Precarivations and Politics by Soup

Everyone loves the underdog, and Philip Simmons knew that. Unfortunately, he had a remarkably happy upper-class childhood with a nuclear family and plenty of friends, which wouldn't do at all. He started small, with just a bit of "my parents got divorced when I was young" which really wasn't much of a stretch given that divorce is quite common and 'young' is a subjective term, meaning that technically they could get divorced in the future when he was still considered 'young'. After all, people were always saying that he was awfully young to run for senator, being exactly thirty.

Regardless, when no one called Philip out on his fib, he went a bit further, claiming he grew up in a two-bedroom affordable housing apartment downtown in the city. Sure, realistically it was more like he had his own two bedrooms in his family's manor in the country, but he still lived in a two-bedroom section, so it wasn't that big of a leap. Besides, sympathy from the public was already trickling in as they heard his classic tale of overcoming adversity.

This was helped out by the fact that his parents led quiet lives and didn't read the news, and his hometown was extremely isolated. The test polls were already shooting up, and public perception was at an all-time high. His PR team was constantly congratulating him, although he suspected that at least a few of his team members were aware that he was exaggerating a tad.

Next, he implied that his family had financial difficulties by mentioning that his family often struggled with food when he was a child. This technically wasn't untrue, given that disordered eating ran rampant in the Simmons family, but they always had access to food. This fib added a ring of truth and importance to Philip's campaign for more government support for low-income families, which he firmly believed in.

It was really for the greater good, as he was pushing a positive agenda of reform. If it helped millions of people nationwide, it was easily justifiable. Besides, nothing he had said was untrue, per say, just a little unique. He knew that as long as he kept his story straight, it would fly under the radar at least until reelection, at which point he could do damage control. Six years would give him plenty of time to gain a positive reputation and build a crowd of loyal followers (he would brainstorm the name later-was 'underdogs' too on the nose?) so he would have something to fall back on if/when his reputation suffered. In the meantime, he would simply pay newspapers off if they were planning to run any potentially incriminating stories; after all, he had plenty of contacts in higher places.

In a press conference a few weeks after his implication of food insecurity, a reporter asked him if he had ever suffered any severe injuries. Given the mild concussion he had suffered in elementary school, he technically had, so when he explained that due to a severe head wound, he was hospitalized for several days as a child, it wasn't that false. And it wasn't his fault that when the reporter asked if he had gone into a coma, he happened to slightly twitch his head in a manner that happened to resemble a nodding gesture. The press continued the exaggeration as well, so it was really their fault.

At this point, all the positivity and sympathy flooding in was boosting his ego, and at this point he had repeated his anecdotes of a difficult upbringing and a multitude of challenges that they felt more real than his actual childhood. He wasn't even having a difficult time keeping everything straight, as he made index cards from time to time for his more complicated stories. Overall, everything was going splendidly, apart from one simple snafu; the Internet.

Deception was obviously a lot easier back when people couldn't just look everything up, and as someone attempting to attain a position of power, people were bound to come for him. Therefore, he had a couple of sticky situations, like when someone discovered a news article from 2001 about Marianne Simmons and her performance as first chair violin in the Hanford Orchestra in Renford, Utah (a small well-off town). However, he was explained that his mother's name was in fact Audrey Simmons, as opposed to Marianne, which the public seemed mostly satisfied with, particularly once he provided falsified documents to back up his story.

As the months ticked by, he continued to gain popularity with lower-class and otherwise marginalized demographics. He was quite pleased with how the unintentional scheme he had stumbled upon turned out, and it had been going smoothly with nary a hitch for almost a year now. Election day was on November third, and it was the night before Halloween when he switched on his TV to watch the news (yes, he was aware that it was an old person thing to do, shut up). He felt his stomach drop as he realized that the person that the news anchor was interviewing looked terribly, terribly familiar.

He had gone to Stanford (no scholarship needed obviously, but the public needn't know that) and worked his ass off to get through with good grades. He 'worked his ass off' by partying all day, consuming multiple substances, and bribing actually intelligent kids who gave a fuck to do his homework and crammed to get through exams. During college, he got extremely close with his roommate, Will Snyder, who was a similarly well-off hedonist like Philip. They would spend all their time together, take last-minute trips around the country together, and, well, enjoy each other's...company, if you understand the implication.

However, nearing the end of Philip's and Will's senior year, Philip began to understand the importance of appearances. Although he certainly still dabbled in his substances of choice and did the minimum amount of work possible, by now he had found out how to turn on the charm. Meanwhile, Will was still his clearly rich brat self, openly engaging in his various anti-social tendencies and his self-destructive habits and addictions. The habits themselves weren't the issue, rather the fact that he was so obvious about it. Naturally, Philip's association with Will needed to be ended immediately, which Will didn't take fabulously.

Will had faded into obscurity throughout the years (although he was never well known in the first place) all the while Philip's reputation grew and grew. No doubt bitterness and jealousy caused a festering hole inside Will's chest, but Philip tried to avoid thinking about it as it made his stomach twist a bit (just indigestion, of course).

Unfortunately, Will hadn't lost quite enough of his renown due to his incredibly rich parents, meaning that there were constant reports on the downwards spiral of the Snyder boy. This led to the fact that when Will offered up an interview about his college roommate, Philip Simmons, the news program grabbed the chance to talk to the recluse on live television. And now he was spewing...well, not lies, but certainly inconvenient truths about Philip.

"Mr. Snyder, you allege that Mr. Simmons was your college roommate and that he did not suffer the hardships that he claims, is that correct?" The news anchor asked.

"Yes, certainly. We both went to Stanford, and I met his parents several times. They were definitely together, definitely rich, and his mother's name is, in fact, Marianne. Also, he told me the story of a childhood concussion he got, but it was extremely mild, and he recovered fully within a week." Will smirked, lounging on the interview couch like he owned the place, and Philip felt that old twinge in his chest.

"Do you have any evidence to back these allegations up?" The newswoman inquired.

"Absolutely, glad that you asked." Will whipped out his phone and scrolled up through his and Philip's old text thread. "Here you are, proof." 

At this point, Philip switched off the TV and made his way over to his bar, pouring himself a generous drink. He plopped down onto an overstuffed armchair and swirled the amber liquid around in his glass, his lifeless eyes staring dully into the distance. After knocking the glass back and draining it in one long swallow, he dropped the snifter to the floor, watching it shatter into little pieces of crystal and drips of alcohol.

Swinging a coat around his shoulders, he went to his closet and grabbed a shoebox. He pulled on his favorite pair of boots and walked out the door, not bothering to lock it behind him, taking the box with him. 

His phone buzzed constantly, calls and texts from relatives, friends, and coworkers flooding in at an absurd rate, but there was no one left to answer them.

Everyone loves the underdog, and Philip Simmons knew that.