Samhain Sojourn III: The Nixon Now

To catch ye up: I find myself on a Samhain mission, in aid of the ghoulish ghost of Richard Nixon! Find Part I here, & Part II here, if ye missed them. He hath led me down the Low Road, on a Quixotic campaign to regain the Presidency, & it seems I may lose myself…

I awake, with pineapple on my lips, somewhere around Pahrump. Nixon drives us—”us?”—most of the day, now, a relentless political beast on the campaign trail. But with so little time, & no legal standing for neither ghost nor wizard to take office, a doomed sense dogs our every mile.

Through the ibogaine haze—it numbs my wits, ye see, & he spices every meal with it—through that haze I manage to convey a theory. A horrible theory, with implications too dangerous to even articulate; but ‘tis a way to victory. A way out: Chronomancy.

“Ye wish to win again—well, why not win again, for the first time?”

Nixon’s ghost paces, his form more corporeal with each passing day. “You’re talking—that is, if I understand—about chronomancy? Time travel?”

I nod, sleepily. “Back to your lowest point. Your Waterloo. To ‘72.”

The beast harrumphs. “The CIA boys, they told me we couldn’t—the science, by God, it just wasn’t there.”

“Science binds me not. I tire of this errand—”

“Errand? Mission, Franco! Jesus, the mission of a lifetime, to—to assist the President, it’s—”

“A grim task, a vile charge, one staining my soul with every step. But we shall end it, for better or worse, as I am bound by oath.”

The rotter shuffled, nervously. “How…well, damnit, how do we do it? The, ah, brothers at Bohemian Grove, their rituals…well…”

“Nothing like that, fear not. Just a bit of blood, & belief, & the right babble…”

With greed in his heart, he nods, & I begin to weave my trap…

Outside the Watergate Hotel, in January of 1972, the ghost of Richard Nixon eyes me with suspicion.

“Won’t they get caught? This is a major undertaking, wizard, serious work. An escalation, & Henry won’t like it.”

“Trust me,” I murmur, “Send in the Plumbers, & ye shall have all the intel ye need to sabotage the Democratic ticket. Kissinger will come around.”

He nodded, accepting my proposal. Ha!, I thought, Victory—mine!

Let me explain my gambit: as ye know, Richard Nixon served only one term, losing in 1972 to the McGovern/Chisolm wonder-machine. Decades of liberal rule followed, marred only by—well, who am I to mage-splain thine own history to ye? But I had a vision, on our aborted present-day campaign. A flash of What-Might-Have-Been! I could fulfill my vow to Nixon, & serve him an electoral win. But, one that ends in savage embarrassment, in the scandal of all scandals—I could make a thing called ”WATERGATE.” I could make him President, & steal it away, in one fell swoop. A perfect subterfuge, & surely, mortal history would weather the slight change just fine?

& so, he sent in his Plumbers, who broke into the Democratic National Committee’s offices in the Watergate Hotel. They plundered, & blundered, leaving a horribly obvious trail, just as I’d planned. & I sent in word to a B-squad spy, Mark Felt—he took the moniker “Deep Throat,” against my stern warnings, & exposed the whole thing to two of the only honest journalists to ever live. I assured Nixon his victory could not be stopped; he suspected nothing, & allowed me to return to the present.

As I materialize in DC, expecting to find a paradiso built on Nixon’s failures, the horrible fallout of my gambit dawns upon me. History rippled larger & faster than I could have guessed! Instead of posters for Sanders & Haaland, I find cheap flyers for someone named Harris, & the scamster clown Trump, apparently now ennobled to politics. I lurch into the Library of Congress, desperate to understand what my chronomancy had wrought.

Instead of Shirley Chisolm, prodded by Nixon’s machinations, McGovern took some loser named Eagleton onto his ticket. His loss paved the way for a conservative kink on the Democratic side—and on the right, worse things than Richard Nixon reared their heads. Dirty tricks & revenge became the order of the day, as cheaper & cheaper thugs crowded out anyone with a sense of shame. Corruption, warmongering, lies & swindling, these reign supreme in this new 2024! & even that rotten Roger Stone thrives…

I pore over the revised histories for hours, horror after horror rising to meet my frantic eyes. The ghost of Richard Nixon steps up behind me, with a husky, violent laugh.

“Happy with your handiwork, Franco?”

“Fiend! I can—I can go back again, fix this. I will break my Samhain oath if I must!”

“No, no, too late. The year’s sealed off, sigils embedded in every second. I had the fellows in Langley see to that—our office thanks you for showing us chronomancy, up close.”

“Bastard! But ye died anyway, in shame! The all-time loser of American politics! Would ye not wish to reverse it?”

“A loser, am I? Look at who runs the government! Vicious dogs, bent on vengeance, selling out anyone & everyone they can, whenever they can. Look who runs for President! Don’t they all remind you of someone, wizard?”

I fall to my knees, hard questions sinking me. In fulfilling my oath, had I doomed the world?

“This is not how history was meant to unfold. Perhaps a god will step in, correct my arrogance…”

“No, no, come now. There’s no going back. I got what I wanted, & you lost—face it, Franco. Thanks to you, we’re all living in…

The Nixon Now

O, what a spooky twist! To find out ye lived on the Planet of the Nixons, all along! I hope ye enjoyed this Samhain sojourn, my scary Halloween story—& before ye rise to attack me for ruining all history, remember: this time, ‘tis merely a tall tale! Well, my part in it, anyway. Ye do live in the Nixon Now, but mortals did that without any supernatural help. Terrifying!

Thank ye to all who read our stories, & watch our shows, & especial thanks to all who can & do find us worthy of $5 monthly. I shall write ye Wednesday with news of this week’s All-Hallows special, “WIZWORLD DEAD!” Until then, be safe, be well, & if Richard Nixon asks ye for a favor, tell him NAY.

Cheers,
Amoenus Franco
Wizard, Writer, Watergatomancer