says—” she glanced at the paper, “—it says we’re ‘either willfully negligent or too stupid to understand basic code enforcement.'”

There was a beat of silence.

“Well which one are we?” Brad asked. Randy shot him a look that could’ve stripped paint. “That’s not the point, Brad.”
“I’m just asking—”

“The point,” Randy said, his Fire Chief voice coming out—the one he’d used to tell rookies they’d just failed their ladder drill, “is that someone is out there telling the whole world that we don’t know what we’re doing.”

“Do we?” Brad asked. “Brad” Randy shouted.

The door opened and Pete Vickers walked in. The Commissioners Executive Assistant was six-foot-two, Coast Guard Academy pressed-and-polished, with the kind of posture that suggested he’d once rappelled out of helicopters and wanted you to remember it. He carried a leather portfolio under one arm and had the expression of a man who’d just been interrupted during something important.

“What’s this about?” he asked, not sitting down.

Pam slid the crumpled paper across the table. Pete picked it up with two fingers, like it might be contaminated, and scanned it. His jaw tightened.
“Who sent you this?”
“My husband found it,” Pam said. “On Google.”
“So it’s public,” Pete said flatly.
“That’s what Google is,” Randy said.

Pete ignored him, still reading. His expression cycled through annoyance, irritation, and then settled on controlled bureaucratic rage—the kind of anger that resulted in strongly worded memos and strategic schedule conflicts.
“This is defamation,” Pete announced.

“Is it true though?” Brad asked. Everyone turned to look at him.

“I mean,” Brad continued, because he’d already committed, “the Johnson property has had those cars sitting there for like five years. And we did tell Mrs. Johnson we’d handle it, and then we… didn’t we just kind of stop talking about it?” “We referred it to Erik, you know, that guy over at Planning and Zoning,” Pete said, each word crystallized in ice.
“Who also didn’t do anything,” Randy said.
“That’s not the point—”

“Then what is the point?” Randy snapped. “Because from where I’m sitting, someone just put up a website saying we’re incompetent, and our big defense is ‘we passed the buck to someone else who’s incompetent.'”

Pam made a small noise that might’ve been agreement or indigestion.

Pete set the paper down with the deliberate care of a man placing a live grenade. “The point is that this is a coordinated attack on county government. Someone is trying to undermine public confidence in this administration.”
“Sounds like we did that ourselves,” Brad muttered.

“What was that?” Pete’s voice could’ve flash-frozen a lake.
“Nothing.”

“We need to address this,” Pam said, trying to sound presidential. “The election is in eight months. People read the internet now. My grandson says everyone’s on it.”
“We need to find out who made this website,” Pete said. “And we need to shut it down.”
Randy snorted. “Good luck with that. You know how the internet works, Pete?”
“I was coordinating maritime rescue operations while you were hosing down fire trucks,” Pete shot back.

“Yeah, and I’m sure the Coast Guard taught you a whole unit on website takedowns,” Randy mumbles.

“Gentlemen,” Pam tried, but her voice had no weight behind it.

“Can we sue them?” Brad asked. “For libel or whatever?”
“Libel requires it to be false,” Randy said.
“So we’re admitting it’s true?”
“I’m not admitting anything, I’m saying—”

“What we need,” Pete interrupted, his voice cutting through the bickering like a PA system, “is a strategy. We need to control the narrative. We need to issue a statement.”
“Saying what?” Randy asked. “Sorry we’re bad at our jobs, please re-elect us anyway?”
“Saying that anonymous internet attacks are cowardly and that this county has been well-managed under fiscally responsible leadership.”
Brad made a face. “Have we been fiscally responsible?”
“We haven’t spent all the money,” Pam offered.
“That’s not the same thing,” Randy said.
“It’s close enough for a press release,” Pete said.

Doty, who’d been typing silently in the corner, finally spoke. “Do you want me to draft something?”

“No,” Pete said immediately. “I’ll handle communications. This needs to be managed carefully.”
“Which means lying?” Randy asked.
Pete’s smile was thin as paper. “Which means framing.”

Pam looked at the crumpled paper again, like it might have changed when she wasn’t looking. “What if more people see it? What if the newspaper writes about it?”
“Then we deny everything,” Pete said.
“Even the true parts?” Brad asked.
“Especially the true parts.”

Randy laughed—a short, sharp bark. “Well that’s a hell of a strategy. Deny, deflect, and hope everyone’s too dumb to use Google.”
“You have a better idea?” Pete asked.
Randy leaned back in his chair again, arms crossed. “Yeah. We could try actually doing our jobs.”
The room went quiet. Even the flickering fluorescent seemed to pause.

“That’s not helpful, Randy,” Pam said.
“None of this is helpful, Pam. We’ve got some citizen out there with a website and a grudge, and instead of asking why they’re pissed off, we’re sitting here trying to figure out how to cover our asses.”

“I don’t need a lecture from you,” Pete said.
“Apparently you need a lecture from someone.”

“Gentlemen,” Pam said again, louder this time. She looked at Doty. “Can you… make a note that we’re forming a committee to review the junk vehicle ordinance enforcement procedures?”
“A committee,” Randy said flatly.
“It shows we’re taking action,” Pam said.
“It shows we’re creating another layer of bureaucracy to avoid actually working.”

“Do you want to lose your seat?” Pete asked, his voice dropping into something dangerous. “Because that’s what this is about. Someone wants you gone. All of you. And they’re willing to put your failures on the internet to make it happen.”

That landed. Even Brad looked uncomfortable.

“So what do we do?” Pam asked, quieter now.

Pete straightened his portfolio. “We find out who made this website. We discredit them. And we make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“How?” Brad asked.
Pete smiled, and it wasn’t pleasant. “Leave that to me.”
He left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him with the finality of a vault locking.

The three commissioners sat in silence for a moment.

“He’s gonna make it worse, isn’t he?” Brad said.
“Probably,” Randy agreed.

Pam looked at the crumpled paper one more time, then pushed it away. “Meeting adjourned.”

Doty closed her laptop.

Outside, through the tall courthouse windows, the Minute, North Dakota countryside sprawled out under gray February skies—fields and strip malls and scattered houses, all of them blissfully unaware that their commissioners were in full panic mode.

For now.

Chapter 2: The Clean Desk Policy

Erik Dandy arrived seventeen minutes late to the meeting, which was early by his standards. He wore a lime-green tie with tiny sailboats on it, paired with a purple shirt that suggested he’d either lost a bet or had been dressed by a colorblind relative. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine—the kind of shine that said “I care deeply about appearances” while his perpetually empty desk said “but not about work.”

He knocked on the doorframe even though the door was open, a little courtesy flourish he’d picked up at a government management seminar in Bismarck.
“Pam, you wanted to see me?” Pam looked up from the crumpled printout she’d been staring at for the past twenty minutes. Her gray hair, which she’d been meaning to get cut for about six months, hung limply around her shoulders. She was wearing what Randy privately called her “substitute teacher dress”—shapeless, floral, and approximately fifteen years out of style. She’d put on lipstick this morning, a bright red that she now worried made her look like she was trying too hard. She glanced at Pete, wondering if he’d noticed, then immediately felt ridiculous for caring.

“Erik,” she said, trying to sound presidential, “what did you do with that junk vehicle complaint from Mrs. Johnson? You know, from a couple years ago?”
Erik’s smile didn’t waver. “I gave it to Travis. He’s handling it.”

The room went very still.

Randy, who’d been leaning back in his chair examining a water stain on the ceiling tile, brought his chair forward with a thump. “Oh boy. You gave that complaint to Travis. Wow. We’re in the big Do-Do now.”
Erik blinked. “Travis is very competent—”
“Travis is a lawyer,” Randy said, like he was identifying a particularly unpleasant species of beetle.
“That’s his job, yes.”
“Lawyers don’t handle things, Erik. They bill you for thinking about handling things.”

Brad, who’d been mentally calculating whether he had enough oil in the garage to change the tractor filter or if he’d need to make a run to the farm supply, looked up. “Who’s Travis again?”

“The county attorney,” Doty said from her corner, not looking up from her laptop where she was apparently having an in-depth conversation with ChatGPT about why the dot-matrix printer kept printing Qs that looked like Ks.
“Oh right,” Brad said. “The tall guy.”
“They’re all tall to you, Brad,” Randy muttered.
Brad shrugged. “Well he is.”

Erik remained standing by the door, his clean-desk, nothing-sticks-to-me aura beginning to show cracks. “Travis said he’d review the ordinance and provide guidance on enforcement procedures.”
“When did he say that?” Pam asked.
“Two years ago.”
“And since then?”
Erik’s smile stayed perfectly in place. “I run a clean desk, Pam. Once something’s delegated, I don’t micromanage. Travis knows what he’s doing. The people in my office know what they’re doing. They do their thing, I do my thing.”
“And what exactly is your thing?” Randy asked.
“Strategic oversight.”
“Which means what?”
“It means I don’t mess with those people out there in the office. They’re professionals.”
Randy looked at Pam. “Is he serious right now?”
Pam ignored him. “Erik, there’s a website. Someone made a website about us. About the county. About how we don’t enforce our own ordinances.”
Erik’s smile finally flickered. “A website?”
“On the internet,” Brad added helpfully.
“I know what a website is, Brad.”
“Do you though?” Randy asked.

Pete, who’d been standing by the window with his arms crossed like he was surveying a disaster zone, turned around. “Erik, how many open code enforcement cases are currently assigned to your department?”
“I’d have to check—”
“Ballpark it.”
“Maybe… thirty?”
“Try ninety-seven,” Pete said. “I pulled the database this morning.”
Erik’s tie suddenly seemed a little too tight. “Well, some of those are probably closed. The system doesn’t always update—”
“The system updates when you tell it to update,” Pete said. “Which requires someone to actually do something.”

“Hey Pete,” Pam interrupted, partly to save Erik and partly because she’d been thinking about this all morning, “what is happening with that website thing? You got a plan? What’s happening?”
Pete’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, I got a plan. What do you think I’ve been doing for the last two weeks?”
“I don’t know,” Randy said. “What have you been doing?”
“Working.”
“On what?”
“On finding out who’s behind this.”
“And?”
Pete hesitated, which was unusual for him. Pete doesn’t hesitate. Pete made decisions and then defended them with the conviction of a man who’d once coordinated helicopter rescues in forty-foot seas.
“Any of you guys know someone named Otis something-or-other?”
The commissioners looked at each other.
“Otis what?” Pam asked.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“There’s an Otis that works at the grain elevator,” Brad offered. “Big guy. Chews tobacco.”
“Not him.”
“Otis Redding?” Brad tried.
Everyone stared at him.
“The singer,” Brad clarified. “You know, ‘Sitting on the Dock of the Bay.'”
“He’s dead, Brad,” Randy said.
“Oh. Yeah.”

Pam shifted in her seat, suddenly remembering. “You know, my grandson Bobby asked me yesterday if I saw that CBS truck down by Mrs. Johnson’s place. You know, those trucks with the big dish antennas on the top?” She paused, making sure everyone was listening. “He said there was a couple of guys taking pictures of those junk cars across the street from her place. He said it was cool.”

