Sequel to this
‘He wanted to go to his mother…but he never did go to her …he made himself cope alone.’
- I'm the King of the Castle, Susan Hill.
---
As he sat, waking from a long nap, the president noticed cracks in his glasses. Very prominent cracks, too, not ones you could simply ignore as you were on your merry way. So, with a mighty reluctance, he removed the spectacles that had laid on his eyes for the past several years. He shifted his eyes around the room. It was night now, and a crescent moon gave off a blurry shine in the dark sky. Would've made great weather if the current situation hadn't made itself clear. The wind blew lightly into the office, glass shards gently pushed onto the floor. He took a sip of the whiskey that he so loathed to drink, and popped half a tablet. Many more lay on the floor, having been knocked over in a fit of anger hours previously.
A crash resounded in the near distance. It shook the president out of his haze as he leaned forward to spot it. It was a rusting typewriter that was peeking out from the hallway. It made him think of Donna. Such a nice girl, he mused. Smart, too. Got out while she still could. He sighed as he threw his head back. He desperately wished for a little light - what he got from the moon was simply not enough, and the lamp had been smashed. He peered at the notes stacked on his desk. Ink was spilled onto them, and they had been rendered near unreadable. He coughed up a little phlegm - scratch that, a lot of phlegm, with a little blood mixed in - before rubbing his temples. The headache never went away in the three years he'd been there. He would've surrendered the whole country to Somalia if he could've gotten a pillbox full of aspirin - good aspirin too, not the crap "Doctor" Bornstein was giving him. The pain wasn't his main concern, really, it was all the whispers. Can't go a second without them yammerin' this or yammerin' that.
The bastards in congress called him an egotist. A self-centered braggart. But surely, weren't they themselves self-centered when they dragged the kids into the bunkers? I'm the one staying here. I'm certainly none of the monikers applied to me, the president assured to himself. I'm a man of god, and God hasn't done much good for me.
The president, glancing at the scratched nametag reading "Jim Jones," chuckled. "You've come damn far, Jim. Damn far." he said to himself as if someone else was speaking to him. It had all started with such success - housing reform, education reform - all kinds of reform. For a while, it appeared as if he had stunned the establishment, and he was more than ready to deliver the finishing blow. Everything went wrong.
And now he was all alone. No, he thought. I don't even know if I have that comfort. Birch could be on his way over, or he could be laying in fifty pieces in Cheyenne. That's what drove him mad, having none of the knowledge. He needed it or everything would rot. That's exactly what's happened, too.
He suffered another bout of coughing. There was more blood this time, and the metallic taste could be felt on the tip of his tongue. The whispers grew into a crescendo of misery. Now laid Jim Jones - a man who prided himself on simply being full of pride - a wreck. Not quite at gibbering level, but near enough. The past week had been such an eye-opener for him, as he had finally came to the realization that no, maybe what transpired wasn't the plan at all. He reflected upon this, wiping a little glass off his hair as he did so, when a voice came to him. A figure, draped in a black robe, with white bandages covering the face, floated in the corner. It came closer, but only by an inch. The president did not even flinch, as he was entranced.
He only snapped out of it when he dropped his flask of whiskey, spilling it. He saw the figure, and he continued to be still. He straightened his suit out, and sat up in his seat. "Do you come here for the obvious?" he said with a slight whimper. He awaited for a response, but none came. He blinked his eyes, and the figure reappeared at the other corner, taking Jones by surprise. "Jimmy, no. No," it said with a solemn demeanor. "You haven't died, unfortunately." the president sneered at that. "I'm just sitting here, waiting. It's all very very interesting, listening to you."
The president whistled. "You dare take upon the image of thy reaper?" he said in a flat tone without confidence. The figure refused to respond. Instead, it disappeared. Sighing, the president wondered about the validity of his sight and his mind.
All of a sudden, he lost his vision. The president pawed about, trying to find his way around his familiar surroundings. It was suddenly restored to him. For a brief fraction of a second, he saw visions that seemed reminiscent of the songs of Jefferson Airplane. The figure, now turning its 'back' from the desk, appeared in the hallway. "Do you not think it to be an appropriate date?" Frustrated, the president meekly responded with "what date?"
