He Rigged the Election—Then Got Zapped!

“He Rigged the Election—Then Got Zapped!” Episode 244

He rigged the election… and got struck by lightning for it. ⚡🍑 Welcome to Perswayssick County—where karma doesn’t wait for results. What happens when you fake an election in Perswayssick County? Let’s just say… the sky has opinions. ⚡🌩️ What happens when corrupt elections, toxic mierk politics, and a personal thunderstorm collide in the wildly unpredictable world of Perswayssick County? 🌩️🗳️ In this episode of Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy, stranded Earthling Nicki Rodriguez finds herself trapped in yet another absurd crisis as her boss, the chaotic canine-humanoid Diroctor Bizzig “Zig” Gneeecey, proudly rigs the outcome of Referendum 345—all from the comfort of his high-tech toilet. 🚽📺 But when reality refuses to follow Gneeecey’s script, things spiral fast…⚠️ Election results don’t add up ⚠️ News manipulation runs wild ⚠️ A mysterious call exposes the truth ⚠️ And a literal storm cloud forms… indoors! Before long, cosmic consequences strike—and justice arrives in the form of a very targeted lightning bolt. ⚡🍑Meanwhile, Nicki battles a bizarre speech disorder (hello, ooglitis 😵‍💫), Sooperflea steps in for a shocking rescue, and the fate of Perswayssick County hangs in the balance between nonsense and reality.🎭 Packed with satire, surreal sci-fi comedy, and classic Perswayssick chaos, this episode delivers: Absurd election parody 🗳️ Sci-fi fantasy humor 🚀 Over-the-top character comedy 🎙️ And one unforgettable lightning strike ⚡ Will truth prevail? Will Gneeecey recover? And will Nicki ever escape this dimension? Press play: https://perswayssickradio.buzzsprout.com and find out… if you dare. 😏 Notes from Vicki:  No canine-humanoids were harmed in the making of this podcast episode! And I originally wrote and published this scene in 2011, in my novel, The Getaway That Got Away. We hope you enjoyed this week’s episode! We thank Marysol Rodriguez, Sal Solá, Sandi Solá, Marcellina Ramirez, Rick “El Molestoso” Rivera, Diane L., Brunie Cariño, Toni Aponte, and Aileen Bean for being generous supporting members through BuyMeACoffee.com. Artwork Created by Vicki Solá & ChatGPT  #ComedyPodcast #SciFiComedy #FantasyPodcast  WeirdFiction  #hitchhikersgalaxyfans #montypythonfans #IndiePodcast #DarkComedy #Surreal

Transcript

Transcript / “He Rigged the Election—Then Got Zapped!” – Episode 244, by Vicki Solá.

(Based on material from THE GETAWAY THAT GOT AWAY by Vicki Solá  (© 2011, Full Court Press) 

All content © 2026 Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy. 

SFX: [Misgivings and Misfortune] [Flushing Toilet] [Door Open] [Sneakers Squeaking]

NICKI RODRIGUEZ:  “Jus’  voted!” proclaimed Gneeecey, swaggering out of the bathroom. Determined to stick to single-syllable responses, I just grunted. That nasty mierk-induced malady, ooglitis, had hijacked my speech.

“ I said, I voted—against stinkin Refooferendum 345!”
“In there? In the bathroom?”
“My expensive Electronic Water Cyclone 3000 toilet has a feature that allows me to cast an electronical ballot from the privoovacy of my own bathroom, an’ it has a special flush function so’s I can cast backup paper ballots!”
“Realooly—ugh!” I stomped my left shoe so hard, the heel broke off. SFX: [Fabric Tear] [Wood Demolition Bang]
“Hey Ig, your cheap shoe’s broke.”

“That’s Nicki, and I know.”