The temperature in the room dropped about fifteen degrees.

“CBS?” Randy said quietly.
“That’s what Bobby said.”
“Like the TV network CBS?”
“I assume so. How many CBS’s are there?”
Pete moved away from the window. “When was this?”
“Yesterday. Maybe the day before. Bobby mentioned it when I was picking him up from his friend’s house.”
“And you’re just telling us this now?”
Pam bristled. “I didn’t know it was important! Bobby talks about all kinds of things. Last week he spent twenty minutes telling me about a dog he saw.”
“A dog didn’t put us on the internet, Pam!”
“Don’t yell at me, Pete.”
“I’m not yelling—”
“You’re using your helicopter voice,” Brad said.
Pete turned to look at Brad, who immediately found something fascinating about his thumbnail.

Erik, still standing awkwardly by the door, cleared his throat. “Should I… should I stay for this?”
“Sit down, Erik,” Pam said.
Erik sat, pulling out a chair that squeaked against the floor. His lime-green tie seemed to glow under the fluorescent lights.
Randy leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So let me get this straight. We’ve got a website calling us incompetent. We’ve got CBS—actual CBS—taking pictures of junk cars we were supposed to handle two years ago. And our big plan is to track down some guy named Otis and hope Travis the lawyer magically fixes everything?”
“When you put it like that—” Pam started.
“How else should I put it?”
“Travis is very thorough,” Erik offered weakly.
“Travis is a lawyer,” Randy repeated. “You know what lawyers are good at? Making things take longer and cost more.”

Doty spoke up from her laptop. “ChatGPT says the printer problem might be a font corruption issue.”
Everyone ignored her.

Pete paced to the window and back. His Coast Guard posture was still perfect, but there was something in his shoulders now—a tightness that suggested even he didn’t have a answer for this one.
“We need to get ahead of this,” he said finally. “If CBS is sniffing around, that means someone talked to them. Someone local. Someone who knows enough to point them at the Johnson property specifically.”
“You think it’s Otis?” Brad asked.
“I think it’s someone.”
“Real helpful, Pete,” Randy said.
“You got a better theory?”
“Yeah. We messed up. Someone noticed. And now we’re scrambling to blame some mystery person instead of fixing the actual problem.”

Erik adjusted his sailboat tie. “I could ask Travis to expedite the Johnson case.”
“It’s been two years, Erik. How much more expedited can it get?”
“He’s very busy—”
“Doing what?”
Erik didn’t have an answer for that.

Pam looked around the table—at Randy with his crossed arms and fire chief scowl, at Brad who was probably thinking about tractor maintenance, at Erik in his ridiculous tie, at Pete who looked like he wanted to coordinate an evacuation. And at Doty, quietly typing away in the corner, trying to fix a printer that hadn’t worked properly since 2008.
“So what does Travis actually do with these complaints?” Pam asked.
Erik brightened slightly. “He reviews them for legal sufficiency.”
“And then?”
“He provides guidance on appropriate next steps.”
“Which are?”
“That depends on the specific circumstances of each case.”

Randy put his head in his hands. “We’re doomed.”
“We’re not doomed,” Pete said, though he didn’t sound convinced.
“CBS is taking pictures of our failures, Pete. That’s pretty much the definition of doomed.”

Brad spoke up, surprising everyone. “You know what my wife says? She says when the barn’s on fire, you don’t sit around talking about who left the lantern lit. You grab a bucket.”
Everyone turned to look at him.
“That’s… actually not bad advice,” Randy admitted.
“She wanted to be a nun before she met me,” Brad said. “She’s real practical.”

Pam straightened in her chair, trying to channel some kind of presidential authority. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Pete, you keep working on finding out who made the website. Erik, you talk to Travis and find out what the heck he’s been doing for two years. Randy, Brad, and I will… we’ll…”
“We’ll what?” Randy asked.
Pam deflated slightly. “I don’t know. We’ll form a committee.”
“Oh for crying out loud—”

“To review enforcement procedures!” Pam said, voice rising. “We’ll review the junk vehicle ordinance and make sure we’re following it properly from now on.”
“Starting when?”
“Starting now.”
Randy laughed, sharp and bitter. “Two years too late, but sure. Why not.”

Pete checked his watch, a habit from his Coast Guard days when every minute mattered. “I have to make some calls. Erik, I want a full list of every open code case by end of business today.”
“That’s a lot of work—”
“Then you better get started.”
Erik stood, his clean-desk policy suddenly looking more like a liability than a management strategy. He nodded to Pam and slipped out the door, his lime-green tie disappearing into the hallway like a distress signal fading into fog.

The room settled into uncomfortable silence.

Doty closed her laptop with a soft click. “Should I make a note about the committee?”
“Sure,” Pam said tiredly. “Committee to Review Junk Vehicle Ordinance Enforcement Procedures. Members are… all of us, I guess.”
“First meeting?”
“Next week sometime.”
“Specific day?”
Pam looked at Randy, then Brad, then Pete. Nobody volunteered anything.
“I’ll send out a poll,” Doty said, already making notes.

Pete gathered his leather portfolio. “We need to be ready for whatever Travis is or isn’t doing. Because if CBS runs a story, and we can’t explain why the county attorney sat on complaints for two years, this gets a lot worse.”
“How much worse?” Brad asked.
Pete didn’t answer. He just left, closing the door behind him with the careful control of a man who wanted to slam it but knew better.

Randy stood and stretched. “Well. This has been fun.”
“What are you going to do?” Pam asked.
“Me? I’m going to go home and have a beer. Maybe two.”
“We still have work—”
“Pam, we’ve been sitting here for an hour accomplishing nothing. That’s what we do. That’s what we’re good at. Sitting in rooms, talking about problems, and then going home.”
He left too, footsteps echoing down the hallway.

Brad looked at Pam. “I should probably get home. That tractor oil won’t change itself.”
“Yeah,” Pam said quietly. “Go ahead.”
Brad stood, gave her an awkward little wave, and shuffled out.

Pam sat alone with Doty, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, one of them still flickering in that maddening rhythm.
“Do you think we’re in trouble?” Pam asked.
Doty looked up from her laptop. She had kind eyes, Pam thought. Patient eyes. The eyes of someone who’d watched commissioners panic about things for six years and knew that most of it blew over eventually.
“I think,” Doty said carefully, “that Travis is going to do whatever Travis does. And then we’ll deal with it.”
“What does Travis do?”
Doty smiled, just a little. “That’s the mystery, isn’t it?”
She packed up her laptop and left Pam sitting in the empty conference room, surrounded by the ghosts of ninety-seven unresolved complaints and one very bright red lipstick she was definitely going to wipe off before anyone else saw her.

Outside the window, Minute, North Dakota went about its business—cars driving past the courthouse, people buying groceries, kids getting off school buses—all of them blissfully unaware that their county government was held together by hope, habit, and the terrifying question of what exactly Travis Baldwin had been doing for the last two years.

Chapter 3: The Cabo Solution

One week later, the conference room looked exactly the same—same wobbly table, same flickering light, same burnt coffee smell that had achieved permanent residence in the carpet fibers. The commissioners were back in their assigned seats like students in a classroom nobody wanted to be in. Pam sat at the head of the table wearing a different frumpy dress, this one in a shade of beige that made her look like she was camouflaging against the wall. She’d skipped the lipstick today.
Randy was already annoyed, which was his default setting for commissioner meetings. Brad was present in body but clearly thinking about something agricultural. Pete stood by the window in his usual spot, arms crossed, looking like he was monitoring a search-and-rescue operation that wasn’t going well.

“So,” Pam said, trying to sound presidential and mostly just sounding tired, “has anyone seen Travis? Or talked to him?”
Silence.
“Anyone?” Pam tried again.
Brad looked up. “About what?”
“About the Johnson complaint. The junk vehicles. The thing Erik gave him two years ago?”
“Oh.” Brad thought about it. “No.”
“Randy?”
“I avoid lawyers on principle,” Randy said. “Especially that one.”
“Pete?”
Pete didn’t turn from the window. “I left him three voicemails. No response.”
“Three?”
“One on Monday. One on Wednesday. One yesterday.”
“And?”
“And nothing. His voicemail is full now.”
Pam frowned. “That’s odd.”
“That’s Travis,” Randy muttered.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means Travis does whatever Travis wants, and the rest of us can wait.”

Brad shifted in his chair. “I thought he was supposed to be helping us.”
“He’s supposed to be reviewing the complaint for legal sufficiency,” Pete said, still not turning around. “Whatever that means.”
“It means he’s stalling,” Randy said.
“You don’t know that—”
“I know lawyers, Pete. They’re like cats. They only show up when there’s something in it for them.”

Pam tapped her fingers on the table, a nervous habit she’d developed around the same time the website appeared. “Well we need to talk to him. CBS was taking pictures. We’ve got that website calling us incompetent. Erik says Travis has ninety-seven open cases just sitting there—”
“Ninety-seven?” Brad looked genuinely surprised. “That seems like a lot.”
“It is a lot, Brad.”
“Shouldn’t someone do something about those?”
Randy laughed, sharp and humorless. “That’s literally what we’re trying to figure out.”

From her corner, Doty had been quietly typing on her laptop, barely visible behind the screen. She was wearing gray today—gray cardigan, gray slacks—she could’ve been a piece of office furniture except for the soft clicking of her keyboard.
“He’s down in Cabo,” she said, not looking up.
The room went very still.
“What?” Pam said.
“Travis. He’s in Cabo.”
“Cabo as in… Mexico Cabo?” Randy asked.
“Is there another one?”
Pete finally turned from the window. “What’s he doing in Mexico?”
Doty kept typing. “Went down there with Deputy Franko over the weekend. Some kind of Homeland Security workshop or something. For the week.”
The commissioners stared at her.
“He’s in Mexico,” Pam said slowly, like she was translating a foreign language, “at a workshop.”
“Homeland Security,” Doty confirmed.
“While we’ve got CBS taking pictures and a website dragging us through the mud.”
“Yep.”
Randy leaned back in his chair hard enough to make it creak dangerously. “Of course he is. Of course. Why would our county attorney be here dealing with actual county problems when he could be in Cabo with Deputy Franko?”
“You know Deputy Franko?” Brad asked.
“No, not me.”
“Just wondering.”
Pete crossed his arms tighter, if that was possible. “How do you know about this, Doty?”
Doty finally looked up from her laptop, her expression as neutral as Switzerland. “I bought the plane tickets.”
“You what?”
“The plane tickets. And the hotel. And the seminar registration. Want to see the brochure?” She gestured to a folder on the corner of the table. “He always has me schedule these trips. It’s his budget.”

Pam reached for the folder like it might explode. She pulled out a glossy brochure—full color, professional design, the kind of thing that cost money to print. The title read: “Cross-Border Law Enforcement Coordination Summit: Emerging Threats and Multi-Agency Response Strategies.” Below that, in smaller print: “Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. February 8-12. Continuing Education Credits Available.” And below that, in even smaller print: “Spouses and guests welcome. Golf packages available.”

