Off Centre on the Campaign Trail ’08
Part One: Disorientation and Disgrace.
WE WERE SOMEWHERE through the darkness and several kilometres from the apartment complex of a neo-Nazi store owner who was fighting what he felt to be the – good – fight against public homosexual culture displayed on the sidewalk of the night club Synergies’ in downtown Macon. The air was beating into my ear creating a loud off-white noise, and the sheer erratic nature of his driving was creating lumps on my head as well as uneasiness in my stomach. Dr. Finch began to mutter something about the southern Mexican mafia and potato chips, and cannot say that I ever saw him blink once the entire time he drove. I learned long ago to not ponder his actions to a colossal degree. It will only cause ulcers and brain tumours, and no one wants that for something as cheap as trying to figure out someone’s intentions.
I was on an assignment to camouflage a man protesting at a local event. I arrived by plot of cab, and was greeted by the same white noise that the “First Fridays” crowd brings of drunken stupors and screams. It was always the same group; every scaly face was nearly the same it seemed; all smiling, all falling, all profoundly uninteresting, and near the breaking point of stupidity. The only relevant moments within the crowd were those rare little moments when there was someone in the group that as actually worth having a conversation with. These moments were quite rare, and most of the time you can go an entire evening without any evidence that such beings even existed.
I was somewhere on cherry street on my scheme to Synergies’ when a dingy grey-blue Nissan screeched on to the sidewalk next to me causing everyone else to leap for their respective lives. The driver side door flew open in a fury; Dr. Finch leaped out, and climbed across the hood. He was under the influence of some upper, downer or a new direction I had never comprehended, and most likely some form of caffeine spliced with cherry Kool-Aid. His eyes were wide, and cracked looking, both identical in stress colouring. An odd moment for his eyes because growing up Samuel Finch had several surgeries on his left eye giving it scare that gave him a permanent blood shot look in that one eye. He jumped on to me telling me to report on his next ‘mission’ deep in the back woods of the Georgia forests.
“I have to report on a redneck protest!” I yelled pushing him off of me. “I can’t just follow you in to the dim woods that reeked of raped travellers. This is famous damn it!”
“You’re better than this!” he yelled in a whisper gesturing towards the sycophants of the street. “This mission will blow the protest story out of the water. It’ll accept you out of this low bit paper, and into the real news.” He began to go and chant something in Texan Spanglish. Then he jumped on top of his car, and began to perform a speech about how worthy of a failure I was. “Derive people and witness your king!” he said to the crowd, “all who know him know that behind his crewel cover that he calls his pen he is nothing but a lizard.”
“You god damn jackass, get down before I beat you with your fill leg!” I yelled grabbing his ankles and pulling in a hard jolt that took his scrawny body down. “Get in the damn car I’ll go damn it, just shut the hell up. Don’t dare to do anything I will regret later. I want to come out of this with the least amount of mental scars as I can.” He leaped with joy and proceeded into the car then sped off into the night at high speeds all the while trying to hook his safety belt, and in doing so made him completely oblivious to the road for that short time; his own perfected style of driving.
He took me into the deep forest, and quickly began to have evil Deliverance-like horrors going through my mind. About an hour into the drive he began to slow the vehicle, and look intently for some sort of marker. We bumped over a gargantuan wire causing my head to be assaulted by the ceiling when suddenly there were burning bright spot lights aimed straight into our pupils. I felt like a French revolutionary on gun happy day, and just as dangerous. They came out and took us from the car, “what is this holy unjust treatment? ” I yelled “I’m a damn journalist!” After some time I gave up trying to kick them away, and I decided to just walk. It was much easier to walk, and they weren’t looking to retort any of my questions. I was on their turf now, and I had no rights at all.
Inside an underground bunker deep within the property protected by an electrified fence; there was an enormous meeting hall with a two thousand name strong list hanging. Throughout the hallways there were words printed on the walls, and from what I could screech they all said the word “human” in various languages. The whole building had a musky dirt smell to it, and I almost expected to find a dead body around any corner. The whole scene had a bad feeling to it, and the only reason I was not afraid for my life was the fact that I was slow to comprehension of near death experiences.
