Tod’s friends all were pushing him to run for something–anything–in the upcoming mid term elections.  He was qualified, he had real slither power, could speak with a forked tongue, and change positions almost instantly, but his heart just wasn’t in it.  He really wanted to be a photographer, and if he didn’t have hands to hold a camera, how could he accept the back handed “campaign money” and later “consulting fees”, or just old fashioned “glad handing . . . ‘