Pam set the brochure down very carefully. “Golf packages.” “It’s a nice course apparently,” Doty said. “Five stars on TripAdvisor.” Randy snatched the brochure and scanned it, his face getting progressively redder. “Emerging threats. Multi-agency response. This is a vacation. This is a taxpayer-funded vacation with Deputy Franko to play golf in Mexico.” “The seminar is real,” Doty said. “There are actual classes. He’s supposed to bring back a certificate.” “I’m sure he will,” Randy said. “Right after the massage and the round of eighteen holes.”

Brad was squinting at the brochure over Randy’s shoulder. “Is that the ocean in the background?” “Yes, Brad. That’s the ocean.” “Looks nice.”

“It’s not about whether it’s nice—”

“I’m just saying it looks nice. My wife always wanted to go to Mexico.”
Randy turned to look at him. “Brad, we are in the middle of a crisis.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? Because you’re talking about vacation destinations.”
“I can care about two things at once,” Brad said defensively.

Pete moved to the table and picked up the brochure. He read it silently, his jaw working like he was chewing something bitter. “When does he get back?”
“Sunday night,” Doty said. “Red-eye flight. He’ll be back in the office Monday.”
“That’s four more days.”
“Yes.”
“And in the meantime, we’ve got ninety-seven open cases, a website calling us incompetent, and CBS poking around Mrs. Johnson’s junk cars.”
“That’s correct.”
Pete set the brochure down with the kind of precision that suggested he was imagining setting something else down—like Travis himself. “This is unacceptable.”
“Take it up with the budget committee,” Doty said. “Training and professional development is in his contract.”
“This isn’t training—”
“Technically it is. There are classes. Certification. Credits toward bar requirements.”
“With golf packages.”
“The golf is extra. Travis pays for that himself.”
“How generous.”

Pam was rubbing her temples, a headache forming behind her eyes. “So our county attorney, the person who’s supposed to be helping us with enforcement procedures and legal guidance, is in Mexico playing golf while we’re trying to figure out how to respond to public criticism about not enforcing our ordinances.”
“That’s a pretty accurate summary,” Randy said.
“And Deputy Franko went along.”
“For the law enforcement coordination component,” Doty said. “Cross-border issues affect both offices technically.”
“Does it though?” Randy asked.
“Does what?”
“Does cross-border law enforcement coordination affect Minute, North Dakota? Because last I checked, we’re about fifteen hundred miles from Mexico, and our biggest border issue is people cutting through the Henderson farm to avoid the stop sign on County Road 12.”
“That’s a valid point,” Brad said.
“Thank you, Brad.”
“We should probably do something about that stop sign situation.”
“Brad, focus.”

Pete paced to the window and back, his limp slightly more pronounced than usual—it always got worse when he was agitated. “So we wait. Four more days, then Travis gets back, and then maybe—maybe—he’ll tell us what he’s been doing with these complaints.”
“Or not doing,” Randy added.
“Or not doing,” Pete agreed.

Pam looked at the brochure again, at the blue ocean and the palm trees and the promise of golf packages available. She thought about her lipstick from last week, about how she’d worried it was too bright, about how stupid that seemed now compared to this.
“Does the Sheriff know?” she asked quietly.
Everyone turned to look at her.
“Does Sheriff Drummond know that Deputy Franko is in Cabo with the county attorney? On county time?”
Doty consulted her laptop. “The Sheriff signed the travel authorization form, cost $8,456 for each of them. So yes.”
The room went even more still, if that was possible.

“Eight thousand…” Randy’s voice trailed off.
“Four hundred and fifty-six dollars,” Doty completed. “Per person. That’s flights, hotel, registration, per diem, ground transportation.”
“Sixteen thousand nine hundred and twelve dollars,” Pete said flatly. He’d always been quick with numbers.
“Plus tax,” Doty added helpfully.
Brad’s eyes had gone wide. “That’s… that’s almost a new tractor.”
“It’s seventeen thousand dollars for a vacation,” Randy said, his voice getting louder.
“Professional development,” Doty corrected.
“I don’t care what you call it—”
“The budget line item calls it professional development.”
“Doty—”
“I’m just telling you what the forms say.”

Pam’s headache was getting worse. “The Sheriff signed off on seventeen thousand dollars?”
“He signed the authorization form,” Doty confirmed. “Whether he looked at the cost breakdown is another question.”
“Did we?” Pam asked weakly. “Did we look at the cost?”
Doty pulled up something on her laptop. “The authorization form you signed had a budget summary attached. Second page.”
“I don’t remember a second page,” Randy said.
“There were fifteen forms that day,” Doty reminded him. “Budget amendment week.”
“Stop saying that like it’s an excuse!”
“I’m not excusing anything. I’m just stating facts.”

Pete had gone very quiet again, which was his most dangerous mode. “Seventeen thousand dollars.”
“Plus tax,” Doty said again.
“Stop saying plus tax!”
Pam was rubbing her temples harder now. “So the Sheriff signed off on this. We signed off on this. Nobody bothered to actually read what we were signing. And now Travis and Deputy Franko are in Mexico for seventeen thousand dollars while we’re trying to figure out how to respond to public criticism about not enforcing our ordinances.”
“That’s a pretty accurate summary,” Randy said, his earlier phrase now sounding hollow.
Brad spoke up quietly. “You could buy a really nice tractor for seventeen thousand dollars.”
“Brad, we’re not talking about tractors—”
“I’m just saying. That’s a lot of money.”
“We know it’s a lot of money!”
“Then why did we spend it on a vacation to Mexico?”
Nobody had a good answer for that.

The fluorescent light flickered overhead, keeping time with the collective realization that they’d all signed off on something that was either going to blow over quietly or explode spectacularly in their faces.
“We wait,” Pete said finally, though he sounded less certain than before. “We wait for Travis to come back from his seventeen-thousand-dollar professional development opportunity, and then we have a very pointed conversation.”
“And if he doesn’t care?” Randy asked.
“Then we escalate.”
“To who?”
Pete didn’t answer that. There wasn’t really anyone to escalate to. And even if there was, they’d all signed the authorization forms.

Brad spoke up again, his voice thoughtful. “You know what my wife says about waiting?”
Everyone looked at him.
“She says waiting is just another word for avoiding. She wanted to be a nun, so she’s real direct about these things.”
“That’s… actually kind of profound, Brad,” Pam said.
“She’s a smart lady. Practical.”
“So what would she suggest we do?”
Brad thought about it. “Probably stop waiting and start doing something ourselves.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. I’m just the messenger.”
Randy laughed, and this time it was almost genuine. “Brad’s wife—who wanted to be a nun—is giving us better leadership advice than our actual county attorney who’s currently in Mexico on seventeen thousand dollars of taxpayer money.”
“She does have good ideas,” Brad agreed.

Pete checked his watch. “Meeting adjourned. We reconvene Monday after Travis gets back. And someone—” he looked at Doty, “—make sure Travis is actually on that return flight.”
“You want me to track him?”
“I want to know he’s coming back. Call the airline if you have to.”
“That’s probably illegal.”
“So’s not doing your job, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping anyone.”
Doty made a note on her laptop, her expression carefully neutral.
The commissioners started to gather their things. Randy reached for the brochure, Brad pushed back from the table, and Pete moved toward the door.

“Wait,” Pam said suddenly. “Who is Deputy Franko anyway? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him.”
Everyone paused, halfway between sitting and standing.
Doty looked up from her laptop, that same neutral expression firmly in place. “Oh, you’ve all seen Franko. Rides that big Moto Guzzi patrol bike that starts the Fourth of July parade—the one with the red flashing light on top. That’s a big hummer. I don’t know how she handles it.”

The room went very still.

Outside the courthouse, Minute, North Dakota continued its quiet existence—grocery shopping, school pickup, oil changes on tractors—completely unaware that their county government had just discovered something that changed everything.

The fluorescent light flickered once, then went dark.

Chapter 4: Pete Finds Otis (Sort Of)

Pete Vickers arrived at the commissioner’s conference room fifteen minutes early, which was unusual. He was already sitting at the table when Pam walked in, his leather portfolio open, a road map folded to a specific section sitting next to his coffee cup like a trophy.
He looked, for the first time in weeks, like a man who had accomplished something.

Pam noticed immediately. “You look like the cat that ate the canary.”
“I found Otis,” Pete said.
Pam stopped halfway to her chair. “You what?”
“Otis. The name I mentioned two weeks ago. I found him. Or at least where he lives.”
Randy walked in behind Pam, still unwrapping his jacket. “Found who?”
“Otis,” Pam said, still staring at Pete.
Randy stopped. “The Otis?”
“Unless there’s another one we don’t know about,” Pete said.

Brad shuffled in last, carrying a gas station coffee cup and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. He sat down, looked around at the assembled faces, and apparently decided whatever was happening could wait until he’d had more coffee. Doty materialized in her corner like she always did, laptop open before anyone noticed she’d arrived.

Pete smoothed the road map with both hands, the way a general might spread a battle plan across a war room table. “Peters Slough Road. Out past the old Hendrickson property. About eleven miles east of town.”
Randy leaned forward to look at the map. “That’s way out there.”
“Old farmstead,” Pete continued. “Been there a while by the look of it. Chain link fence around the whole property.”
“Chain link?” Randy raised an eyebrow. “That’s either a man who values his privacy or a man who doesn’t want visitors.”
“Both, I’d say,” Pete said. “He’s got one of those satellite dishes on the house too. One of those Skylink or Skybeam things. Big one.”

The room went quiet for a moment as everyone processed the significance of that detail.
“So he’s got internet,” Pam said slowly.
“High speed internet,” Pete confirmed. “Out in the middle of nowhere, eleven miles from town, with a chain link fence and a satellite dish.”
“That’s our guy,” Randy said.
“That’s my thinking.”
Brad looked up from his coffee. “What’s a Skybeam thing?”
“Satellite internet, Brad,” Randy said. “You beam it off a satellite.”
“Like space?”
“Yes. Like space.”
Brad considered this. “Huh. They can do that?”
“They’ve been doing it for years.”
“Nobody tells me anything.”