We were taken into an office at the end of the long ‘human’ hallway, made to sit in two chairs identical to the hallway, and then we were told to wait. After about fifteen minutes of bland mind chatter a man with a hanging belly, a polo shirt, and a crew slash walked in and sat at the desk facing us.
“Call me Graves, Bartholomew Graves, that is not my fair name but for purposes of the public; that is my identification as of now. If I told you my right name, you would observe it up and not absorb me. It is not important anyway. You, Mr. Wilker have been chosen exclusively to document our cause and engage it to the general public. This is mostly due to your friendship with Mr. Finch. That and I devour your writing in the pink press. I wanted to meet you and test your humanity. Now that I am sure you are one of us, I want you to mask my election campaign. Approach back in one week and I will grant you an interview, and then a week after that, we will begin the coverage of the campaign. This will get our cause into the spot light, and hopefully change the world someday.
Part Two: Dissolution of the Greatest.
[The following is a transcription directly from the audio recording of the interview with Mr. Graves that took position on the 9th of November 2007.]
[WILKER] Hello sir and thank you for speaking with me.
[GRAVES] “You are welcome, and let me warn you a head of time, if we find that you are associated with any Grays and/or Reptoids I will bring the full fury of our organization upon you, and you will not survive. Are we clear? “
[WILKER] “Yes sir, it is understood sir. Could we please start by you stating your name and the overall goals and political affiliation of you and your organization? “
[GRAVES] “I am Bartholomew Graves, the leader of the Terran Political Party, we are Humanistic Socialists, and our overall goal is to rid the planet, or at least the country, of all Extra Terrestrial Alien presence. We want to restore the planet to Human rule.”
[WILKER] “What do you feel is the greatest threat to American life today, and what do you conception to do to help the planet? “
[GRAVES] “The man problem facing American… well facing the World, is this alien presence on Earth. They are the cause of every modern threat, as well as through history. Every aspect of life is under their control, from secret societies to government. Builderburg is their main staple on earth, and through that they control the world with a ‘Human’ face. We at the organization aim to stop them. We are revolutionaries trying to get back what is rightfully ours.”
[WILKER] “On the walls of your grand meeting hall, you have a rather enormous list of names, same in red and some in blue. What is this list? “
[GRAVES] “This list you speak of, is a list of know and suspected Reptoid Aliens with in government, business, and entertainment. The ones in red are confirmed and the ones in blue are under investigation.”
[WILKER] “Please do not take this in any offence, but for integrity I must ask for your name, if you do not want it disclosed I will strike it from the final copy”
[GRAVES] “It is alright, I simply did not tell you because it’s improbable, and you will most likely not believe when you look me up on the internet. My real name is Phil Schneider, and I died several years ago of a stroke. You can disclose it within the article, no one will believe you.
[WILKER] “Thank you sir, I will most likely not, but let objective let the future happen as it will. Now, what made you want to start this organization? I assume you had some kind of encounter.”
[GRAVES] “Yes, about fourteen years ago, in late nineteen ninety four, I was working on a government contract to build an underground bunker. I was a contractor; this was a simple job, just a lot of work. I had government contracts before so it was a simple ‘get it done quickly and do not ask any questions’ kind of job. As we were digging to site the support pillars for the bunker we hit something. It was the hull of another building. Clouds of burnt and rotting smoke came out. It smelled of sulphur and death. We all had environment suits ready for pockets and caves because down that far in the earth there is such low oxygen it’s impossible to work without an oxygen tank. My co-workers lowered me down on a cable to investigate. I was in my environment suit and as always I had my pistol. After I got about twelve feet below this hull I saw them. Two Grays, about sixteen feet tall, out of fear I quickly reached for my gun. I rang the pull bell and fired as they tugged me up, I killed the two there and as I went up I saw four more walk up. That is why I began my research and my mission. In the year twenty twelve we will begin to move forward, well… more forward than we already have.”
[WILKER] “Why twenty twelve, what is the significance? “
[GRAVES] “In the year twenty twelve the planet Nibiru will be visible due to specific positioning of the planets. Nibiru is an uninhabitable planet that is used as a military depraved by another species on another planet. In twenty twelve they will be close enough to strike. They will most likely get into a war with the Reptoid, who glorious much own this planet, and have integrated into the gene pool. This will be our chance to take it back; they will weaken each other, and we must be stronger!”