"Check your calendar, Jimmy." Jones threw his right arm forwards in frustration, slamming his fist on the table. "What calendar? The thing's probably burned out by now." He had taken on a dejected tone. The figure nodded. "My...apologies. It's October the Thirty-First. Do you get the significance?"
He ran over the date in his head. "Oct...Thirty...why yes, I do. It's Halloween."
"Very good Jimmy. Of course, I would be more partial to Hallow's Eve, myself of course." The figure disappeared in a puff of smoke. Jones, by now more frustrated than confused, again slammed his hand on the table, barely missing a shard of glass. "What significance? Answer me! These games can not be tolerated." At the utterance of those words, the figure appeared behind the desk, outstretching a cloaked finger at the president. "The horrors that have occurred. Surely, in your position, you are aware?" the finger was retracted. "You have made the gravest mistakes, Jimmy. These are not ones that can simply be made up for. You know what you must do." Jones pondered for a second, before realizing what the figure had meant. To the surprise of himself but not to the figure, he did not react with shock, but with feigned indifference, immense feelings of worry on the inside. The thoughts had entered his mind, he had discussed them with the members of the Peoples' Temple, but the implication had never been laid bare before him in this way.
"I'm not..." Jones couldn't finish his sentence. "You couldn't what? Do it, you mean? If that's true, as you were going to claim, then why - perchance - is the drawer open?" The president was on the cusp of reprimanding the figure for spouting nonsense before he looked down and saw a drawer nearly pulled off of its creaking hinges. A Sidewinder, wrapped in plastic for some unknown reason, was encased. The president, cracking his neck in an effort to show strength, was slowly reaching for the weapon against his wishes. The figure stood silent.
A wind began to engulf the Oval Office. The spectacles and many shards of glass swirled in the air for a brief moment before flying into the hallway, followed by paintings and flags. The sofas were knocked onto their sides and formed a barricade at the hallway door. The gun remained still though. Perfectly still. After thirty seconds of wrangling, the gun found itself clasped in the president's right hand, which was covered in sweat. Yet the gun had no chance of slipping. The wind, blowing back the cape worn by the figure, grew stronger. The president, still trying to keep defiance as the hand inched ever closer to his temples, kept a stern face. He began to shout. "Why have you chosen me to forsake? All my life, I've been trying to serve -"
"You've been trying to serve yourself, Jimmy. And besides, I am not in any manner forsaking you. You are doing this unto yourself. My control is...how you say, minimal."
Minimal? What a crock, the president thought. "Jimmy, are you not the one who claimed that death was not an object of fright? The one who believes that only suffering can lend oneself the image of God? Though of course, you don't even believe in God, do you?" Jones did not wish to grant the figure any satisfaction from a response, so he instead asked him a question. "Before this happens," he began with a solemnly accepting manner, "can you tell me - who are you?"
The figure chuckled - not with delight, with something else - and unwrapped the dull white bandages as the wind grew fiercer, throwing the president out of his chair and onto the floor, gun still firmly in position. The president looked up, thick wisps of hair almost blocking his view. "What...aren't I?" the figure said in a declarational manner as the last bandage fell to the floor and the gun was cocked. Jones could only see for a second before his vision went again, but he saw a scaly face - reminiscent of a small lizard - with a spiked tongue and pulsating eyes. It laughed as he took a breath, hearing his heart beat as he did so, and pulled the trigger.
Smash.
Another part of the windows that adorned the Oval Office was shattered into another hundred little pieces scattered along the floor. The president woke. What...had that been? Prophecy? No, must've been something of another stripe. He pulled out the drawer with such force that it fell to the scratched wood floor with a thump. No gun, though.
He felt his nostril. It was warm, and wet. He wiped the blood on his sleeve before standing up. He could hear harsh gunfire coming closer. No, them scabs aren't gonna get me. They could be straight from Frisco itself, and I wouldn't go with them. I am my own man. He peered at the nametag. The president. A far, far superior title than reverend.
Orders were shreiked out in an unfamiliar dialect. Potentially Russian, potentially English. At this nigh-hellish point, Jones couldn't tell. As the president climbed over the window, loose glass shards piercing his palms as he did so, and leaped past the fires that ensnared the plants. The smoke had made breathing difficult, but the president wasn't willing to let such dalliances get to him. He had his own mission to fulfill. The voices were still singing in his ears, the figure's own drawn one most prominently. As the headache continued to pound, one line, thrice repeated, could be heard distinctively.
