Old Souls (1082 hits)
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Submitted by JMG114 (View user info) at 2007-01-08 16:18:34 EST
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
"Paul," said a voice in Paul Tapp's head, "I am God."
Paul looked up from the paperwork at his desk. He glanced around at his similar workers at their similar desks at his data processing job in Baltimore. He bowed his head and squinted his eyes, wondering if he had imagined the words, which was unlikely, as Paul didn't spend much time imagining anything.
"Paul," the voice continued, "There is no time. You must do something for me."
Paul swallowed and adjusted his dark-rimmed glasses. He murmured, "Is—is this a j-joke or something—?"
"Take off your glasses," the voice instructed.
Paul did, finding that for the first time in his life, he could see perfectly well without them. "Just like Spider-man," he thought.
Louder, the voice said, "Paul, I need you for something serious. In exchange, I will give you a great power. Will you serve me well, Paul? Here, I'll prove it."
Paul's heart beat faster and faster. He looked around again, wondering if what his brother had said about the government being able to transmit radio signals directly into the brain was true.
At once, eight desks down from Paul, Marjorie Phelps cried in alarm as dozens of papers shot upwards from her desk as if blown by a great fan. Everyone in the department turned to see.
More insistently, the voice said, "Paul, I am God. I am serious, and I need you. You and one other."
Paul, his brow sweating and his head feeling curiously light, stood up and walked down the main aisle towards the elevators.
"Hey Paul!" Hal Straughn, overweight middle manager, called out from his office as Paul walked by, "Where are you going? It's two hours 'til lunch break!"
Paul hit the down button on the elevator insistently. He was anxious to hear what God wanted. Who was the "other" of whom God spoke?
Two hours later, Paul stood at the dais before the U.S. House of Representatives and cleared his throat. Despite what God had said he could do, a vague tremor was present in his voice as he spoke. "Some say that God stopped talking shortly after Jesus died. Some say that the last one God spoke to was John of Revelations. What matters is that God has not stopped talking. It's we who've stopped listening. All of us, save me."
Someone among the assembled hundreds stifled a laugh. Paul looked sharply in a direction, and then continued, "God has seen fit to bless me with a power, and instead of using this power for robbing banks or terrorism or random acts of violence, I'd like to announce that as a patriot, I would like to use this power to serve my country—"
"Forgive me, sir," Representative Ross of Illinois interrupted, "But what is this power?"
"How'd you get in here, anyway?" asked Representative Taylor of Mississippi, "This is a closed session."
Mumbles of agreement fluttered through the crowd. "Get him out of here!" "What is this?" "Where are the Capitol guards?"
Paul held up a hand. "If you'll permit me to continue, I would like to give the lawmakers this one chance to use my powers for the good of the country. Regardless of political alignment, we've stumbled through the shadows of too many failed, figurehead presidencies."
Boos and angry shouts gradually filled the crowded legislature. Paul, having rehearsed his speech many times on the way down, continued over the building disquiet.
"America was the land of the free and home of the brave. Our image has been tarnished and the time has come to lead the planet into a new age of peace and prosperity. My power will allow us to do this."
Freshman Representative Hallock of Missouri smiled patronizingly and asked, "Okay, great prophet. What's the punch line?"
Paul took a breath and said, "I would serve our country by leading it."
Several dozen representatives chuckled while many others shook their heads and stood up. "Where are the Capitol guards? Throw this nutcase out."
It was then that Representative Hallock collapsed to the ground, his neck bent left in unnatural contortion. Before anyone other than his immediate seating neighbors were able to react, Representative Klein of Utah and Representative Sordal of California had also fallen. Their necks were bent similarly as that of the late Representative Hallock.
Above the screams of the fainthearted legislators, Paul shouted, "I can kill with a thought! Those who value their lives would do well to listen to every goddamn word I say!"
Ignoring any peril from the average-looking man at the dais, representatives pushed and scrambled over each other in every direction. "Guards!" they shouted, "Guards!"
A dozen heavily armed Capitol guards in black riot gear shoved their way into the house chamber. Representatives shouted at them.
Paul sighed, singling out the Capitol police. With a thought, he snapped the same cervical vertebra in each of them, killing them instantly. Their bodies slumped onto the floor, and the representatives panicked further.
"Oh my God!"
