"Thats the word! Give it to me!"

The librarian approaches the younger, smaller, rounder, woman. The Californiated hispanic staring down at the Puerto Rican with the eyes of a septegenerian vulture, occularly staking claim upon the rotting, torn, desecrated flesh of South American politics.
"If you'd like a bumper sticker for your car, or sign for your yard, I have plenty in the truck" the whitish grey hair, grey skin, bleached in the florescent lighting of American affluence says.
The earthy brown woman, stocky and wide, turns her face upwards in a question the florescent lighting reflecting back an illusion, a foreshadowing.
"The Democratic candidate for congress..." answering the unasked question, librarians know so much.
Before candidate passes even halfway from the California accented lips, passing into unnoticed oblivion, the brown round face lights with the unknowingly false hopes of true belief, "That's the word! Give it to me!"
The false idols so easily tricked into the primary deific role in the mythos of poverty dreams and minority fairy-tales, flashing starbursts in the round brown eyes. Unquestioning blindness of the fairy-tale entitled, gazing upon the telluric talismans of tutelary man-gods stepping corporeal from political myth.