melodrama ★

Harold James Buchanan Jr. 37. Spokesguy for the NRA. “Don't move my cheese.” {Secondary blog}

[haroldjamesbuchanan]

katezimmerman‌:

     Katherine loved her job, she truly did. Besides her family, she had made all of her connections to the world of politics and journalism through her experience, and it was so incredibly rewarding. That was, when she wasn’t rushing back home or out to attend some even with Wyatt, and she couldn’t properly enjoy her time in the studio. Her reseachers and the writers she worked with were wonderful, and they knew just how to get her point across - it was an excellent team, for sure (or that’s what she told everyone, at least). “Oh, please, it’s a pleasure,” she offered a wide toothy grin as he spoke, even though all she wanted was to go home and rest. This was part of the job, as well. “How have you been, James? Besides all the public appearances you’ve been doing lately,” she pointed out.

“I’ve been doing nothing that gives me that twinkle in the eye you’ve got right now.” James squinted mock-suspiciously at Katherine, tapping his chin like a pot warehouse inspector who thought the workers were sampling the wares. “Capitalism in America in 2019?” he said, putting on a reedy and grumbling accent. “It’s not right to be this jazzed about your day job.”

[haroldjamesbuchanan]

royisms‌:

     A heavy sigh escaped Amanda’s lips as he shook the paper bag in front of her. “I really was hoping for a puppy, I need to hold something fluffy and sweet,” she admitted, allowing her hands to run over her face as if that would shake off the dreadful phone conversation she had (luckily) just ended. She shook her head, trying all too desperately to snap back to reality, before finally looking at him. With a knowing expression contorting her face, Amanda spoke. “Massachussets is the least of my problems– Wyoming, on the other hand…” she trailed off, eyes widening slightly as if telling him ‘is unrescuable’. “Nothing my good friends at the NRA can’t help me with, isn’t it?” she added with a dry laugh. 

“Note to self,” said James, making an imaginary tick mark in the air, “kidnap puppy for presidential campaign.”

He pushed one of the subs towards Amanda (both smoked turkey; toasted honey oat broad; liberal slices of cheese; crunchy lettuce; dripping ranch dressing dripping onto the napkin) because was there anything food didn’t make better? Well, world hunger maybe, but that had to be someone else’s problem.

Taking the seat opposite her, he laced his fingers together and gave her his most professional look. A face his dad could be proud of. Look, it said, The Worst Family In America doesn’t take sides! “What can this good friend of yours in the NRA do for the good senator in Wyoming? I hear there are puppies in Wyoming. Plenty of ‘em for the taking.”

[haroldjamesbuchanan]

nelliott‌:

“What, like,” a finger trailed down the menu before Nicholas reached, “Knob Creek?” 

Fingers drummed on the side of the glass, his menu left to one side as he reinspected the beer. 

“Aye, yeah. It’s too,” a pause to hunt for the right word, “shit. I’d be gone if I didn’t like the atmosphere here. Figured I’d try a whisky rather than chance it with another homebrew.”

“Hey, that’s good bourbon,” said James, pleased that he’d recognised the name. All scotch, for example. sounded the same to him: the Glenfiddich, the Glenmarjorie, Glenliver etc. Knob Creek was something he’d heard people swear by.

“Not my poison of choice,” he admitted, prying his fingers off the mug to give the barfly a glimpse of his drink. Beer. Regular beer. “But it’s good stuff. It’d crack top ten on any beginner’s guide to bourbon list easy.”

[quicovidal-blog]

Another day, another campaign fundraiser. The room was full of elbows people paid to rub against – the candidate doesn’t matter, it’s the company he keeps – and Quico had gone through a third of his business cards by the time the speeches wrapped up. He was also three drinks in.

That left a lot more drinking to do if he was gonna get his money’s worth. “I love Republicans,” he said. He stretched a couple fingers off his glass, in the direction of the bartender’s tip jar. Empty. Nothing but nickels and dimes. “They say no handouts, and they mean it.” 

[haroldjamesbuchanan]

“And Jesus loves a reformed sinner,” said James. He scanned the counter and the barflies clustered around it, the overworked bartenders and the who’s-who Rolodex walking around. He wondered what Quico was even looking at. “I’m surprised to see you in a place like this. Would’ve taken you for the type who does blank ballots now.”