“Whatever, Ig.”
 SFX: [Sneakers Squeaking] [“Yeeee haaaw—everything’s goin’ my way!” exclaimed Gneeecey, as he lunged into The Grate Room and took a flying leap into his motorized recliner and turned on his wall-sized TV. SFX: [Metal Click 4] [Cartoon 1] His high-tech chair’s robotic arm held a blue fizzy drink up to his mouth, freeing his fists to pummel the armrests.
 I cupped my hand to my ear. “Whaaa—TV’s too loud!”
 “I said,” he shouted, pumping the volume even higher SFX: [Cartoon 1], “everything’s goin’ my way!”
“And,” I muttered, “I suppose the corn’s as high as an elephoophant’s eye—ugh.”
“Whaaaaaat?!”
“Uh,” I replied, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood, “nuthoothing—ugh—”
“Ya better not be mocking our Perswayssick County’s election system.” He crammed a fistful of Rindom Doodles in his kisser. SFX: [FootstepsGravel] [Blah blah blah]
“Dirokooktor—ugh! That’s you—on TV!”
The canine-humanoid didn’t hear me—he was too busy admiring himself. “Our latest returns,” shrilled the prerecorded him, “show Refooferendum 345 losin’ by a mierkslide! So, it looks like our county gets to keep its beaudiful mierk!”
“How,” I demanded, “can you prerecord election results?”
“I look real sharp, don’t I? Look at that nice cleaner dirty blue T-shirt I’m wearin’ there, just for the occasion!”
“Wit’ ninety-nine percent of precincts and toilets reporting,” continued the Gneeecey-on-the-screen, “we got forty billion against 345, an’ only twenny-three-an’-a-half for it!”
I tapped him on the shoulder. “Um, there aren’t forty million peopooples —ugh—let alone forty billion, in all of Perswayssoossick—ugh—County.”
Gneeecey’s bulgy eyes remained glued to the set. “Quiet, Ig! Lemme keep listenin’ to myself!” “Accordin’ to our uninformed Channel 3½ exit polls,” continued his wall-sized twin, “a hundred-forty-two percent of them unpatriotical twenny-three-an’-a-half yes-votin’ dopes might be impropooperly registered. an’ the other ninety percent might be disqualified because of votin’ irregoogularities, right, Stuey?”
“Yupperooney, boss,” whinnied Gneeecey’s donkey-humanoid intern Stu, offscreen. “Do the math—it’s goodbye zodd!”
“How,” I asked, choosing my words carefully, “can you even air this? You don’t know how this election’s turned out yet—”
“How many stinkin’ times do I gotta explain it to ya? Either stuff hapoopens, or it don’t.”
“What if some other news outlet airs or prints the truth?”
Gneeecey grinned. “Wit’out Normal Radio an’ the Pooper-Scooper, my GAS Broadcast Network  an’ the Perswayssick Tims are the only games in town.”
 I sighed. His words reminded me of a conversation I’d had, not so long ago, in that very room. With Cleve….
 With the TV blasting, Gneeecey didn’t hear the persistent banging on his always-open-until-lately front window. SFX: [Bang] Outside stood a yellow rainslicker-clad Flubbubb, and a plastic-red-caped Flea, the latter holding an orange-and-purple Shopping at Home with GAS umbrella over his furry head. It wasn’t raining.
Gneeecey’s snout wrinkled. “Whaddoo they want?”
 “Re-hear-sal,” I answered slowly and deliberately, letting them in. SFX: [Sneakers Squeaking]
 “Youse two hypotenuse-heads,” snarled Gneeecey, turning the sound down, “I told youse to use the side door.”
“Someone stole the doorbell,” replied Flea, stumbling into the room. SFX: [Sneakers Squeaking]
“Anyone wit’ brains knows if ya pull the two wires outta that hole in the bricks an’ touch ’em together on your tongue, it’ll still ring.”
“How can it ring if it’s gone?” asked Flubbubb, scratching his head through his yellow hood.
“Same stinkin’ way you’re gonna ring when you’re gone.”
“Huh?”
“Now, shut that lousy window so Twisty the Tornado an’ Mister Tree can’t get in. They proboobably stole my doorbell to trick us into usin’ the window an’ forgettin’ to close it.”
Flea and Flubbubb exchanged worried glances.
“An’ look at youse two—whooped cream all over your dopey faces.”
“We, uh, stopped at Shisskey’s Bakery,” answered Flea, smiling sheepishly.
Gneeecey and Burt Shisskey were no longer speaking. They’d fallen out—over Referendum 345.
“Don’t blow all your dough in that zodd-lover’s dump. You owe me bigtime, rememboober?”
Flea gazed down at his red high-top sneakers, splattered with white goo.
“Wit’ what yooou earn, it’ll take ya forever-an’-a-half to replace my unreplaceable voaline that’cha stinkin’ hung up on that fly on the lousy wall by mistake.”
“Y’know,” interrupted Flubbubb, sliding his new left-handed triangle out of its red velvet case, “I feel sorry for anyone who hasn’t dumped their MierkoZurk stocks—those babies have taken a real dive.”
Flea smiled. “I’ll bet Zig’s glad he kept all his eggs in one basket—in consonants an’ vowels.”
“Alphabet market’s a lot less volatile,” agreed Flubbubb. “Slow, steady nickels are better than fast, fickle dollars.”
