The Alligator Governor, page 1

The people had elected an alligator, the polls said. Now, write in candidates were not unheard of, but this was unique. Never before had the voting majority in such a blatant and overwhelming show of disdain for the electoral process gathered together. Until the day they woke up, and found an alligator in the Governor’s Mansion.

Initially, the adjustment period was rough. Pets went missing. The losing candidates complained about electoral fraud. But then, they too went missing. For a while, Florida under the administration of the Governing alligator was mighty fine. Then, things started to go the other way.

The two opposing candidates joined together, in a bipartisan attack against him, in an attempt to shatter his will. They claimed that as an alligator, he had no right to the position of Governor. As an alligator though, he had little understanding of what they said. They were found in varying sized chunks, the next morning.

After that, the allegations never ceased. Was the Governor a murderer? Could an alligator, a completely different species, be tried for murder? The media couldn’t say for sure, but they sure liked to talk about it. The rumors and the allegations never stopped. Certain people in shadowy cigar-smoke filled rooms planned to drive the newest Governor to suicide with non-stop bad press. But they were unhealthy, smoked too much, were diagnosed with cancer, and became ineffective. At best, their plan was ineffective. More accurately, it was down-right stupid and infeasible.

Jobs were created, and the Governor led his people with a wisdom that had been unseen for many decades. But everything good comes to an end one day. And that particular day in March, the hardiest political fixer rolled into Tallahassee. Charlie Skinner was his name, and putting the fear of God into politicians was his game.

Skinner remarked at the beauty of the city. First, there was the commercial district. Banks, skyscrapers, condominiums, malls, this was progress. He had firsthand knowledge of how much money there was to be made in architecture. There were the permits, the bribes paid to the building inspectors, the discreet envelopes of cash given in exchange for the discreet elimination of opposition to the development of what he saw as wastefully idle wilderness and wetlands. Then, the bubble burst.

No longer were the majestic high-rises being built. The tree-huggers had gotten their wish. It disgusted him in ways he couldn’t fully express. But there was still money to be made. The state was full of opportunities to be privatized and dismantled, rockets to cut down into scrap metal, tourists to be lured and robbed. So Charlie did his civic duties for local politicians and corporations, cutting down what he thought of as trees standing in the way of progress. Occasionally, he would read about them in the obituary section. Of course, he was well paid for his services. He damned sure didn’t expect to be treated like the help.

He arrived at the Governor’s Mansion at two AM. A work of a bygone era in Floridian architecture, naturally, it was repulsive. It’s classic design besmirched his view of what should have been condominiums, twelve miles high and filled up with people just like him.

In his arms, he held a canister of gasoline, a shotgun slung across his back. In his mind, a thousand action movie scenarios played out. Here he was, the Great White Hunter. But killing a man, and killing a twelve foot alligator in pitch black darkness were two different things.

But Charlie Skinner knew he could do it. Why? Because he was Charlie Skinner, the great political fixer, problem solver, and suspect in several murder cases! He wondered why he ever began to worry about the Gator, as he began pouring gasoline over historic residence. Nothing would survive the inferno, he knew.

He lit a match, and went out back by the pond, to watch the fire and have a smoke. He thought to himself that the pond was right in the middle of a field that could house a very nice golf course if not for the body of water. Scum ridden, full of algae, rotting logs in it, it was an eye sore. He turned back around, to watch the fire. Surely the Governor had died in the inferno.

One of the logs in the pond began to move. It was twelve feet long, and moved silently and dignified towards the man who had burnt down a building that the alligator had little understanding of its ownership of.

The bite pressure of an alligator is roughly two thousand pounds, once its jaws snap shut. Skinner didn’t know that though. At first, he thought he had stepped onto a bear trap. Then, he looked down and saw the Governor’s oblong head, it’s jaws firmly grasped around the mangled mess of hamburger that used to be Skinner’s leg. It thrashed its head back and forth, wrenching its supper loose from the man who used to have both legs, and swam back into its pond.

Skinner was bewildered, furious, and yet woozy. He was afraid to look down, his thigh screaming in agony, everything below numb. He fumbled for his shotgun, but the world was turning dark. Dear God, he didn’t want to return to the soil. This wasn’t right! He wanted to be filled with preservatives, sealed in an impermeable glass box, and preserved for the ages. He was too good to die out here, eaten by an alligator.

He didn’t want to give the damned thing the satisfaction of having killed him. But his time to enact the one option that would prevent that was running out, along with his blood supply. He put the barrel in his mouth, and cursed that damned alligator. Before he pulled the trigger, he imagined a better Florida, one with the Wetlands paved over and filled with theme parks. If he hadn’t have had a shotgun in his mouth at the time, he might have died with a smile on his face.