Imagine you’re a student at the kind of well-to-do high school with a name like Crestwood Academy. The kind of place where manicured lawns and forced pep rallies do little to mask the soul-crushing predictability. Right now, that predictability manifests as the annual student council elections, a parade of painfully earnest speeches and even more painfully staged enthusiasm. It’s a spectacle that makes you want to feign a sudden, debilitating illness.
The air crackles with the strained energy of a thousand teenagers pretending to care. A girl with a disturbingly large smile, her teeth gleaming like polished ivory, waves a poster that reads, “Vote Tiffany! For a Brighter Future! (and more vending machine options).” You can practically smell the desperation.
Oh, what you wouldn’t do to bring it all crashing down in a puff of purple smoke and confetti-fueled flame. Then, with all the enthusiasm of a student who takes themselves so seriously they’d actually participate in such a charade, you have an epiphany. Why couldn’t you?
The black-and-white tiles of the hallway are your chessboard as you glide across them, ready for your opening move of electoral absurdity.
“How exactly are these elections even run?”
You ponder first to yourself. Then aloud. Then to your friends, who return blank stares of pure, unfiltered ignorance. Their indifference is your playground. Because in Crestwood’s grand democratic tradition, you discover one crucial fact:
There’s no oversight.
So few people even care to vote that the idea of fraud is laughable in more ways than one. Please. It’d be more of a turnout boost than a scandal.
If one were so inclined, they could vote on behalf of anyone. They could vote for everyone. Hell, they could vote for people who didn’t exist. It sounds too easy. But if life has taught you anything, it’s that you can never underestimate people.
You craft a scheme, and a decent scheme like this one takes a village. Because, of course, there are challenges.
The voting boxes are placed on opposite ends of the school, too far apart to stuff all in one lunch break. It would be suspicious if one dude stood in front of one box, dropping in ballot after ballot, gesturing silently for the forming line of idiots to wait their goddamn turn. For what? Democracy? And, of course, it also won’t help if every ballot is in your signature brand of chicken scratch.
No, the smarter move is delegation. You forge the votes in advance and distribute them to a cabal of the most elite students, guiding the election with their invisible hand. The most elite students being anyone, and their friends, who will do it for five bucks.
The day passes suspiciously smoothly, without incident. Not even a whisper of alleged fraud. You even start to forget about your little practical joke until a week later when the votes are counted and an emergency assembly is held.
“I DON’T KNOW WHICH OF YOU THOUGHT IT WAS FUNNY TO… TO PUT THIS-THIS… THIS FILTH ON THE BALLOTS.” Assistant Coach Reynolds paces the gymnasium, nearly apoplectic, a vein in his forehead threatening to burst. He’s quickly shifting between various colors usually reserved for overripe fruit.
The murmuring in the bleachers rises. You’re most entertained by how few people even checked the ballots they were stuffing into the boxes.
“FUCK SUCKERSON!? YOU ALL VOTED FOR FUCK SUCKERSON!?”
Yes. Write-in candidate Fuck Suckerson secured an early and comprehensive lead. Frankly, it was a landslide.
“I DON’T KNOW WHICH OF YOU LITTLE-” He stops himself, visibly wrestling down expletives of his own.
Then, from the front row, a voice:
“It was me! I did it!”
A long-haired kid stands tall, arms raised.
“I’m Fuck Suckerson!”
Before Reynolds can react, another boy stands up.
“NO! It’s me! I’m Fuck Suckerson!”
Now a girl stands up. Presumably, she too, is Fuck Suckerson.
Naturally, during all of this, you too cannot resist standing up and announcing yourself as Fuck Suckerson.
Within moments, the entire student body is on its feet, shouting the name Fuck Suckerson in unison.
The principal, wide-eyed, takes to the mic. “Please! Everyone! Please! Take your seats and calm down this instant!”
He is drowned out by the deafening chant.
They have no choice but to award the election to Tiffany, as runner-up. She stumbles to the podium, visibly stunned, wearing a hollow, twitchy smile.
But alas, there’s no hope for a school whose president is merely the runner-up to Fuck Suckerson.
Up until now, sabotaging the school council election was your crowning achievement. The wave of elation satisfies you for almost a whole year. But just as the glow starts to fade, it just so happens to be election time… again.
