Heart of Dorkness (The Horror)

It was the nooses I noticed first. they were hanging from trees, signs, awnings any thing with an overhang. He was close now. 

Then came the effigies. The nooses were no longer empty. We had arrived. McCain-Palin Headquarters stood before us.

Grabbing my Bob Dole pen I headed for the entrance. Joe Lieberman intercepted me at the door. "Why are you here," he asked.

"I'm here to see Sen. McCain," I answered, showing him the pen.

Joe replied:

Hey, man, you don't talk to John. You listen to him. The man's enlarged my mind. He's a poet-warrior in the classic sense. I mean, sometimes he'll, uh, well, you'll say "Hello" to him, right? And he'll just walk right by you, and he won't even notice you. And suddenly he'll grab you, and he'll throw you in a corner, and he'll say "Do you know that 'if' is the middle word in life? 'If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you, if you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,'"

I mean, I'm no, I can't-- I'm a little man; no, I'm a great man; he's... John's a great man too. But not as great as me. I should be president. It's my turn. The Democrats conspired against me, casting their votes for John Kerry and Howard Dean. And the bloggers, the bloggers, man. They called me droopy dog. THEY CALLED ME DROOPY DOG!

But John, it's like he should have been a pair of ragged claws scuttling across floors of silent seas. What the fuck does that mean? What the fuck am I talking about? I don't know, but John, I mean, what are they gonna say about John, when he's gone, huh? What are they gonna say? Are they gonna say "he was a kind man?" "He was a wise man?" "He had plans?" "He had wisdom?" Bullshit, man! What are they gonna do when he's gone? What? Are they gonna turn to me? I mean come on, look at me! I'm a god damned laughing stock.I won't have a committee, and they called me Droopy Dog, god damn it! THEY CALLED ME DROOPY DOG; THE FUCKERS! Am I gonna set them straight, NO...You...

The nooses. You're looking at the nooses and the effigies. I, uh--sometimes he goes too far, you know--but he's the first one to blame it on Obama! You have to give him that.

With that, I shoved Lieberman aside and pushed my way into McCain's office.

It was dark inside. It took my eyes awhile to adjust, but finally, I saw him. He was sitting cross-legged on a carpet remnant. It was a lime green shag, straight out of the Seventies.

He was naked. Someone had taken a marker and drawn eyebrows over his nipples and lips around his navel.

He was speaking into a microphone, recording the message for a robocall:

We encourage College Republicans to hold "immigrant hunts" and "affirmative action bake sales. But our consultants won't allow them to write "nigger" on their rally banners because they say it's racist!

I watched hedge fund managers riding on the back of Joe the Plumber as he crawled along the edge of a straight razor. That's my dream. It's my very happy, very erotic dream. Crawling, slithering, along the edge of a straight razor … and the hedge fund managers survived!

So please remember to join the millions of Floridians who'll be voting against The Black and casting there ballots for me, John McCain, on November 4.

Seeing he had finished, I introduced myself, "Hi, Sen. McCain, I'm Gen. JC Christian."

"Yes, yes," he replied, "you're the guy who sends me pictures of goats dressed in fishnet stockings--it's nice to finally meet you."

"Well, maybe not," I responded, a bit sheepishly, "Bob Dole sent me."

Handing him Bob Dole's pen, I continued, "He asked me to show you this as proof that I am the bearer of his message; The RNSC wants you to drop out of the campaign so Bob Dole can step in. You've gone too far. You've gone beyond using racist dog whistles; your campaign's hate speech is explicit. It's killing our chances."

Anger and indignation flashing over his face, he began jiggling his gut so that it appeared as if the hand-drawn lips around his navel were speaking and said,

The party has no right to condemn me for being overt in my racism. They have no right to ask me to step down because of it. They have no right to do that, not after four decades of the Southern Strategy, not after the horror of the South Carolina Primary in 2000. They have no right to judge me.

The horror you've seen. The horror we've all seen.

I remember the South Carolina Primary in 2000. Seems a thousand centuries ago. Rove's people spread the rumor that my adopted Bangladeshi daughter was actually my black love-child. And I remember...I ...I...I cried. I wept like some grandmother. I wanted to tear my teeth out. I didn't know what I wanted to do. And I want to remember it. I never want to forget it. I never want to forget.

And then I realized, like I was shot, like I was shot with a diamond, a diamond bullet right through my forehead. And I thought, "My God, the genius of that. The genius. The will to do that. Perfect, genuine, complete, crystalline, pure."

And then I realized they were stronger than me, because they could stand the horror. Rove's men were not monsters. These were men, trained cadres. These men who fought with their hearts, who had families, who had children, who were filled with love, but they had the strength, the strength, to do that. If my campaign had those men, then our troubles would be over very, quickly. You have to have men who are amoral, who are able to utilize their primordial, tribal instincts to destroy an opponent without feeling, without passion, without judgment...without judgment. Because it's judgment that defeats us.

I hired those same men who sought to destroy me in 2000. They work for me now. They will bring me victory in Pennsylvania. They will bring me the electoral college. They will bring me the White House.

Sen. McCain was cut short when his office door swung rapidly open, hitting the wall with a crash and Sarah Palin strode angrily into the room. McCain slid back to furthest edge of his carpet remnant when he saw her. It was the kind of motion that becomes automatic when one is conditioned with fear, like the cowering of a whipped dog or the inevitable rant by Pamela Atlas Shrugs whenever an Arab is interviewed on television.

"I've been listening," she began, "I've heard every word."

She continued:

Take your pen back to Dole and McConnell. They are irrelevant, now. The Party is irrelevant. John McClain is irrelevant. This campaign is about my return in 2012, when I redeem the Party and the nation and usher in an era of Biblically-based free-market-oriented governance.

But the Party must die first. It must be purged of those who gave us that ancient pile of festering anger you came to depose. It must also be cleansed of the Giulianis and Romneys and others who worship at the false alters of idolatry.

That is what this election is about. That is what this election will be, the Republican Party's apocalypse. I will return after the cleansing and preside over a rapture of the righteous, raising up the most worthy to lead a new Republican Party into victory.

Will you be among those I rapture, General?

Rarely, is there a moment when a person, faced with a decision of tremendous consequence, is blessed with a clarity of vision that allows him or her to choose a course with out doubt or reservation. This was my moment. I was Paul on the Road to Damascus.

"Yes, my Lord," I replied, tearily, "show me the way."

Heart of Dorkness Index
1. Prologue
2. The Mission
3. I Love the Smell of Vaseline in the Morning
4. Never Get Out of the Pinto
5. The Horror