By the time that Mercedes Restrepo had returned to her hotel room, she was thoroughly exhausted and utterly frustrated.
It was the third week of her campaign, and it felt as though she was spending most of that time jumping stupid hurdles and running through a thorny maze of controversies. First there was her family history of being guerillas (as far as she knew, they'd only ever fought against Noriega, and hadn't gone rogue like most of their compatriots, but few people believed her take on it). Then there was her own experience as a student protestor, then rumours that she'd worked her way through college as a stripper. She'd been forced by her campaign advisors to deny the rumours, but she insisted on explaining that 'feminist' didn't equal 'prude'. When it came to rumours of her having had affairs with one man or another, she had furiously denied them all, even as the blatant hypocrisy of her political opponents was on full display. She was sick of dealing with the same three or four bad faith arguments on a daily basis.
But that aside, it finally seemed as though she was going to make a difference in the polling numbers. She had spent every day of her campaign being active. She'd pounded the pavement, she'd made impromptu speeches, she'd done interviews, and she'd insisted on being photographed at charities. Anything which might sway the public which had proved so utterly reluctant to vote for her.
It was good that things were finally looking up for her, because she knew full well that this was her last shot at political office. She had spent a good twenty years in politics, and her failures were beginning to far outweigh her successes. She'd spent a good few years on her home city's council, before people had decided that she was just a bit too confrontational for their liking. She'd thrown her hat into the race for mayor a couple years later, and she'd come close enough that she was strongly considered for the governorship instead. When that had failed, she was hired onto the council again, as a deputy mayor. She'd been hoping that that would be her ticket to the spot, but when her colleague was caught having an affair with one of his interns, it had been a scandal which the right had gleefully exploited for all it was worth. Given the fact that the old mayor was secretly the biological father of her middle child, Mercedes had quickly resigned to avoid any scrutiny on herself. Now, despite all those skeletons in her closet, she had seen a chance to undertake a second gubernational campaign. The incumbent governor had benefited from having no term limits, and also a population which had happily re-elected him for almost as many years as Mercedes had been in office. Now he had finally stepped down, and Mercedes was convinced that she could seize the momentum, capitalise on the changing trends in urban areas, to defy the odds and get herself elected.
She was ruminating on all of that as she slumped onto her hotel bed. It was not a five star establishment; her campaign advisors had urged her to go cheap on her accommodations in order to save money in their mostly grassroots campaign.
It was certainly a relief to lie down on her bed; her feet were sore, she was hot from being outdoors in the summer, and she was still glowering over some of the comments that trolls had shouted to her on the street. She thought of how humiliated and triggered they would be come election night, and that helped take the sting out of it.
A knock broke her thoughts. She sat up, staring at the front door of her suite. She had wanted somewhere private, and so she hadn't told anyone where she was staying, especially not her husband. Their marriage was so strained lately that she didn't even want to risk him being able to talk to her. Only her strategist and the other senior members of her team knew where to find her, and she'd made it clear that she was taking the evening off. 'This better be important,' Mercedes thought angrily as she got up from the bed, readjusted her blouse and skirt to look professional, and crossed the small room to open the door.
*-*-*-*-
He'd first seen Mercedes Restrepo when he was in high school, running a pointless campaign against his dad ten years before. She'd already begun trying to sell herself off as a family woman who balanced her job with raising her three kids, but he knew better. He'd heard the rumours about how she'd begun (and maintained) her career, and he'd happily spread those rumours further. He liked to think he'd played a big role in keeping her from winning.
Duff Matheson had always known that he'd follow his dad into politics; it was practically the family business by this point. At least eight of his family members, including his father, had served either as governors or senators over just four generations. He was determined to be the ninth.
He'd first gone into the military, serving overseas for two terms and winning a couple of medals to his name. Then he'd gone back to college and joined the same fraternity of which his father and uncles were alumni. From there, it hadn't taken much to persuade people that he was his father's son, and would represent a continuation of proper American values.
The only problem was Mercedes Restrepo.
She was running a much better campaign this second time around, delivering a fierce performance at the last two debates and going the distance to drum up support. Much to Duff's irritation, it had gone from a walk in the park to a horse race. But he wasn't worried, not anymore.
He'd ordered a private detective to follow Mrs. Restrepo and find out where she was staying. He was due to meet his father for a big barbecue get-together at the family home outside the city; all of his father's major backers would be in attendance. They were men who had helped his father for thirty years, and Duff was determined that they'd support him just the same.
But before he was going back there, he'd ordered his private chauffeur, Gavin, to drive him to the small hotel which was quietly wedged off in an obscure part of the downtown area. You could be forgiven for forgetting that it existed, which was what Mrs. Restrepo had doubtless hoped when she'd booked it. 'No hiding from me,' Duff thought smugly.
"Stand by," he told Gavin as he got out of the car. He also took a sports bag out of the car and slung it over his shoulder.
"Sure thing, sir," Gavin answered with a smile. Duff had first met him when he'd been his platoon commander, and he wasn't sure if Gavin still called him 'sir' ironically, for old times' sake, or out of respect. Or maybe it was a bit of all three. Either way, Duff could rely on Gavin in a clutch, and he would need someone trustworthy for this stunt.
Duff quickly made his way through the modest hotel lobby, going up the stairs to the second floor, until he stood in front of Mrs. Restrepo's suite. Ignoring the "Do not disturb!" sign, he knocked three times, quivering with excitement as he took out his phone. 'You're never gonna see this coming, bitch,' he thought to himself.
He'd never dreamed that a hypnosis video could actually work, but he'd collected this one off the dark web thanks to one of his frat brothers. They'd found the video and tested it on a few stuck-up feminazis back in the day, and it had managed to overpower their wills with ease. When Duff found out about the video, he'd always known who he'd most like to use it on.
Mercedes was both infuriating, and also arousing. She spewed all the same tired 'progressive' ideas and yammered on and on with that ridiculous Nicaraguan accent. It was like listening to Sofia Vergara if she thought she was AOC. The problem was that she looked the part too; she was taller than most women, around 5'10, with dark olive skin, brown hair that hadn't gone grey (or maybe she just dyed it really well), and a curvy body which she denied had ever been augmented or enhanced.
The door opened after a moment, and there she was. He always felt a bit intimidated when he was in a room with her. It galled him that she could have that effect on him, even if it was mostly how attractive he thought she was. She was in her late 40s, but she looked ten years younger. She was old enough to be his mom, truth be told, but that wasn't new for Duff.
Her reflexes were sharp; even before she'd finished opening the door, her eyes widened in recognition. A scowl was forming on her face, and her big pouty lips were apart. But whether she was going to yell at him or gasp, he didn't know. He was too busy lifting up his phone, pressing 'play' on the video.
The effect began almost instantaneously. Her eyes were drawn to the screen, and her frown intensified. 'She's strong,' he thought as she struggled against the effect of the video. Duff had never seen it himself, of course, but he was aware that it played a kaleidoscope of colour sequences and flashing lights which invaded a person's mind through their retinas. A loud noise emanated from his phone, sounding like some experimental arthouse music that the weirdos would listen to in college.