Gneeecey peered at him. “Yooou follow the markets?”
“Everyone’s heard about MierkoZurk,” replied Flubbubb, shining his gold-tone triangle with gold-tone, left-handed triangle-shining cream.
“I’m sure glad I don’t have any—not unless someone secretly put some in my name.”
 “Okay, listen up,” ordered Gneeecey, spreading diagrams of the Perswayssick Civic Center’s auditorium along the length of the dining room table. “Our reverberated Grand Oogitty-Boogitty will sit up in the main balkookoney, on a custom-made porcelain throne.”
 Flea, Flubbubb, and I nodded, dutifully.
 “Orkookestra’s in the center, as usual,” continued Gneeecey. “We’ve put our kazoos on the left, because we’ll need lots more space for the bazooka section—”
 “Ya mean bassoon section?” asked Flubbubb, inspecting his glistening triangle.
 “That’s what I said, ya Flubbarooney Flubboobleheimer. Them bazookas will be shootin’ nonstop durin’ that twenny-two gun salute at the very end of Shriekensobb’s Suite for Artillery’—”
I bolted upright. “Shooting?”
“Proboobably jus’ blanks,” replied Gneeecey.
Acid burning my esophagus, I popped a chalky StomQuell tablet.
Gneeecey flattened a complicated schematic that kept curling.
“Okay, now. Stuey an’ the Ig will meet at the audooditorium before anyone else gets there yesterday mornin’—right, Ig? An’ it’s Blirg—ya gotta make sure your clock’s set backward!”
“Yes, Diroctor,” I answered dreamily, visualizing my mother’s honey eyes widen as I burst through her door after making my escape back to my dimension after the concert. Or, being Blirg, maybe before….
“Ig! Pay detention! You an’ Stuey’ll make sure them Glavorzian 320x cables that’cha still gotta go get are set up propooperly, before doin’ preliminary, intermediate, an’ final sound checks.”
“How many freakin’ sound checks need to be done?”
“Stinkin’ got somethin’ to say, Ig?”
“Uh…no.”
“One more thing, before we go back into The Grate Room for our last rehearsal—”
The old-fashioned telephone rang. SFX: [Phone Ringing]
Gneeecey nearly ripped it out of the wall. “Whaaat?! Shisskey’s? A fire? An’ they found whooped cream sneaker prints leadin’ away from the crime scene?” Gneeecey stared at his two pals.
Flubbubb gawked back, but Flea avoided eye contact.
“Well,” barked Gneeecey, “that’s what they get, bein’ against 345. Okay, Altitude, thanks for notificatin’ me. An’ carefoofal on that bike—ya don’t wanna get bicycler’s bimbus.”
“Everything seemed normal when we left Shisskey’s,” said Flubbubb.
Flea just stared down at his lap.
I gasped. “Poor Burt and Mary! How horribooble—ugh—”
Flea and Flubbubb’s mouths opened wide.
Gneeecey grinned. “Ig’s come down wit’ Redecorotis-infected speech! Y’know, ooglitis!”
“Oooooh!” exclaimed Flubbubb, “Redecoritis an’ ooglitis are devastating auto-immune disorders—”
“Ya smart-bimbus Flubbarooney, how come you’re not as stoopid as usual?”
“Been goin’ to school,” replied Flubbubb.
Scowling, Gneeecey turned to me. “We’ll visit a Redecoritis ward, after the holidays.”
Fat chance, I thought. After yesterday, I’ll be history. Just hope I won’t go home talking funny.
Flea’s ears perked up.
 “Ain’t priddy in them nervological hospoopitals,” added Gneeecey. “Furniture’s prohiboobited—everyone’s rollin’ around on the floors screamin’—plus there’s these big killer trees watchin’ your every move through them windows—”
 “Stop, Zig,” admonished Flea. “Nicki’s ooglitis is proboobably jus’ tempooporary—”
 We all gaped at the superhero.
 “Boy,” declared Flubbubb, shaking his head, “I’m sure glad I don’t eat all the crap you guys do!”
 SFX: [Phone Ringing] The phone rang again, and Gneeecey skipped across the room, taunting me. SFX: [Sneakers Squeaking] “Heya, Ig, maybe that’s Mark callin’ again, to interrogate ya, y’know, about Cleeevoooveland!”
 Not a day went by without those creepy waxy-faced Markmen concocting outlandish theories and accusations, and demanding answers to idiotic questions. I searched my pockets for another StomQuell.
 “Grate one speakin’,” cackled Gneeecey. “Qwertyuiop—whadda yooou want? How’d I think I’d get away wit’ whaaat? Us here at my GAS Broadcast Network are jus’ doin’ our lousy job as usual—keepin’ our good snitizens informed—”
Qwertyuiop’s staccato syllables fired out of the earpiece like bullets spraying out of an automatic weapon. SFX: [Gun Auto]
Gneeecey’s teeth began to zigzag up and down his left arm, like a sewing machine gone haywire. “Whaddaya mean, what planet am I livin’ on?!” he asked, spitting out clumps of fur. “You’re a stinkin’ liar—jus’ like ya were back in third grade!”
The telephone slipped through the good diroctor’s fingers and crashed to the tiles. SFX: [Bang] [Dish Ceramic] Gneeecey lunged forward, then staggered backward into the wall. 