The faculty desperately tried to figure out who sabotaged the previous election. But the fraud had been too well-distributed. Too many students were in on the joke. Except for maybe Tiffany, who still seemed deeply traumatized-an added bonus. You can’t help but giggle at the memory of her teary, impassioned speech about the danger of write-in candidates.
But the best part? You were never caught.
Now you sit, undetected, among the very people trying to prevent another disaster.
You have infiltrated the student council club.
You were so desperate to know exactly how the election worked that you volunteered, hoping to ensure it didn’t.
Naturally, some security has been added. Write-ins? Gone (Thanks, Tiffany), despite your protests about just how undemocratic that was. “What is this, Russia!?” you remember pleading in defiance.
Votes will now also require student ID numbers, which makes things slightly more inconvenient. Slightly.
As the faculty and club discuss the problems from the previous year with a… ahem… nameless candidate, they point out glaring issues: duplicate votes, nonexistent students, and a mysterious transfer student named Roderick Von Shnoot, who somehow cast a ballot.
“Okay, so people write their student ID on their ballots. We have a council person check each box for duplicates. If a student ID appears more than once, we toss the extras,” Conrad, a fellow council member, says as he leans back in his chair, tossing a stuffed basketball into the air and failing to catch it.
You give him a slow nod. “Conrad, that’s why you’re the math genius who came in third place at the county Olympiad.”
All the while, you know there are two flaws.
One: an ID can be used once per box if they count votes this way.
And two: they have a rat-no, a mole-like you helping count the votes.
Of course, that doesn’t change the fact that there just isn’t a candidate with the caliber of Fuck Suckerson to run this time around. How exactly does one make a mockery of such a cookie-cutter ballot? You ask yourself sarcastically as you pay a shadow cabal of mysterious students five bucks a piece to nominate a roster of choice candidates.
Most of the candidates are red herrings, of course. Like Bartholomew Buttercup, whose nomination was submitted with a black-and-white headshot-style picture of a Reese’s. With a name like that, he was asking for that kind of treatment. But the most essential candidate is Dan Cromwell.
Dan Cromwell was nominated for three key reasons.
First: Daniel is a boy-presumably-whom none of us are well acquainted with. Which makes sense, because he wasn’t even at the academy for more than a year before he mysteriously vanished.
Much akin to the legend of Cotton-Eye Joe, none of us know from whence he came, nor where he went. His only legacy is a mysterious locker with an uncrackable combination lock.
Second: He no longer attends this particular academic institution.
Third, but maybe primarily: he has an incredibly political-sounding name. Say it out loud. Feels… right somehow, doesn’t it?
Nominations are eventually read publicly. Even your red herring nominations get some level of applause, especially Lord Spaghetti IV, much to the ire of the school staff.
Then they reach Cromwell.
Dead. Silence.
You shake your head in pity at Conrad. “That guy doesn’t stand a chance,” you say, struggling to suppress a grin.
Now the real work begins.
Step One: Create Buzz.
You plaster mysterious posters across campus. “WHO IS DAN CROMWELL???” emblazoned under ominous question marks.
Nobody cares.
Step Two: You need a copy of the ballot and a list of a handful of IDs and names. If only you were in the student council club. Ironically, they print out just such a list and give it to you to assist in counting one of your boxes.
The strategy is very similar to the last time. The only catch is that you can have one student ID vote per box.
Conrad would probably love to do all the calculations, but you don’t need numbers to know 50 votes per box is a landslide.
Step Three: Start a Movement.
The best part? After last year, stuffing ballots isn’t just easy-it’s trendy. Turns out, kids will vote for Cromwell just for the meme.
No bribes, no coercion. Just a gentle suggestion, and another ghost vote gets cast. Not that a few five-dollar bills and a corrupt councilperson haven’t bolstered this campaign.
You hold your breath, hoping for your ruse to work on election day. You receive a sign by way of an overheard conversation: “I don’t know who he is, but I voted for him.”
Beautiful.
Finally, the results are announced. Everyone is gathered around the quad. Kids stand shoulder to shoulder on the blacktop, eyes glazed over like cattle, as Coach Reynolds announces over the PA:
“And, I give you your new president of Crestwood Academy: DANIEL CROMWELL!” he says to only the lightest smattering of applause and hushed confusion.
“Come on, Daniel! Get up here!”
…Crickets.
He’s no Fuck Suckerson… but you can’t help but savor this awkward moment.
“Come on, Daniel, don’t be shy! We know you’re out there!”
The murmuring intensifies as the faculty exchanges nervous glances.
