Hopefully you guys will see why this chapter took a long while to craft! I am very pleased. I think it's really cool how "lived in" the Madnessverse is becoming. There's a name-brand for everything, everything has a story, we know where people shop, how they live, expressions they use, music they like, etc, and everything interacts or is related. It's so much fun to really forge ahead novel-style in this setting.
The hot wind whipped through the magnolia trees on the ground of the ancient and stately manor. From its massive white columns that adorned its portico to the weathered old red bricks that formed the main body of the structure, it was a true glimpse into another era. The era when the Deep South remained free of Yankee rule before Strong Father Abe restored the Presidency and crushed the independent nations of Maryland, Virginia, and Georgia. It had been here where countless Africans in were brought in chains to work its cotton fields, and it had been here when McClellan and his legions marched to New Antioch, then known as New Orleans, and liberated the Negro. There were stories that the Bourbon Prince himself had used the mansion as a base of operations during the Great American War. Following that epic conflict, the village became known as McClellan Point and the property the mansion stood upon came under the ownership of one Remus Hawthorne, a slave-turned-businessman, whose family owned and operated a local bank.
During the Great World War, Remus's son Ambrose Hawthorne was the master of the house, and Ambrose's son Leroy walked out the front door in a khaki uniform. He would return home in a box, buried alongside his mother beneath the magnolias of his childhood. Without a surviving heir, Old Man Ambrose began to let the place go, and with it went the local bank the family still owned. The bank was sold and became a tavern in 1925, and in 1926 Old Man Ambrose dismissed all but two part-time groundskeepers and a single butler. The cotton fields went unplanted, the grass growing over them like fresh graves, just as they had grown over the grave of Leroy Hawthorne.
The year 1928 saw a broken wretch of a man inhabiting the estate, barely recognizable as the wealthy banker and man-about-town he had formerly been. The final remaining butler, a poor sod by the name of Phineas Gibson, happened upon a ghastly scene when he found Ambrose swinging from the rafters of the barn. A noose was tied about his thin neck, his eyes bulged from their sockets, and a dry tongue extended from his blue lips. And so ended the Hawthorne line. Once slaves, then masters, now their final family member joined his ancestors under the shade of the pink blossoms. Moss and vines quickly set in, as did the mildew and the horrid stench of decay. Rats found their way inside in short order, gleefully devouring what was left in the food cellar that had once held human chattel.
Locals would often talk about the "Old Hawthorne Place," and children would tell each other scary stories about the spirits of former slaves and slave-owners that could be heard stalking the grounds at night. There was a popular local legend about the "Man in the White Suit" who would stand upon the portico with a whip, letting loose with daemoniac howls at midnight as he cracked the whip menacingly. Sounds of chains coming from the cellar were a frequent occurrence and the subject of numerous investigations by daring youth, many of whom would clamber out of the old place with looks of sheer terror on their faces. Above all, everyone in the area knew of the frequent sightings of Ambrose himself, a noose tied about his neck, standing below the Magnolias.
Despite all of these tall tales and almost a decade of neglect, it remained under the care of the county and on the market, though none would buy it. Finally, in 1935, Kingfish Supermarket founder and titan of capitalism Huey Long low-balled the local government and became the first white master of Hawthorne Manor in three generations. Money from the sale went to fund the construction of a local high school, named Huey Long High in his honor. Portraits of the old black owners went to the local courthouse, filed away in a storage room, and the old "Hawthorne Manor" sign above the wrought-iron fenceline came down, and "Kastle Kingfish" went up. The rooms were gutted, the rats exterminated, and the old root cellar became a wine cellar. The barn was demolished to make way for a garden for Long's wife, Tilly. Fresh paint adorned the columns out front and the red brick was chemically treated. It once again became a bustling home, with many servants and family members scuttling about. And then it all stopped once more.
In 1937, during the height of the Dust Bowl windstorms that carried the toxic smoke and ash from the South American warzone north, Long heard stories of soot touching down outside of New Antioch. That was all he needed to have reason to move. The millionaire packed up his belongings and family and relocated to Lewis City, Osage, for the remainder of the conflict. Even after the storms eased up, the Longs never returned to Kastle Kingfish While it was still technically under his ownership but also permanently empty, the local habitat again began to wear down upon the visage of the ancient manor. It would once more sit empty and haunted for decades.