SFX: [Squeaking Sneakers]
 Meanwhile, our eyes remained fixed on the black cloud that had formed above his noggin, right there, overhead in the dining room.
 I’d never seen anything like it.
 “Referendum 345, y’know, banning mierk, was approved,” whispered Flea, as he cringed under his bumbershoot.
Flubbubb adjusted his hood. “By a landslide. Din’cha know?”
Flea moved closer to me, positioning his umbrella over both our heads. “Everyone else sure seems to know.”
Before Gneeecey could reply, a lightning bolt, about a foot long, shot out of his personal storm cloud. SFX: [Lightning, Thunder] The searing arrow found its flea-bitten target in a flash, embedding itself square in the middle of his behind.
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” he screeched, as he ran in lopsided circles.  SFX: Sneakers Squeaking] A thunderclap exploded overhead SFX: [Pouring Rain Thunderstorm], accompanied by a sudden downpour.
As it rained sideways, the upside-down-again dining room table floated toward Gneeecey’s rebuilt fireplace, surrounded by a soggy flotilla of drowning diagrams. Flea’s umbrella blew inside out.
“Fleeeeeeeaglossitty!” hollered Gneeecey, unable to touch the solid, blistering hot shaft. “Helllllp! Helllllp! Helllllp!”
Slogging through the flotsam SFX: [splash 4 & 5], the tight-jawed superhero rolled up his sleeves and pulled on the fiberglass gloves he kept clipped to his utility belt. SFX: [Metal Click 4] “Bend over, Zig.”
Gneeecey complied instantly. Flea grasped the spear and tugged this way and that way. Finally dislodging it, he tossed the offending lightning bolt into the water, SFX: [Splash Water 5], where it sizzled for a good sixty seconds, then fizzled out. SFX: [Barbecue Sizzle]
“Excalibur is freed at last,” declared Flubbubb, as ankle-deep waters swirled down the room’s shower drain. SFX: [Water Going Down Drain] “An’ Flea is king!” SFX: [Music, Brass] [Water Going Down Drain]

G: What’s thaaat supposed to stinkin’ mean, ya  Flubbarooney?

SFX: [Magic Spell]

We hope you enjoyed this week’s episode! We thank Marysol Rodriguez, Sal Solá, Sandi Solá, Marcellina Ramirez, Rick “El Molestoso” Rivera, Diane L., Brunie Cariño, Toni Aponte, and Aileen Bean for being generous supporting members through BuyMeACoffee.com. 

And thank you for tuning in to “Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy.” We hope you enjoyed traveling to this loopy dimension with us and that you’ll come along again! Our new episodes drop every Tuesday morning! Please make sure to tell a friend! And keep on laughing! 

Frank: It’s a Gneeecey thing! [SFX: Door Slam] ###