"What's happening?"
"Someone save us!"
Paul yelled, "Only I will save you! How many more must you kill with your disbelief before you listen to me?"
Representatives climbed over each other and the scattered dead bodies to escape the room. Paul killed dozens more as the panic grew. Finally, realizing that his efforts were futile, he shrugged, there was a sickening cracking noise, and every member of the United States House of Representatives fell still.
"Well," Paul sighed, stepping down, "Onto the Senate, I suppose."
*******************************
"The usual, Pete."
Peter Dawson, bartender at Chicago's Bears and Bulls Bar, smiled at investment banker Kyle Strauss. He said, "I keep telling you, man, you've got to try one of my—"
Kyle held up his hand. "Not today, Pete. I'm sorry. I've had a seriously crappy day."
Peter shrugged, pouring Kyle's bourbon. Kyle pointed to the television, which played a news program, showing scenes from the U.S. Capitol. "Mind if I turn that up?"
Peter handed Kyle his bourbon and the remote control. "Turning to Nickelodeon? Slime Time Live is on," he said.
Kyle smiled slightly and boosted the volume. Peter turned to the TV. Hundreds of fully armed soldiers and a dozen black helicopters surrounded the Capitol building, their weapons pointed right at its main entrance.
"Jesus Christ," Peter said, "What's—"
"Shh!" Kyle turned the volume higher. The few other mid-afternoon bar patrons turned to watch from their stools and booths.
" . . .at least seventy dead in what the President has condemned as 'A brazen and horrific act of terror right in the heart of our nation.' Again, for those just tuning in, we're live at the United States Capitol with reports coming in of a lone terrorist with some sort of chemical or biological agent, with dozens of congressmen and senators already dead. I—wait, hold on, there's some activity here . . ."
"People!" a small voice shouted from the Capitol's entrance, where a mousy man was holding up both of his hands. "Good people of America!"
The soldiers raised their weapons. The television camera trucked behind the soldiers for a better view.
The man continued, "I come with noble purpose from on high—"
A shot fired. The bullet lodged in the doorframe of the Capitol's main entrance, just to the left of the speaking man. The man put his hands down, resignedly, and at once a stiff cracking noise rang out from everywhere at once. With the news cameras still rolling, every soldier brandishing a weapon fell down where they stood, their necks limp. Helicopter rotors continued turning, but some were slowing down. One of the machines pitched forward.
For an instant, the still alive newscaster was pleased to finally have a better view of the strange terrorist. Cameras from scores of networks continued rolling as the former data processor from Baltimore walked down the Capitol steps as if he was walking away from a wonderful day at the museum.
"Enough is enough," he said, speaking to the cameras. His voice sounded more and more confident as he continued, "God has come back, and God is angry. You can doubt my word, or you can behold the signs and wonders right in front of you. I can snap any neck I choose with a thought! Lay down your weapons and lay down your profane, secular culture. You say you do not need God, but like it or not, He is returned."
In Chicago, Peter glanced away from the television to find that the bar's population had swelled. Every mouth was as wide open as his own. He hadn't even realized that he had opened it in the first place.
On TV, Paul continued, "America and the world has a choice. Follow me and live. Resist and die. I am the God of your fathers. The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. I led you out of Egypt, brought you to the promised land, sent my—"
The sound of an approaching missile fired from a nearby airbase became impossible to ignore. Paul looked into the sky and it exploded before impact. The newscasters and camera operators fell to the ground in shock, but were sure to stand up quickly and record the remnants of the explosion overhead.
Paul finished, "I am the leader of the world. May those who would take up arms against me find death on swift wings. My castle, throne, and scepter shall be here. This is the end of figurehead rule. Everything changes now."
He turned and walked back into the Capitol building. In most major cities, traffic had stopped where it was. Televisions and radios were on full blast. An entire nation didn't breathe.
As Paul was reentering the Capitol, Kyle broke the silence, suddenly looking at Peter with a smile. "Well," he said, "I don't give a shit what he says. I'm not changing anything."
Peter gave Kyle a strange look, and a man next to Kyle said, "But he can kill anyone he wants to just by thinking about it! He can probably wipe out the whole planet if he wants to! We have to get out of here and—"
The man glanced at Peter as he spoke and stopped himself at once. Peter raised an eyebrow and asked, "What?"
