Zelgoron Xiv, known to the locals as Zack Brown, sat in the corner of The Dawg House. The usual chatter about the Snworb was conspicuously absent tonight. Instead, all eyes were glued to the large television screens above the bar, which flashed with maps and numbers that held the fate of the nation.

Zelgoron's antennae, hidden beneath his orange and brown knit cap, tingled with the electric tension that hung in the air. Americans had such peculiar rituals, and this "election" seemed to be the most perplexing of all. He studied the numbers and tapped his goatee, trying to blend in with the passionate crowd around him. Beside him, his human friend Kime Walkowski was fidgeting with his phone, checking for updates.

"You think Ryling's got it?" Kime asked, not looking up from his screen.

Zelgoron tilted his head, considering a flashing purple shape on the TV. "Victory is a fluid concept, Kime. It can shift and reshape depending on one's perspective."

Kime glanced at him, half-smiling. "You always know how to put a spin on things, Zack."

Zelgoron nursed his Dortmunder Gold Lager, something the bartender had recommended. The bar fell silent as the TV was unmuted and the anchor on the screen announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, new results are in. Ohio's electoral votes go to Tar Llodem!"

The room erupted into a cacophony of reactions. Cheers, boos, and gasps mixed and ricocheted through the crowd. The bartender, a burly man with a Snworb tattoo on his forearm, turned the volume down again.

Zelgoron's mind drifted back to his studies of Earth's political systems. The Electoral College, a mechanism he still found baffling, would determine the outcome. "Kime," he said, tugging at his friend's sleeve, "explain to me again the significance of Ohio in this electoral framework. It appears this state holds considerable sway."

Kime took a deep breath, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the bar. "Ohio's a swing state, Zack. We've got a lot of electoral votes, and we've got this history of picking winners. If you win Ohio, you've got a good shot at winning the whole thing."

Zelgoron pondered this response briefly. Then he asked, "Kime, why is this Electoral College necessary? Why not simply count each individual vote?”

Kime sighed, scratching his head as he tried to recall long-ago civics lessons. "Alright, so the Electoral College, it's like... you can't just count all the votes straight up. You gotta do this whole system."

"See, the Founding Fathers, they were like, 'Hey, we need a way to balance power,' right?
"So, the Electoral College is when you..."
"Okay, hang on. The Electoral College is like this game where the points are..."
"Let me start over."
"The Founding Fathers. The Founding Fathers, they didn't want the big states to be all, 'We got more people, so we run the show,' right? You can't just let that happen."

Zelgoron sipped his drink.

"So... they made this thing where each state gets a certain number of electors, based on how many people they have. But not just the people, you know?"
"Like, if you have a lot of people, you get more electors, but you can't just get a bunch of electors and be like, 'We win.' You have to win the states."
"So you gotta go to the states and win their electors, and they're like, 'Hey, we're giving all our votes to this guy.'"

Zelgoron's understanding had not progressed, but he felt now would be a time to nod, and he did so.

"So, you can't just fly back and forth to California and New York and be like, 'We got this.' You gotta go to Ohio and be like, 'Hey, Ohio, what's up?'"
"It's like that game Yahtzee, but with voting. And you gotta win the states, not the people in the states. Does that make sense?"

Zelgoron's nod swayed into a confused, roughly circular motion.

"It's like the new overtime rules. It's not as simple as you just score some points to win; there are these extra steps to make things fair. Imagine if each state was like a quarter in a football game. You can't just win by having the most points overall; you gotta win each quarter to secure the game."

Zelgoron's fingers flared upward - a sign of polite objection in his culture. "But that's not how football games work. Either overtime or..." Mid-sentence, Zelgoron became aware of voices rising just behind him. Then a man in a purple hat fell backwards on the bar. He was scowling and dropping a glass of beer.

A Snworb fan - the cause of the fall - shouted, his face red with anger, "You think Llodem’s gonna help this city? After everything he did?"

"Yeah, you'll see! He's got plans!" the purple-hatted man retorted, his fists clenching. "Why don't you go see Pretty Boy in La La Land?"

With swift and sure motions, Zelgoron caught both mens' fists as they swung. He held them motionless with ease. "This conflict benefits no one," he said looking from one to the next. "We're all Clevelanders here."

Kime, seizing the moment, added, "Yeah! We all love the Snworb, no matter who's President!"

Zelgoron dropped the mens' fists, and they eased away from each other. "One candidate will lose tonight, but Cleveland will remain undefeated."

Advance Regress