THE CERTIFICATE OF DOOM!
Cheering, sign-holding, flag-waving throngs lined the street leading to the Auditorium Center. Police motorcycles with their lights flashing hypnotically scooted the crowd out of the road as the motorcade crept toward the looming building. A buzzing helicopter, untroubled by bees, circled overhead with cameras aimed downward and an excited reporter hanging out of the door to talk into his microphone.
All was as it should be.
In the back seat of the limousine, the candidate hollered into a cell phone. "NO, absolutely not!" he yelled. "We do NOT need more tacos in the campaign! Taco-based signage is not polling—" The car lurched to a stop.
A tall, skinny, dyspeptic assistant with shaggy red hair and glasses interrupted the candidate mid-sentence. "Uh…sir? We're here." The assistant leaned out of the way as the candidate waved a gloved hand at him and gave him an annoyed look. The candidate hung up the phone and sighed, with an "I-can't-believe-he-wants-taco-signs" sort of expression. "Sir? Your debate..." the assistant said.
Candidate Zim waved again. "Yes, yes, I know," he said. "Thank you, Chief-of-Staff. Tell my Debate Prep Crew to accompany me inside."
"Yessir," the Chief of Staff replied. "Debate crew! You heard the candidate!" There was a scurry of activity as several interns shuffled paperwork and made ready to exit the car.
Flashbulbs flashed when Zim stood up from the back seat. He was the perfect candidate: confident, photogenic, and resolute. Even his skin condition had become an asset, as the press ran stories about the disadvantaged green boy who grew up to be a role model and leader. The Irken flag had become an easy campaign logo, and Zim was the odds-on favorite to become President of the United States, and therefore Leader Of The World!
There was only one problem, and of course it was that one reporter who brought it up.
Yes, that reporter. Dib Membrane, former paranormal investigator, now a FUXNOIZ Reporter. He suspected something, and had since fifth grade. He never failed to mention it. And here he was now, that annoying Dib-thing, microphone at the ready-he leaned in and asked with phony gravitas: "WHERE IS YOUR BIRTH CERTIFICATE, ZIM?"