The man straightened out his sport jacket and said, "Now that I think about it, we can beat him. I'm sure of it."
Several other bar patrons followed the man's glance at Peter, and at once they nodded their assent. Peter took a step back. What was going on?
Minutes later, many dozens of Chicago pedestrians, dazed from the day's events, began gathering at Bears and Bulls Bar. Inside, people were chanting, "Resist! Resist! Resist!" with additional voices added with each repetition. Peter was too busy filling drink orders to participate, but had enough mental dexterity to wonder why so many people were choosing his bar.
Men and women looked at him, smiled, and punched a fist into the air. "We can do it!" they said, "We can beat this fucking prick in Washington! I'll fight!"
"Everyone!" Peter yelled as the bar had grown to resemble a mosh pit, "We have to make some room in here! Please slowly make your way to the exit—"
"To the exit!" someone yelled, and everyone followed Peter's directive. "Resist! Resist! Resist!"
*******************************
Paul sat back in the chair on top of the Senate dais. He put his feet up on the mahogany balustrade and gazed lazily at the upper balcony and the ceiling. When he heard a small delegation entering the chamber, he looked down.
A well-dressed woman in a red suit led four soldiers down the center aisle. As Paul watched, the soldiers placed their weapons on the floor and all five people held up their hands in show of parley.
Paul resisted the urge to smile and asked, "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Madame Secretary?"
The woman bowed to Paul and said, "The President and his cabinet disagree on how best to handle this new and unexpected situation, as I hope you'll understand."
Paul sat back. "My understanding has a limit."
"As I have conjectured. I represent the cabinet members who will side with you and serve you in exchange for immunity from your judgement."
Paul looked at the soldiers and said, "Take her body to the President and tell him this:"
The Secretary's neck snapped and she crumpled to the floor. Paul said, "While the President sits in a comfy chair, away from death, let him know that he who is now in charge will bring misfortune and suffering beyond imagination to his doorstep should he continue to defy me!"
The soldiers collected the Secretary's body as Paul finished, "This night, I want the President to address the American people and the world. There's to be a change in management."
******************************
By the end of the day, a small army followed Peter to Kyle's high-rise luxury apartment building. The doorman graciously let the hundreds of people inside, although the wait for the elevators to Kyle's floor was atrocious.
Inside the elevator, Peter said, "Kyle, I appreciate you letting me stay at your place, but—"
Kyle said, "Are you kidding? People have abandoned their cars right in the middle of highways, for Christ's sake! There's no way you would've been able to make it home. Besides, most importantly, we have plans to make, and this is resistance headquarters."
Peter stared. "Resistance headquarters? What the hell are you talking about?"
An hour later, the building was filled with floors and floors of people who wanted to see Peter and plan for the insurrection against Paul.
"I just feel so much better being here," an elderly woman said as Kyle directed her to one of the hundreds of cots that had been set up.
As Kyle returned to where Peter sat on a silk couch, he noted that his friend was pale and clammy. "Pete, are you okay? What's—"
"No I'm not okay!" Peter hissed low so as not to attract any more attention from the throng of people who were milling in and out of Kyle's apartment. "What the hell is going on here? You're a fucking investment banker! Mary over there sells potatoes on street corners! The Harrison family over there brought two kids along and Mrs. Harrison's pregnant! What the hell is everyone doing here, planning a fucking resistance? They should be panicked out of their fucking heads!"
Kyle smiled, "Peter—"
"And what does it have to do with me? People see me and it's like I'm George fucking Clooney!"
"Peter, if you'll let me speak? I don't have an answer for you, but I can tell you right now that as soon as I saw that newscast today, I had the worst feeling that everything in my life that I hated, that I was worried about, that really fucking sucked—all of that was as nothing compared to what we're in for with that nutcase in Washington. It was the worst feeling I've ever felt, Peter. I thought about killing myself right then and there after seeing what he did to those soldiers. Do you know that?"
Peter swallowed. He frowned slightly.
Kyle continued, "But as soon as I saw you, I don't know what it was, but I felt great. I felt like I could take that son-of-a-bitch on right then and there. No, I didn't feel as though I could. I felt as though I should. I would."
"What are you talking about?" Peter asked.
Kyle grabbed his friend's hand and held it tightly, pulling Peter's ear close.
