"You have a collect call from a, uh, Stats McCool. Do you accept the charges?" the operator intoned.
"Slats MacCune. And sure, why not" I replied.
The line crackled for a moment as I pondered why anyone outside of prison calls collect these days.
"You there? Sorry, I can't seem to find my mobile," Slats stammered.
"Yeah. You working or luxuriating these days?" I inquired.
"Always work. Retirement is for suckers. Anyway, you have a connection with Trump's organization?"
"Not a one. Why?"
"Let me tell you, Trump should have sent his plane to pick up Mitt yesterday. Offered to fly him out to the debate, or to California to file papers, or wherever. The media would have split screen the whole thing, the Donald on one half, his plane on the other with a clock marking the time. 'Where is Romney? Will Romney accept the challenge?' Trump should have done this right after Romney mouthed off, but he can still do it. So you don't know Corey?" Slats rapid-fired, clearly hoping for a "yes," an introduction Mr. C. Lewandowki [n.b., Campaign Manager, Trump for President], and a slice of Trump's coffers. Not necessarily in that order.
"Well, that would have dominated the news cycle, starved the remaining three of some political oxygen by making the storyline Trump vs. Romney at a critical juncture. It would have been an impressive show of strength," I admitted. Slats hadn't lost a step, even if his phone was misplaced.
"Exactly. At which point Romney either demurs, showing weakness, or he runs straight into the buzzsaw. Either way, Trump wins," said Slats, his voice nearing shout levels.
"Interesting. Hey Slats, I'm hearing some background noise on your end."
"Oh yeah, loud copier in this office," he replied.
"One that sounds like steel drum music?" I asked.
"Listen, I gotta go. Oh wait, my cell was in my pocket the whole time. Go figure."
<Click>
Stay tuned, as more will follow.
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