Samhain Sojourn II: The Enemies List

Last week, in the first chapter of my Samhain Sojourn, Richard Nixon’s ghost laid a heavy geas upon me: “I wish to win one last election.” Bound by my hallowed duties, I saw no choice but to accept…

After just one week with Nixon muttering & growling in my ear, I felt a creeping madness at all hours. Enemies lurked in every shadow, vengeance lay around every corner, & cottage cheese suddenly seemed the perfect partner for red French wine. Nonsense & derangement, but I only could trudge onward.

On the first day, I had suggested a range of options for the disgraced Dick—perhaps he could win the presidency of a small improv club, or we might assemble reenactors to stage a Presidential victory? Reasonably, I wished to avoid any entanglement in some doomed mission to interfere in the collapsing United States’ political situation. Unreasonably, Mr. Nixon disagreed, & subjected me to a three-hour lecture on “keeping the faith” & why it takes a “real son-of-a-bitch” to “get anywhere in life.” He also included many comments on the disgraced notion of IQ, with a fervor that even racists would find uncomfortable.

I explained to him the dire stakes, & compressed timeframe, of the current election; he practically hooted with joy, declaring that such a circumstance provides “the perfect opportunity for hard action.” He then dictated to me a new “Enemies List,” & promised me a chance to “really lay into the bastards, by God.” I then explained that most of the people on the list were dead; he asked who lived, & I selected a satisfying target: Roger Stone.

Roger Stone, a failed insurrectionist, successful political parasite, & jabbering sex fiend, strides the foul heart of American politics like a horrid rooster, crowing & pecking & attacking any poor hen that wanders too closely. We tracked him to a fetid marsh in East Maryland, attempting to gather scum to shape into a new golem. (Ye see, Alex Jones had failed him, miserably, & without a new avatar he would surely run low on legal defense funds.) Stone also, infamously, inked Nixon’s face fore’er into his flesh, a garish tattoo atop his spine. He claims deep kinship with the President, a bald-faced lie, & the ghost of Nixon holds him in deep contempt—thus, I loathed him also. Nixon’s maniac thirst for blood seized my mind, & suddenly revenge felt natural.

Hours later, my wits returned to me, as I sipped century-old Bordeaux & picked feathers out of my cloak. “Ye used me, outside the bounds of thy wish,” I muttered, in a frighteningly Nixonian tone.

He snorted, & began to float about me in a circle. “Don’t kid yourself, Franco. You liked it. You loathed Stone as much as I do, & you know—by God, you know!—that men like him are a blight.”

I rose, & swatted at the rotten Richard. “Blight or no, this assassination changes nothing. Gizzard on my hands, for nothing! He’s a dime a dozen, now, that poison is everywhere. No more detours! Let us make ye President, & end this awful—”

“There! You see? That’s zeal, that’s what I like to hear. You’re down at my level, Franco. In the muck, & ready to win.”

“I already pledged to aid ye! Why debase me, befoul me?”

“Men with clean hands, can’t win in America.”

I finished my horn of wine, having no counter-argument, & returned it to my belt. “What now?”

“Now, we run the damned campaign.”

A horrible day, on this evil adventure! The horror continues next Monday, in the final folio—hard to believe Samhain approaches so swiftly, eh?

Thank ye for reading, consider sharing these with a friend if ye enjoy them, & I extend special gratitude to those mortals who can & do supply $5 monthly, here in the Scriptorium, to support our works!

I shall write ye Wednesday with news of this week’s show. In the meantime, be safe, be well, & be wary of any Presidential spirits howling for revenge…

Cheers,
Amoenus Franco
Wizard, Writer, Chairman of the Committee to Resurrect the President