You stood a chance, Jim.
- I'm the King of the Castle, Susan Hill.
---
As he sat, waking from a long nap, the president noticed cracks in his glasses. Very prominent cracks, too, not ones you could simply ignore as you were on your merry way. So, with a mighty reluctance, he removed the spectacles that had laid on his eyes for the past several years. He shifted his eyes around the room. It was night now, and a crescent moon gave off a blurry shine in the dark sky. Would've made great weather if the current situation hadn't made itself clear. The wind blew lightly into the office, glass shards gently pushed onto the floor. He took a sip of the whiskey that he so loathed to drink, and popped half a tablet. Many more lay on the floor, having been knocked over in a fit of anger hours previously.
A crash resounded in the near distance. It shook the president out of his haze as he leaned forward to spot it. It was a rusting typewriter that was peeking out from the hallway. It made him think of Donna. Such a nice girl, he mused. Smart, too. Got out while she still could. He sighed as he threw his head back. He desperately wished for a little light - what he got from the moon was simply not enough, and the lamp had been smashed. He peered at the notes stacked on his desk. Ink was spilled onto them, and they had been rendered near unreadable. He coughed up a little phlegm - scratch that, a lot of phlegm, with a little blood mixed in - before rubbing his temples. The headache never went away in the three years he'd been there. He would've surrendered the whole country to Somalia if he could've gotten a pillbox full of aspirin - good aspirin too, not the crap "Doctor" Bornstein was giving him. The pain wasn't his main concern, really, it was all the whispers. Can't go a second without them yammerin' this or yammerin' that.
The bastards in congress called him an egotist. A self-centered braggart. But surely, weren't they themselves self-centered when they dragged the kids into the bunkers? I'm the one staying here. I'm certainly none of the monikers applied to me, the president assured to himself. I'm a man of god, and God hasn't done much good for me.
The president, glancing at the scratched nametag reading "Jim Jones," chuckled. "You've come damn far, Jim. Damn far." he said to himself as if someone else was speaking to him. It had all started with such success - housing reform, education reform - all kinds of reform. For a while, it appeared as if he had stunned the establishment, and he was more than ready to deliver the finishing blow. Everything went wrong.
And now he was all alone. No, he thought. I don't even know if I have that comfort. Birch could be on his way over, or he could be laying in fifty pieces in Cheyenne. That's what drove him mad, having none of the knowledge. He needed it or everything would rot. That's exactly what's happened, too.
He suffered another bout of coughing. There was more blood this time, and the metallic taste could be felt on the tip of his tongue. The whispers grew into a crescendo of misery. Now laid Jim Jones - a man who prided himself on simply being full of pride - a wreck. Not quite at gibbering level, but near enough. The past week had been such an eye-opener for him, as he had finally came to the realization that no, maybe what transpired wasn't the plan at all. He reflected upon this, wiping a little glass off his hair as he did so, when a voice came to him. A figure, draped in a black robe, with white bandages covering the face, floated in the corner. It came closer, but only by an inch. The president did not even flinch, as he was entranced.
He only snapped out of it when he dropped his flask of whiskey, spilling it. He saw the figure, and he continued to be still. He straightened his suit out, and sat up in his seat. "Do you come here for the obvious?" he said with a slight whimper. He awaited for a response, but none came. He blinked his eyes, and the figure reappeared at the other corner, taking Jones by surprise. "Jimmy, no. No," it said with a solemn demeanor. "You haven't died, unfortunately." the president sneered at that. "I'm just sitting here, waiting. It's all very very interesting, listening to you."
The president whistled. "You dare take upon the image of thy reaper?" he said in a flat tone without confidence. The figure refused to respond. Instead, it disappeared. Sighing, the president wondered about the validity of his sight and his mind.
All of a sudden, he lost his vision. The president pawed about, trying to find his way around his familiar surroundings. It was suddenly restored to him. For a brief fraction of a second, he saw visions that seemed reminiscent of the songs of Jefferson Airplane. The figure, now turning its 'back' from the desk, appeared in the hallway. "Do you not think it to be an appropriate date?" Frustrated, the president meekly responded with "what date?"
"Check your calendar, Jimmy." Jones threw his right arm forwards in frustration, slamming his fist on the table. "What calendar? The thing's probably burned out by now." He had taken on a dejected tone. The figure nodded. "My...apologies. It's October the Thirty-First. Do you get the significance?"