That would finally change in 1965. Long would die of a heart attack in 1960, and in the aftermath of the colossus' death, his family would try to sell off unneeded assets and properties. It would be then that the Apostle Andrew, right-hand of the revolutionary Prophet Graham, would purchase the manor in his quest for isolation from the outside world. With his health in decline thanks to the effects of the dust he inhaled while proselytizing in the wastelands of Old Mexico and with press and reporters always trying to reach him for interviews, the near-Biblical figure wanted somewhere quiet and contemplative to live out the rest of his days. "Kastle Kingfish" came down, the sign going to Huey Long High to adorn their new rounders field. From the depths of storage came the old Hawthorne sign, back onto its ancient and rightful place. Andrew did not seek attention, as said before, and so he had little reason to plaster his name upon his home. He wanted privacy, peace, and quiet, not nattering nabob reporters and Christian Magickians asking him for ways to channel the power of the Other Side in an attempt to do better in a job interview.
With his horned rim glasses and his black bowties, his slicked hair white on the sides, Andrew hardly looked like a modern John the Baptist or Simon Peter. Locals who glimpsed him on occasion remarked that he looked more like a school teacher than a religious icon. These glimpses were very seldom and quite rare, as whenever Andrew needed supplies or food he would send Cal Dressler, his one hired hand, into town. The people of McClellan Point began to refer to Hawthorne Manor as "The Hermitage." Andrew became a recluse, ever more paranoid by the day that he was being watched. Maybe by President Oswald's Rat Pack, or the Church's Zealots, or the Office of Racial and Religious Affairs. Perhaps by all of them. As he grew more paranoid and distraught, the wine cellar became a bunker, complete with enough canned goods to last months and a solid steel door that could withstand an atomic blast. A ventilation system monitored the air and a large machine in a closet filtered all of the well water being brought from below, just to be on the safe side, as he would say.
The inside of the house looked little different than it had since Long's remodel in the 1930s, save for the Radi-Rite color televisor on hairpin legs standing out amidst the sea of knobby, bulky old furniture. The cotton fields remained unplowed, alligators running rampant through former drainage ditches. At least once a week Dressler would shoot one of the nasty beasts with a trusty shotgun that normally hung over the mantle, its gold receiver embellished with the phrase, "To a dear friend and Christian brother." A gift from the Second Prophet of Manifest Destiny, one of many. Anything the Prophet Graham could find, goldplate, brand, and gift to his most devout cronies, he would do it. Andrew owned a pocket watch with the Prophet's portrait on the inside of the lid, the outside bearing the inscription, "Manifest Destiny Forever - William Graham." Andrew would often sit and stare at the radium-painted dial, wondering how much time he had left in the world, how much time to live with everything he had been an accomplice to weighing heavy on his mind and soul.
It was this paranoid, reclusive figure which Orson Roland sought out to make his documentary. He had heard stories of the man's hermetic ways, but he felt that he would surely be able to get at least a short interview with him. As his Rollarite Custeria slowly drove down the overgrown gravel pathway to the manor, he could feel the sweat dripping from his brow. It was mercilessly muggy outside, even with the breeze and the sun mostly obscured by gray clouds. Lewisiana rain weather is exactly what it was. The roar of the engine was the only thing that could be heard aside from rustling in the old drainage ditches nearby. Orson gulped nervously when he thought about the local gator infestation. The only good thing about them was that they probably kept the dodo birds away.
Suddenly, like a streak of lightning, a long, mature gator at least seven feet long shot out on the road ahead, opening its cavernous mouth and letting out a warning hiss. They weren't scared of humans or cars, not in these parts. Orson slammed on the breaks, panic gripping him as he worried hitting the creature would skid him off the narrow driveway.
"Oh come on!" he shouted angrily, hammering his horn. "I am so
freaking close, and I got stopped by this dumb animal." He turned around in his leather seat to look out the back window. He could probably back out, but he didn't come all this way just to turn around and go home because of one alligator. The more he honked his horn the more aggressive the gator seemed to get, eyeballing him like fresh meat.
Crack!