Pete tapped the map with one finger, reclaiming the room’s attention. “The point is, whoever lives out there has got fast enough internet to run a website, post videos, upload pictures, all of it. From eleven miles outside of town where nobody would think to look.”
“Smart,” Randy admitted grudgingly.
“Very smart,” Pete agreed.
“So what did he say?” Pam asked. “When you went out there, what did Otis say?”
Pete’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly—just a slight tightening around the jaw, a barely detectable adjustment of posture.
“I didn’t exactly speak to him,” Pete said.
“Why not?”
Pete straightened his tie with the deliberate care of a man choosing his words carefully. “There were some complications.”
“What kind of complications?”
“The four-legged kind.”
Randy stopped. “Dogs?”
“Three of them,” Pete said. “Came out of a shed by the house. Fast.”
“How fast?”
“Fast enough that I made a strategic decision to conduct further reconnaissance from inside my vehicle.”
The room was quiet for a moment.
“They chased you back to your car,” Randy said.
“I made a strategic decision—”
“Pete. They chased you back to your car.”
Pete’s Coast Guard posture remained impeccable, but something behind his eyes suggested this particular line of questioning was unwelcome. “I was in unfamiliar territory, approaching an unknown subject’s property without backup, and three large dogs presented a situational hazard that warranted—”
“What kind of dogs?” Brad asked.
Everyone looked at him.
“I’m just asking,” Brad said. “There’s a difference between three Labs and three Rottweilers.”
“They weren’t Labs,” Pete said tightly.
“Rottweilers?”
“I didn’t stop to check their papers, Brad.”
“Big though?”
“Yes. Big.”
Brad nodded sagely. “Yeah, you don’t mess with farm dogs. My neighbor Dale had a German Shepherd that took a chunk out of the propane guy’s leg. Propane guy still drives past real slow.”
“That’s a fascinating story,” Randy said, “but can we focus on the fact that Pete found Otis, drove all the way out to Peters Slough Road, got within sight of the property, and then retreated because of three dogs?”
“I didn’t retreat—”
“You drove away.”
“After assessing the situation.”
“From inside your locked SUV.”
Pete’s jaw tightened. “The windows were down.”
Randy burst out laughing—the genuine kind, the kind that came from somewhere deep and couldn’t be stopped even when he clearly wanted to stop it.
“It’s not funny,” Pete said.
“It’s a little funny,” Pam said, trying and failing to keep a straight face.
“It’s really funny,” Randy managed between laughs.

“Three dogs versus a Coast Guard Academy graduate,” Brad said thoughtfully. “Dogs win. That’s just nature.”
“I wasn’t defeated by the dogs,” Pete said stiffly. “I made a tactical withdrawal to reassess my approach.”
“And what’s your reassessed approach?” Pam asked.
Pete straightened his portfolio with crisp, precise movements. “I’m going back. With a plan.”
“What kind of plan?” Randy asked, still grinning.
“A plan that accounts for the dogs.”
“Are you going to bring steaks?” Brad asked. “My wife always says if you want to make friends with a farm dog, bring something worth their time.”
“I’m not trying to make friends with them—”
“Then what’s the plan?”
Pete paused. “I’m still working on that part.”

Randy shook his head, still smiling. “So to summarize—we know where Otis lives, we can’t get to Otis, we don’t know Otis’s last name, and our best investigator was run off the property by three dogs of undetermined breed.”

“That’s an uncharitable summary.”
“Is it inaccurate?”
Pete said nothing, which was itself an answer.

Pam tapped the road map. “So what do we actually know about Otis? Anything beyond the address and the dogs?”
Pete flipped open his portfolio. “Older gentleman, based on what the county assessor’s records show. Property’s been in the same name since 1987. Paid his taxes every year. No violations on record, which—” he paused with a thin smile, “—is more than we can say for some of our constituents.”

“What name?” Randy asked. “The property records. What name is on them?”
Pete looked down at his notes. “Obert. Otis Obert.”
“Otis Obert,” Brad repeated slowly. “That’s a name.”
“It really is,” Pam agreed.
“Otis Obert of Peters Slough Road,” Randy said. “Satellite internet, chain link fence, three large dogs, and apparently enough time and motivation to build a website about county government incompetence.”
“That about covers it,” Pete said.
“And we can’t talk to him because of the dogs.”
“We can’t talk to him yet.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference,” Pete said, closing his portfolio with a snap, “is that yet implies a solution is forthcoming.”
“And is it?”
“I’m working on it.”

Doty spoke up quietly from her corner. “Animal control,” she said, not looking up from her laptop.
Everyone turned to look at her.
“Animal control?” Pete repeated.
“If the dogs are loose on an unfenced—well, chain-link fenced—property and posing a threat to visitors, you could call animal control. Have them assessed. It would give you a legal reason to be on the property.”
The room considered this.
“That’s not bad,” Randy admitted.
“It’s actually pretty good,” Pam said.

Pete looked at Doty with the expression of a man who didn’t love the fact that his best idea had just come from someone else. “That’s one option.”
“Or,” Brad said, “you could just call him on the phone.”
Silence.
“Does he have a phone?” Pam asked.
Everyone looked at Pete.
Pete opened his portfolio again, scanning his notes. He turned one page, then another. Then he closed it again.
“I’ll look into that,” he said.
Randy put his head in his hands. “We have the address, we have the name, and nobody thought to check if he has a phone number.”
“I was focused on the physical location—”
“Pete. It’s called a phone book.”
“Nobody uses phone books anymore—”
“Then it’s called Google,” Randy said. “Which, ironically, is the same tool that got us into this mess in the first place.”
Brad raised his hand slightly. “My wife could probably find his number. She knows everybody out that way. Her cousin’s husband farms about two miles from Peters Slough.”
Everyone stared at him.
“What?” Brad said. “She grew up out there.”
“Brad,” Pam said carefully, “are you telling us that your wife might personally know Otis Obert?”
Brad thought about it. “She might know of him. Whether she knows him knows him, I couldn’t say.”
“Could you ask her?”
“I could ask her.”
“Tonight?”
“I suppose.”

Randy looked at the ceiling. “We have a Coast Guard Academy graduate, a twenty-year career Fire Chief, and a former marina owner, and our best lead on tracking down the man who built a website about our incompetence is asking Brad’s wife.”
“She wanted to be a nun,” Brad reminded them. “She’s very resourceful.”
“Of course she is.”

Pete stood, gathering his things with the crisp efficiency of a man reclaiming whatever dignity remained available to him. “Fine. Brad asks his wife. I look into the phone number. And I go back out to Peters Slough Road with a better plan.”
“And the dog situation?” Randy asked.
“I’ll handle the dog situation.”
“How?”
Pete picked up his portfolio and headed for the door. “I’ll figure something out.”
He left, his limp slightly more pronounced than usual, the road map still sitting on the table like evidence of a battle that hadn’t quite gone according to plan.
Brad picked it up, studied it for a moment, then set it back down. “Peters Slough Road. I’ve driven out that way a few times. Nice country.”
“Brad,” Pam said, “talk to your wife tonight.”
“Already planning on it.” He stood, tucking his gas station cup under his arm. “She’ll know something. She always does.”
He shuffled out, leaving Pam and Randy sitting at the wobbly table.

“Are we actually making progress?” Pam asked.
Randy thought about it. “We know his name. We know where he lives. We know he’s got satellite internet and three dogs and has been paying his property taxes since 1987.”
“That’s something.”
“It’s something,” Randy agreed. He stood, pushing his chair back. “Whether it’s enough is another question entirely.”
He left, footsteps echoing down the hallway.

Pam sat alone with Doty, the conference room settling into its familiar silence, the fluorescent light humming overhead in that maddening flicker.
“Do you think Pete will actually go back out there?” Pam asked.
Doty closed her laptop. “Pete doesn’t like unfinished business.”
“No. He doesn’t.”
“He’ll go back.” She paused. “Whether the dogs cooperate is another matter.”
She packed up and left, the door clicking softly behind her.

Pam looked at the road map still sitting on the table, at the small penciled circle Pete had drawn around a spot eleven miles east of town where an old man named Otis Obert sat behind a chain link fence with three large dogs and a satellite dish, quietly documenting the failures of Minute County government one webpage at a time.
She almost admired him.

Almost.

Outside the courthouse, Minute, North Dakota went about its business, completely unaware that the balance of power in this particular small drama had just shifted—not toward the commissioners, not toward Pete and his strategic retreats, but toward an old farmstead on Peters Slough Road where three dogs and a satellite dish were, for the moment, winning. It was snowing and 23 below.

Chapter 5: Campaign Season

Pam walked into the conference room carrying the Minute Monitor, the weekly newspaper that covered everything from school lunch menus to planning commission meetings with equal enthusiasm. She dropped it on the table with more force than necessary, the paper landing with a satisfying slap that made everyone look up.

“Well,” she said, “I see Brad’s made it official.”
Randy was already in his chair, working on what looked like his third cup of coffee. “Made what official?”
“His reelection campaign.” Pam flipped the paper open to page three, where a modest but professionally formatted announcement sat in the local politics section. “It’s in today’s Monitor.”
Brad, who’d been quietly working on his own coffee and thinking about whether the Ford dealership was having a sale on truck tires, looked up. “Oh. Yeah. That.”
“That?” Pam repeated. “Brad, this is a full column announcement. Professional layout. Bullet points. The works.”
Brad shrugged. “My wife wrote it.”
“Of course she did,” Randy muttered, reaching for the paper. He scanned the announcement, his eyebrows climbing higher with each paragraph. “Good grief, Brad. This is practically a campaign platform.”
“Is it?” Brad looked genuinely uncertain. “She said it was just a notice of intention.”
“Let me read this,” Randy said, clearing his throat dramatically. “Commissioner Brad Cullerson announces his intention to seek a second term representing the citizens of Minute County. In his first term, Commissioner Cullerson has been a steadfast supporter of courthouse operations, working tirelessly to build relationships with other elected officials.”
“That sounds nice,” Brad said.
“Does it though?” Randy continued reading. “Commissioner Cullerson has consistently supported law enforcement initiatives, including funding for the new jail expansion and the mental health crisis wing. He believes in keeping our community safe and has worked to ensure our law enforcement professionals have the resources they need.”

Pete, standing at his usual spot by the window, didn’t turn around. “Sounds like a campaign announcement to me.”

“It gets better,” Randy said. “Commissioner Cullerson is committed to responsible governance and fiscal accountability. He does not support measures that would turn Minute County into a sanctuary city, and remains dedicated to upholding the rule of law.”

Pam leaned against the table. “Sanctuary city? Brad, we’re in North Dakota. We’re fifteen hundred miles from the border.”
“That’s what I said,” Brad agreed. “But my wife said it was important to take a stand on things.”
“On things that have absolutely nothing to do with county government?”
“She said it shows I have principles.”

Randy kept reading, shaking his head. “Built relationships with other elected officials. Supported courthouse figures. Worked tirelessly on law enforcement funding.” He set the paper down. “Brad, did you actually work on any of this?”
“I voted for it,” Brad said defensively.
“Voting for something and working tirelessly on it are two different things.”
“I showed up to the meetings.”
“That’s the bare minimum requirement of being a commissioner.”
Brad shifted uncomfortably. “Look, my wife knows about this stuff. She’s good with words. She wanted to be a nun—they read a lot.”
“What does being a nun have to do with writing campaign announcements?” Pam asked.
“I don’t know,” Brad admitted. “But she’s smart. Practical. And she said I needed to get my announcement in before you two because whoever goes first sets the tone.”

Pam and Randy exchanged glances.

“Sets the tone,” Randy repeated slowly.
“That’s what she said.”
“Brad,” Pam said carefully, “have you noticed anything missing from your announcement?”
Brad looked at the paper, then back at Pam. “Like what?”
“Like any mention of ordinance enforcement. Code compliance. The Johnson property. Any of the things that are actually causing us problems right now.”
Brad’s face went blank. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
“My wife said to focus on the positive accomplishments.”
“And enforcing your own ordinances isn’t a positive accomplishment?”
“Well, we haven’t actually done it yet,” Brad pointed out. “She said you can’t campaign on things you haven’t accomplished.”

