Squeezing the Hoovey

CHINNY FINSTER POINTED one of his long boney fingers (with the crispy, salty fingernails) at Mayor Hoovenhauer, “Once you’re reelected alls you’d have to do is carry out a few simple company directives…in exchange for which we’d be more than happy to keep your campaign coffers flush now, today.” The mayor took a few feeble steps away from the warty abomination before him.
   “Come on Hoovey, you certainly wouldn’t be the first politician to take some special-interest money from the fossil fuel industry.” Chinny breathed down on him like a lusty dragon, his breath as rank as a clogged sewer.
     Finster’s words lashed out at him like a thousand little sticky tongues, each grabbing a tiny fistful of his swollen mind so as to pull him closer…and closer. Pressed up against his own desk Hoovenhauer felt cornered, and in his own office no less. Baroo was just below hiding out in the kneehole, his ears pert with attention, at least as pert as any Basset’s flippity-floppy ears can ever be.
     So far he’d managed to resist all the greased palms and backroom deals today’s pollies were constantly being swayed with, yet Hoovey was starting to crack under the pressure. He wondered if he just might be melting as everything seemed to turn red all around him. Rivulets of sweat cascaded down his meaty brow, the starch in his collar finally admitting defeat. 
     “Get with the program,” Finster leered as he rubbed his thumbs under his index and middle fingers at the beleaguered mayor. The crunchy fingertips made sandpaper kisses as they gently scraped against each other, releasing a barely visible dust, which the mayor inhaled.
     Hoovenhauer saw his own reflection begin to change in Finster’s large glassy eyes, the left side of his face mottling as if from an inner rot. The other side of the mirror had a different set of intentions altogether.

    On second thought all that easy money would help my reelection for sure: State-of-the-art muckraking TV spots, fancy-schmancy fundraising dinners, posh designer attire, and some great big gulps from a replenished slush fund.

     The wants were beginning to course through his veins like black blood as his hands began to tremble.

Who am I to turn down $300,000 which would serve ME just fine!

     Hoovenhauer’s reptilian metamorphosis came on fast, dark green scales violently ripping through his skin like tissue paper.  They hardened over his cheeks, plated his brow, and leathered his lips. Splitting right down the middle, his forked tongue darted over his sharp teeth as wanton greed and icy ambition overtook him. His nails were now razor-like talons and he began to drag them across his desk, leaving ragged grooves in the wood.

“My success would be all but guaranteed…” the Hoovey-thing hissed.

He was falling so far so fast through these red skies at night, like a burning star streaking to its death on the horizon. 

Then through all the murky blackness, a tiny sound from within his own coffin…

…scratch-scratch…

What?

   …SCRATCH-SCRATCH…

   Hoovey stopped dropping then, easing his fall until he was bobbing up and down in space as something bright caught his attention.

   …SCRATCH-SCRATCH…

   BAROO! It was Baroo under his desk, not a coffin after all.

   Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr….

   His big old Basset Hound issued a low growl from below and that brought him back.