It’s a cool summer evening in New York, cooler than most summer evenings, the weather providing an uncharacteristic reprieve from the punishing humidity typical of August. Mitt Romney, former presidential candidate, cuts a sharp figure in a dark-blue suit and red silk tie, standing atop a building overlooking the cityscape. On his lapel, a carefully placed American-flag pin glints in the cameraperson’s light.
“I’m Mitt Romney,” he says, staring directly into the camera. “And I’m about to get soaking, soaking wet.”
In the corner of the frame appears his running mate, Paul Ryan, muscles straining to break free of his perfectly starched oxford. “How you doin’, Mitt?” he asks, betraying a glimmer of intimate familiarity.
Then: Up, up goes the heavy bucket of ice water, raised archly above Mitt’s head, Paul’s strong and assured arms lifting it so casually, like it’s weightless.
And then: He tilts the bucket. Water streams down Mitt’s face, wetting his hair, his expensive suit. The navy-blue jacket sticks to his strong frame.
He winks.
This has been an installment of Mitt Romney–Paul Ryan fan fiction.