Randy laughed—a short, sharp bark. “At least your wife is honest about that much.”

Doty had materialized in her corner, laptop already open, watching the conversation with her usual neutral expression. She’d probably read the announcement before any of them had even opened the paper.

Pete finally turned from the window. “Brad’s announcement is smart.”
Everyone looked at him.
“It’s smart,” Pete repeated. “He’s claiming credit for everything that went right, avoiding everything that went wrong, and staking out positions on issues that don’t matter locally but sound good to voters who watch national news.”
“Sanctuary cities,” Randy said flatly.
“Sanctuary cities,” Pete confirmed. “Prison funding. Mental health initiatives. Law enforcement support. These are all things that make voters feel safe and responsible, even if the commissioner had minimal involvement in any of them.”
“I voted for them,” Brad said again, a little more weakly this time.
“And that’s all you need,” Pete said. “Brad’s wife understood the assignment.”

Pam picked up the paper again, reading more carefully this time. “Built relationships with other elected officials,” she read aloud. “Not ‘built relationships with constituents’ or ‘listened to citizen concerns.’ Just other elected officials.”
“That’s what I do mostly,” Brad said. “I see Travis and Erik and the Sheriff at meetings. I don’t really see regular people much except at the grocery store.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
Brad thought about it. “Should it?”
Randy put his head in his hands. “Brad, you’re supposed to represent the citizens. The voters. The people who elected you.”
“I know that.”
“Then why does your announcement read like you spent your whole term schmoozing with other government employees?”
“Because I did?”
The room went quiet.

“Well,” Pam said finally, “at least he’s honest.”

Pete moved to the table, his limp barely noticeable today. “The announcement works because it doesn’t make specific claims that can be fact-checked. It’s all general language. ‘Steadfast supporter.’ ‘Worked tirelessly.’ ‘Committed to responsible governance.’ What does any of that actually mean?”
“Nothing,” Randy said.
“Exactly. It means nothing, which means nobody can call him on it.” Pete looked at Brad with something that might have been respect or might have been resignation. “Your wife wrote a perfect political announcement. Vague enough to be safe, specific enough to sound substantive, and completely avoids the one issue that could actually hurt you.”
“The website,” Pam said.
“The website,” Pete agreed.

Brad brightened slightly. “So it’s good?”
“It’s good campaign strategy,” Pete said. “Whether it’s good governance is another question entirely.”
“I’m not running for good governance,” Brad said. “I’m running for reelection.”
Randy laughed again, this time with less humor. “At least you understand the game.”

Pam sat down heavily in her chair, the Monitor still open in front of her. “So Brad’s announced. Which means I need to announce. And you need to announce, Randy.”
Randy picked up his coffee cup, discovered it was empty, and set it back down with a sigh. “I’m thinking about it.”
“Thinking about running or thinking about the announcement?”
“Both.”
“You have to decide soon. Filing deadline is in six weeks.”
“I know when the filing deadline is, Pam.”
“Then what’s the holdup?”
Randy gestured at the newspaper. “Look at Brad’s announcement. All that language about supporting law enforcement, fiscal responsibility, building relationships. You know what none of it mentions? Actual work. Actual problems we’re supposed to be solving. Actual citizens we’re supposed to be helping.”
“That’s politics,” Pete said.
“That’s the problem,” Randy shot back. “I spent twenty years as Fire Chief. You know what happened if we didn’t do our jobs? Buildings burned down. People died. There were consequences.” He tapped the newspaper. “This? This is all performance. No consequences. Brad can claim he ‘worked tirelessly’ when we all know he shows up to meetings, votes however Pete tells him to vote, and spends the rest of his time thinking about tractors.”
“Hey,” Brad protested weakly.
“Am I wrong?”
Brad considered this. “Sometimes I think about trucks too.”
Randy ignored him. “My point is, I’m not sure I want to play this game anymore. Write vague announcements, avoid real issues, campaign on things I didn’t actually do. What’s the point?”
“The point,” Pam said quietly, “is that if you don’t run, someone else will. And that someone else might be worse.”
“How could they be worse? We’ve got a website documenting our incompetence, CBS taking pictures of properties we haven’t enforced on, and our county attorney just got back from a seventeen-thousand-dollar vacation to Mexico with a deputy sheriff.”
“Deputy Carol Franko,” Brad added helpfully.
“Thank you, Brad. Deputy Carol Franko. Who, by the way, still hasn’t come up in any conversations with the Sheriff as far as I can tell.”
Pete shifted his weight. “The Sheriff’s office is handling that internally.”
“Are they though?”
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
“By who?”
“By the Sheriff.”
“And you believe him?”
Pete said nothing, which was itself an answer.

Pam rubbed her temples—the headache was back, right on schedule. “So Brad’s announced. Randy’s thinking about it. And I’m sitting here wondering if I even want to do this for another four years.”
“You’ll run,” Pete said with certainty.
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re Pam. You show up. You sign the forms. You do what’s expected of you.” He paused. “That’s both your strength and your weakness.”
Pam wanted to argue with that assessment but couldn’t quite manage it. “What about you, Pete? You don’t have to worry about any of this. You’ve got a contract.”
“Three years left on it,” Pete confirmed. “With an option to renew.”
“Must be nice. Not having to answer to voters.”
“I answer to the commission. Which means I answer to whoever wins the elections.” He looked at each of them in turn. “So yes, your elections matter to me. Just in a different way.”
Randy leaned back in his chair. “So Brad’s announcement sets the tone, according to his nun-wannabe wife. What tone is that, exactly?”
“Safe,” Pete said. “Vague. Focused on things voters care about in theory but don’t actually understand in practice.”
“Sanctuary cities,” Brad offered.
“Sanctuary cities,” Pete agreed. “Mental health funding. Law enforcement support. These are all things that sound good in a campaign announcement and mean absolutely nothing in terms of actual county governance.”
“But they work?” Pam asked.
“They work.”
She looked at Brad, sitting there with his gas station coffee and his simple farmer’s earnestness, having just published an announcement written by his wife that carefully positioned him as a dedicated public servant while avoiding any mention of the actual problems facing the county.
“Your wife is smarter than all of us,” Pam said.
“I know,” Brad agreed.

Randy picked up the newspaper again, reading through Brad’s announcement one more time. “Built relationships with other elected officials,” he muttered. “What a load of—”
“Language,” Pam warned.
“—nonsense,” Randy finished. “That’s what I was going to say. Nonsense.”
“Sure you were.”

Doty spoke up from her corner. “Filing deadline is April first. Six weeks and two days from today. All three seats are up. Brad’s filed his intent to run. Pam and Randy haven’t.”
Everyone turned to look at her.
“Just making sure everyone’s aware of the timeline,” she said, her expression perfectly neutral.
“Thank you, Doty,” Pam said dryly.
“You’re welcome.”
Pete checked his watch. “Was there actual county business to discuss today, or are we just doing campaign strategy?”
“There’s always county business,” Pam said. “Whether we want to deal with it or not.”
“The Johnson property—”
“Still sitting there with junk cars,” Randy interrupted. “Still waiting for Travis to do something. Still making us look incompetent on whatever website Otis Obert is running from his farm on Peters Slough Road.”
“I’m going back out there,” Pete said.
“With what plan?”
“A better one than last time.”
“That’s not saying much. Last time you got chased back to your car by three dogs.”
“I made a tactical assessment—”
“Pete, you got chased by dogs. Just own it.”
Pete’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Brad raised his hand slightly. “My wife hasn’t talked to her cousin’s husband yet about Otis. But she will. She said she’d ask at the church potluck on Sunday.”
“The church potluck,” Randy repeated.
“They have them once a month. Good turnout. My wife makes this casserole thing with—”
“Brad, we don’t need the menu.”
“I’m just saying she’ll ask around. Someone will know something.”

Pam looked at the announcement again, at Brad’s smiling headshot next to the carefully crafted language about supporting law enforcement and building relationships with elected officials.
“You know what I notice?” she said. “Your announcement doesn’t mention me or Randy at all. No ‘working alongside fellow commissioners’ or ‘collaborative leadership’ or anything like that.”
Brad looked uncomfortable. “My wife said to focus on my own accomplishments.”
“We don’t have any shared accomplishments?”
“Well…” Brad trailed off.
“Apparently not,” Randy said. “According to Brad’s wife, he’s been operating as a lone wolf commissioner, single-handedly supporting law enforcement and preventing sanctuary city status.”
“That’s not what it says—”
“It’s what it implies.”
Brad shifted in his seat. “Look, I didn’t write it. My wife did. She knows about this stuff.”
“She wanted to be a nun,” Pam said.
“Exactly.”
“That’s not actually a qualification for campaign management, Brad.”
“It is in my house.”
The room settled into silence, the kind that suggested everyone had run out of things to say but nobody quite knew how to end the meeting.

Pete gathered his portfolio. “I suggest Pam and Randy get their announcements ready. Brad’s already set the tone—safe, vague, focused on law enforcement and fiscal responsibility. If you want to differentiate yourselves, you’ll need a different approach.”
“Like what?” Pam asked.
“That’s up to you. But whatever you do, don’t mention the website, don’t mention Otis Obert, and definitely don’t mention Travis and Deputy Franko’s trip to Cabo.”
“So avoid everything that’s actually happening,” Randy said.
“Welcome to politics,” Pete replied.
He left, taking his perfect posture and his tactical assessments with him.

Brad stood, tucking the newspaper under his arm. “For what it’s worth, my wife said you two should probably announce soon. Before someone else decides to run against all of us.”
“Is someone else thinking about running?” Pam asked sharply.
“I don’t know,” Brad said. “But my wife said it’s always a possibility. Especially when there’s a website calling us incompetent.”
He shuffled out, leaving Pam and Randy sitting at the table with Doty still typing quietly in her corner.

“He’s going to get reelected, isn’t he,” Randy said. It wasn’t really a question.
“Probably,” Pam agreed.
“Because his wife wrote a good announcement that doesn’t mention any actual work.”
“That’s usually how it works.”
Randy stood, pushing his chair back harder than necessary. “I need to think about whether I even want to do this anymore.”
“Don’t think too long,” Pam warned. “Six weeks and two days.”
“I know. I know.”
He left, footsteps echoing down the hallway with the heavy tread of a man reconsidering his life choices.

Pam sat alone with Doty, the Minute Monitor still open on the table, Brad’s announcement staring up at her with its vague promises and careful avoidance of anything resembling actual accountability.
“Do you think I should run again?” Pam asked.
Doty closed her laptop. “That’s not really my place to say.”
“But if you had to say?”
Doty considered this carefully. “I think you’ll run because you always run. Because it’s what you do. Because not running would feel like quitting, and you don’t quit things.”
“That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement.”
“You didn’t ask for an endorsement. You asked what I think.”
Pam smiled tiredly. “You’re right. I did.”
Doty packed up her things. “For what it’s worth, Brad’s wife is right about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Whoever announces first sets the tone. Brad went with safe and vague. If you want something different, you’ll need to announce soon and announce differently.”
“Differently how?”
“That’s up to you.”
She left, the door clicking softly behind her, leaving Pam alone in the conference room with a newspaper announcement written by a woman who’d wanted to be a nun, a filing deadline six weeks away, and the slow, creeping certainty that she would run again because that’s what she always did, even when she couldn’t quite remember why she’d started in the first place.