"Hope," Kyle whispered, "You give people hope."
Peter meant to ask, "Me? How?" but he didn't. The warm feeling spreading through his chest and up his neck, the smiles of everyone who saw him, and the faith they had in him and in each other—he knew that somehow, Kyle was right.
He had been blessed.
******************************
A lone soldier entered the Senate chamber. He bowed low to Paul.
"Speak," Paul said.
The quivering soldier said, "S-Sir, the President p-plans to address the nation, but he has requested an . . .uh . . . audience with you under a s-single condition."
Paul chuckled, "The President is hardly in a position to request any such thing. Let's hear it out, though."
"The P-President has told me t-to tell you that he will s-say anything you want him to s-say under the c-condition that you do not k-kill him."
"Ha!" cried Paul, making the soldier cringe, "Miserable coward! Tell your President that he will have a special place in my kingdom. Yes, alive. Tell him that. I will meet with him here in a half-hour."
The soldier ran from the chamber as Paul laughed and laughed.
****************************
There was silence across the globe during the President's live farewell address. He spoke at the cameras from inside the darkened Senate chamber. Soldiers could be seen milling about in the background, stooped over large, dark mounds.
" . . .which is why I am stepping down as your leader to allow a higher power to intervene. God himself has shown us signs and wonders, and we would be foolish to defy the Almighty. In God we trust. Thank you, and good night."
While the cameras were still live, Paul, in the background, was heard screaming, "Start boiling those corpses!"
Kyle turned off the television and turned to the mob in his apartment. "Hope is not lost, my friends. I've called an acquaintance who is an assistant to a board member of General Electric in New York. We must hurry and get Peter to the airport on a plane for New York."
"But how?" a talent agent asked, "The roads are packed with cars!" She glanced at Peter, then said, "But I know how we can do it! My cousin lives a few blocks away, and he has a motorcycle!"
Fifteen minutes later, Peter was tightening a black helmet and preparing to ride on the back of Jim Morgan's Harley. Kyle, alongside the bike, clenched his friend's shoulder. "I've made all the arrangements. Northwest flight 150 to LaGuardia. You'll go by car to NBC's studio in Rockefeller Center to meet with Mack Wilson, a G.E. board member. Hopefully by then, he'll have reached the other network heads and we'll go from there. I'll be in touch, and Godspeed!"
"Wait!" cried Peter, "I have no idea what the hell I'm doing! You say I give people hope? How come I don't feel any? This guy can wipe out the entire country just by thinking about it! What the hell am I supposed to do?"
Kyle said, "We believe in you and what you can do."
Peter interrupted, "I—"
"Listen to me, Peter. We believe in you. Believe in us, okay? Let us be your mirror. Also, don't forget what they say about old souls."
"What do they—"
The motorcycle pulled away. By the early morning, Peter was in New York, sitting down with executives from Viacom, G.E., News Corp., Time Warner, and Disney.
Mack Wilson of G.E. spoke first, "You'd never normally find the suits from rival media companies all sitting across the table from each other like old chums, but we have the equivalent of a sort of speed dial emergency set-up in times of national crisis."
"Christ," Peter said, "And here I thought I'd never see any positive effects from mass media mergers."
"Well, your friend Kyle has some powerful connections, to be sure. Now, we're here to discuss how to counter the threat of Paul Tapp in Washington."
Peter frowned. "I have no idea what to do. I feel a little ashamed being here in the first place. Kyle seems to think that—"
Ralph Dwyer of Viacom said, "You give people hope. Something about looking at you makes people think that everything is going to turn out all right."
Peter looked doubtfully around the room. "Do you seriously believe that to be true?"
"Yes," replied Ralph.
"Yes," said Jack Simmons of Time Warner.
"We all do," said Mack, "It's obvious just by looking at you that somehow or other, if you didn't have this power before, you most definitely have it now. Look at this meeting. Do you think this would've been possible if not for you and the promise of what you can do?"
Peter asked, "But what can I do? I'm just a regular guy—"
Carla Molyneux from Disney cut in, "With the resources of the planet's mass media companies behind you. You tell us what to do."
Mack asked, "Would you appear on television? Live? Like the President did yesterday evening?"
Ralph said, "You can be on every radio and TV station on the planet in less than a half-hour from now."
