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The Last Vote |
| Written by Cody Larson | |
| Friday, 07 March 2008 | |
His name is Jackson Winfield McCagie You see his face plastered on telephone poles, on cheap plastic signs in front lawns, on billboards. Always with that big-toothed grin. Vote for McCagie: He's fair. For you. You laugh. Fair? For Me? Hardly He's on the radio. Talk shows. Channel 23... News at Five. Debates with the other, less important candidates. Less important to him, maybe. And only because, without fail, he takes them down like an overeager rookie football player. First down. Ten yards. Go Jackson boy. You laugh again. You laugh because you know. How far are you going to let him dream? How cold are you feeling? This isn't like you at all, is it? Yet you can't figure the difference. You can't feel the little amoebic signal pulsing through your blood. Through your brain. All zeroes and ones and fax data sent via vein wires. You gasp it in, sigh it out, and nothing ever feels different. But you do know. You don't know how you know, but you can tell. You've never thought such things before. That's alright. Sit down. Take a load off. Relax in your favorite chair. Go ahead, you deserve it. That's right. Flip on the television. Channel surf. Your favorite pastime. The remote clicks softly as you allow merely seconds for each scene to reach your retinas before switching channels again, and again, and again. The next hot movie star's on the next hot talk show. The Dow Jones is down 5 points. A blonde kid staring into a mirror smacks aftershave onto his face and yells in a comedic howl. The weather looks good for the next few days. A pouty, botox injected middle aged woman screams at her younger lover: "Of course it's your baby!" A game show host watches as a chubby twenty-something spins a giant green and red wheel. And on. And on. Until you hear his voice... "...yes, of course. It's not every day you see someone such as me running." McCagie. With that news reporter. What's her name...? "What do you think you could bring to this country that hasn't been done before? What sort of fresh ideas?" McCagie jumps right in. "I think that I can bring a youthful, energetic, and selfless approach to many things that have been haphazardly handled over the years, such as health care, social security, and the like." Selfless! What a damn liar! "I see. Would you like to go into any further detail?" He gives her a sleazy wink and that big-toothed grin. "Can't give away all my secrets now, can I?" She smiles, obviously repulsed. "No. I suppose you can't. Well... Mr. McCagie, many people have been speculating about that younger woman you were seen with..." "No comment. Next question." "But you were seen..." Another big-toothed grin, this time slightly more wolf-like. "Next question. I am here to talk of serious matters." Serious matters? Like what? How much of a slimy, backstabbing little hick you are? You're up out of your chair now, fuming at the television. Before McCagie can utter another word of filth your thumb bashes down on the remote's power button. The television set clicks off. The remote goes flying across the room, striking the wall and shattering. One battery lands on the kitchen floor, where it spins for a moment, then all is still once again. How are you feeling now? Colder? Good. Sleep now. Go ahead. Dream about it all...
****
"Do you think he's backing out?" "Of course not. Look at him! Slam full of hate." "You better be right." "I am. You watch." "So when the hell is he gonna do it?" "When he's damn good and ready! We couldn't have asked for a better out than this, and you know it." "You're right." "Of course I'm right. Who thought this whole thing up anyway? Patience, my friend. Go rest your brain a while. The dreamwave I've sent him should throw fuel on the fire even more so. When he wakes up, he'll be all too happy to plunge into the flames and end this all..."