Reynolds covers the mic and hisses to another teacher, “I think our new class president might be absent.”
Boy, is that an understatement.
Everyone leaves the assembly confused.
The chaos this year is more protracted.
The faculty behind the scenes wonders if this is another joke candidate. They resort to checking the school roster. Technically, he is enrolled-but damned if they can find a class he’s attending.
Meanwhile, Dan Cromwell becomes a legend. People spread stories of him being a ghost who haunts the halls. There are whispers that he lives in the ventilation system and comes out at night to hunt like a nocturnal beast. Some kids say the recent lunch price hike was Cromwell-nomics; that he runs the school from the shadows with an iron fist.
All manner of questionable juvenile behavior is being blamed on him, to the teachers’ chagrin.
An informal “Dan Cromwell For President” club forms. The members wear twenty-dollar thrift store suits, don pins with question marks, and slick back their hair. They roam the school like a gang of news anchors. They chant his name with megaphones in the quad and declare, “When Cromwell arrives, our sins will be absolved. And lunch break will finally be extended by fifteen minutes!”
The faculty loses their minds. “THESE DAMNED KIDS!” becomes the catchphrase of several meetings. They are of one mind: Dan Cromwell must be stopped. But… just…who is Dan Cromwell?
“Um… yes… hello? Are… are these the parents of one Daniel Cromwell?” A vice principal asks his father shyly. The bead of sweat slowly inching down his temple can nearly be heard over the phone.
“Why, yes, how can I help you?” On the other end, Mr. Cromwell responds with all the energy of a man who barely remembers his own child exists.
“Uh… well, this is Crestwood Academy, and we have a little situation-”
“Crestwood? My son hasn’t attended Crestwood for almost a year. And we paid our tuition, so I don’t want to hear any of that.”
A long pause.
“Well… it seems that your son has been voted class president-”
“President!? What are you on about? The kid barely even leaves his room.”
The vice principal short circuits “Well the thing-I mean, sir-but if you’ll-but”
“What is this? A damn prank? I will call the police if you harass my family again.”
Click.
The school bans Cromwell’s name. This, of course, makes him more powerful than ever.
Hallways whisper with echoed chants: “Viva Cromwell! Viva Liberty!”
The faculty holds another begrudging assembly in which they announce the faculty approved runner-up. Some schmoe, who knows, who cares, who can remember?
All you’ll remember is that they were met with jeers and boos.
“WE WANT CROMWELL!”
“WE VOTED FOR CROMWELL!”
“CROMWELL CROMWELL CROMWELL”
The faculty is at a complete loss.
Cromwell’s work here is done.
Viva Cromwell. Viva Liberty.
Your only regret about the last election? How long you’d have to wait for the next one. But time was on your side. Time to plan. Time to prepare.
Rumors of new draconian security measures flood the halls.
This year, every vote will be counted by hand and checked against a master list for duplicates. Any student caught double-voting won’t just be disqualified-they’ll be suspended. At least.
Also, candidates now need a minimum threshold of nominations and faculty approval. Which, really, is just a fancy way of saying “must actually attend the school.”
All of this? Hilarious.
You were always one step ahead.
So strict is this new system that you drop out of the student council club immediately. This year, you won’t even need insider access.
Cromwell inspired something in you-the knowledge that an idea can be bigger than a man.
That’s why this year, you’ll be running a “legitimate” candidate. You’ve had a whole year to seek that candidate out. This year, you’re running Comedy Option Malcolm.
Malcolm is a force of nature, a whirlwind of ADHD-fueled unpredictability.
The downside? Running a “real” campaign. The thought of it makes you cringe. But the payoff-watching Malcolm give a victory speech-is worth every ounce of effort.
You mull over how to get Malcolm nominated. You’d prefer it not to be obvious. You don’t just want to drag in a group of your friends and make it happen.
Then, during math class, fate intervenes.
An argument breaks out: Could Wainwright, the most polarizing student in Crestwood history, actually get elected?
The class is split straight down the middle. Heated words fly. And that’s when you strike.
“I’d rather vote for Malcolm here!” you declare.
A pause, then-
“YEAH!” is exclaimed more than once.
The argument escalates. You lean in: “Malcolm has a better shot than Wainwright.” you say with a raised eyebrow full of smarmy sarcasm.
Then: “Even Cromwell would have endorsed him!”
And just like that, a mob of students marches to the faculty office, demanding Malcolm’s nomination-not for his sake, but out of pure, unfiltered spite.
