The Cultmaster

Chapter 13: Leaving Washington

I could have been the Speaker! If I was the Speaker, none of this would have ever happened! Grantham sat at a bar as far from the Capitol as possible without leaving the district, the now bane of his existence, guzzling his third bottle of beer. While not necessarily illegal, he had just been recently expelled from the house for his unruly behavior, anger, and money laundering schemes with lobbyists. The fact that he was not facing charges for his crimes only served to prove just how fucked up the world was at this point. Clearly, Chester's vision to instill virtue and goodness into Congress and the nation as a whole had backfired miserably; everyone was back to their normal selves, unchanging, unhinged in all regards, and it did not help that he himself did not practice his own preachings. As Grantham was a man who clearly relished in himself and his own power, this came as a shock to him and his ego. Much of the anger stemmed from the fact that other politicians were doing the same thing as him, but were not expelled like he was. A special election was already scheduled to take place in his district following the emergency expulsion, and he was bitter, to say the least, over it.
"Another bottle, please," he told the bartender, slurring his words.
"I think you've had enough," the bartender responded. Grantham suddenly had a look of anger spreading across his already angry face.
"I want it." The bartender was not taking it.
"No. You need to wait here for a little while. Are you driving?"
"NO!" Grantham responded, slipping deeper and deeper into drunkenness, which the bartender took note of. Grantham stood up tall in a sort of intimidation tactic to eventually get his way.
"You know, you look pretty familiar. Are you from Manhattan by any chance?"
"No. You must think me for a wrong guy," Grantham's slur was becoming more evident.
"Yes you are," the bartender responded, "I'm originally from Chelsea. I saw your campaign commercials all over the place during the summer of '84. You're Joseph Grantham, right? You were my congressman, until you got ousted." Grantham snapped back to reality and started to notice the college student's accent. He had to have been from Manhattan just like him.
"Shut up," Grantham nonchalantly responded as he got up from the chair. The kid was taken aback.
"That's not how you talk to one of your constituents, now-" he stammered.
"I'm not your congressman anymore," Grantham responded with a stifling coldness.
He was embarrassed, wanting to punch the kid for bringing up his ousting, but he composed himself and walked onto the street.
"You're too drunk, man! You can't-"
"Watch me," Grantham responded. He felt like committing suicide at that point. His life was meaningless, as up until this point, it had revolved merely around Congress. There was nothing left, nothing outside of the void. Hope was forgotten. He watched all the cars pass by on Wisconsin Avenue and thought about walking into the traffic so that he could die. He pondered on the perfect moment to finally do it, but he did not want to make it too convenient by going in heavy traffic, so he waited until there was less of it so there was less of a shock when it finally happened. Eventually, he gave up, realizing that he could never bring himself to violate God's law on the sinner's path.
As he stood up, back against the traffic pole, he looked across the way and saw a figure. It looked just like him, in every way, save for the clothing, as this one was wearing a t-shirt and black slacks, but no shoes. It beckoned him over, but he could not bring himself to do it. He turned away for a moment, but when he looked back, the figure had left. All he had to do now was wait, for there was a reason he had chosen the bar in this location. He caught sight of Jacob and a few of the other representatives walking out of a restaurant across the street. When the coast was clear, he walked across as well. His intentions were unclear, yet he walked with a tenseness that implied a sense of innate intention, but sinister. He scoped out the group intently before he finally spotted his target, the forboding Speechwriter. He quivered his teeth in disgust and jaywalked without any regard for his own life or sanctity. He reached the sidewalk and immediately grabbed Jacob by the shirt collars and pinned him to a traffic pole, with a look akin to that of an animal viewing a fire from afar in his eyes.
"Are you proud of yourself, Speechwriter?" he asked Jacob as he stared into Jacob's petrified eyes. The street was deserted at that point, as the other representatives had already gone on their own way. Jacob was all alone now with the psychopath.
"You're not actually surprised, are you?" he responded wisely, "you know what you did wrong. You got yourself expelled." Jacob had heard from many of the other members of Congress of the extent of Grantham's grudge against him, mostly allies of Chester.
"If you want to talk, we ought to do it in a more formal setting. What was it you said about your apartment in Georgetown?" Grantham began to back away a little bit now.
