Ron Smith's water glass trembled in his hand, sending fine ripples across the surface.
"Join the Democratic Party?"
Smith's voice shot up an octave, cracking under the strain.
"Leo, you're joking, right? You have to be joking."
He shot to his feet and began to pace anxiously around the office.
"Do you have any idea what my district is like? Do you know what Erie is?"
Smith pointed north, out the window.
"That's a Deep Red District. The people there go to church every weekend and the shooting range every month."
"They despise the liberal elites in Philadelphia and Washington who sip lattes while telling them what cars to drive and what straws to use."
"To them, the Democratic Party is just a bunch of Demons who want to take their guns, shut down their coal mines, and turn their kids into sissies."
Smith stopped pacing and braced his hands on Leo's desk, his face beet-red.
