Four constituencies are watching. Please one, cost yourself another. Every time.
Every scenario that lands on your desk moves four numbers at once, and never the same way twice: the party base that put you here, the Congress that can still remove you, the press that decides what today's story is, and the public that simply has to live with you. Three hundred twelve scenarios, none of them repeating within a run, none of them telling you which meter to protect. Choose one response, and you have already chosen who resents you.
| Scenarios | 312, hand-written |
|---|---|
| A run takes | A few minutes |
| To set up | Nothing |
| Base | 68 |
|---|---|
| Congress | 64 |
| Press | 48 |
| Public | 60 |
Illustrative values. Let any one hit zero and the term ends.
A horse arrives as a state gift and becomes federal property. Four departments have explained, in writing, why it is not theirs.
The government closes at midnight over one broken escalator. Two chairmen each say it is the other's subcommittee. Neither is wrong.
Seventy-four thousand commemorative eggs arrive stamped with next year's date. The event is in nine days. They cannot be unstamped.
Gold scissors struck in 1962 to be held and never sharpened, against a ribbon rated to four hundred pounds. Four cameras.
Fourteen members are "yes if needed" — fourteen votes the bill cannot use, and it still needs two hundred eighteen it does not have.
And 307 more. Every scenario is hand-written. None repeats within a run.
A scenario lands on your desk, with a note from whoever brought it.
Two or three responses. Each moves your four meters a different way.
Base, Congress, Press, Public. Let any one hit zero and the run ends.
A run takes a few minutes. Nothing to set up, nothing to sign in to.