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the candidate

The campaign committee, in the courtyard. “So what do we do?” Kathy says. “We need someone to take Ronda’s place.” “How about you?” Sharon says.

“M-m-me??” N’Stange says. Shivering, of course. They’ve been standing out there for fifteen minutes. “B-b-but math is my w-worst subject! I c-can’t be t-t-treasurer!”

“It’s not that hard,” Kathy says. “I’ll help you.”

“C’mon, N’Stange . . . you’ll be an asset to the ticket,” Sharon says. “Everybody loves you!”

“They sure do!” Letitia says. “And it gives you an excuse to change your head again!” They all laugh. N’Stange colors her hair, both above and below, every few weeks. Currently it’s orange. As if about to present herself as a candidate, she self-consciously brushes flakes of snow off her pubic hair. And then off her head. Her hair is very short; her head is almost shaved. Which makes it obvious that each breast is bigger.

She hugs herself. Again, her breasts stick out. She looks down at her feet, shuffling in the ankle-deep snow, her widely spread toes gripping the dead grass underneath. “Um . . . ok-k-k-kay!” Her nipples are in their faces and Sharon comes forward to suck the left one, Letitia the right. N’Stange shudders and then moans as the stimulation warms her up. “Th-thanks.”

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