A gunshot rang out. Apparently, the gator was indeed still scared of one thing, and it was a shotgun blast. Buckshot hit a nearby patch of dirt and the gator dove back into the tall grass on the roadside. Orson could hear another shell being pumped into the chamber. Another crack followed, and it was clear that the gator was making great haste to leave the area. Orson let out a relieved sigh and slowly puttered forward, trying to identify the location of the shooter. When a short, stout man with graying hair revealed himself just a few yards ahead, Orson waved and smiled at him. He knew it wasn't the Apostle, but likely his butler. Orson had stopped in McClellan Point and had been given descriptions of the man.
"Good day, dear sir!" Orson said, turning his car off as the man approached.
"We
don't like visitors around here," the gray-haired man said in a thick Bostonian accent. Unnaturally bushy black eyebrows sat perched above cold blue eyes. "Whatever you're sellin', we
don't need it, pal, and whatever you want, we don't have it. Now you best be leaving." He held the shotgun across his chest, a live shell in the chamber.
Orson felt quite intimidated by the man's looks and demeanor, as well as his loaded hand-cannon, but he attempted to explain himself. He couldn't give up. Not now. "Hey, no, um, you misunderstand, sir! I'm no salesman, I am merely here to talk to the Apostle Andrew. Just a short conversation would do, and I'd happily pay for the time. My father is in the employ of the Banking Clan-"
"-We don't
need money, kid. You think the Apostle of the Prophet Graham has any wants or needs, physical or monetary?" the butler interrupted. "We don't wanna talk, son. Now leave. Ain't nothin' the Apostle can tell you about Magick or anything else that you can't learn from any dimestore Spiritual Marxism book. He's already given his tips many times before and he's quite frankly getting real sick of your type. So I'll give you the best tip of all: scram."
Orson was growing more frustrated by the moment. "Sir! I am not here to sell or buy, and I am not here to learn spells or whatever, man, I'm here just to speak to the Apostle about the historical record. for posterity."
Just as the butler seemed ready to start in again about how Orson needed to leave, about twenty yards ahead the front door of the manor creaked open. In the dim glow of the single portico bulb that wasn't burned out, Orson could see the aging visage of Apostle Andrew, a droll expression upon his face. Seeing him in person, even a glimpse, gave Orson hope.
"Cal, are we havin' a... situation here?" the elderly Apostle asked, adjusting his bow tie nervously. His eyes peered out from behind thick black-framed glasses and his hand moved to a 38 caliber revolver tucked into the front of his high-waisted trousers. Unlike many Steele-era retirees, he hadn't added any cushion to his bones and his clothes fit him very loosely. A cigarette hung from his lips.
The Bostonian butler, evidently named Cal, turned to face his employer. "No, sir!" he replied. "Just running this long-haired
pinhead off the property. Already almost got himself killed by a gator." The "pinhead" insult made Orson wince. What was with Steelies and their love of insulting the younger generation? Also, his hair didn't even touch his shoulders! What was the issue with these old fogies?
Andrew raised an eyebrow and slowly strolled in their direction. "Most city boys usually run at the mere sight of a gator, and I can tell he's a city boy in that car. What does he want?"
"To be a pain in the ass!" Cal said snidely while lowering the shotgun. "I'll take care of him, don't you worry, sir!"
Orson was furious. Here he was right where he needed to be, and he wasn't going to let this loud-mouth servant ruin it for him any more than he was going to turn around because of a gator. "I'm making a documentary! I just wanted to ask you about your time in the Wilderness with the Prophet Graham!"
"Shut the hell up, son!" Cal spat, turning back to Orson and raising the gun once more.
Andrew seemed to ponder on something for a moment before he finally said, "It's all right, Cal. I'll speak to him."
The Bostonian looked shocked. "But, boss! It's just some Pinnie scum--I can run him off in one shot."
The aging Apostle let out a soft sigh and waved his hand. Pulling a handkerchief out of the chest pocket of his white short-sleeve button-up shirt, he covered his mouth while he let out a raspy, sickly cough. "It's fine, Cal. I haven't had a visitor is some time who isn't trying to use magick or sell me something. I could use some conversation."