****
Wake up. Watch it... you're tearing with it now. Hate. That dream you had... encouraged it? Of course. So is it time? Do you feel ready? Up and out then. You pull on your thick, black coat. The view outside your front window shows you that the trees are swaying in the wind, and that a steady rain is falling. You decide against bringing an umbrella, not caring whether you get soaked or not, and you walk out the front door. You brought it, yes? Without thinking, without really even knowing, you pat the inside pocket of your jacket. You smile, brace yourself for the rain, and walk briskly down your front step, then to the sidewalk, then on down the street. Tiny little signals dance in your brain, firing out words and images. All of them, McCagie, His sleazy wink. His wolf-like smile. His holier-than-thou demeanor. And like a book your mind flips through pages and pages of memories, some that you would've never been able to witness first hand to begin with, but by now that doesn't even enter into your thoughts. The reasons why you could possibly have memories of things that never happened to you elude you, yet you don't care. It doesn't bother you. It's all about him. And with each new image, as each new page turns, the more the hot ball of lead in you stomach grows. You would vomit if you thought it'd make a difference, but no, this fire isn't really in your belly. It's all throughout you. It's running like stampede through your veins, making every muscle tense. You are now soaked to the bone from the rain, yet you keep walking, unaware of this. McCagie. Fair. For you. You snicker. "...can bring a youthful, energetic, and selfless approach..." A throaty laugh as the rain pats you on the head. "....here to talk of serious matters..." An all out, body-jerking guffaw. And you walk, rain pelting you, laughing like a madman, on to your destination. Because you are a madman, aren't you? Yes of course. All of a sudden your ears seem to prick up. You stop, sniffing the air like a hungry dog after fresh meat. He's close. You can feel him. How can you? You don't know. You can't know. It isn't in you to know. There is only what you will do. And it is now that you sense you are also not alone anymore. But this isn't some unexplainable sense... this is simply your eyes telling you that there are people, hundreds, gathering from everywhere, to the park at the center of town. Of course. McCagie's big speech in the park. You knew this. That is why you walked here. As the people come from all over, to the stage erected in the center of town, you walk faster, eyeing every single person you see. Do they know? Do they know what you have? What you're going to do? Of course not! How can they? And so you walk, becoming one with the crowd, as they all settle in front of the stage. Yes. McCagie's great unveiling of every seemingly good thing his pompous little mind could possibly string up. Which, of course, amounts to nothing more than loud speakers, bright colors, shiny metals, mechanical clicks and whirs. More hedonistic rock concert than campaign stop. And that's just how he wants it. Are not the people incredibly gullible? Just give them a good show, doesn't matter what you say, as long as it all looks stunning? Turn on the lights! Fire the lasers! Cue the fog! All he needs now are a long-haired, shrieking spokesperson and a grungy looking guy in a top hat squealing out notes on his guitar. A laugh rises in your guts but you squelch it. Now is not the time to look like you're insane. Even though you are. Fully. Just let all the clapping monkeys praise their McCagie while they can. The sun doesn't shine forever. And all at once the crowd erupts into cheers and applause. There he is. The crowd's noise turns to static. Background noise. Useless. He is here. You push your way through the mass of generic voices and faces. His is the only face you see, the only voice you hear. The man, the myth, the legend smiles that predatory smile, bows, and shows off his sitcom family, who all in turn smile their little plastic smiles. He raises his hands to hush the crowd. You continue to push through the pulsating mass, as if every single person there has joined together to make one immense shrieking idiot. As the idiot-mass finally quiets down, and he steps towards the podium, you realize you are close enough. You reach into your jacket. It's all over within seconds. You wrap your fingers around the cold steel. Your hand comes out of your jacket and your finger pumps the trigger three times. You see McCagie's eyes go wide as the onslaught of bullets slams him back off of the podium. The crowd turns on you and tears the gun from your hands. Feet kick and throats scream at you. The idiot-mass pulsates into you, around you, tightening, crushing. Finally, a bullet from your own gun destroys you. The people are frantic. The men in black suits rush to McCagie, only to discover he is already dead. Voices come from all different directions. "McCagie is dead!" One screams. "Damn it! No! We could've made millions off of him!" Another. "Get these people out of here! NOW!" A black suit yells, pointing to the riotous idiot-mass. "Daddy's dead! No!" A small voice, followed by a child's wail. "Who was it? Who did it?" Several voices at once. "The crowd already killed him! They're liable to kill each other! Get them the hell out NOW!" Another black suit. Of course, you can't know this. You're dead before you can hear them scream. We know you're dead. We're all going to hell now.
****
"He did it." "I told you he would. I told you. One more thing we didn't have to." "Well, damn, now what?" "We get the hell gone!" "What? Why? How can they tell it was us?" "I don't know. I just don't know. A sick feeling. In the pit of my stomach. We need to go. Now." "But I..." "Shut it. It's over. We're all going to hell now." Copyright 2008 Cody Larson |
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