Hanging Chad

A Tale about the Power of Voting

“Vote,” said his television.

“Vote,” said his Twitter feed.

“Vote,” said his Quip toothbrush.

But by three o’clock on Election Day, Chad Burkhimer of San Bernardino, California had yet to vote. Instead, he had spent the day maxing out pull-up reps while his mail-in ballot gathered dust on the kitchen table under a pile of Maxim magazines.

He had every intention of filling it out, but the impenetrable language of the ballot propositions confused him. They were all written like “Prop Blah-de-Blah does not allocate funds for goob-de-goo to flimmy-flam” and if he interpreted that incorrectly, his taxes would be raised and Dolphins would have the right to vote.

Just as he was about to text his sensei for guidance, a Netflix notification informed him new episodes of his favorite show, Buns ’n Guns, were now available. It was the kind of reality show where supermodels and celebrities bake things, but with a twist: afterwards they blew up their dishes with machine guns.

By the time polls closed, Chad was midway through episode seven, salivating at the sight of Kate Upton firing an AK-47 at a creme brulee.

“More like creme ‘boom-lay,” muttered Chad.

* * *

The next morning he was awoken by the sound of a hammer shattering his bedroom window. His neighbor, Cathy Draper, a graying sixty-two year old woman, knocked out the jagged glass clinging to the frame and climbed through.

With his body still throbbing from the pull-up marathon, Chad was barely able to tumble out of bed before Cathy raised the hammer over his head.

“This is for every time you mentioned your motorcycle at my barbecue!”

She swung wildly, knocking over three cans of Brut spray deodorant on Chad’s dresser as he dodged her blows. He barreled out of the room, gunning for his cell phone and car keys on the living room table. Just as he grabbed them, a knock came from the front door.

He answered to find an officer from the San Bernardino Police Department on the stoop.

“Thank Christ! I was just about to call you guys.”

“Sir, are you the Chad Burkhimer that lives at this residence?” the dispassionate officer asked.

“Yeah, wh — ” Chad went ridged as the officer fired a dart gun into his shoulder. He stared at the projectile in disbelief.

“WHAT THE HELL, OFFICER!?”

The officer plucked the dart, emotionless.

“I take it you haven’t been following the election?”

Of course he had. He listened to Joe Rogan’s podcast.

“Prop 42 passed,” said the officer.

Before he could ask the officer to explain, Cathy ran screaming down the hallway, arcing the hammer toward Chad.

“This is for every time you just had to one-up my restaurant recommendations!”

The officer stepped aside, as Chad stumbled into the front yard trying to avoid Cathy’s blows.

“Officer! Can’t you like… taze her!? She’s having some kind of episode!” shrieked Chad as he danced around the lawn in his boxer-briefs.

“No can do. Best of luck, Mr. Burkhimer.”

Chad dove into his Land Rover and sped off down the street.

“What in the flying fuck is going on?”

As he idled at the stop sign at the end of the cul-de-sac he saw several people on the street glance up from their cell phones. A bedraggled man in a “Teacher of the Year” sweater made eye-contact with Chad. His tired eyes lit up.

“Hey! There’s one in that Land Rover! Let’s get him!”

Several people rushed his vehicle clutching gardening tools.

Chad hit the gas pedal and swerved off, heading for the 210 freeway. He blinked several times, convinced he was dreaming. Then the early-aughts butt rock blaring from his radio stopped for a news report.

“Today marks a new Chad-ter in state history, as Californians passed the controversial Proposition 42, which immediately legalizes the hunting and assault of all white, male Chad’s over twenty-one with gardening tools.”

“THAT’S WHAT PROP 42 WAS!?” He pounded the steering wheel, cursing his fear of Dolphin suffrage.

“As of this morning, Chad’s the state over have been greeted by local police to receive injections of a nanotech tracker that allows citizens to follow all Chad-related movement through the newly released Chad-cker app.”

“How could people let this happen!?” he cursed.

“The proposition passed by a single vote,” replied the radio.

* * *

His Land Rover broke down high in the San Bernardino Mountains. He abandoned the vehicle, plotting a course for his investment property near Big Bear Lake. For two days, he survived in the woods, wearing the dirty cycling class clothes from his gym bag and munching spoonfuls of protein powder from a half empty jar of “Incredible Bulk.”

On day three, he made it to the alpine forest that sloped down toward his A-frame ski chalet. As he edged down the rocky path, he stopped cold at the sight in front of his cabin.

A group of his co-workers from Grazer Insurance were camped out in the front yard, tapping rakes and shovels into their palms.

“You’re sure he’ll be here?” asked Gerry from Accounting as he greased a pair of hedge clippers.

“The app showed him heading this way,” said Janine from Human Resources. “Plus he never shuts up about this place.”

“Yeah, brah-macita. Can’t make your shower. I’m hitting my place in the Bear. Slopes will be fresh this weekend.’” said Loretta, VP of Sales, as she practiced swinging a snow shovel.

“Spot on impresh,” thought Chad from his hiding spot.

“Oh shit! The Chad-cker app just updated,” squealed Janine. “He’s close!”