Peter's head felt light and he closed his eyes tightly, fighting back the lightheadedness and nausea. He heard someone ask, "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," he said, "I'm just—this is all just—I don't know if I can do this. Won't Paul come after me if I do this? He'll see me saying something like, 'Everyone rise up and fight!' and he won't think twice about killing me without so much as blinking."
Mack said, "Paul won't do that."
Carla agreed, "Definitely not."
Peter asked, "And why not?"
Mack replied, "Peter, you'll give him hope, too. He'll see you and become hopeful for . . .whatever it is he's hoping for. We don't know what's behind him or what's driving him—"
"Exactly!" Peter raised his voice, "How do we know if the thing that gave Paul his power, God or whatever, how do we know that it won't want me dead? Paul the man might've gotten hope from me, but what about Paul the possessed monster?"
The executives fell silent. Mack spoke after a minute's thought. "Peter, no one is forcing you to do this. The truth is that we don't know what Paul will do. He might kill us all. He might try to kill you, but I don't think he will. As long as you exist, there's a part of him that will have hope, and he won't be so keen to destroy you so soon, when he thinks he can use you. Still, all we can do is trust you and ask you nicely to do this for us, for your country, and for everyone. Please, Peter."
Peter was momentarily reminded of Paul's words about figurehead rulers. He glanced at each of the executives, each wielding colossal power over culture, style, entertainment, and information. They needed him. Now.
"Let's do this."
An hour later, cameras from all major networks and live audio inputs from the radio stations were pointed squarely at Peter, who sat in a simple studio chair. "Quiet on the set," someone called out from behind a spotlight aimed at Peter.
Peter whispered, "What's happening now?"
A camera operator answered, "We're playing the emergency broadcast system over the airwaves. Anyone who's anyone is tuning in right now."
Peter swallowed hard. He silently thanked the makeup artist who had slathered some sort of anti-perspiration ointment all over his face before he went on set.
"Ready in five, four, three, two . . ." the camera operator pointed at Peter. He was on. He was live. He was everywhere.
"Fellow humans," he began, instantly regretting his opening, "Fellow . . ." He stopped himself and dropped his shoulders. "People who love life. People who will not submit. People who want to be free to be as they are. Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, Shintos, Pagans, Agnostics, and Athiests: we are one people. We are united in our desire to be free. Whether or not you believe in one, many, or no Gods, this message is for you.
"Right now, in the capital of our United States, there sits an impostor: a false god. His powers are not those of compassion but of suffering. His ways are not of peace, but of war. He is a demon, merely playacting. He wants power, and will take all the control that you give him. But the ace is up our sleeve. When there is nothing left to dominate, he will dominate nothing. The power of tyrants comes from the willingness of the people to fall into submission. And so I'm asking you now, for your children, for yourselves, and for whatever higher powers you believe in, resist. Resist, resist, resist. This is your power. Thank you for watching and listening."
The cameras stopped rolling. A British producer wiped tears from his eyes, walked up to Peter, and asked, "Who wrote that for you? It was bloody brilliant."
"No one. It just came to me."
In Washington, on a throne constructed of bone and flesh, Paul cackled at the television. "This is stupendous! I hope that they all resist! Resist, resist, resist! Build my ziggurat ever higher! Send entire armies, and they will! Hee hee hee!"
The President stood up from his place among the blood and intestinal runoff on the floor.
"You!" Paul shouted, "Back on all fours! You didn't want to die, and I didn't kill you, so you have to keep thanking me! Now eat your breakfast!"
In New York, Peter shook hands with Mack Wilson. "What next?" Peter asked.
"Hard part's over," Mack grinned, "Now you go to Washington to lead the assault."
"Me?"
"Of course. You're the only one that Paul would hesitate to kill. He'd likely want to exploit your power. You can use that to get close to him and kill him."
"But Mack, I can't kill him! He's practically omnipotent! I've never killed anybody and besides, I'd try to kill him, and he'd just snap my neck like I was a—"
"He won't. He needs you. And so do we."
Peter felt a pair of firm hands on his shoulders. He looked behind himself to find two soldiers with grim faces.
"This is him," Mack said, "Treat him well on his trip to Washington."
"Yes, sir," one of the soldiers said, then to Peter, "Come with us."
Peter glanced back at Mack, but Mack was already walking away.