He ran over the date in his head. "Oct...Thirty...why yes, I do. It's Halloween."
"Very good Jimmy. Of course, I would be more partial to Hallow's Eve, myself of course." The figure disappeared in a puff of smoke. Jones, by now more frustrated than confused, again slammed his hand on the table, barely missing a shard of glass. "What significance? Answer me! These games can not be tolerated." At the utterance of those words, the figure appeared behind the desk, outstretching a cloaked finger at the president. "The horrors that have occurred. Surely, in your position, you are aware?" the finger was retracted. "You have made the gravest mistakes, Jimmy. These are not ones that can simply be made up for. You know what you must do." Jones pondered for a second, before realizing what the figure had meant. To the surprise of himself but not to the figure, he did not react with shock, but with feigned indifference, immense feelings of worry on the inside. The thoughts had entered his mind, he had discussed them with the members of the Peoples' Temple, but the implication had never been laid bare before him in this way.
"I'm not..." Jones couldn't finish his sentence. "You couldn't what? Do it, you mean? If that's true, as you were going to claim, then why - perchance - is the drawer open?" The president was on the cusp of reprimanding the figure for spouting nonsense before he looked down and saw a drawer nearly pulled off of its creaking hinges. A Sidewinder, wrapped in plastic for some unknown reason, was encased. The president, cracking his neck in an effort to show strength, was slowly reaching for the weapon against his wishes. The figure stood silent.
A wind began to engulf the Oval Office. The spectacles and many shards of glass swirled in the air for a brief moment before flying into the hallway, followed by paintings and flags. The sofas were knocked onto their sides and formed a barricade at the hallway door. The gun remained still though. Perfectly still. After thirty seconds of wrangling, the gun found itself clasped in the president's right hand, which was covered in sweat. Yet the gun had no chance of slipping. The wind, blowing back the cape worn by the figure, grew stronger. The president, still trying to keep defiance as the hand inched ever closer to his temples, kept a stern face. He began to shout. "Why have you chosen me to forsake? All my life, I've been trying to serve -"
"You've been trying to serve yourself, Jimmy. And besides, I am not in any manner forsaking you. You are doing this unto yourself. My control is...how you say, minimal."
Minimal? What a crock, the president thought. "Jimmy, are you not the one who claimed that death was not an object of fright? The one who believes that only suffering can lend oneself the image of God? Though of course, you don't even believe in God, do you?" Jones did not wish to grant the figure any satisfaction from a response, so he instead asked him a question. "Before this happens," he began with a solemnly accepting manner, "can you tell me - who are you?"
The figure chuckled - not with delight, with something else - and unwrapped the dull white bandages as the wind grew fiercer, throwing the president out of his chair and onto the floor, gun still firmly in position. The president looked up, thick wisps of hair almost blocking his view. "What...aren't I?" the figure said in a declarational manner as the last bandage fell to the floor and the gun was cocked. Jones could only see for a second before his vision went again, but he saw a scaly face - reminiscent of a small lizard - with a spiked tongue and pulsating eyes. It laughed as he took a breath, hearing his heart beat as he did so, and pulled the trigger.
Smash.
Another part of the windows that adorned the Oval Office was shattered into another hundred little pieces scattered along the floor. The president woke. What...had that been? Prophecy? No, must've been something of another stripe. He pulled out the drawer with such force that it fell to the scratched wood floor with a thump. No gun, though.
He felt his nostril. It was warm, and wet. He wiped the blood on his sleeve before standing up. He could hear harsh gunfire coming closer. No, them scabs aren't gonna get me. They could be straight from Frisco itself, and I wouldn't go with them. I am my own man. He peered at the nametag. The president. A far, far superior title than reverend.
Orders were shreiked out in an unfamiliar dialect. Potentially Russian, potentially English. At this nigh-hellish point, Jones couldn't tell. As the president climbed over the window, loose glass shards piercing his palms as he did so, and leaped past the fires that ensnared the plants. The smoke had made breathing difficult, but the president wasn't willing to let such dalliances get to him. He had his own mission to fulfill. The voices were still singing in his ears, the figure's own drawn one most prominently. As the headache continued to pound, one line, thrice repeated, could be heard distinctively.
You stood a chance, Jim.
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