When people talk about Pennsylvania, the first nas that co to mind are undoubtedly Philadelphia and Pittsburgh.
But viewed from the supre do of power in Washington, Harrisburg—a city on the banks of the Susquehanna River—is far from a nobody sandwiched between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh.
On the contrary, it is the projection of Washington’s will in Pennsylvania, the first stop for federal power as it descends.
Harrisburg is Pennsylvania’s Washington.
Here, it needs neither the comrcial clamor of Philadelphia to prove its prosperity, nor the roar of Pittsburgh’s steel to display its strength.
The nerve center of power never needs excessive public attention.
It only needs to execute its will in silence.
「State Capitol Building, Lieutenant Governor’s Office.」
It was a room steeped in the air of the elite.
Ivy League diplomas hung on the walls, and the bookshelves were lined with photos taken with forr Presidents and Senators.
Aston Monroe sat behind his desk.
He was reviewing a report on the state’s infrastructure budget for the next quarter.
Holding a Montblanc Pen, he rapidly made notes on the docunt.
Monroe was forty-five, the archetypal elite born for politics.
He was born into a prominent legal family in Philadelphia; his father was a federal judge, and his mother was a director on the board of a major corporation.
He attended Princeton for his undergraduate studies and graduated from Yale Law School.
After graduation, he first burnished his credentials at a top-tier Wall Street law firm, then returned to Philadelphia to serve in the Mayor’s Office. His career path was smooth sailing, leading him all the way to the position of Lieutenant Governor.
His hair was always impeccably combed, the amount of hair gel applied just right.
His suits were always custom-made from Savile Street, his cufflinks glinting with a silver light.
In the eyes of the bigwigs at the Democratic National Committee, he was perfect.
Moderate, rational, and possessed a formidable ability to fundraise.
He was the next-generation leader carefully grood by the Establishnt Faction, the political golden boy destined to go from Harrisburg to Washington.
A knock ca at the office door.
"Co in."
Monroe said without looking up.
His campaign manager, Paul Turner, walked in.
Turner was a balding man in his fifties, clutching a thick folder.
"Boss, this is the latest analysis report on the primary race."
Turner placed the folder on the desk and opened it to the first page.
Monroe set down his pen, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Just give the conclusion, Paul. I don’t want to look at those boring pie charts."
"The conclusion is simple." A relaxed smile appeared on Turner’s face. "The current situation is one superpower versus several strong contenders, and you, sir, are without a doubt the ’superpower’."
Turner pointed at the data summary on the first page.
"In Philadelphia and the surrounding suburbs, your approval rating is stable at over sixty percent. We’re also far ahead in fundraising. The cash flow in our campaign account is more than all the other challengers combined."
"As for the Unions, although there’s so noise, the major Teacher’s Union and service industry Unions have all clearly expressed their support for you."
"And as for high-level party endorsents, that goes without saying. From the Governor to the party Whip in Washington, everyone is on your side."
Monroe nodded.
’This is all within my expectations.’
He had been preparing for this Senatorial seat for a full six years.
He had woven a vast web, covering every corner of money, power, and connections.
In this web, he was the sole predator.
"So, what about the challengers?" Monroe asked casually. "There have to be a few token opponents, otherwise this whole play would be too dull."
"There are a few," Turner said, turning a page. "But most are nothing to worry about. So are fringe radicals who only know how to shout slogans, and so are small-town mayors trying to raise their profiles."
Turner’s finger stopped in the middle of the list.
"However, there’s one person whose recent performance has been a bit... abnormal."
"Who?"
"John Murphy," Turner said. "The federal Representative from the Pittsburgh district."
Hearing this na, Monroe let out a scornful laugh.
"Murphy? That good old boy who spent eight years on Capitol Hill being invisible, keeping his head down? What kind of threat could he be? He can’t even speak in the House of Representatives without checking the Whip’s expression."
"That used to be true," Turner’s expression turned a bit serious. "But recently, the old guy seems like a completely different person."
Turner pulled up a video and projected it onto the office’s television screen.
"Take a look at this."
A video of Murphy giving a news interview appeared on the screen.
The Murphy in the video was no longer the moderate peacemaker who always tried to find a balance between the two parties. His expression was stern, his tone impassioned—as if he were a new man.
"He’s been making a lot of noise in Pittsburgh lately, going on and on about so ’Rust Belt New Deal’."
"In an interview, he explicitly proposed a five-hundred-million-US-Dollar municipal bond issue, claiming he’d use the money to expand the Pittsburgh Inland Port, revive manufacturing, and even start so kind of worker cooperatives."
"His slogans are very radical, almost have a whiff of Sanders to them."
Turner pointed to a line of data on the screen.
"Furthermore, our intel indicates he’s trying to use this bond as leverage to pry open resources from the Progressives in Washington. Rumor has it that Senator Sanders is very interested in him."
Monroe frowned.
He didn’t like surprises.
In his script, Murphy was supposed to be a compliant supporting character who, after the primary, would obediently hand over his Western voting bloc in exchange for so political appeasent.
Now, it seed this supporting character wanted to steal the scene.
"Five hundred million US Dollars?" Monroe snorted. "A poor place like Pittsburgh can afford to issue five hundred million in bonds? Where does he get the nerve?"
