“Jeez, Wanda…” said Johnny Q. Private, the new governor of Mississippi. He felt he ought to say something, but that’s as much as he could come up with. In the back of that black limo, with the fractionally dressed Wild Wanda Watkins, in broad daylight—let’s face it—Johnny didn’t stand a chance, not by a longshot.

Wanda was a talker. She prided herself on being bubbly, and when the sommelier approached their table, she ordered accordingly. As expected, John couldn’t keep up with her. As the man turned to walk away, John blurted out, “I’ll have a glass of rosé.”

“A glass of Terres Blanches 2007 for the gentleman, very well,” the sommelier said with a knowing smirk.

“Honey…” said Wendy, gently scolding him, “I ordered a bottle of Veuve Cliquot.”

“So?” said John, still oblivious to his faux pas.

“For both of us, you silly goose.”

“Oh. Well… I don’t usually drink during the day.”

Stating the obvious was an annoying and persistent habit of his. “Your victory party was so fun!” gushed Wendy. The service worker popped the champagne, poured her a glass. She swallowed up the carbonated French liquid d’appellation d’origine contrôlée like a thirsty fish. “And the gentleman’s rosé…” said Monsieur McNabbernathy, a full grin on his countenance now. He winked at Wendy and bowed out.

John scrunched his eyelids closed, pinched the bridge of his nose. He scooped up his wine glass and gulped down the entire contents in one gulp. Wiping his mouth with his shirt sleeve and glaring at Wendy through watery eyes, he decided he was ready for a fight. He’d show her. “Pour me some of that,” John said, gesturing toward the champagne bottle. He’d transformed into a sailor on leave at the end of a bad night. Or so he thought.

Wendy giddily kept pouring. You know how it goes. One glass turns into 15, and it’s off to the races. Next he knew, John had the limo driver under one arm and Wendy under the other, and they were marching him towards the doorway of a house. But it wasn’t the entrance to the governor’s mansion. Was it… Wendy’s place?

All Johnny could do was to say, “Wait wait wait wait wait” and “No no no no no no.” They plopped him unceremoniously on Wendy’s California king-size bed. John noted that the bed was impossibly soft and issued the comforting scent of flowers, strawberries, and clean linen. Right before he passed out, he remembers giggling at the feeling of Wendy unbuttoning his shirt.

John awoke with a showerhead spraying his face. He was in a bathtub back at the mansion. He knew not what day it was. In the kitchen, as he poured a cup of coffee, his cellphone buzzed. Caller ID read “Raynard Logistics,” a contractor with a bid Johnny was supposed to review.

“Johnny? Carl Everett here. How are ya? Hey, I’ve got a colleague on the line.”

“Hi! Do you remember me from a couple of hours ago?” said Wendy.

My brand new novel, ULTIMATE ERROR, is about the day-to-day corruption that endangers the population at large.