"I can't. I can't go back there. It's haunted now, Jacob, I swear! Burt's ghost, it's always there, swearing at me, choking me... he's everywhere all at once, yet nowhere at the same time! I can't escape it, no matter what I do. You have to help me, before it comes fir both of us!" He began to bawl his eyes out in fear and stress as Jacob watched on, before Grantham eventually fell to the ground and began to hug Jacob's ankles.
"Take me with you, please," said he.
"You're scared to be alone. Is that what this is all about? You're guilty of how you treated him?" Grantham then stood up and completely changed his demeanor.
"No! I have nothing to be guilty of! He's the one torturing me! He says he's my friend, but every time I look in the shadows, he's there and never there at the same time. Sometimes it's him, sometimes it's me, but they all keep saying in my head 'I'm your friend, Joey,' or 'I can save you, Joey,' but I know it's all a lie. It's just a ruse to drag me into Hell, Jacob! They want me to kill myself! They love it! They love it so much, torturing poor Joe here! What have I done wrong? Am I predestined for this, Jacob? Am I a bad person? Is this what Joe deserves?"
His eyes became wide as he implored Jacob's soul for an answer. He grabbed Jacob's neck and pulled him closer to his face to the point that they were both staring directly into each other's eyes with deep imploration.
"Joe," Jacob finally said, "I think you need to talk to someone. Not me," he said, as he saw Grantham's lips moving, about to speak.
"There's a doctor I know, Zentsvo, in New York. He can help you. I have his card at my home. Just give me your mailing address."
"No, no! You and I both are insufferable! Joe has no morals, and neither does Jacob Winstead! That is why he got me EXPELLED! Spreading lies, fucking lies, to get me in trouble. Did Jacob write speeches to my constituents? Did he convince them that my impeachment was necessary, brainwashing them, leading his little cult there and in Congress? No, Jacob Winstead is insufferable, for he is the reason why Joe stands where he does!" Grantham began to hum a British folk song, meandering around the street as Jacob stood in shock at what he had just heard.
"You think I did this? You think I'm the morally degradable person here? You got yourself expelled, man! Why don't you just fucking own it? Look, your time in Congress may be over, but your life isn't. You can still come back from this. All the things you're accusing me of are false, I'm afraid." Jacob was trying his best to choose his words in this situation, for he had no idea how an insane person might react.
"Correction, what about the others? They did the exact same thing, yet they weren't expelled!"
"Because you're a Cultmaster, Joe! Do you understand that? You did all of this! You led them, you brainwashed them, just like you claim I did!"
"So you admit it," Grantham looked up, "you and I are the same. Jacob Winstead is, indeed, a sinful creature. We're both cultmasters, the only difference is that you weren't punished for what you did. I'm the one who has to leave, and everyone else stays in their place on the chess board."
"Don't worry, bud," Jacob responded, passive aggressively, "I was just about to leave this town anyway." Grantham suddenly became jubilant, and he began to cross the now empty street.
"Watch both ways," Jacob called out, feeling like he had accomplished at least something small. "You need help there, man?" as he watched Grantham
stumble.
"No, I'm not that drunk anymore," Grantham laughed, "in fact, I might take you up on that doctor offer. I do need help.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, as a matter of fact I-" this brief period of happiness was suddenly cut short by the sudden screeching halt of an automobile rounding the intersection at 70 miles per hour. No sooner had Jacob's mood turned to complete shock than the sight of the man being hurled across the street assailed his senses. The car came to a complete stop, as Jacob began to scan the scene. He followed the trail of blood and body tissue scattered to the place where Grantham had lain to rest. Jacob then scanned Grantham and the horrific damage. The scene was surreal; the first thing he noticed was the busted cranium from the impact to the street, with slices of brain and fluids pouring out like an oil lamp, as well as the contortion of all the limbs. Every limb used to walk or grasp had been broken. There was no way that Grantham survived it. Jacob called the police at the nearest pay phone and then confronted the driver for their recklessness. After the police, during their interview, notified Jacob that he was no longer needed at the scene, he gave them his number in case there were more questions and left. He could not expel the sight of the body, nor the congressman's wide shocked eyes and the contortion of his human form into something resembling a stick figure. The train station was not far.