[WILKER] “If you are not moving forward until twenty twelve or sixteen, what do you want me to shroud? “
[GRAVES] “I would like to cover my re-election to the presidency of this organization. I am the founding member it is only natural I continue to lead these fair people. Some of my lesser followers believe I have lost sight of our goal, and should step down. But I will not leave! Not until I extinguish those green bastards and every one understand just how serious I am!”
[WILKER] “Thank you for your time sir and I will search for you on the campaign trail.”
[GRAVES] “Thank you, young man.”
Part Three: A jam of the loudest kind.
The Humanist Socialists
The morning stated with a daily ritual, I was not allowed to survey it but the curious sounds coming from his room cause the most hellish nightmares in any normal man. I was told that the sounds I heard were from a recording from Siberia, they were supposed to be the sounds of hell. Mr. Graves listened to this recording on rotund blast every day to “remind him why he is on this world, and what all he must do for mankind.” He busted out of his office completely naked and went into another room where his men deloused him, and then he insisted that I do the same.
The first end on the hasten was a small vow platform that was no longer in use, but was a well known stomping ground E.T. Conspiracy Theorists, whom most conception that Mr. Grave was a joke, but they always excepted him as one of their own. He gave a speech that would rock any respective boat, if any such boat decided to anchor near enough to him to hear. After about an hour into the speech his fury broke the levies of his sinuses and tears ran down his face like waterfalls shielding the flames of his eyes. His rage had an ominous glow of dark red that seemed like it could crack at any given moment. What a sight that would have been, the hope for all my kind spilling his blood in almost a Christ like manner.
The next day we went to several parks, always in the deep wood of them, finding all the sycophants and broken minded homeless men that would give him a listen. The speech was the same of the speech given at the platform, but less emotion. The crowd actually seemed to care but none of them seemed to have any effect on anything outside of the wood. “Is this the great organization? ” I thought, “Bands of homeless sycophants and angry prigs that most likely will never have any great impact on any society outside of their enjoy.” It is not my job to judge, I am merely a humble journalist, so I kept my opinions to myself.
The following days were about the same, the daily ritual, delousing, nonstop speeches within the van as we travelled from place to place. He gave the same speech every day, but to all new sycophants with all novel faces. The faces were always new, because one man out of his mind always has different scars left on the brain his mind left behind. These were all people who knew exactly where the edge was; because they had gone over so many times that the edge to them was miles behind them at this point. I’ve always pitied men who came to their senses, mostly because it means they lost.
Part Four: The Resulting Mad Man.
On the eve of the election Bartholomew did not sleep he spent the night in the trees that hung over compound. The night prior he took me aside and told me: “the fate of the world rested on this election, and I cannot let it fall to a lesser man, if it does the human species is re-defined as the doomed.” The sun slowly lifted that morning, and slit its light throughout the trees.
The results came in from the country, hundreds of ballads every hour. I had no idea the organization was this big across the country, and I had seriously underestimated their passion. These are people, nothing more nothing less. They are no different from anyone else they just believe the world is a little different than other people tend to gain. Nothing more than fatalists with a cause, and all the followers anyone needs. Anyone within the organization knew that there was something truly special about where and what they are.
After a long night and a morning that for some came far too soon; the votes were counted, and the results were concluded. Bartholomew Graves, also known as Phil Schneider, the man who founded the Terran Party was no longer the president. In his eyes the planet was doomed and Mankind’s future, if any, was of slavery come the next five years. In his eyes the mission was over and he had failed, no more work, no more sailors, no more cause, the dream was differed as was the man.
A week after the results I arrived at the head quarters of the organization one last time to conduct my post election interview with the now Ex-President Graves. After the long screening process and delousing, I was finally informed by the new president, a younger man by the name of Edward Torrez, that Mr. Graves had taken his own life shortly after he moved his office out. President Torrez then handed me a hand written note signed by Mr. Graves, and addressed to me.
“The end is not completely over my friend, but the beginning of the end is well underway. It has been many years since I have even trusted myself, the game is no longer fun, but tranquil just as serious. My mission is far from over but I have been retarded into uselessness and I can’t sit idly and watch the world burn again. Thank you for keeping my last moments from becoming lonely ones.”
–President Phil Schneider
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