As the military convoy drove down the eastern seaboard using little-known, military-only back roads, Peter looked out of the window in the van. As they drove closer to Washington, Peter saw that hundreds of acres of forest and entire neighborhoods were scorched bare. White, unmarked trucks were pulling away from burning wreckage.
"What happened here?" Peter asked the soldier who was driving the van.
The soldier said, "Paul killed a few million people just to see if he could do it. Then, he ordered all of this area to be flattened. The military brass he caught gave him some launch codes and now here we are, sir."
Peter didn't blink or breathe. "He—he killed millions of people? Did you say millions?"
"Yes, sir. Men, women, and children. Young and old. It's only a matter of time before he spreads it up and down the east coast, and then across the continent. The boys in Washington are playing to him, hoping to get close enough to get at him, but he's sharp and he keeps them all only close enough to bark out his orders."
Peter watched as they passed by a group of soldiers who seemed to be shoveling charred body parts into a truck. He asked, "Do you believe that God is working through him, like he says?"
After a pause, the soldier replied, "I think he believes it, sir."
Two miles away from the Capitol building, the van stopped. The sky was yellow and black with ash and smoke. Burning piles of collapsed buildings and flaming shells of cars dotted the Washington landscape.
The soldier opened Peter's door. "We have to walk from here, sir. There's too much wreckage and too many bodies in the streets to continue on."
Peter was about to react when he smelled the sharp scent of burning oil mixed with that of charred flesh. He put his hand to his mouth and swallowed hard to keep the bile down. It wasn't enough, and he vomited all over the soldier's black boots.
"Oh God," he choked, "I'm s-so sorry, I—"
"It's nothing to worry about, sir. Lord Paul has promised that me and my family will be spared if I deliver you to him personally. That was the deal."
"The—deal?"
"Yes, sir." The soldier pulled out a semiautomatic weapon and pointed it at Peter. "On we go, then."
Peter's vision seemed to blur, and although he willed himself to vomit again, nothing came up. He was sweating, and his legs shook. He sank to his knees. "Don't do this," he pleaded, "Please, God have mercy, don't do this—"
The soldier fired several rounds into the air, and Peter jumped back to his feet. The soldier said, "I have orders to deliver you alive, but his exact words were that he'd 'Be just fine,' if you forced me to kill you. Lord Paul trusts me, you see. Now off we go."
Peter walked to the Capitol with the soldier stalking behind. He passed naked bodies stacked and mounted on pikes, little ponds of blood, and scattered torsos ripped apart as if by the bare hands of a giant.
"Paul did this?" Peter asked.
"Well, he had some help," the soldier said almost proudly, "He told us that he'd supply the building materials and that we'd be like his architects. I did a nice little number with some severed heads a bit west of here. Heh."
Peter wanted nothing more than to kill the soldier then and there. He hoped he'd have a chance.
"Tell me," Peter asked, "Are you hopeful when you see me?"
"I don't know if it's because of you, sir," the soldier replied, "But I do feel a lot better about the direction Paul's taking us. I think that he's the wake up call that humanity needed, if you'll allow such an expression, sir. There's just too much of everything today. Paul's here to make it nice, simple, and plain."
Peter spun around and with one hand grabbed at the soldier's right sleeve and with the other hand grabbed at the gun's barrel. The soldier held onto the weapon tightly and fired several rounds across the landscape, making Peter jump back in pain and fright.
The soldier yelled, "You must not do that again, sir!" and hit Peter with the blunt end of the gun. Peter fell to the ground, moaning.
The soldier reached down to pick Peter up by his shirt. Peter, who had been able to grab a short knife from where the soldier had kept it in a pocket on his right sleeve, plunged the blade deep into the soldier's neck.
"There you go," Peter grit his teeth and snarled as blood foamed and dribbled onto him from the trembling soldier's throat, "Nice, simple, and plain, you son of a bitch!"
Peter kicked the soldier away, and the military man fell onto his back, his entire body quaking as if in seizure. He gurgled and gasped as Peter bent down to remove the gun from his slackening fingers.
Minutes later, Peter arrived alone in front of the Capitol building, the gun concealed in his pants. Armed guards surrounded the building, but they let him pass until he reached the front entrance. A trooper ran a metal detector wand around his body and easily found the gun.
