The Hip Shootin’ Brick Rattin’s (Second Wife)

So many Representatives and Senators find themselves like Ahab—saddled with crazy Jezebel once they dump their first wife. The knock-off wife is never an improvement—look at Roy Blunt’s second wife.

Brick Rattin peeked shyly out from underneath the covers of the weighted blankets his wife had placed over his fragile cotton headed hair. His second term in office had been unsettling. When he was at the Capitol, he couldn't leave the bathroom and when he was at home, he couldn't leave the darkened bedroom where his wife, Fleur, stood at the door with a loaded pistol ready to shoot any who threatened her big, brave man.

The Rattin residence sat among identical homes in a modest subdivision. They'd clumsily mounted a gilded cardboard sign reading "SENATOR'S CASTLE" above their garage, the paint smeared. Three different sized flags adorned the property, each positioned to be visible from different angles of approach—each was faded a different color of age.

Inside, family photos had been replaced with newspaper clippings and certificates, carefully arranged to catch visitors' eyes. Their "panic room" was simply their master bedroom with aluminum foil covering the windows and a stubborn deadbolt that set on the floor that Brick had failed to install himself.

His wife's rail-thin bony body was hunched over, looking for any sound or noise that might startle him. Her head turned round and round like a disconnected toy owl giving the appearance it may pop off and roll into the hallway at any moment. She was holding a gun in her shaky hands, feathered with blue veins, while dozens of phones rested nearby like invaders threatening them with their blue screens.

Fleur caught herself in the hallway mirror and straightened her posture. Since Brick's election, she'd grown accustomed to her elevated pole position in life. "Mrs. Senator," they called her at church functions. She privately flushed at the opportunities to defend him publicly.

"Who is scaring my strong Senator?" she asked, her loaded magazine of bullets was ready to pour her outrage at each and every phone.

"It's the cruel podcasters. They keep asking questions," Rattin whispered, his voice barely reaching her covered ears.

Brick briefly considered simply answering those questions—facing his critics directly—but the impulse faded quickly. Confrontation had never been his strong suit. Torn Testes, his Chief of Staff protected him at the office. At home, he had Fleur.

She aimed her gun at the stack of phones in the hallway and started shooting. Between shots, she glanced at her own device.

"I'll show them," she thought, mentally tallying potential responses. The Ladies' Auxiliary president had praised her passionate defense last week, a validation that resonated more deeply than her husband's gratitude. Respect for his manhood had dwindled dramatically.

Bobbing up and down excitedly, she asked, "Did I get them? Did I?"

Rattin didn't look out from his heavy blanket. He was too scared by the loud gunshots. Instead he found his bed was wet and warm now. He didn't know how that had happened, but he felt his mom would beat him again.

"It's okay, Bricky." Fleur said. "I'll always keep you safe."

She kept shooting phones in the hallway. "I'll shoot all of them nasty podcasters." After each shot, she paused to craft another defensive post, fingers tapping furiously. No podcasters could invade their Castle.

On their kitchen counter, invitations lay sorted by importance—events where she might speak, events where they'd be recognized, events not worth attending. She'd already confirmed their presence at those promising the most visibility.

***

Brick couldn't have survived his second session in the Missouri Senate without his second wife—the Jezebel of his life. Upgrading from his first wife to a more Jeff City appropriate model and moving to the Missouri Capitol, except for that post office box back home, was the best decision he could have made. Fleur kept his mind off the stress of this job by creating a protective bubble around her pathetic husband, defending him one angry post at a time.

In quiet moments, usually when Fleur slept, Brick would contemplate what he'd become. There had been principles once, hadn't there? Before Fleur became his voice and shield. Sometimes he struggled to distinguish his genuine positions from those crafted for public consumption.

She kept shooting more phones as she reloaded. He would have to make sure to go back and like every shot she took. She really needed the affirmation, and he needed the cover her righteous indignation provided.

***

Outside their "Castle," a group of actual constituents with actual concerns walked past the Rattin home, startled by the sounds of gunfire erupting from within.

"Should we call the police?" one woman asked, clutching her petition about the local water quality issues.

"That's just Mrs. Rattin," explained another. "She's always 'defending' the Senator from something. Last week it was the doorbell. Week before that, it was a teenager delivering flyers."

Their legs moved faster, as their pace quickened nonetheless—concern etched on their faces as more shots rang out. The two were completely unaware that their elected representative was hiding under his blankets while his wife shot at unseen enemies on social media and crafted tomorrow's outrage.

LEGAL DISCLAIMER (BUT DON'T SUE US ANYWAY YOU FILTHY RINOS AND NASCAR WAGS)

This story is SATIRE. Like, totally made up unlike lingerie models. Any resemblance to actual senators, their second wives, their uninstalled deadbolts, bed wetting, or lack of virility is purely coincidental and definitely not intentional. No real phones were harmed during the writing of this fiction. The author does not advocate shooting electronic devices, as this is both dangerous to phones and a waste of perfectly good bullets that could be used for more reasonable activities, like target shooting.

This particular suburban fictional "Senator's Castle" exists only in our imaginations, much like the also very fictional qualifications of certain elected officials. Though the word qualifications has more syllables than Brick Rattin has IQ points. No real politicians hide under weighted blankets while their spouses defend them on social media (probably. Maybe. Well…). If you recognize yourself in this story, that's between you and your couple’s therapist and the large check you write weekly.

Warning: Side effects of reading this satire may include uncontrollable laughter (rage), sudden political awareness (blindness), and the urge to check if your local government officials have aluminum foil on their windows. They probably do if they can’t answer questions—it’s a conspiracy theory!

If you experience outrage lasting more than four hours, please consult the First Amendment. If you consult me, I’ll just tell you I don’t care.