Storm-whipped clouds fly across the full moon, illuminating then darkening the forest like a strobe light. One instant, tall evergreens, branches strained at odd angles, cast black shadows like a iron grid before me, and the next moment, total darkness. The wind, deafening, wet and icy, attacks me as I stumble toward Hippie Jim's hobo camp.

"It must be around here somewhere," I tell myself, fighting panic. I don't know if I can find my way back to my car either.

"Boo!" Jim shouts, directly behind me. I scream! I spin to face Hippie Jim's wildly waving hair and crazed eyes. I almost scream again, not that anyone would notice in this wind.

Earlier today I sighted Hippie Jim walking around Edgemoor pushing his hella cool grocery cart with its LED headlights, roller-blade wheels and hand cranked radio in the basket. I asked him, "What you doing in this neighborhood?"

"I live around these parts," Jim said nodding toward the swampy woods below and added, "I have a big story for you!"

"What kind of story?"

"Really big. Have to show you. Come by my place tonight." And then he gave me cryptic directions.

Having found him, I followed Jim around trees and rocks, and soon we reached a small cave with a fire burning warmly, sheltered from the storm and from view. Jim motions me to enter, pointing toward one of the two low slung lawn chairs facing the fire, the gloomy forest beyond. Jim moves a teakettle into the fire. I look around his lair but can see little of its depths, just firewood and what looks like computer hardware. Jim settles into his chair and we sit in silence, waiting for water to boil.

"What kind of tea?" Jim inquires after a spell.

"Mint is fine."

Soon I hold a large warm mug in my hands.

"So what is this big story?" I ask.

He reaches into the darkness, and picks up something, showing it to me without letting me touch it. It looks like a pocket PC. He clicks some buttons and the thing in his hand lights up. Next, the pile of hardware comes on, glowing screens and humming fans. Jim chortles with joy like a child with a new robot. An owl hoots outside, and something slithered in the back of the cave.

"What is all this?"

"It's an election hacker!" Jim crows.

"Where did you get it?"

"Various places. The software’s on the internet. From China, I think."

"You have internet here?"

"Yep. Gigabyte wireless. Better than the library.”

"How much did this set up cost you?"

"Nothing. People pay me to take stuff off their hands."

"What’s it do?”

“It hacks elections. What else would an election hacker do? Make espresso? Shine shoes?”

I play along, "What are you going to do with it - become President?"

"No, that’s a loser’s job. I want money and power, not glamour and celebrity."

Jim sets the device on his lap and adds another log to the fire.

"I think I want to be Port Commissioner. Problem is, they ain't running this time. And people might notice if I won an election they weren’t having."

"Why not become a Senator?" I ask him.

"All in good time," Jim murmurs.

We stare into the dancing flames, cozily sipping our tea.

"As Port Commissioner, what will you accomplish?" I ask dutifully.

"I think the Port’s headed in the right direction, but they’re so slow. They want luxury yachts. And the Tea Party needs more Hatters and fewer Dormice. They're all thinking small."

"So what would you do?"

"When I run the Port I'll build the biggest dock in the world to moor the world’s fanciest boat!  We can make Lummi Island a part of the dock and solve the ferry problem while we’re at it."

"How do you choose whose yacht is the fanciest? Size? Money? Shininess?"

Hippie Jim whoops. "Thunderbuns! Survival of the fattest. Two yachts enter, one yacht docks. Let them fight for the free moorage! Meanwhile, we sell front row tickets, maybe TLC wants it as one of them reality TV shows. The winner gets the great honor of becoming Bellingham's waterfront view."

"Really!"

"You see, everything works together - we sell all those condos on the mudflats and everyone enjoys the mercury and the view until the overdue earthquake gets here. Then, we pave it over and build NEW condos, and sell the same plots AGAIN! And since the whole thing is built on garbage, we can just squirt our new garbage into the same landfill, and not have to ship it anywhere. And, as the water rises with global warming we can put low-income housing in the bottom floors."

"Wow!"

"Florida did so well selling the Everglades swamps, I think we can sell our old coal mines as new underground homes. A whole new neighborhood to develop, without urban sprawl.”

I laugh. "But what if the coal mines collapse? Won’t that take out Birchwood, Cornwall Park, downtown?"

"Sure will! More room for parking yachts! And more waterfront lots!" Jim exclaims. “That’s what insurance is for - look how well it works in California!”

“Any other plans?” I ask Hippie Jim patiently.

He glances at the glowing screen in his lap. “Well, the Tea Party is against government spending, so I want to stop maintaining the roads, but first I have to get that under the power of the Port. But it’s only fair that all those people who bought giant SUVs get some benefit from them - they’re made for off-road driving after all.”

"What about the airport? The Port runs that already," I tell him.

“The airport spends an enormous amount of government money - China would like to rent the open space for solar collectors and a waste dump. I think we can strike a deal there.”

"How about reinstating the sundown laws too, Jim? Afterall, Bellingham's always been a big Klu Klux Klan town,"  I drawl sarcastically.

“There’s no real strong majority in Whatcom County - everyone’s a minority of some sort. There’s all kinds of unexploited opportunities for discrimination. Maybe an anti-Scandanavian movement - they did have those Northern European church-burning Black Metal bands, you know. And everything gets to Bellingham a decade late.”

Time for me to leave. I put my mug on the ground, stand and put on my jacket.

"Great story!" I lie. " But do you really want me to write it? Wouldn't that ruin your chances of hacking an election?"

Hippie Jim rises, setting the glowing device down in his chair. I glance at it and see Peace Arch park, from above. He pokes the fire down to embers and puts his coat on.

"You blaming it on Obama?" Jim wonders.

"No," I reply.

"Then nobody will believe it. Our elections are completely honest, and computers can't make mistakes. Everyone knows that."

A train whistles in the distance, and a light flickers somewhere down the tracks. Hippie Jim gets up to leave the cave. Once outside he turns and begins to walk toward the distant light, and I follow gratefully.