"That’s the key part of the problem."
Turner switched to a photograph on the screen.
It was a close-up of a young man.
The man was wearing a cheap suit, standing on the steps of City Hall with a gaphone in hand, his eyes sharp.
"While analyzing Murphy’s strategic shift, we found one na popping up with extre frequency."
Turner pointed at the young man.
"Leo Wallace."
"The new Mayor of Pittsburgh."
Monroe narrowed his eyes, studying the person in the photo.
"I’ve heard that na," Monroe recalled. "Isn’t he that internet celebrity who posted videos online, then led a bunch of mud-caked yokels to oust the incumbent mayor?"
"Yes, that’s him," Turner nodded. "But he’s more than just an internet celebrity. Our intel shows that all of Murphy’s current radical proposals—including the so-called green energy, worker cooperatives, and even that five-hundred-million-dollar bond plan—are actually all from this Wallace’s municipal platform."
"Murphy is just repeating this young man’s words."
"Moreover, during the recent mayoral election in Pittsburgh, this Wallace demonstrated astonishing mobilization capabilities. He won the election in what was practically a landslide, leaving the forr mayor, Carter Wright, completely unable to fight back."
"It’s said that Senator Sanders thinks very highly of this young man, and has even sent his core aides to Pittsburgh."
Turner looked at Monroe and gave his assessnt.
"Boss, I don’t think we can afford to be complacent. Murphy himself isn’t scary, but the young man standing behind him is a variable."
"They’re trying to turn Pittsburgh into an anti-Establishnt beachhead, and then use that montum to impact the statewide election."
The office fell silent.
Monroe stared at Leo Wallace’s face on the screen.
Young, angry, and filled with the savage vitality unique to the lower class.
This kind of aura provoked a visceral, instinctual disgust in the high-born Monroe.
In his view, politics was a refined art, sothing to be conducted through rational negotiation and compromise in an atmosphere of red wine and cigars.
But people like Leo Wallace turned politics into a street brawl, into vulgar shouting.
It was a disruption of order, a desecration of elite rule.
"Just an opportunist who rose to power by inciting populism."
Monroe scoffed, a cold sneer escaping his nose. He stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to Turner.
"A place like Pittsburgh—its industry hollowed out, its population draining away—is like an old man on his deathbed. Does that Wallace really think he can resurrect the dead by shouting a few slogans and paving a few roads?"
"That five-hundred-million-dollar bond is a joke. It hasn’t even passed approval in Harrisburg yet. What’s he going to issue it with? His mouth?"
Monroe turned around, a confident and arrogant smile on his face.
"Murphy trying to pick up scraps by following this clown is just him cheapening himself. He’s probably gone soft in the head from his ti in the House of Representatives, thinking that kind of grassroots schtick can play on the statewide stage."
"Pennsylvania is more than just a pile of abandoned factories."
"The middle class of Philadelphia, the moderate voters in the suburbs—they won’t like this kind of radical lunatic. They want stability, prosperity. They want a professional like who can talk to Wall Street and cooperate with Silicon Valley."
Turner hesitated. "But, Wallace’s appeal among the blue-collar base is genuinely strong..."
"So what?"
Monroe cut him off.
"What’s the voter turnout for blue-collar workers? They’re all talk online, but co election day, it all cos down to the mobilization of an organized machine like ours."
"Besides, that old man Sanders is all thunder and no rain. He’s made too many enemies within the party. When it really cos down to it, the National Committee will still side with us."
Monroe walked back to his desk and closed the report.
He had made his decision.
"Have soone look into this Wallace’s background. See if he has any tax issues or private life scandals, but don’t spend too much energy on him."
"Our resources are limited, and our ti is precious."
"Our real opponents aren’t this bunch of jumping clowns within our own party."
Monroe’s finger tapped heavily on the tabletop.
"It’s Warren, that old fox from the Republican Party."
"We need to focus all our energy on studying Warren’s campaign strategy, on finding angles of attack against him. We need to be preparing for the general election, not the primary."
"As for those two in Pittsburgh..."
Monroe waved his hand as if shooing away two annoying flies.
"Let them play in their mud pit. After the primary is over, I’ll personally go to Pittsburgh and teach that young mayor a lesson on what the real rules of politics are."
Turner looked at his confident boss, opened his mouth, but ultimately swallowed the words of caution.
In Philadelphia’s elite circles, Monroe had always been the winner.
He was accustod to victory, and accustod to looking down on his challengers.
That arrogance was etched into his very bones.
"Understood, Boss," Turner said, collecting the folder. "I’ll shift our focus to strategy research on Warren."
Turner exited the office.
Monroe picked up his Montblanc Pen again.
He looked out the window at the calmly flowing Susquehanna River, his mood unaffected by the recent interruption.
In his eyes, the clamor from Pittsburgh was nothing more than the faint rumble of distant thunder.
The rain wouldn’t fall on Harrisburg, and it certainly wouldn’t fall on Philadelphia.
He was making a mistake common to all establishnt elites.
He underestimated the power of anger and overlooked the contagious nature of a variable.
He didn’t know that the young man he dismissed as a clown was holding a torch capable of setting the entire prairie ablaze.
And that fire, carried by the wind, was already burning its way toward him.
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