Meanwhile, Malcolm was barely listening. He was playing Pokémon.
With Malcolm’s nomination secured, your next challenge is campaign management. Or, rather, herding a caffeinated raccoon wearing human skin.
The real trick to wrangling Malcolm? Keep sugar nearby. Bags of gummy worms are currency in this campaign.
You’re far from his only manager. Everyone wants in on the meme.
The first debate is simple:
“Malcolm, you just need to go up there and be yourself.”
He nods solemnly. You expect him to meme himself into first place. And oh boy, does he deliver.
“Pajama Day Fridays! No-WAIT! Clothing-Optional Fridays! NO NO NO-NO SCHOOL FRIDAYS!” he bellows into the mic, brainstorming his policies in real time.
Wainwright, growing visibly irritated with the farcical debate, sighs. “Malcolm, I don’t even know why you’re up here.”
“Oh yes, you do.” Malcolm points dramatically. “Because. Of. THIS!”
He executes a flawless Michael Jackson spin, then moonwalks across the stage.
The crowd erupts.
Wainwright looks like he’s about to scream.
Malcolm isn’t just winning. He’s unstoppable.
Your “Vote for Malcolm – He’ll Forget to Mess Up” posters may have been unnecessary, but they were shockingly accurate.
Malcolm is already sweeping the election. And the growing mix of frustration and disappointment on the administrators’ faces is palpable.
Malcolm-Mania sweeps the school, and you seize on any opportunity to get Malcolm out in front of the public.
Some highlights? Malcolm jumps off stage mid-speech to have a dance-off with another student, which he wins handily. That kid got served.
A debate where he ignores every question, instead angling the microphone toward his handheld gaming console. Every time it’s his turn, the audience cheers to bitcrushed chiptunes blasting over the PA. (That one nearly got him disqualified.)
He sets up a booth at lunchtime most days and starts signing autographed headshots. Or sometimes he gives away cupcakes he bought, claiming his mom made them. But they’re still in the packaging.
Sometimes he puts up signs challenging students to debate him about which is the best Pokémon. He’s not afraid to broach the taboo topics.
One day, he brings in a megaphone and makes grandiose promises-from free pizza every day to declaring that the administration will pay all sales tax in the school. Then he escalates: He’ll remove all taxes in the city. Then the county. Then the state. This kid is a goddamn natural.
But his fervent acclaim has really put the administration in a bind. By now, even they know disqualifying Malcolm would surely ignite a riot.
“JUST GIVE THOSE LITTLE SHITS WHAT THEY VOTED FOR,” you can imagine Coach Reynolds screaming somewhere behind closed doors. The faculty-and Wainwright-have never looked so dejected.
On election day you proudly cast your vote for Malcolm, barely suppressing a snicker. If you were still in the student council club, you’d suggest, “Hey, why even bother counting?”
On the day of the announcement, Malcolm doesn’t even wait for them to read the results. He marches up to the podium, hands raised. Like. Fucking. Mussolini. The student body loses its goddamn mind.
Malcolm grabs the mic, climbs onto the podium itself, and flexes like a WWE wrestler.
“WE’RE GONNA GET THOSE FAT CATS, AND WE’RE-A-GONNA MAKE ‘EM PAYYYYYY!” he says through gritted teeth, flexing his lanky frame.
The administration is begging for him to get down.
You’ve never seen anything quite like it. You’d worry the success had gone to his head if this wasn’t just… Malcolm.
The crowd is losing their shit. Banners. Signs. Screaming fans. Faculty members chase Malcolm around the stage like he’s a greased pig at a county fair.
It is, unquestionably, the greatest moment of your life.
Malcolm’s political legacy? Unparalleled.
He has several policy proposals, like “puppy hour” and “video game day,” and a lot of other absurd propositions that have no chance of going anywhere with the faculty. But Malcolm has never been one to play by the rules.
He tries to convert the library into a giant ball pit. Sometimes it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
His advisors are a loyal entourage-a cult, really. They shadow his every move and set off confetti and glitter bombs wherever they go.
Malcolm’s administration isn’t orderly. It isn’t functional. But goddamn, it is entertaining.
Even now, you sometimes wonder where Malcolm ended up.
But you know, wherever he is… he’s a raging success.
It’s a grim year for elections. Not for the school. For you. Because, let’s face it-there’s no way you can top the last three years.