Chad yelped as a hand grabbed his shoulder. He whirled around, fist at the ready, and looked up into the face of a goateed man with stringy hair tumbling from a dark hoodie.

“The say a hero can save us, but I wouldn’t stand here and wait.”

The voice struck Burkimer’s inner-Chadness like a Fireball shot followed by a rail of coke. He’d know those gargled butt rock pipes anywhere.

“Chad Kroeger?” he stammered.

“Guess I don’t have to remind you of who I really am,” said the man as he pulled back the hood, revealing the lead vocalist of Nickelback.

“First of all, love your band,” Burkhimer squeaked.

Kroeger smiled.

“I appreciate that, brother.”

“Yeah, it’s so hacky when people shit on you. I’m like ‘Nickelback? How are they bad? They had a song on a Spider-Man AND a Transformers movie. What’d Lizzo ever do?’”

“Right? We’re like so popular, eh? A billion listens on Spotify can’t all be ironic!”

Suddenly a gardening spade shot through the air, lodging in a pine tree behind them. They looked down the slope to see the angry mob of Burkhimer’s co-workers rushing up the hill.

“Follow me!” said Kroeger as he grabbed Chad’s hand. They dashed through the forest, zigging and zagging, until they arrived at a tall chain link fence surrounding the lawn of a giant mountain lodge.

Kroeger tapped a few buttons on a keypad, and shoved Chad through the gate just as the pursuant rabble descended on the driveway.

As they huffed toward the front door, Burkhimer gawked in wonder at the three story behemoth, complete with a roof-top helicopter pad. It reminded him of a villain’s lair in a Stephen Seagal flick.

“Yo Bro-ger. What is this place?”

“Welcome to Ex-Chadtion Point,” he said.

* * *

Deep in the legalese of Prop 42, international Chad-izens were protected from the Chad-cker program. As a Canadian, Kroeger and his personal property were exempt. Since Election Day, he’d been wandering the mountains, whispering Nickelback lyrics into the wind to guide stray Chad’s toward his safe haven.

Now twelve angry Chad’s commiserated in the living room of Kroeger’s sprawling mountain estate.

“That hot brah-macita Loretta took me to H.R. for micro-aggressions and then she chucks a spade at me?” complained Burkhimer to the group. “I don’t get it, man. I skipped her shower ’cause the only thing that grosses me out more than pregnancy is cake.”

“Total vibe killer,” agreed Chad Demarcus of Riverside as he wiped pretzels off his Affliction t-shirt. “This woman Maggie from work? She attacked me with a hose for interrupting her Machu Picchu stories, and I’m like, I only did it because mine were honestly better. Nobody wants to hear about you saving that alpaca, Grandma.”

“Sounds like a snoozer,” affirmed Chad Winthrop of Whittier as he sipped on a Monster energy drink. “This guy Carl whacked me with a rake and I straight up saved his life. Yeah, I parked in his spot for a month, but how were his legs ever going to heal if he kept babying them with that handicap parking pass?”

As Kroeger took center stage, Burkhimer slunk into a bean bag chair near the back of the group and began scrolling through a Roku to ease his mind.

“Okay, Chad-to-the-boners,” Kroeger said. “In a few minutes, the helicopter will be here to fly you boys to my private plane at the Big Bear Airport. That’ll get you over the border to the Canadian Chadlands.”

Kroeger began handing out backpacks to the group.

“Inside each of these is a three day supply of creatine, two cans of Brut body spray, and some fresh polos and khaki’s to get you started in your new lives.”

Chad Demarcus looked at his backpack, heavy in thought.

“I still can’t believe Prop 42 passed. You guys all voted, right?”

Almost everyone nodded.

“Man, I’d love to get my hands on a non-voter right now,” said Winthrop, crumpling the Monster can into his forehead. “Hey Burk-meister. Did you vote?”

The words fell on deaf ears. Chad Burkhimer was miles away, entranced by the television playing ‘Buns ’n Guns’ on mute. Just as Chrissy Teigen aimed a bazooka at a loaf of challah bread, two hands grabbed him by the arms and dragged him toward the front door.

“Hey, what gives?” he shouted as he looked up to see Demarcus and Winthrop.

“We all took a vote,” said Demarcus. “You’re out.”

“What? When!?” demanded Chad.

“Just now,” Demarcus answered. “We asked you like seven times to vote, but you just kept watching ‘Buns ’n Guns.’”

“Why are you doing this? Let me go!”

“We checked all of your social media accounts,” grunted Winthrop. “There’s not one picture of you with an ‘I Voted’ sticker, ya Bene-chad Arnold!”

As they shoved Burkhimer out the front door, Kroeger threw one of the survival packs at Chad’s feet, and slammed the door.

“I guess this is how you remind me of why you really suck!” Chad screamed.

* * *

By the time the helicopter descended on the pad atop the roof, a few of Chad’s co-workers had scaled the chainlink fence, charging the compound.

In a desperate attempt to reach the chopper, he leaped from the porch, grabbing the lip of the second story balcony. As he attempted to pull himself to salvation, his biceps buckled. He could barely raise his eyes to his elbows.

He really wished he had voted instead of maxing out on pull-ups.

He could have been a hero, but now he was just a hanging Chad.