[haroldjamesbuchanan]

annekane‌:

Some of the conversation she had with the NRA CFO’s wife might have gotten lost in translation.  Cooking, baking, etc. she had just the thing from her little in-home gardens to help them out.  Anne smiled, meeting his hand half way with the envelope, swift, but not enough to give him a paper cut.

“Yes.  Did you need more?”  She guessed maybe it would be a little less suspicious looking if she’d put in the herbs in tupperware, but you could practically smell the rosemary through the paper envelope anyways.  

“They’re all fresh, picked them this morning.  Sorry this was the only time I could meet today, busy day.  Hope I didn’t scare you.”  Maybe it was also a bad idea to use information about where the son would be tonight in order to find him.  Save him and his family’s reputation.

You’re welcome, she thought, the FBI is right over there about to bust your dealer’s proxy for something worse.

The envelope contained something grainy and potpourri-like. James felt it up with his fingers, feeling more and more out of his depth. The mention of fresh pickings gave him a clue at last, and he gave the envelope a cautious sniff, relieved that it was only rosemary.

If the situation was less dire, he’d have snuck out a sprig or two. It’d make for some great flavoured olive oil.

“This—this isn’t a drop-off, is it?” he asked the DNI.

Up close, what she lacked in height, she made up for in scary levels of unassumingness. There was nothing unassuming about this woman, as he’d pieced together from Dad going off on the subject. He almost handed the envelope back to Director Kane.  

“Just asking,” he added nervously. “Wouldn’t want to walk away with something Jack Bauer needs to solve a hostage crisis.”

[royisms]

     “No, Senator, I completely understand, but if you would just– yes, I know,” Amanda spoke into the phone, head falling back onto the chair as she listened to the person on the other line babble on about how her lack of experience was worrying - oh, and not to mention her candidate’s! People seemed to forget the years Oliver had already spent in the Sentate, his own partners didn’t seem to remember his presence over the years. “Sir, if I could just–” she tried once more in vain. All she needed was an excuse to hang up and, as if she were Ross saying I just want to be married again, her reason walked right by her. “I’m sorry, Senator, I will have to call you back – yes, you too, I’ll talk to you soon,” she replied quickly before putting her phone down and looking up at the person in front of her with an almost begging expression on her face. “Please tell me you bring good news?” 

[haroldjamesbuchanan]

James held up the white paper bag in reply. “But it’s only twelve-inch subs. Which I should mention ‘cause you’re looking at me like you’re hoping there’s a puppy in here.” He gave the bag a short little shake to emphasise the point. “No puppies.”

And no plates either, but Amanda had always seemed resourceful like that.

“You look hassled,” he said, helping himself to a seat. “Something to do with my friendly neighbourhood elected representative to Congress?”

[haroldjamesbuchanan]

evanabuchanan‌:

James slows the car to a stop and Evan looks up from his phone, prepared to ask why, but he’s beaten to the punch. At the question, he clicks the lock button, his message to Charlie paused mid-sentence. Jesus Christ, he thinks. He’s far too hungover for whatever it is James wants to do today.

“Significantly less than before you asked,” Evan replies, rolling his head in James’ direction. “Do I want to ask why, or is it better for me to go in blind?”

“I’m going to take that as a ‘yee-haw’,” said James, nodding in satisfaction to himself. He popped the driver’s side door and gestured at Evan to get out.

(Who even was on the other side of the phone, and did he have Percocet?)

“Here’s the plan,” he went on, squinting in the blazing sunlight across the top of the car. Its side was slightly dinged, probably from the turn they’d taken. James absently rubbed his thumb over it, as if in apology, not taking his eyes off Evan.

“We’re going cake tasting,” he said. “Wedding cake tasting. And you have two character options.” He unfurled one long finger. “A: fussy best man.” Then the second. “B: brother of the bride, IDK who that is, make it up as you along.” The finger gun was aimed right at Evan now. “Choose your player.”

[haroldjamesbuchanan]

“How much do you trust me today?” asked James, his eyes dead serious as he regarded Evan. He slowed the car to a stop outside a building that looked like the architectural equivalent of weding cake. It had it all: white frills, candy-striped awning, big glass windows stencilled with the words Wendy’s Cake Boutique.

Actually, headlines like that completely waved away the need for an explanation.

@evanabuchanan

[toddnj-deactivated20191029]

open ↭ ???