Outside the courthouse, Minute, North Dakota went about its business—grocery shopping, church potlucks, cousin’s husbands who might know something about an old man named Otis Obert—completely unaware that campaign season had begun, and with it, the performance of competence that would carry them all through to November, regardless of whether any actual competence existed.

The fluorescent light flickered overhead, keeping time like it always did.

Six weeks and two days until filing deadline.
Four years if you won.
The math, Pam thought, was depressing.

Chapter 6: Operation Evisceration Molly

Pete walked into the conference room with the kind of confidence that suggested he’d just won something significant. He set his portfolio down with a decisive thunk, adjusted his tie, and waited for everyone to settle into their seats before speaking.

“Otis is gone,” he announced. “And so is the website.”

The room went very still.

Pam, halfway through arranging her papers, stopped and looked up. “What?”
“The website,” Pete repeated, his voice carrying the satisfaction of a man who’d just solved an unsolvable problem. “It’s gone. Or it will be. Same with Otis.”
Randy, already in his chair with his morning coffee, set the cup down carefully. “Pete, what did you do?”
“I found a solution.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you need.”

Brad looked confused, which wasn’t unusual, but this time the confusion seemed warranted. “How do you make a website disappear?”
Pete pulled out his chair and sat down with deliberate precision. “I know a guy.”
“What kind of guy?” Pam asked warily.
“The kind of guy who knows things. About computers. Security. The internet.” Pete paused for effect. “Cyber operations.”
Randy’s eyes narrowed. “Pete, what did you do?”
“I called in a favor.”
“From who?”
“From someone I know. Someone who used to work in… let’s call it government technology.”
“Let’s not call it that,” Randy said. “Let’s call it what it actually is.”
Pete adjusted his tie again—a tell that suggested he was about to say something he knew wouldn’t be well-received. “His name is Denny. That’s not his real name. We need to protect that.”
“Protect it from what?” Pam asked.
“From people who might ask questions about his background.”
“What background?”
“The kind that involves three-letter agencies and security clearances.”
The room got quieter, which Pete seemed to take as permission to continue.
“Denny used to work at NSA,” Pete said. “He knows all sorts of stuff about cyber security and things. Network analysis. Digital footprints. How to make things appear or disappear on the internet.”
“Oh no,” Randy said quietly.
“Oh yes,” Pete countered. “Denny can find Otis’s IP address on the internet—that’s the numerical identifier that shows where his computer is connecting from. Then he can write a short code script to track that address whenever it shows up, and immediately change it to another IP address. Different location. Different everything. Otis disappears from the internet.”
Pam’s headache was already starting. “Pete—”
“And the website,” Pete continued, gaining momentum now, “Denny can write another code script to change the location of the website source. Make it look like it’s originating somewhere else entirely. Canada. Bangladesh. Wherever we want. Anyone who tries to trace it will think it’s coming from some communist country.”
Brad raised his hand slightly. “Is Bangladesh communist?”
“That’s not the point, Brad.”
“I’m just asking.”
Randy leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Pete, let me make sure I understand this correctly. You contacted some guy—”
“Denny.”
“—some guy named Denny who used to work for the NSA, and you asked him to hack into Otis Obert’s computer and redirect his website to make it look like it’s coming from a foreign country?”
“I didn’t ask him to hack anything,” Pete said with the careful precision of someone parsing legal definitions. “I asked him to perform certain technical operations that would resolve our digital presence issue.”
“That’s hacking, Pete.”
“It’s cyber operations.”
“It’s illegal!”
“It’s a gray area.”
“There’s nothing gray about it!” Randy’s voice was rising now. “You can’t just hire some former NSA guy to mess with someone’s internet connection because they made a website you don’t like!”
“I didn’t hire him,” Pete said calmly. “He’s doing it as a favor.”
“That doesn’t make it better!”
“It makes it free, which is better for the budget.”

Pam put her head in her hands. “Pete, please tell me you’re joking.”
“I’m not joking. Denny’s already started preliminary work. He calls it Operation Evisceration Molly.”
Brad perked up. “That’s a cool name.”
“It’s a code name,” Pete explained. “These NSA guys like to give their missions secret operational designations. Adds professionalism.”
“It adds absolutely nothing,” Randy said. “Pete, this is insane. You can’t—we can’t—this is literally a crime!”
“Only if we get caught.”
“PETE!”
Doty had been typing quietly in her corner throughout this entire exchange, her expression as neutral as ever. She looked up now, her fingers pausing over her keyboard.
“For the record,” she said quietly, “I’m not typing any of this into the official minutes.”
“Thank you, Doty,” Pam said weakly.
“You’re welcome.”
Pete pulled a single sheet of paper from his portfolio and slid it across the table. “Denny sent me a preliminary report. He’s already located Otis’s IP address. It originates from Peters Slough Road, just like we thought. The website is hosted on a server that Otis pays for himself—nothing illegal about it, just a regular commercial hosting service.”
“Then how is Denny going to redirect it?” Pam asked, against her better judgment.
“He intercepts the traffic before it reaches the hosting server. Reroutes it through several proxy servers in different countries. By the time anyone tries to trace it back to the source, they’ll hit dead ends in places with no cooperation agreements with U.S. law enforcement.”
“You’re describing a cyber attack,” Randy said flatly.
“I’m describing a technical solution to a public relations problem.”
“It’s the same thing!”
“Not legally.”
“How is it not legally the same thing?”
Pete leaned back in his chair. “Because Denny knows what he’s doing. He worked for NSA for fifteen years. He understands operational security, plausible deniability, and how to make things happen without leaving fingerprints.”
“Pete,” Pam said carefully, “even if Denny can do all of this—which I’m not saying he should—what happens when Otis notices his website isn’t working anymore?”
“He’ll think it’s a technical problem. Server issues. Hosting company glitch. He’ll call tech support, they’ll tell him everything looks fine on their end, and he’ll spend weeks trying to figure out why nobody can access his website.”
“And his internet connection?”
“Same thing. Intermittent connectivity issues. Could be his satellite dish. Could be weather interference. Could be a thousand different things. By the time he figures out it’s not a random technical problem, the election will be over and it won’t matter anymore.”

Randy stood up, pushing his chair back hard enough to make it scrape against the floor. “This is wrong, Pete. This is illegal and wrong and completely insane.”
“It’s effective,” Pete countered.
“That doesn’t make it right!”
“It makes it done. Which is more than we’ve accomplished sitting in this room having meetings about meetings for the past two months.”

Brad spoke up hesitantly. “My wife says—”

“I don’t care what your wife says, Brad!” Randy snapped, then immediately looked apologetic. “Sorry. That was harsh. What does your wife say?”
Brad looked uncertain whether to continue, then decided to risk it. “She says sometimes you have to fight fire with fire. She wanted to be a nun, but she’s also very practical about these things.”
“Fighting fire with fire means using the same tactics as your opponent,” Randy said. “Otis built a website with public information. That’s legal. What Pete is proposing is cyber warfare.”
“That’s a bit dramatic,” Pete said.
“Is it? You literally just described Operation Evisceration Molly like it’s some kind of military strike!”
“The name is Denny’s choice, not mine.”
Pam raised her hands, trying to restore some semblance of order. “Okay. Everyone calm down. Pete, I need you to be completely honest with me. If we do this—if Denny does this Operation whatever-it’s-called—what are the chances we get caught?”
Pete considered the question carefully. “Minimal. Denny’s very good at what he does. He’s been doing this kind of work for most of his career. He knows how to avoid detection.”
“Minimal isn’t zero.”
“Nothing is zero risk, Pam. Getting out of bed in the morning isn’t zero risk.”
“That’s not the same thing—”
“It’s exactly the same thing. Every decision we make carries risk. The question is whether the benefit outweighs the potential downside.”

Randy sat back down, though he looked like he wanted to keep standing just to maintain the moral high ground. “And you think the benefit—making Otis’s website disappear—outweighs the potential downside of federal computer crimes charges?”
“I think,” Pete said slowly, “that the website is hurting all of you. It’s documenting your failures, broadcasting them to anyone who searches your names, undermining public confidence in county government. And more importantly, it’s affecting your reelection chances.”
“That’s what this is about?” Randy asked. “Our elections?”
“That’s what everything is about. Brad’s already announced. Pam and you need to decide soon. Having a website calling you incompetent makes that decision harder.”
“So you’re protecting our political careers.”
“I’m protecting the stability of county government,” Pete corrected. “Which, incidentally, protects my job. So yes, there’s self-interest involved. I’m not pretending otherwise.”

Pam looked at the paper Pete had slid across the table—the preliminary report from someone named Denny who may or may not actually be named Denny, who used to work for NSA, who apparently knew how to make people disappear from the internet.
“How long would it take?” she asked quietly.
Randy turned to stare at her. “Pam, you’re not seriously considering this.”
“I’m asking a question.”
“It sounds like you’re considering it.”
“I’m gathering information.”

Pete answered before Randy could protest further. “Denny says he can have the initial operations completed within forty-eight hours. Full implementation within a week. By this time next week, Otis’s website will be inaccessible, and his IP address will be bouncing around international proxy servers like a ping-pong ball.”
“And it’ll look like what?” Pam pressed. “To someone trying to access the website?”
“Error message. ‘Site cannot be reached.’ ‘Connection timeout.’ Standard technical failure language that won’t raise any red flags.”
“What about search engines? If someone Googles us, will the website still show up?”
“Eventually it’ll drop out of search results. Takes a few weeks, but without active traffic, Google stops indexing it. The whole thing just… fades away.”

Brad raised his hand again. “What if Otis builds a new website?”

Everyone looked at him.
“I’m just asking,” Brad said. “If his old website stops working, what stops him from making a new one?”
Pete smiled—not a pleasant smile, but the smile of someone who’d thought several moves ahead. “Denny’s rerouting script tracks the IP address, not the website. If Otis tries to create new websites, they’ll all get caught in the same redirect loop. He won’t be able to figure out why nothing works anymore.”
“That’s evil,” Randy said.
“That’s thorough,” Pete replied.
Pam stood up and walked to the window, looking out at Minute, North Dakota going about its business on a normal Tuesday morning. Somewhere eleven miles east of here, an old man named Otis Obert sat behind a chain link fence with three dogs and a satellite dish, completely unaware that a former NSA analyst was preparing to make him disappear from the internet.
“Pete,” she said without turning around, “if we do this, and something goes wrong, we’re all going to jail.”
“We won’t go to jail.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because Denny knows what he’s doing. And because we’ll have plausible deniability. You didn’t hire him. You didn’t direct him. You didn’t even know about it until after it was done.”