With a pained look of defeat, Cal slung the engraved, gold-plated shotgun over his shoulder. "Park up next to the tool shed, by the Apostle's car. And don't try
anything funny, kid. I'm watchin' you like a hawk. Get going, then."
The next few minutes saw Andrew return to his abode while Orson maneuvered the Custeria into a spot next to Andrew's brown-and-white early 1950s model Himmler & Hess Roadfuhrer Super-Special. The old thing was immaculately maintained, with not a spot of rust to be seen. The inside looked as new as Orson's 1967 Custeria, save for the odd cigarette burn here and there on its old-fashioned style seats. Cal rifled through Orson's camera and tape bag, as if expecting to find a bomb or a grinder. Satisfied that everything was in order, he motioned for Orson to follow him into the house itself.
The grand foyer was definitely still a reflection of its original age, with a large chandelier hanging down from the almost churchly ceiling. Oak wainscotting adorned the walls, the upper sections of which were adorned with floral wallpaper dating back to Long's purchase of the estate. As they continued deeper into the house, they passed a Steele-era kitchen, its square chrome handles and stark white paint revealing its age. The floors creaked heavily with each step, even in areas covered by rugs.
"This wood is older than the Union itself, kid. Don't mind the noise," said Cal as they passed through the dining hall. "Papists put this place up back when Spain still ruled these parts, damn 'em. The pillars were added later, during the Georgia Republic days. 'Place started out as a holding pen for slaves traveling up the Mississippi. Fuckin' greaseball Spaniards."
After a few moments of light conversation on the history of the property, they arrived in the den. The den was clearly the area Andrew spent most of his time in, judging by the lack of dust on everything in the room. The Apostle sat smoking his cigarette calmly in a buffalo-hide chair in front of the out-of-place televisor. The TV was the only thing modern Orson had seen in the whole house at this point.
"Come on down to Kingfish Supermarket!" came the sound of a commercial flickering on the screen, cutting through static.
"Only the best, there's no contest! You can have everything, every shopper a king!" sang a chorus of jinglers, "At New Antioch's finest grocery!" Images of fresh chicken, produce, and other consumables switched to a two-dimensional sign of a portly man in a blue suit, his right arm mechanically waving to consumers as they entered the store.
"Good ol' Huey Long. Fat bastard used to own this place, y'know," Andrew said, finally breaking his silence and putting Orson somewhat at ease. "Bought it off his family when he passed so I could get some peace and quiet. I like it out here. Gators keep people away and Cal takes care of the rest."
After getting a nod of approval, Orson set his camera and tape bags down on the floor and took a seat opposite Andrew. The chair was well-worn and uncomfortable, more fit for a museum than a den. "Thank you, sir, so much. For letting me talk to you, I mean. It really is a... " he paused laughing nervously, "...a dream come true."
Andrew shot him a sideways glance. "
Ah, yes, the dreams of youth. I had those once." He took a slow drag off his cigarette, his eyes seeming now to stare a thousand yards beyond either Orson or the Radi-Rite.
Orson was confused. "Sir?" he asked. "You were the Apostle to the greatest religious figure since the Prophet Burr, may he rest in peace. Surely that is a dream more fulfilling than any other could possibly be."
The old man leaned forward in his chair, grabbing a bottle of Republica Beer off the coffee table beside him and popping it open with a hiss. He handed another bottle to his visitor. Cal must have put them out when Orson wasn't paying attention. He was grateful for the drink after such a long, hot drive. The young film student still couldn't believe it: here he was, having a beer with one of the most famous Americans who ever lived.
After taking a few swigs of his own beer, the Apostle took his glasses off, set them on the table, and rubbed his eyes. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees and said, "Oh, I had other dreams. Dreams of a family, kids, a nice place to settle down. My family's ranch down in New Canaan. I had dreams, kid. Dreams that
didn't involve Billy Graham."
"Do you mind if I film this, sir?" Orson asked, reaching for the camera bag.
"
Hell no, don't film this. I already worry they watch me every day and night. If you film me, I'm giving you what they want to hear. If you want to hear the truth from a dying old man, though, you'll drink your booze and
listen, pardnur," he scowled, his last bit a dead giveaway of his cowboy roots, no matter how gentrified he had become.
