Somewhere in Connecticut, Sen. Joe Lieberman stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Days after democracy jumped the rails and the stars fell from the sky, he is still in denial about the results of the Connecticut primary. Blinking back a tear, he grudgingly flashes the least sincere smile in American politics.

"We have Jo-mentum," he says, listening to the echo from the bathroom fixtures. He's pleased with how optimistic he sounds in his splendid isolation.

"This is only the first half of the game," he says, raising his fists to the mirror and grinning maniacally. "Ned Lamont may be ahead, but we'll win the Super Bowl by a ninth-inning knockout."

A low, guttural chuckle glides into the room like a snake, but it doesn't belong to Joe Lieberman. Startled, the senator turns to face the source of the laughter.

His gaze is met by a man whose red suit fits like a bulky second skin. Emerging from the shadows of the laundry chute, the man has a cherubic face, an arrogant smile and a receding hairline that partially covers a tiny set of horns.

"Hey, Joe, whaddya know? I see you're still using tortured sports metaphors at the first sign of trouble," the man in the red suit says.

"Hello, Karl," Joe Lieberman sighs. "What brings you to the Nutmeg state this beautiful day?"

Cleaning his glasses with a plume of expectorated smoke, the man in the red suit winks and laughs.

"Just checking to see when you'll finally get around to consummating a relationship that began when the president kissed you a few years ago."

With a dramatic flick of the wrist, the man in the red suit pulls a document from his breast pocket. The edges curl and burst into flames after contact with the air. An acrid smell fills the room, but the senator's thoughts are elsewhere.

"That kiss," Joe Lieberman mutters. "That damn kiss sunk my political career. Because of an illicit, five-second display of affection for a president who plunged us into a stupid and unnecessary war, nobody believes I'm a Democrat anymore."

"Sign it, Joe," Karl says. "The sooner you initial the contract with your self-righteous blood, the better the chances for retaining your Senate seat in November. The will of the Democratic majority be damned."

Joe Lieberman stares at the contract. He wavers. "When I campaigned for the vice presidency as Al Gore's running mate, I castigated President Bill Clinton for his immorality in the White House.

"When I was way down in the polls, Bill came to Connecticut to campaign for me. Even though I denounced him during the impeachment hearings, there wasn't a hint of rancor in his dealings with me. He probably narrowed the gap between me and Lamont by two or three percentage points."

The man in the red suit rolls his eyes. "What's your point?"

Joe Lieberman turns to his interrogator.

"Bill Clinton is living proof that Democrats are extraordinarily forgiving. He went from pariah to chief fund-raiser and campaigner faster than anyone could say 'Monica who?'

"If I turn off my ego and drop plans to run as an independent for the Senate, maybe rank-and-file Democrats will start respecting me again and I won't have to take a job at Fox News shucking and jiving for 'Hannity & Colmes.' "

The man in the red suit shakes his head in disgust.

"Where's your moral clarity, Joe? Have you forgotten that Bill Clinton is an adulterer and that the Democratic Party can't be trusted to protect us from terrorism or stay the course on the war? Do you really want to be associated with a party that would abandon all of our good work in Iraq the moment it took power?"

Joe Lieberman turns red. He clears his throat and sighs. He looks at his right index finger. It has inexplicably begun bleeding. The man in the red suit points to a line at the bottom of the document.

"You don't have to be a 'Loserman' again, Joe. Just sign on the dotted line and leave everything to us. We understand your lust for status and renown. You can't win without our help."

Joe Lieberman wavers. "I appreciate everything you and the president have offered to do for me, Karl, but I need you to keep your distance for a while, OK? An irate blogger could easily misconstrue our relationship."

"Sure, Holy Joe. Just sign so I can get out of here. The smell of desperation nauseates me."

Joe Lieberman licks his finger, tasting the blood. It glistens in the light. He wavers.