Security is tight. They’d never let anyone like Malcolm run again. The administration has learned too much. There’s nothing you can do.
HAH. Just kidding.
The only real tragedy is that this is your last year. The thought of leaving school and knowing there may never be another completely derailed election again? It’s almost enough to choke you up.
Which means this election has to be your magnum opus.
No pressure.
The key, you’ve realized, is to hit them with something they’ll never see coming.
So, first? Nominate some jerks. I mean, a lot of jerks.
You nominate everyone. Even yourself. Not because you want to win-but because you want to walk into the school lobby, hands raised in theatrical protest, and loudly declare:
“HEY! I DIDN’T SIGN UP TO RUN FOR CLASS PRESIDENT!”
Which is exactly what half the student body also starts saying.
The school quickly drowns in an avalanche of nominations and withdrawals.
Students are anonymously nominating their friends, teachers, the school mascot, and all manner of inanimate objects-like a particularly sturdy locker in the west hallway or Coach Reynolds.
What follows is a never-ending game of Whack-a-Mole.
You and a handful of other operatives start plastering posters with a fake “official nomination website.”
When the school catches wind of this, they have to reach out to several people who were nominated and try to get them on the official ballot.
By the time the school catches on, half the nominees aren’t even real, and the other half are actively trying to drop out.
This sparks paranoia. Some students genuinely believe they’re being sabotaged. Which, of course, you lean into.
You start spreading rumors, whispers about who’s actually running, who is secretly behind the chaos, and who exactly is working to undermine democracy itself.
Before long, people are retaliating with more nominations and withdraws. It’s a goddamn feedback loop.
Debates? Canceled. Voting day? Postponed.
The ballots keep changing-not that it helps, because the school is plastered with posters, buttons, and stickers for candidates who don’t even exist. Lord Spaghetti IV and Von Schnoot would be proud.
By now, the faculty is holding emergency meetings. The emergency meetings devolve into shouting matches. Which, really, is a win already.
But why stop there?
From your time in the student council club, you know they use the gold standard of election security: violet cardstock. That’s it. That’s the security measure.
You create your own stack of violet cardstock ballots. They look perfect-except for the wrong year, pre-filled fake student ID numbers, and a few names copied twice. It’s flawless garbage. You switch them out with the authentic ones at the last minute.
The administration has no time to reprint ballots. Their solution? “Just… cross off the wrong stuff and write in your real vote.”
This does not sit well with the actual candidates. (What’s their problem? Some of them didn’t even know they wanted to run until they were nominated at random.)
But at this point, the election is already spiraling out of control.
And it’s not even voting day yet.
You pay someone five bucks to drop small envelopes into the ballot boxes. Inside each? A tiny incendiary device and microcontroller with a fuse, set to randomly ignite. With an added haze of smoke, glitter, and confetti. (President Malcom was such an inspiration)
One of the devices goes off during lunch, billowing thick twinkling smoke from one of the boxes.
It’s pandemonium.
Then, at the best, worst possible moment, another device goes off-just as the council club is counting votes.
Coach Reynolds, ever the hero, grabs a fire extinguisher.
He sprays wildly, putting out the embers, but also scattering hundreds of ballots into the wind like glorious democratic confetti.
Some of the burned ballots are sucked into the ventilation system. For several days, the entire school smells like wildfire.
Some of the charred remnants float into the cafeteria. This is the final straw. Students suspect sabotage.
A riot nearly breaks out.
At this point, the administration is forced into an emergency meeting. After a long, bitter argument, they reluctantly concede: “This election… has to be canceled.”
There is simply too much foul play. There is no choice but to invalidate the entire process. This, of course, makes everyone furious. Possibly because half the school was nominated.
Among the boos and grumbling, the fire alarm starts wailing. Whether this was a final act of spite or just a perfectly timed coincidence, you don’t care. It does the job.
You walk out, in single file, whistling.
Nobody knows who would have won. Some poor candidate suspects they would have, surely-too modest to come forward. Very Cromwellian of them.
The last you heard, students were calling for Coach Reynolds’ resignation-or his head on a pike, whichever came first.
There are rumors the administration is considering canceling elections altogether. Which, in a way, is a fitting end.
Because after four years… you know exactly who really won. Not the students. Not Fuck Suckerson. Not Malcolm. Not Cromwell.
You. Four years running.
Maybe it doesn’t have to end. Maybe, somewhere out there… There are other elections.