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As he awoke for the first time as chief executive of the largest state in the greatest country in the world, The Governator smiled his famous smile, lighting up the room. 

But when he reached for the mirror to be sure his teeth were still perfect, he found his body was so strongly fastened and wrapped in what felt like slender threads that he could not move. 

Soon, he felt something moving on his left leg toward his face. Unable to move his head, The Governator saw a human creature, about as big as his thumb. 

The man was carrying a cheap black stick pen stamped “State of California.” He wore a grey suit of some slightly shiny material, and eyeglasses. He looked vaguely familiar, and The Governator, unable to contain his curiosity, strained forward and broke many of the threads holding him down. 

But as he struggled to sit up, he felt an extremely unpleasant sensation on his right hand—as if a thousand dull darts were being thrown at him. Struggling to look, he saw a phalanx of men and women firing pens into his flesh with a sort of sling made form rubber bands. Each had a considerable supply, and The Governator decided it would be a good time to rest. 

Waving his white silk handkerchief—a sign they seemed to recognize, for the shooting soon stopped—he lay back down to consider his situation. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw some of the gray-clad figures in the distance holding large flowers as if they were golf clubs. 

“What are they doing?” he asked aloud. 

And a voice—the first man had now ascended The Governator’s chin—replied, “Practicing their putting.” 

“With flowers?” asked The Governator. 

“They’re lily-putters,” came the reply. 

“Aha! So this is Lilliput, I suppose, and you are all part of an elaborate practical joke,” said The Governator. “Well, you can stop now. I’m not that gullible.” 

“Which Gullible are you, then?” asked the man, now accompanied by about a hundred others. 

Suddenly, The Governator realized why they seemed so familiar. “You all look like the last governor, the one I terminated,” he said. “Are you all Gray Davis?” 

“Oh, no,” came a dozen voices, and a dozen or more men and women paraded by, saying their names. 

“Gary Davids.” 

“Davis Gray.” 

“Grace Davey.” 

“Darvis Gay.”  

“Ray G. Avids.” 

Until The Governator could stand it no longer. 

“Stop!” he shouted, and just then a man in a suit unlike the others appeared, and held out his hand. “FItchmoody Dow,” he said. “Here to see you about your ratings.” 

“Oh, they’re excellent,” said The Governator. “I had 16 pints with a 22 share last time out.” 

“But your bonds aren’t drawing that kind of interest,” said Dow, “so we may have to downgrade them, especially if you cut taxes. You did promise to cut taxes, didn’t you?” 

“I don’t recall,” said The Governator. 

One member of the group that had been firing into his hands now appeared, shooter at the ready. “We are from the rubber band of the Keno group of Palm Beach Indians,” he said, “and want to see how you feel about our proposal to build a casino on our property.” 

“I don’t recall,” said The Governator. 

And the parade continued for some time, until they formed in front of him. 

“Who are you, anyway?” said The Governator. 

“We’re your host of problems,” came the answer in unison. 

And from somewhere in the back of the crowd came a voice. “And we recall.” 

“Enough!” said The Governator, reaching for his ultrahigh powered laser-guided shooter, which had made him the toast of box offices from Anaheim to Annapurna. 

But it wasn’t there. Inside the case was only a slip of paper with the words “You’re not in the movies anymore.” 

The Governator’s smile slowly faded, and the room grew dark.