Orson released the camera bag nervously, put his empty hands up and said, "Okay, sir... I guess I understand." Inside, though, he was reeling from the gravity of what was going on. The Apostle Andrew just said
he dreamed of a life without the Second Prophet in it! Was he drunk? How many bottles had Cal cleared out today? Anxiety mounting, Orson decided to just drink his beer and listen as he was asked.
"Now," continued the Apostle, "let me tell you something, young feller. I spend every day living in fear of being watched. They see all and know all. It's a waking hell. I thought I could escape them out here, but I have to deal with them still. They are everywhere."
"Who, sir?"
With another thousand-yard stare, Andrew replied, "Everyone. ORRA, Zealots, Military Police, Rat Pack, every son of a gun who you can imagine."
"But why?"
"Because I left, y'know. Because I retired against Graham's will," the old man said, grabbing his glasses and putting them back on as he made dead eye contact with Orson.
Orson was so thoroughly confused. "But... I
remember when you retired from your televisor ministry when I was a kid! You used to be on every morning at 10, preaching the Bible, the Four Books, and the Book of Graham. They had a
huge special for you when you stepped down. The Prophet Graham himself was on there praising you as his oldest friend."
Andrew laughed quietly before once again covering a hoarse cough with a handkerchief. "Sometimes things get to a point where a good man, a righteous man, can't live a lie anymore and has to face the truth. I told Billy things just didn't set right with me, that I couldn't keep telling the old stories anymore. I just couldn't. He told me I couldn't quit, that it would disgrace the ministry and the Church. So I said I was sick. And I was. And I am. He couldn't say no to that."
"Sick, sir? And what lies?" Orson queried, fear in his voice. He wanted an interview for what essentially amounted to a propaganda fluff-piece, not some sort of subversive degeneracy from a key figure in American history.
Andrew laughed almost like a younger version of his own self had on the televisor so many years before and held up his handkerchief. "You think that sounds like a healthy cough, boy? During our Dust Bowl days, me and Graham were exposed to the worst of the soot-storms. I don't know how that man hasn't been sick from it either. It killed my pa back in '37. Doctors right now give me another six months at most before I'll be gone."
"That's horrifying, sir!" said Orson breathlessly. "I am so sorry. A warrior of God and Prophet like yourself does not deserve such a fate!"
After a short coughing fit and lighting up another cigarette, Andrew waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, I reckon I deserve it. With all the shit I did back in Old Mexico with Graham and with all the horse manure I peddled to innocent folk on TV, I think I deserve worse fates. You know, son, it's all bullshit.
Everything you ever heard about Graham."
"What? That's impossible. He's a holy messenger of God, with a belt full of certified miracles! He's the Second Prophet, for the Martyr's sake! And if what you're saying is true, how do you know I'm not here to spy on you and get you to say things like this?"
After a brief pause of contemplation, the Apostle answered, "Because I'm dying, son. I had a doctor visit two weeks ago. It was then that he told me I'll be gone soon. At this point, what difference does it make? At any rate, get up and look out the window by the deer head."
Orson was confused by the abrupt request. "Sir?"
"Just do it."
The ancient floor creaked once more as he slowly made his way over to the eastern window and pulled back a yellowed, sun-stained curtain. The young film student gasped when he saw, off on a distant hill, three men standing tall. They were wearing black knee-high boots, dark red uniforms, and pinch-crown hats. One looked through binoculars while the other two appeared to be using some sort of backpack radio system.
"Zealots..." Orson said in disbelief.
"
Ayup," said Andrew. "The Church's own uniformed muscle, spying on their old boss. Isn't life funny, son? One day you're at the top of the world, everyone snapping their heels and saluting you when you walk into a room. The next day you're an outcast, with your old boss having you monitored like a common gangster. Cal was a communication expert during Manifest Climax. He has enough equipment stashed away to check for bugs. Every once in a while, I hear
someone else walkin' through the house, what with the floor as loud as it is. They come in. They break into my house. And I'm at the age where they could strangle me in my sleep and the local coroner will be happy to say it's natural causes. I'm honestly surprised they haven't already."
Orson's mind was reeling. Everything he had ever been taught was crashing down inside his psyche. "If Prophet Graham is a... a false prophet, as you indicate, why would President Oswald treat him like a brother? Why would he allow this stuff to continue?"
