Log In | Register
It was late when I got to the bar. No one bothered to look up from their drinks as I strolled through the arch. I scanned the room for my interview. The place was wretched. A blue collar dive filled mostly with longshoremen and pool hustlers. The floorboards were dark. Stained with substances better left unidentified.
I found him slumped over a bloody mary in a dimly lit corner booth. He had a friend. One of the local kids. Twenty if he was a day.
I hovered near his table for a moment, catching bits of their conversation.
"...it's your money kid. Sure, you aren't paying all that much now. You're just getting by as it is. But eventually, you'll finish college. Start making some real dough. Why should you have to pay for some dumb skirt got herself knocked up and on her own, eh? It's her own fault. Way it is now, she goes around whorin' herself, and we gotta pick up the tab while she sits home with her brat and watches soap operas. Is that fair? Hell no!"
The kid was eating it up, drunk off his ass. I'd had all I could take. Stepped up to the table.
"You still sellin' that crap, mate?"
He jumped at the sound of my voice. "Uh.?" He slurred.. "Who the hell..? Oh. It's you."
I settled into the open seat, and turned my intention to the figure across from me. He reared his head to fix a wormy gaze. It was 10 past midnight. I was in a bar. In a booth. With a zombie.
"Your jaw's outta whack again." I pointed out. Figured to be helpful.
He was in bad shape. The year hadn't been kind. He fiddled with his lower jaw for a few moments. doggedly working it back and forth until at last with a sickening pop he triumphantly managed to cram it into a workable position.
He rasped, "Get us a pint, eh?"
"Christ. Would it kill you to get sober for an hour or two?"
He chuckled. A low, gravelly tone emitting from a partially hollowed out rib cage.
"No. I guess it wouldn't at that.."
He sat silent, toying with his drink.
"Fine. You called. I'm here. Start spillin'. I ain't got all night."
He nodded. "Right. Here's the thing." He leaned over the table, drawing closer to me. "There's no chance in hell McCain gets the nod."
"Get off. Smart money says he's your guy."
"Hell he is. You got to be @!$%#tin' me. He ain't ever been our guy. He might play along for now. But he's not one of us. Not six years ago. And not now. He gets elected, he goes his own way. We've spent too much time and money to blow it all on some jerkoff thinks he's a 'maverick'"
"Sure you have. But how you gonna stop him?"
"Stopping him's easy. All we gotta do is feed the press."
"Do tell. What could you possibly have on Saint John?"
"Well.. First we dig up some old vets. Get some whispering goin' on about his POW days. Then, we release some paperwork on the Keating thing. We publish a few pics of him foolin around on his wife. That'd gut him in the south. And the rest, mob ties.. you know."
"Same tricks as before. You guys have no shame."
He laughed. "Hey, it's all in the name of saving America. Like I said. We've gone too far to pull back now."
I grimaced. "Fine. If not him, than who?"
"Thurmond."
I frowned. "Junior? You kidding me? Is he even old enough to be President?"
"No, Strom."
"Strom Thurmond?"
"Yes."
"But.."
"Yes?"
"He's dead."
"So?"
I sat there. Shocked. I mean, Zombies handling things behind the scenes is one thing.. But out in the open? As a candidate? "Have your brains finally rotted out? There's no damn way the American people are going to elect a rotting, shambling creature from beyond the grave.."
"Hey, they elected Bush didn't they?"
I said nothing.
"Twice."
I shuddered. "Okay. You've got me there."
"Think about it, Doc. He' the perfect candidate. Strong on security. From the south."
"Damn.." I muttered. "Looks like you've got the angles covered."
"I'm headin' over to the Committee to pitch it now."
"Well.. It's more than I can stomach at the moment. Thurmond for '08. Bastards.." I got up from the table. "This calls for a stiff drink."
"Pun intended?" The kid giggled.
"What's your stake in all this?" I snarled. "You got a lifelong ambition to elect a corpse?"
The kid lifted his beer. "Hey. It's your buddy here was sayin' earlier. America for Americans! If you don't like it, maybe you should go somewhere else. It's our country now. Not the queers. Not you bleedin hearts. I don't see why I should be bustin' my balls to help some schmuck who can't help himself." He gestured to the zombie. "He may stink all to hell and gone, but 'e won't raise my taxes."
Jesus.. Children are the future. We are totally @!$%#ed. I turned away without saying another word and moseyed over to the bar.
"What'll it be?" The bartender asked.
"You got salvation?" He furrowed his brow and said nothing. "Right.. Johnny Walker on the rocks."
The rest of the night, I sat at the bar. Occasionally I'd glance over to where my interview was holding court. The kid was getting good and snookered. Lapping up everything my acquaintance had to feed him. Supply side economics. Capital gains tax. The works. After a few more drinks I decided to hit the john and get the hell outta there. I paid the tab. Then headed to the can. I opened the door.
It was like a scene outta Deliverance. Deliverance with zombies. The kid was bent over, pants down to his ankles. The zombie hammering away. I may never sleep again. Time stopped for a moment, and none of us moved.
Finally, the zombie cracked a sloppy grin. Cocked his head slightly. "Whatd'ya say Doc? Ready to join the Grand Ole Party?"
I stomped on his face. Clean through to the floor. The kid tumbled over. A stunned expression on his face.
I stepped up to the urinal to do my business. "Listen up kid. Not that it's any of my business. But somebody's gotta tell ya this."
"You are not one of them. You never will be. You're just a slob to work in their factory. Sling hash at a greasy spoon. You will never be rich. They will never like you. But they'll take your vote. And they'll gladly bugger you up the ass."
I zipped up. Walked over to the door. Looked over my shoulder to meet his thoroughly traumatized face. "It's a conjob, kid. It's reverse necrophilia. A bunch of dead ideas risen from the grave to @!$%# us all."
I groused as I left the bar. "Gonna have to get a new pair of boots."
You can never quite get the smell of Republican off ya.