Pathetic was a word often used to describe Todd. He heard it from his wife, his son, his personal advisors. He’s heard it so often that the word has almost lost all meaning to him. But the word becoming synonymous with his wrinkled collars, and ability to always say the wrong thing at the wrong time he had come to wear like a deranged badge of honour. His son’s new found confidence and rebellion is what pushed back all his meetings today, so he greeted the other sitting outside his office with a sheepish grin and a clammy handshake. “Sorry about the last minute rescheduling, kid borrowed the car last minute— teenagers am I right? Please come on in,” he says as his free hand searches for the keys to his office door.

[haroldjamesbuchanan]

James nodded sympathetically like he hadn’t ever been that kid himself. It weirded him out a little to even be sitting down to a meeting with a guy who was old enough to be a stock sitcom dad. (James sometimes indulged in that fantasy. He looked at sad old men pushing fifty and mentally debated whether he’d trade his own for them.)

”Senator, please, I’m just glad your office called back,” he said, dropping into an empty chair at Todd’s desk. “Times like these, so many people are dodging me. It makes it look like there’s something to hide.”

[katezimmerman]

     “That’s a wrap, everybody!” someone called behind the camera and Katherine’s warm, welcoming smile faded a little. Her cheeks always hurt after her segment was over - being charismatic had its price, apparently. “Thank you,” she greeted her partners as she pushed her chair off the desk and prepared to finally go home. It had been a crazy day and she was ready to get to her husband and dog and relax ( before doing it all over the next day ).       However, the guest they’d had that night was still around, apparently, and if Katherine had learnt anything in her experience in politics it was that a host should never leave before a gues, specially if it’s someone they wish to impress. With light steps, she approached the other, forcing her lips to curve into a smile once more. “We didn’t wear you out, did we?” she asked jokingly with a short nod of her head. “Things can get quite crazy here, I know.”

[haroldjamesbuchanan]

“I’m plenty used to it by now, don’t even apologise,” said James, giving Katherine an ironic salute. The new job had been thrust on him recently, but it was either learn on his feet or be bowled off them. “In fact, I consider myself lucky for being able to clock out when the green light goes off. Doing this over and over all day? Yikes.”

[nelliott-deactivated20210112]

“Hey,” Nick called across the bar in an effort to get the attention of the figure sat closest to him.

Perhaps it was boredom, perhaps loneliness, but with his beer running out, Nick had decided to order a new drink – something different entirely – and with no knowledge of spirits and no companion to ask for advice, it seemed a better bet to ask than take a punt. Perhaps if they turned out to be interesting or rich then he could get something else out of it too.

“You got any idea of what the best whisky they serve here is? Don’t have a fucking clue what’s supposed to be good on this menu.”

[haroldjamesbuchanan]

People shouting “Hey” at him in a crowded bar usually meant trouble. Nobody who wanted a compliment or directions to the nearest Costco ever flagged down a stranger with just “Hey”. It was with extreme caginess that James turned around to face the guy on the next barstool.

Only to come up short at the question. Wasn’t much that James knew about whiskey except that stuffed shirts drank a lot of it. Curling a hand around his beer mug, as if shielding it from view would be of any use, he said, “Uh. Go for the Kentucky bourbon. You can’t go wrong with that.” His glance bounced off the barfly’s dwindling beer to the man’s face. “Something wrong with that IPA?”

[haroldjamesbuchanan]

evanabuchanan‌:

“She doesn’t,” Evan shakes his head, heavy from the alcohol, before squinting over at his brother beside him. It’s an alcoholic’s stare, like even the dimly-lit bar is too bright for him. “Not for any reason in particular, anyway.”

His hand still holds tight to the glass of scotch, even now that it’s empty, like it’s the only thing keeping him from sliding right off the barstool and onto the floor. “Sybil doesn’t look like the Swamp Thing,” he adds as an afterthought. “We have the same face. If I don’t look like the Swamp Thing, she doesn’t look like the Swamp Thing. Asshole.”

Trains could run their whole schedules by Evan jumping to Sybil’s defence. Which would be great, actually, because James didn’t like getting the pattern of wrought-iron benches imprinted on his ass all that much. He just grinned into his beer, not especially moved to refill Evan’s glass for him.

“And says who you don’t look like the Swamp Thing?” asked James of the brother he’d grown up calling anything from blobhead to Chernobyl Walking. “You think I drew a dick on your face with Magic Marker that one time because I was secretly gay? More like I was telling you what no woman in your life has told you before. The truth.”

