Rick Kahn, sat alone in his study, flipping from channel to channel. Barely escaping each blurb of the tragedy that has beset the Democratic Party with the passing of Senator Wellstone and his family and associates, in a mysterious plane crash that killed all on board.

Still reeling from the scorn of his impromptu rally-monkey behavior at the memorial service for the senator, Kahn, the senator's good friend and campaign treasurer, couldn't escape his own disbelief of the horrific and tacky opportunistic speech that seemed to spew forth from his lips as though he were possessed.

Downing yet another tumbler of Dewars, Kahn physically shook off the feeling of dread that had become his cloak of shame. The warmth of the scotch had eased his brain enough to calm his nerves, and he drifted off.

In the first stages of REM, Rick's peace was shattered with a crash. He jolted awake and sat upright, straining his senses to determine the source of the noise. No sooner had he risen from his chair, when a shadowy form appeared at the study entrance.

The form was slight in nature and Rick's stuppored brain seemed to be collecting its faculties. "Who's there?," he slurred. All that was answered in return was a low and gurgling moan. Rick was confused as the form came closer. Is this a dream he asked himself unable to distinguish reality. "Who's there?," he asked, this time more definitively.

The form became clearer, it was a woman, whose blond hair was matted with clumps of blood and face mangled and burned. "WHY?" she moaned, raising her hand and pointing at Rick as he cowered in his chair. "Sheila, is that you?" Oh dear God, how is this possible?"

All the blood drained from his face and Rick felt the urge to throw up. It was Sheila Wellstone, her charred and tattered body standing miraculously before him. "Why Rick? Why did you do it?" she gurgled.

Rick screamed and covered his eyes like a child. What was happening? Too much scotch. It had to be a drunken hallucination fueled by his guilt over being a scum-sucking corpsehumper.

With eyes still covered he run through the room, knocking over lamps, as he tripped and stumbled his way out the front door.