Andrew let out the heartiest laugh yet, a single tear rolling down his cheek as he smiled and said, "Oswald?!
Fuckin' Chuck Oswald?! If you think that man cares about
anything but
himself, you are sorely mistaken, my Pinnacle-blooded young friend."
That was enough to make Orson snap. "Sweet fuckin' day in the morning, old man! How dare you insult our President! He has served this country
selflessly for
decades, as did his father before him! You're nothing but a-a-a degenerate old heretic trying to... lure my soul to hell with your bullshit! Fuck you!" He grabbed his camera and tape bags and started to back out of the room as he yelled and screamed at a former childhood idol.
Andrew stood up, calmly took another sip of beer, and told his irate visitor, "I can tell not all of you is full of shit, son. You know something ain't right now and it bothers you, deep down, don't it?"
Orson felt his eyes sting as Cal appeared out of nowhere to gleefully escort the young man out. "
No, damn it, I am a loyal patriot! I was in Custer Youth, Church choir, and was baptized in the name of the Father, Son, Holy Spirit, and the Prophets of their Words!"
Without even a pause to reflect on anything Orson said, the Apostle told him, "I am dying, son. If you want to make the most revolutionary documentary ever made, meet me at the Daygone Inn between Lewisburg and New Antioch. Ask for the quietest room. I'll find you. I'll tell you the whole story, and you can film the whole damn thing. If you want to report me and have been snuffed out like a candle... well, you'd be shaving a few days off my lifespan at most."
Orson breathlessly raced to his Custeria, threw the bags in the passenger seat, and floored it all the way out of the swampy property.
On the hill nearby, the three AFC Zealots were still watching. "What do you see, Tobias?" asked one of the men monkeying with the portable radio equipment.
The man with the binoculars, Tobias, kept watching through them as Orson's car sped out onto the paved road nearby. "Bookin' it like a bat out of the Void, Bert. He had two bags. Probably salesman."
"Man, they booted him the hell out, didn't they?" asked the third Zealot as he picked up a handset and spoke into it. "Rubber Duck, the bird has flown the coop. Rubber Duck, the bird has flown the coop. Likely salesman."
"That they did, Ernie. Florida plate. The number is '
Alpha-Rodeo-1-3-3-5.' Run it through the database, will you, Bert?"
"Checking UltraNet S.I.N. and V.I.N. system for matches for
Alpha-Rodeo-1-3-3-5," said Bert as he pecked away on a heavy-duty keyboard attached to the backpack. A dimly-backlit screen showed a variety of pixelated information in green font. "Bingo, Tobias. Orson John Roland, a native of Kissimme, son of Whickham Roland III, Bank Clan pencil-pusher. Address is 234 Eagle Bridge Road, Kissimmee. He appears to be a film student, not a salesman."
"What if he recorded something? Hell's bells, he could have caught something damning, boys. Might need to check up on this kid. Have an ORRA car pull him over. I want to see what's in those bags."
Ernie cranked the energy cell a few times before speaking again into the microphone. "Alpha Talon, this is the Three Litte Pigs. Come in Alpha Talon."
"This is Alpha Talon, go ahead my porcine friends," came the sound of an ORRA officer on the other end of the line.
"Be on the lookout for a black 1967 Rollarite Custeria headed due west toward McClellan Point. Florida plate
Alpha-Rodeo-1-3-3-5. Suspect is Orson John Roland. Possible contraband. When you nab him, hold him on the roadside till we arrive."
"Roger that, piggies." In the distance, the howl of an ORRA siren could be heard speeding along the Destiny Road. The three Zealots packed up their gear, threw it in the back of a white, unmarked panel van, and hit the road themselves. Orson Roland's bad day was about to get ten times worse.
Orson looked in the rear view mirror at the approaching ORRA car, its red light blinking away as the rain began to fall in the swampland.
"Orson John Roland! You best be pullin' over now, son! ORRA wants a word!" came a voice from a bullhorn.
"Oh, shit."
This is probably the most elaborate WMIT media to date. I also thought about rigging an old radio and playing it through that and recording it for entertainment value. I have about 20 radios ranging from the 30s through to the 80s.