[oliverzafar]

Back in DC. The words were usually music to his ears, a sign of relief after consecutive days of hard campaigning in New Hampshire or Iowa or whatever other bumblefuck state decided to show up on a map during primary season. Today, however, he was filled only with frustration as he sat by a crowded fountain on Meridian Hill and ate his tofu and cheese (vegan cheese, thank you very much) wrap during his lunch break. In front of him, a copy of the Times’ and their newest analysis of the Climate Change Performance Index.

“Have you seen this shit?” he remarked to the familiar face sitting nearby him. He forgot to censor himself sometimes when he was especially upset about something, including Exhibit A, the especially dismaying report in front of him. “The Climate Change Performance Index just left the top three spots of its performance ranking blank because we’re doing that poorly. They essentially just said ‘we can’t even give the best country a medal because you’re all failures’.” He put the tablet to the side, taking a moment to breathe deeply. “I’m so excited for my kids to grow up in Atlantis. Maybe evolution will catch up with them and humans will grow gills in a few generations.”

[haroldjamesbuchanan]

James who had been steadily cringing away from the bland tofu combo on Oliver’s lap (the man was supposed to be wanting to be president) paused mid-escape. “Gills is what you already need when you get out of your car in LA.”

He neglected to mention who he’d been seeing for what there. In his experience, politicians thought themselves above movie stars, and movie stars thought their buttocks were getting cold from waiting to be kissed by politicians. In between, James wanted to just get his paycheque and have the Naked Chef just text him back.

“It’s like lying down with your face in the exhaust pipe.” He leaned over sideways to see what Oliver Zafar was looking at. The Times? Thank you kindly but he would rather deep-dive in Atlanta. “But I wouldn’t hold out for evolution to happen. I reckon if it’s taken so long for it to hit us, our chance has passed.”

[haroldjamesbuchanan]

silassanford‌:

Silas kept himself from being visibly offended that he wasn’t recognized on sight, the perfect, calm mask remaining unwavering. It didn’t even crack as he informed that he was being fucking bumped for JUUL and that instead he would have to deal with this man. But also doesn’t want to be here all night. “I’d love to.” And so, he took the offered seat.  Unlike many Republicans, Silas didn’t really smoke much these days. Too vain to have anything poison his insides. However, he was perfectly happy to take their money as well as to vote for bills that helped them. “So, what is this concerning?” He decided to get straight to business, so that he could get out of here as soon as possible and not have to waste any more of his time. 

James had been about to offer the conference room, but the senator was always right. That was a handy office rule, along with ‘barricade the door if you don’t hear someone wash their hands’. Trapped behind his own desk and with not much scope of passing the buck onto someone else on the heavily-populated food chain, James leaned back in his seat and did what he did best. He checked his phone again.

The calendar app wasn’t any kind of useful. Neither was the trick of looking Sanford in the eye and trying to read his mind. The devil take Kevin! And his PS4, too. Spreading his hands in Sanford’s direction, James smiled and said, “I’d say this is concerning… whatever’s on your mind, Senator.”

[corinnejmorris]

↷ BIG GREEN | J. BUCHANAN

[haroldjamesbuchanan]

corinnejmorris‌:

Corinne seldom got aggravated but James was dangling something just out of her reach. Something that annoyed her like nothing else. Her smile is sweet but, does a fantastic job at hiding the impatient snap she’s on the brink of.  He’s stalling. Again. Ever so slightly her fingers tighten around the chipped wood of her clipboard, and once peach toned knuckles turn white. “There has to be an angle,” her voice is measured but sweet like Tennessee honey as her eyes casually sweep over the menu. At this point she might as well just order straight whiskey to calm her nerves. She sneaks a look up at him through wispy eyelashes, what is it you’re not telling me? “Am I now?” She asks in the same measured tone as before. She gently sets down her menu and clasps her hands together in true discipling mom fashion. The smile, head tilt, and hand placement are all measured quantities— spit it out before I fucking snap. And he does, and she untenses and her smile grows just a little brighter. “No, I don’t think we ever did. Was it still not to your liking after the revisions?” Her tone is almost apologetic. Quite frankly if they didn’t like it the first two times, she was hard pressed to believe they’d like it the third. But she’d listen to his concerns. Is she a little hurt it wasn’t something else? maybe. But regardless, she was a professional and even if this whole “meeting” stemmed from his phone number scrawled on her wrist whilst drunk, then so be it. Maybe some other day he’d really call her to watch him play.