Pam turned around. “Except we’re having this conversation right now. In this room. With witnesses.”
“What conversation?” Pete asked innocently. “I came in here and told you the website problem was being handled. You asked questions. I provided general information about technical solutions to digital presence issues. That’s not a crime.”
“You literally described Operation Evisceration Molly in detail.”
“That’s Denny’s code name for his project. I have no control over his operational designations.”
Randy put his head in his hands again. “This is insane. We’re sitting here discussing cyber crimes like we’re planning a bake sale.”
“We’re discussing technical solutions,” Pete said firmly. “Nothing criminal about that.”
“Everything about this is criminal!”

Doty spoke up from her corner again. “Just to clarify—I’m still not typing any of this.”
“Noted,” Pam said.
“But if I were typing it,” Doty continued, her voice carefully neutral, “I would probably note that Commissioner Randy expressed strong objections to the proposed course of action, and that President Pam requested additional information before making any decisions.”
“Thank you, Doty,” Pam said.
“You’re welcome.”

Brad shifted in his seat. “So is this happening or not? I’m confused.”
“That makes two of us,” Randy muttered.
Pete gathered his papers and slid them back into his portfolio. “Denny’s already started preliminary work. Operation Evisceration Molly is in motion. The technical aspects are being handled. Within a week, the website problem will be resolved.”
“Pete—” Randy started.
“It’s done, Randy. I called Denny three days ago. He’s been working on this since Friday. I came here today to inform you that the problem is being handled, not to ask permission.”
The room erupted.
“You already started this?!” Randy was on his feet again.
“Three days ago,” Pete confirmed.
“Without telling us?!”
“I’m telling you now.”
“After the fact!”
“After the preliminary work began, yes.”

Pam turned from the window, her expression somewhere between shock and resignation. “Pete, you can’t just decide to launch cyber operations without consulting the commission.”
“I consulted my judgment, which told me this was the most effective solution to a problem that was getting worse every day.”
“That’s not how this works!”
“It’s how things get done.”
Randy pointed at Pete, his fire chief voice coming out now. “You listen to me very carefully. If this blows up—if Denny gets caught, if Otis figures it out, if the FBI shows up asking questions—we’re throwing you under the bus so fast you won’t know what hit you.”
Pete met his gaze calmly. “Understood. I’ll take full responsibility if anything goes wrong.”
“Darn right you will.”
“But nothing will go wrong. Denny’s too good.”
“You’d better hope so.”
Pete stood, adjusting his tie one final time. “Operation Evisceration Molly will be complete within a week. The website will be inaccessible. Otis will spend months trying to figure out why his internet doesn’t work properly anymore. And by the time he gets it sorted out—if he ever does—the election will be over and it won’t matter.”
He picked up his portfolio and headed for the door.
“Pete,” Pam called after him.
He paused, hand on the doorknob.
“If this goes wrong—”
“It won’t.”
“But if it does—”
“Then I’ll handle it. That’s what you pay me for.”
He left, closing the door behind him with the quiet confidence of a man who’d just set something in motion that couldn’t be stopped.
The room settled into stunned silence.
“Did that just happen?” Brad asked.
“I think so,” Pam said.
“Pete hired an NSA guy to make Otis disappear from the internet.”
“Apparently.”
“And called it Operation Evisceration Molly.”
“That’s what he said.”

Brad thought about this. “My wife is going to love this story.”
“Brad, you can’t tell your wife,” Randy said urgently.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s illegal! Because if anyone finds out about this, we’re all accessories to federal computer crimes!”
“Oh.” Brad looked disappointed. “She’s not going to like that I can’t tell her.”
“Tell her Pete’s handling the website problem,” Pam suggested. “That’s technically true.”
“It’s technically conspiracy,” Randy muttered.

Doty closed her laptop with a soft click. “Meeting adjourned?”
“Yeah,” Pam said tiredly. “Meeting adjourned.”
Randy stood, gathering his things with the aggressive energy of someone who wanted to throw something but couldn’t decide what. “This is wrong. This is so completely wrong.”
“Probably,” Pam agreed.
“Then why aren’t we stopping it?”
“Because Pete already started it three days ago. What are we supposed to do, call him back and tell him to un-hire Denny? Un-launch Operation Evisceration Molly?”
“We could!”
“Could we though?” Pam looked at him. “Pete said it himself—he’s taking responsibility. If it works, our problem goes away. If it doesn’t work, Pete takes the fall.”
“And we just sit here and let it happen.”
“That’s what we do best, Randy. Sit here and let things happen.”
Randy stared at her, then shook his head slowly. “You’ve changed, Pam.”
“No,” she said quietly. “I’ve just stopped pretending we’re in control of anything.”

Randy left without another word, his footsteps echoing down the hallway with the heavy tread of moral outrage meeting bureaucratic reality.
Brad stood, tucking his papers under his arm. “For what it’s worth, I think Pete knows what he’s doing.”
“Based on what?” Pam asked.
“Based on he’s Pete. He always knows what he’s doing.”
“That’s not reassuring, Brad.”
“It’s all I’ve got.”

He shuffled out, leaving Pam alone with Doty in the empty conference room.
“You really didn’t type any of that?” Pam asked.
“Not a word,” Doty confirmed.
“Good.”
Doty packed up her laptop. “For what it’s worth, I think Pete’s probably right. Denny probably does know what he’s doing.”
“Probably?”
“Nothing’s certain in life. But Pete’s not stupid. If he trusted Denny with this, there’s probably a good reason.”
“Or Pete’s desperate and making bad decisions.”
“That’s also possible,” Doty admitted. She paused at the door. “Either way, we’ll know in a week.”
She left, the door clicking softly closed.

Pam sat alone in the conference room, the fluorescent light humming overhead, trying to process the fact that somewhere out there, a man named Denny who used to work for NSA was launching something called Operation Evisceration Molly to make an old farmer disappear from the internet so that three county commissioners could get reelected without a website documenting their incompetence.

Outside, Minute, North Dakota continued its quiet existence, completely unaware that their local government had just crossed a line from mere incompetence into something that might charitably be called creative problem-solving and might less charitably be called conspiracy to commit federal computer crimes.

The fluorescent light flickered once.

Seven days until Operation Evisceration Molly was complete.
Four years if they won the election.
The math, Pam thought, was still depressing.
But at least now they had a plan.

Even if it was completely illegal.

Chapter 7: The Right Thing

Randy didn’t show up for the meeting.

For the first time in three years as a commissioner, Randy Kowalski’s chair sat empty when Pam called the meeting to order. His coffee cup wasn’t on the table. His jacket wasn’t on the back of his chair. The space where he normally sat felt conspicuously vacant, like a missing tooth.

Pam checked her phone. No messages. No missed calls.
“Has anyone heard from Randy?” she asked.
Brad shook his head. “Not me.”
Pete, standing at his usual spot by the window, said nothing.
Doty looked up from her laptop. “He called this morning. Said he wouldn’t be attending today’s meeting. Said he had something he needed to do.”
“What kind of something?” Pam asked.
“He didn’t specify.”

The door opened and Randy walked in, but he wasn’t alone. Behind him came an older man—maybe seventy, maybe older, with weathered hands and the kind of face that spoke of decades spent outdoors. He wore clean work boots, pressed jeans, and a flannel shirt that had been ironed. His eyes were sharp and intelligent, taking in the room with the assessing gaze of someone who’d learned to read situations quickly.
Behind him, keeping a respectful distance, padded three large dogs. They were well-behaved, sitting when the old man stopped, watching everyone in the room with alert but calm attention.

“Randy,” Pam said slowly, “what’s going on?”
Randy closed the door behind them. “Pam, Brad, Pete—I’d like you to meet Otis Obert.”

The room went absolutely still.

Pete’s hand tightened on his portfolio. Brad’s mouth opened slightly. Pam felt her heartbeat accelerate.
The old man nodded politely. “Commissioners. Mr. Vickers.” His voice was gravelly but clear, with the deliberate cadence of someone who chose his words carefully.
“Randy,” Pete said, his voice tight, “what is this?”
“This,” Randy said, moving to stand beside Otis, “is me doing the right thing.”
He pulled out a chair for Otis, who sat down with the stiff movements of someone whose joints didn’t work quite like they used to. The three dogs arranged themselves near his feet, silent and watchful.
Randy remained standing. “I drove out to Peters Slough Road yesterday. Talked to Mr. Obert here for about three hours. We had a very interesting conversation.”
“Randy—” Pete started.
“Let me finish.” Randy’s fire chief voice was back, the one that didn’t leave room for argument. “I’ve been sitting in this room for three years now. Three years of meetings about meetings. Three years of signing things I don’t read. Three years of watching us avoid problems instead of solving them. And for three years, I told myself it was fine because that’s just how government works.”
He looked at each of them in turn.
“But it’s not fine. It’s not fine that Mrs. Johnson has been waiting two years for us to enforce our own ordinances. It’s not fine that Erik passes problems to Travis who does nothing with them. It’s not fine that we approved a seventeen-thousand-dollar trip without reading the forms. And it’s definitely not fine that Pete hired some NSA guy to make a citizen disappear from the internet because we’re too embarrassed to admit we messed up.”

“Randy,” Pam said quietly, “what did you do?”

“I told Mr. Obert everything. About Pete’s plan. About Operation Evisceration Molly. About Denny and the IP addresses and the proxy servers. Everything.”
Pete moved away from the window, his limp more pronounced than usual. “You had no right—”
“I had every right. I’m an elected official. My job is to serve the citizens, not to help you cover up our mistakes with cyber warfare.”

Otis Obert spoke for the first time since sitting down. “Mr. Kowalski came to my property yesterday afternoon. Knocked on my door like a civilized person. The dogs barked, but I called them off. We sat on my porch and talked.”
His voice was calm, almost gentle. “He told me about your concerns. About the website. About how it’s affecting your reelections. About how you feel it’s unfair to document your failures without giving you credit for the things you do right.”
“Mr. Obert—” Pam started.
“Let me finish, please.” He folded his weathered hands on the table. “I built that website because I was frustrated. I’d filed complaints, called offices, sent emails. Nothing happened. Mrs. Johnson—she’s my neighbor, lives about two miles down the road—she’d been dealing with those junk cars for years. Complained to the county, got promises, got nothing else.”
He looked at each of them. “So I built the website. Documented what I saw. Posted pictures. Wrote about the timeline. I didn’t lie about anything. Didn’t exaggerate. Just put the facts out there for people to see.”
“It’s still defamation,” Pete said coldly.
“No sir, it’s not. Truth is an absolute defense against defamation. You can look that up. I did.” Otis smiled slightly. “I may be an old farmer, but I’m not ignorant. I’ve got satellite internet and too much time on my hands. I learned some things.”

Brad spoke up quietly. “What kind of dogs are those?”
Everyone turned to look at him.
“I’m just curious,” Brad said. “They’re well-behaved.”
“German Shepherds,” Otis said. “Retired K-9 units. Got them from a program that rehomes police dogs. They’re good company.”
“They chased Pete,” Brad observed.
“They’re trained to protect the property. Mr. Vickers approached without announcing himself. The dogs did what they’re trained to do.” Otis looked at Pete. “You should’ve called first.”