"Get in there," the trooper shoved him into the building, "Lord Paul awaits."
Peter walked alone through the corridors until he found a large doorway with torches burning on either side. When he entered through the doorway and into the torch-lit Senate chamber, he found himself ankle deep in human waste and remains. Rotting bodies were piled to the ceiling, and in the middle of it all, on a throne of bones and attended to by several slaves including the President himself, sat Paul Tapp.
Peter stopped walking and stared at the man with the bone crown sitting among the refuse and remains. Paul saw Peter.
"Peter!" Paul shrieked with the glee of a 3-year-old. He jumped off of his throne and ran to embrace Peter as if the two were brothers. "Oh, Peter! I'm so glad you've come! I have many plans to make, and with your help, I know I can—"
"Paul, I'm not here to help you. Surely you must know that."
"Oh Peter, of course you are!" Paul turned to the few slaves in the room. "Slaves! Leave here at once, but pile high the bodies at each doorway as you exit. I will have no interruption from this wonderful meeting."
Paul's slaves did as they were told, dragging body after body behind them, finally walling up each exit from the room, making it impossible for a single man to enter or escape. Peter turned to Paul, alone at last.
"It's true what they say about you, you know," Paul said with a grin, "You're making me feel all happy inside, as if I can do anything at all!"
"Paul, why have you—who are you?"
"God. Or maybe Satan," Paul said, "Or Memnoch. Or Hades. Or Lucifer, Azrael, Pzuzu, Abimelech, The-King-Of-All-Tears, the Nightmare, your father, take your pick. I might as well be all of those things. I'm evidently something you don't like."
"You're the Devil?"
"No, but part of you probably wants me to be. Makes it more dramatic, no?"
"What are—why are you doing this?"
"Come now, Peter. We're on the same side. We're both powerful and we use our powers to our advantage, to help the weaker ones learn their place."
"That's not what I'm about."
"Oh no? How did it feel to have the true leaders of the free world begging you to help them, hm? Your 'Aw, shucks' attitude might've had them fooled, but you and I know better. You did it not to help them, but because you wanted to call in their favors once you came down here and killed me, isn't that right?"
Peter stepped back. Paul knew him better than he knew himself. Paul continued, "But it's okay! Peter, relax! We're on the same side, here! If anything, you're my biggest asset, dear Peter. You give them hope when there isn't any. You convince them to fight and so they will go on to fuel their own inevitable destruction. I should be thanking you. Indeed, I do! Thank you!"
Peter bit his lip. He was out of ideas and had no clue what to do next. Again, he wished that his apparent powers worked on himself.
"I offer you the most generous choice I've ever offered or ever will," Paul extended his hand, "Join me."
Peter stepped back instinctively and shook his head. He became acutely aware of the horrible odor in the chamber.
Paul sighed. "I'm an old soul, Peter. I've seen this all before and done the same things. So have you, most likely. I give you one more chance, which, you can ask anyone, is extraordinarily generous. Join me."
Peter, suddenly realizing what it was he had to do, merely smiled and shook his head. "Sorry. You're on your own."
Paul stared hard at Peter. "Pity," he said, and Peter could feel a slow, sharp pain in the back of his neck. Paul was killing him slowly.
Peter's hands went to his throat. He choked, "By killing me, you're killing hope, and by killing hope, you're killing yourself—"
"Did you get that off of a Hallmark card? Die quietly, if you please!" Paul screamed, kicking at Peter and knocking him down.
Peter remembered what spiritual philosopher Dr. James Peebles had said about old souls: "An old soul is nothing but a very slow learner."
"Slow learner . . ." Peter died with a smile on his face.
Paul raised an eyebrow at Peter's words, then looked around as the torches burned out one by one. "Damn it! Slaves! Open up the portals again and light the torches! It's time for dinner!"
But the slaves, who even then could barely hear Paul's shouting from inside the Senate chamber, simply didn't do as he asked. Their wills and their hopes were gone, and all that any of them wanted to do was find their families, rebuild their homes, and eat their own dinners, away from the halls of the dead. As Lord Paul screamed his orders, they each turned and left the Capitol, leaving none behind save Paul.
Paul himself had a very bad death, tearing at corpses in the dark and ripping his flesh on broken bones, mad with violent anger.
User Reviews
Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2007-06-05 12:14:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2