The Cultmaster

Chapter 12: The Zentsvo

Following Jacob's good deed, he was highly praised within the Capitol's hallowed halls. It did not help, either, that Grantham's approval rating was rapidly precipitating. After the incident in the alleyway, Grantham's opinion of Jacob deteriorated, as did Jacob's of Grantham. The two began to avoid each other more often, even if they still exchanged pleasantries with difficulty, sometimes during committee meetings just for the sake of it. But on the outside, their status as acquaintances was shifting to something else entirely; Grantham resorted to gossiping and spreading as much negative misinformation as possible. He could hardly focus on the tasks at hand, for his anger held such a sway over his mind. He was no longer his own master; he was merely prisoner to his own discontent. He was, however, a master over the opinions of others. They trusted everything he said, splitting opinions on Jacob's character and morality. On the other hand, Jacob's mood was boosted, not just by the good feeling inside that comes from performing a virtuous action, but through the positivity of finally fitting in somewhere people accepted him. Congressmen from all over began coming to Jacob and venting their problems to him, as if he were supposed to be some sort of expert; but he was Jacob Winstead, the great Speechwriter, for surely he should know what the definition of good is. The Capitol was becoming one giant zentsvo; under its domes that stretch the entirety of the nation were its representatives, facing all types of problems. But is that not a reflection of the world as a whole? Just one giant zentsvo. Were the representatives only doing their duty on bringing the problems to light, and was the Speechwriter their master for listening, just as Grantham was the Master of the other side, who trusted him enough to be brainwashed by his lies? Jacob half-heartedly regretted not going with Grantham that night instead of helping the dog and her puppies, as he might have become closer to him enough to be able to receive the sacred endorsement. But to be part of his clan of tone-deaf brainwashees? The good surely outweighed the evil.
The time came in Congress, at the president's request, where a bill was considered to expel all suspected Soviets from the nation. Jacob was already typing furiously away on Chester's response; his advisor, who was also Chuck, had already advised him to vote no. The session was ending, as the summer months were arriving, and the vote had to be pushed through as soon as possible.
"You can't legislate morality," Chester finished his half-hour speech the day of the vote, urging the congressmen to kill the bill on the House floor. Suddenly, Grantham barged in, half-disheveled and appearing to be in a drunken state. He looked at all 434 others with a look of contempt and disdain, as though he were ready to kill someone.
"You're late, Congressman-" the Speaker said, disgruntled.
"Where is he? Where the hell is he?!" Grantham was now hyperventilating uncontrollably, as if he were actually about to murder someone. He turned his gaze to the section where all the New Jersey Democrats were sitting, and then paced over when he had finally spotted his target.
"You!" he said, facing Chester, "you goddamn son of a bitch! You'd best keep that dog of yours in check!" Chester was terrified staring into the evil gaze of the man's brown but emotionally red eyes. He looked as though he had been under intense emotional distress, and this was his chance for retribution.
"What... what are you talking about?" Chester asked, praying to not be hurt.
"That... mofo of yours, Jacob! I'll have you know that he's been spreading rumors about me, saying that I'm a Commie, that I launder money from the hands of Manhattan lobbyists, that I hate Jews!" Then, he turned to the crowd, now petrified with awe and fear,
"Burt Mizrathi was found dead this morning. He was hanging from the rafters of my loft in Georgetown, hanging by a noose as the blood poured out of his esophagus! Now, your friend Mr. Speechwriter would have you all believe that I did it, that I coaxed him into doing such an awful thing, but the truth is, I apologized for my misconduct with him that night at Nando's," as he turned to face Ravinian and O'Flaherty, whose color was completely flushed from their faces, "in fact, I apologized to everyone that night for my behavior, which I'm still guilty for to this day." And then he paused for a few moments as audible gasps were heard, before taking in a deep breath and continuing.
"But don't, don't you dare blame me for what happened, because I would never do such a thing! I'm a good person!" He began to weep a little now. "But the true evil lurks within the halls of this Congress, a devil walking in the shadows among you! Beware of the Speechwriter, for he has reckoned you all! And the Lord spake-"
"Mr. Grantham, that is enough!" the Speaker finally worked up the nerve to speak up and end this interruption of congressional business. The Californians and Massachusettsians sitting next to Ravinian and O'Flaherty shot their peers a look that said, Did Jacob ever say such a thing? And the two men shot looks back answering, No, he wouldn't. Grantham is lying out of his ass. There was silence for a while as the words seeped through the minds of all those there, and Grantham revelled in his power standing in front of the nation and speaking the 'truth', because his allies would believe every word of it and eat it three meals a day.
"Wait," Chester suddenly interrupted," let him speak. I want to hear what Mr. Grantham here has to say."
"I second the motion," O'Flaherty called out. Grantham was more enlightened now to speak his mind, the complete, unfettered, unhinged opinion that had been plaguing him for so long. He had a feeling that he was about to make some sort of difference, that he could use his power and influence to sway the others to what he believed was the good.
"You all are debating a bill- let's see here- "The Anti-Communist Expulsion Act"- correct?" He picked up a copy of the bill up from a fellow congressman's desk and help it up high as he turned all 250 of its pages for all to see and grasp the magnitude of its content.
"Now, what is communism? Why are we so afraid of it? Well, you see, it's a flawed, sinful ideology, parading as something virtuous. Marx once stated that the end goal of all humanity is to create a virtuous society, right? But in reality, there is no way to create a truly virtuous society. It's an evil thing because it is deceptive. It brainwashes the receiver into believing something untrue, when in reality, it merely seeks to control you, like an insect infecting the host. Unbeknownst to you all, there is an insect in your midst, infecting your minds with false rumors and lies. He's got brown hair, brown eyes, he's 29, and he's 5'10. You all probably know who I'm talking about...he wants you to think he's a good person, but under that innocent white skin of his lurks a shadow that only seeks psychological slavery. He can convince you that there's something wrong without searching for the wrong within himself. For he's the Speechwriter, he has a way with words. Beware of him."
"Now hold on a minute-" Chester stammered.
"And like you said earlier, Colfax, why, I agree. You can't legislate morality. So don't let the Speechwriter be the one to do it for you. Legislate your own morality and make the right decision when you vote. God gave you a tongue for a reason."
"Get out," the Speaker said with a darkness in his voice.
"But you know that I'm right. You just don't want to admit it!"
"Leave this chamber now."
Grantham gave one last nasty look at everyone and walked out. His insides were burning with the rage of plight. As he passed Jacob in the hallway as Jacob was about to deliver documents to Chester, he gave him a nasty side eye that only spelled fuck you and left.
Grantham was a broken man inside, for he did indeed believe that it was his fault that Burt was dead. But on the other hand he could not fathom the idea of being the one to accrue the blame, since he could not deal with this and the stress that comes with being a politician. He was merely a political animal, a revelation which struck him like a brick falling from the rooftop. He walked down the steps of the Capitol and found the nearest liquor shop to drown away the sorrows of being the only one who saw. He could not have Jacob for his cult. Needless to say, the legislation failed to pass.