Not to your liking? James nearly winced. That was like lumping him in the same pot of Clay-Doh as Kevin the Boss, and James didn’t do well with being The Man. He preferred to be Big Brother. The chill dude. The token good guy. Like John Wick among all the other hitmen.

“The report is fine. Great, even.” He held up one palm from the tabletop to show her how ‘great’ it was exactly. Those were several hours of his life he wasn’t getting back. “No complaints there. Actually, it could be too late for complaints—it’s gone in the pipeline—but, and this is the good news, we want to work with you more.”

This was how James slept at night: hands clasped, thanking the good Lord that this job churned out dollar bills like a cow with milk. Corinne made a great change from the guys with flatlining hair, and wrinkles where their mama’s values had once been.

“In fact,” he continued, “someone’s come to us with a new low-tar clove-fresh prototype and the sample response has been...” More miserable than an old stud horse that was just gelded... “pretty encouraging. We’re hoping that with the right analytics—“ Broad gesturing across the table conveyed the point of how integral Corinne was to the hope— “this’ll be a hit. Raining bonuses for all. Of course Kevin wanted to go with Gartner, but I reminded him of how much he liked the last one you did, and he saw the light pretty quick after that.”

[haroldjamesbuchanan]

gavinmoir‌:

“Shit, we’ve been found out,” said Gavin dryly, “but if you’re interested to join the Night Children’s Council, DC Chapter, we convene here every fortnight. Bring a sacrifice. We have chips.” It would explain why the education lobbyist appeared like all the blood had been ejected out of him most days, and Harold Buchanan had seemed a fine addition to the (fictional?) club. 

Disappointedly, Never Gonna Give You Up’s grating melody still accompanied their meeting. Third time today, Gavin mused, scrunching his nose in annoyance. He wished they’d play Together Forever instead—he was quite fond of that one.

“I see. Any particular reason for this sudden interest?” asked Gavin. Truth be told, it hardly qualified as one of Gavin’s chief concerns, but it caught his attention nevertheless. “You wouldn’t, by any chance, carrying said free earmuffs? Would aid your case greatly if you did.”

An underpaid bleeding heart who made jokes? James felt almost cheated of the promised chips.

“Well, if you see now, Greenpine’s splitting into an elementary and middle school, and they’ve not got room for both in the current campus,” he said, launching right into it. He patted down his pockets as he explained, eyes not leaving Gavin’s. “New school in old area. Once upon a time, that used to mean more opportunities, you know? From a, let’s say, marketing POV. But now there’s muttering in Congress about how cigarette retail should stay at least fifty yards away from schools and the like, and my client would really not like the new Greenpoint Middle School to be situated in the backyard of his best distributors. He wins, the children win, America wins—aha!”

Untangling his pristine white earphone wires from a back pocket, he handed them across to Gavin. “And earmuffs. As promised.”

[haroldjamesbuchanan]

sybilbuchanan‌:

Oh my God, she thinks, following him around the room like a mother after her child at a china shop. Elbows in. If you break anything, you gotta pay for it. When James lies on the couch, Sybil is already there by his feet, taking his shoes off — smiling and a little playful, unlike their mother —, throwing them over her shoulder. There. No marks on the leather, now. The delicate hands fall back to his ankles, and there they stay as Sybil regards him from where she stands above him. “No, I can’t tell you,” she says, matter-of-fact. “But you can guess. And if you guess, then it’s not me telling you,” she gets her thumbs on the sole of his socks, massaging lightly. “And if it’s not me telling you, it’s not against the rules.” Sybil bites down on her lip, thinking. “‘Big dick energy'— sure. Works in… The White House.” Not a great clue — she has a few of those. “Tragic backstory, but not that you’d know. Attractive by most people’s standards.”

James protested as his high-tops went sailing into a dark, unexplored corner of the room, but he was grateful for Sybil’s method of making it up to him. Who was going to pay a masseuse when here she was, offering up a foot spa? Half-sitting up on the couch, he pointed at his feet, and asked, “Is this a service your office offers now? Does it have a ‘friends and family’ discount?”

Slumping back into the cushions, he squeezed his eyes shut and played along with the guessing game. B.D.E.—big dick energy. White House. Tragic. Hot. Definitely not the President. Missed the Chief Justice by just a hair.

The answer hit him like lightning.

“D’Amato!” he called out, punching the air. “The radio guy senator—Joseph D’Amato!”