Randy crossed his arms. “Which brings me to why we’re all here. I’ve been thinking about what Mr. Obert said yesterday. About accountability. About doing the job we were elected to do. And I realized something.”
He paused, looking at Pam, then Brad, then Pete.
“I know I’m not perfect. I may have done things here that were improper and thoughtless. I’ve signed forms without reading them. I’ve let Pete make decisions I should have made myself. I’ve sat in this room complaining about problems instead of fixing them.” His voice got quieter. “But I do have some principles. I am a moral man. And I would like to end my commitment to this community in a positive and comfortable manner. I would like to do the right thing.”
He turned to Pam and Brad directly.
“Pam. Brad. When are we going to do the right thing here?”

The room went silent. The fluorescent light hummed overhead. One of the dogs shifted position with a soft click of nails on the floor.
Pam felt something shift inside her chest—a weight she’d been carrying without realizing it, suddenly making itself known.
“What do you want us to do?” she asked quietly.

Randy gestured to Otis. “Mr. Obert and I talked about that. He’s got some thoughts.”
Otis cleared his throat. “I don’t want your jobs. I don’t want revenge. I don’t even want an apology, though one would be nice.” He pulled a folder from inside his jacket and set it on the table. “I want the Johnson property addressed. Properly. Following your own ordinances. Within sixty days.”
“Sixty days—” Pete started.
“Is more than enough time,” Otis interrupted firmly. “I’ve read your junk vehicle ordinance. It’s clear. It’s enforceable. You just have to actually enforce it.” He tapped the folder. “This is my proposal. A timeline. Specific actions. Responsible parties. If you follow it, the Johnson property gets cleaned up, Mrs. Johnson stops getting harassed by her neighbors about the eyesore across the street, and you demonstrate that county government can actually work when it wants to.”
“And your website?” Pete asked.
“Stays up. But I add a page documenting your compliance. Show that when confronted with a problem, you fixed it. Give you credit for doing the right thing, even if it took a while to get there.”
“That’s not—” Pete began.
“That’s fair,” Randy interrupted. “That’s more than fair. Mr. Obert could’ve gone to the newspapers. Could’ve contacted CBS. Could’ve made this much worse. Instead, he’s offering us a chance to actually do our jobs.”
Pam looked at the folder on the table. “And if we don’t agree?”
“Then I call my contact at CBS,” Otis said simply. “I’ve been holding off because I wanted to see if Mr. Kowalski here was right about you all. If there was anyone in this room who still cared about doing the job properly.”
“That sounds like a threat,” Pete said.
“That sounds like a consequence,” Randy corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Brad had been quiet through all of this, but now he spoke up. “My wife says—” He paused, looking at Randy’s expression, then continued anyway. “My wife says that sometimes doing the right thing is scary because it means admitting you were wrong first. She wanted to be a nun, so she thinks about morality a lot.”
“Your wife is smarter than all of us,” Randy said.
“I know.”

Pam reached for the folder, opened it, and began reading. The proposal was detailed, professional, and completely reasonable. Sixty days to complete enforcement action on the Johnson property. Weekly progress reports. Specific milestones. Contact information for Mrs. Johnson herself, who apparently had agreed to cooperate fully.
It was everything they should have done two years ago.

“Pete,” Pam said quietly, “call Denny. Tell him to stop Operation Evisceration Molly.”
Pete’s jaw tightened. “That’s not advisable—”
“It’s an order. Call him right now.”
“You’re making a mistake—”
“I’m correcting one.” Pam met his eyes. “Call Denny. Stop the operation. That’s final.”

Pete held her gaze for a long moment, then pulled out his phone and walked to the corner of the room. His voice was low but audible: “Denny. It’s Pete. We need to abort… Yes, I’m sure… I understand it’s already in progress… I don’t care, shut it down… Fine. Do what you need to do.”
He ended the call and returned to the table, his expression carefully neutral. “It’s done. Denny will reverse the changes within twenty-four hours.”

“Thank you,” Pam said. She looked at Otis. “Mr. Obert, we’ll accept your proposal. Sixty days. We’ll follow the timeline exactly as you’ve laid out.”
“I’ll need that in writing,” Otis said.
“You’ll have it today. Doty, can you draft a formal agreement based on Mr. Obert’s proposal?”
Doty, who’d been typing quietly through this entire exchange, nodded. “I’ll have it ready by this afternoon.”

Otis stood, the dogs immediately rising with him. “Then I think we’re done here. Mr. Kowalski, thank you for your integrity. Commissioners, I’ll expect that written agreement by five o’clock today. After that, I’ll start documenting your compliance on the website.”
He nodded politely to each of them and headed for the door. The dogs followed in perfect formation, trained and disciplined and far better behaved than most people Pam had dealt with in county government.

At the door, Otis paused and turned back. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re bad people. I think you got comfortable. Comfortable with signing things without reading them. Comfortable with letting problems slide. Comfortable with the idea that government is supposed to be slow and ineffective.”
He smiled slightly. “But it doesn’t have to be. Sixty days, Commissioners. Show me I was wrong about you.”
He left, the three German Shepherds padding silently behind him.

The room settled into heavy silence.

Pete was the first to speak. “That was a disaster.”
“That was necessary,” Randy countered.
“You had no right to bring him here without consulting us first—”
“I had every right. I’m an elected official representing the citizens of this county. Mr. Obert is a citizen. I brought his concerns directly to the people responsible for addressing them. That’s literally my job.”
“You sabotaged my operation—”
“Your operation was illegal! And wrong! And exactly the kind of thing that makes people lose faith in government!”
“It would have worked—”
“I don’t care!” Randy’s voice rose. “I don’t care if it would have worked. It was wrong. And I’m tired of doing things that are wrong just because they’re convenient.”
He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. “I’m not running for reelection. I’m done. I’ll finish out my term, but after that, someone else can sit in this room and sign things they don’t read and let Pete make all the decisions.”
“Randy—” Pam started.
“I’m serious, Pam. I’m done. Three years was enough. I want to go home, work on my house, maybe coach some youth sports. Do something that actually makes a difference.”
He walked to the door, then paused, his hand on the knob. “But before I go, I’m going to make sure the Johnson property gets cleaned up. Sixty days. We’re going to follow Otis’s timeline exactly. We’re going to do it right. And when it’s done, maybe—just maybe—people will remember that we were capable of doing our jobs when we actually tried.”
He left, the door closing with quiet finality.

Brad looked at Pam. “Should I go after him?”
“No,” Pam said quietly. “Let him go. He’s earned it.”
Pete gathered his portfolio. “This is going to create problems. When word gets out that we capitulated to a citizen complaint—”
“Then word gets out,” Pam interrupted. “Pete, I’m tired. I’m tired of spinning things and managing narratives and worrying about how everything looks instead of whether it’s right. Randy just showed us what actual leadership looks like. The least we can do is not screw it up.”
“You’re making an emotional decision—”
“I’m making a moral one. There’s a difference.” She looked at Brad. “What do you think?”

Brad had been quiet through most of this, watching everything with his usual slightly confused expression. But now he straightened slightly.
“I think my wife would be proud of Randy. And I think she’d want me to support this.” He paused. “Also, I think it’s the right thing to do. We messed up. Mr. Obert gave us a chance to fix it. We should take it.”
“Even if it hurts your reelection chances?” Pete asked.
“I’ll probably get reelected anyway,” Brad said with surprising insight. “My wife wrote a good announcement. But even if I don’t, at least I can tell her we did the right thing at the end. That matters more than keeping the job.”

Pam felt something loosen in her chest—that weight she’d been carrying, suddenly lighter.
“Doty,” she said, “draft that agreement. Make it formal. Make it binding. And make sure it includes weekly progress reports that Mr. Obert can post on his website.”
“You want him to post our progress reports?” Pete asked incredulously.
“I want transparency. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it publicly. No more hiding. No more managing narratives.” She looked at Pete directly. “And no more cyber operations. Ever. Are we clear?”

Pete’s expression was unreadable. “Crystal clear.”

“Good.”

He left without another word, taking his portfolio and his operational security and his plausible deniability with him.
Brad stood, gathering his things. “I should probably go talk to my wife. Tell her what happened.”
“I thought you couldn’t tell her about Operation Evisceration Molly,” Pam said.
“I can tell her it’s been cancelled. And that we’re doing the right thing instead.” He smiled slightly. “She’ll like that story better anyway.”
He shuffled out, leaving Pam alone with Doty.

“That was intense,” Pam said.
“That was Randy being Randy,” Doty replied. “He always did have more integrity than the rest of you combined.”
“Ouch.”
“Truth hurts.” Doty started typing. “I’ll have the agreement ready in two hours. You’ll want to review it before sending it to Mr. Obert.”
“Thank you, Doty.”
“You’re welcome.”

Pam walked to the window, looking out at Minute, North Dakota on a quiet Tuesday morning. Somewhere out there, Randy was probably driving home, feeling lighter than he had in months. Otis Obert was heading back to Peters Slough Road with his three well-trained German Shepherds, probably already planning the webpage he’d create documenting the county’s compliance.

And somewhere, a man named Denny who used to work for NSA was shutting down Operation Evisceration Molly, probably wondering what kind of small-town drama he’d gotten himself mixed up in.

“Doty,” Pam said quietly, still looking out the window, “do you think we can actually do this? Clean up the Johnson property in sixty days?”
“If you want to,” Doty said. “The timeline is reasonable. The ordinance is clear. You just have to actually enforce it.”
“Why didn’t we do this two years ago?”
“Because it was easier not to. Because Erik could pass it to Travis, and Travis could sit on it, and nobody had to make any hard decisions or deal with any angry property owners.”
“And now?”
“Now you don’t have a choice. Randy made sure of that.”
Pam smiled despite herself. “He did, didn’t he?”
“He did.” Doty closed her laptop. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re making the right decision. Both of you. Following through on Otis’s proposal.”
“Even though it means admitting we were wrong?”
“Especially because it means admitting you were wrong. That’s the only way people learn to trust you again.”
She packed up her things and headed for the door. “Agreement by three o’clock. Review and sign by five. Mr. Obert gets his copy before close of business.”
“Thank you, Doty.”

“You’re welcome.”

She left, the door clicking softly closed.
Pam stood alone in the conference room, the fluorescent light humming its familiar rhythm overhead. In sixty days, the Johnson property would be cleaned up. In sixty days, Otis Obert’s website would document their compliance instead of their failures. In sixty days, maybe—just maybe—the people of Minute County would see that their government was capable of doing the right thing when pushed hard enough.

Randy wouldn’t be there to see it. He’d be home, working on his house, coaching youth sports, doing things that actually made a difference.
But his integrity would be there, hanging in the air like a challenge: When are we going to do the right thing here?

Pam picked up Otis’s folder and headed for the door.
Sixty days.
They could do this.
They would do this.

Outside the courthouse, Minute, North Dakota continued its quiet existence—grocery shopping, school pickup, oil changes on tractors—still mostly unaware that their county government had just been given a chance at redemption by an old farmer with three German Shepherds and more integrity than most elected officials would ever have.

The fluorescent light flickered once, then steadied.
Sixty days until accountability.
Four years if they won the election.
But for the first time in a long time, the math didn’t seem quite so depressing anymore.

THE END (?)