Hammerport

The first time Elvis appeared to him, the senator was submerged in deep sleep after a turbulent day of dealing with the pro-death lobby.

In the minutes before slumber took him, he was sitting upright in bed, his back cushioned by soft, luxurious pillows. Silk pyjamas wrapped his lean body under smooth, freshly cleaned sheets that his bare feet enjoyed, careening around in a reckless manner just to feel the gentle friction tickle his heels. The air conditioner guzzled humidity and regurgitated out a soundless, cool, dry breeze. Naturally, all he could think of was how uncomfortable he felt.

“I just can’t…” the senator started to say, unable to finish the difficult sentence. The day had bartered all of his energy for another double helping of regret. He had been compelled to enter into negotiation with the snap snap crocodiles of the liberal vanguard against his wishes, against his better judgement. He never let slip any of the words that he wanted to say. All the dynamism and self-confidence that had propelled him with great speed into the Senate had now become their own burden; keeping them under house arrest was painful and tiring.

“And I don’t want…” the senator said, giving birth to another sentence without a conclusion. It had started with small, bite-sized compromises here and there in pursuit of the bigger picture. The problem was that he was not the painter of this bigger picture, merely an adept enabler for someone else’s grand political artwork. This artwork had nothing to do with his own American vision and thus he realised he was just a tool, an implement to be employed at the administration’s discretion. He saw the Devil’s handiwork here.

“How can they…” the senator asked, shaking his head to try to wrest the words from it, but they would not come to his aid. He had known for years that it was the corporations that had used the American Dream to create a broken, soulless society that was held together by paper ideas of commerce and law. It was an era where the vote no longer counted, because the few people that did vote chose spectacle and pyrotechnics over knowledge and wisdom. With every election, the PR magicians were brought onto the stage again, to conjure up intriguing tales and wholesome images that would draw in the crowds. Unseen hands would cast ideological stones at opponents, identifying them as evil incarnate. The public had got the Hollywood politics they had encouraged, or perhaps deserved.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” he eventually confessed. His wife, the most important thing in his life other than God, took his hand and squeezed it tight. She always gave him fortitude and support when he felt himself begin to waver. Love and compassion were the real fuels of the engine of society; there were in such short supply these days. Liberals talked about freedom and tolerance, when all they did was snipe and degrade. A daily diet of tragedy was their sustenance; death was their breakfast, rape their lunch and paedophilia their supper. War could satiate their wicked hunger for months.

This was the same forlorn place where he had been six years ago. The only difference now was that he was thoroughly exhausted. Hopelessness was around the next corner, ready to waylay him with the unthinkable thought. He was trying not to think the thought. The thought that the Lord had abandoned him.