Paranoia ✓

XXIV: Conner - The Great Debate (Part 1)

This was it; today was Conner's final stand. If his words did not persuade the audience, then the zombie audience would consume the entire country by electing the zombie king to spread the apocalypse worldwide.

Today he dressed in a classic look: a black suit with a white shirt, black slacks, and a red tie. He sat on a stool as a woman gently dabbed his face with powder while Jonathan Davis read over some facts for him to bring up in the debate. It brought him back to moments before his interview with Fiona on Race for the Presidency about seven months ago. It seemed like a long time, and a lot had happened since then. Back then his talking points were centered on a drone strike in Yemen. However, the interview ended up focusing on the NSA spying on its own citizens, and Conner taking a stand against big government. He remembered clearly shouting out towards the camera that it was none of the government's damn business to constantly "check-in" on what law-abiding citizens were doing. Few people took his outburst seriously. In fact, they even mocked him when Daniel Mason went public with the corruption that went on within the NSA.

But now John wasn't trying to predict what would be addressed on stage; of course he knew what questions would be asked, but he didn't know where they would lead. A question about the economy could lead to a verbal attack on one of the candidate's hairstyle—yes, the debates had gotten that chaotic. Talking points meant nothing when discussions veered so off course so fast in modern-day debates.

John tried substituting the talking points with some facts instead. Most of them were about events that occurred that the media really hadn't picked up on: such as a gang shootout in Chicago taking the life of an innocent African American bystander who was just making his way home from school. After a bit of digging around, this child had lost his mother in the attacks on Northwestern Memorial Hospital in Chicago.

"You could link this attack to the idea of domestic terror here at home. Why are we so concerned about fighting some squeamish organization overseas when we have our own problems here at home? It's like the whole debate around NASA funding—why fund space exploration when you have problems here on Earth? Why fund blowing up terrorists overseas when you have terrorists here at home?"

Conner sighed. "Thanks for your help John, but I doubt the zombies will listen to any logical argumentation. Only a master rhetorician could convince the zombies. Logos and ethos will do us no good here, only pathos. I mean, look at who they idolize—Harry Sayder! This man is completely insane, and the scary thing is—I think they know he's insane, but they seem to find him—entertaining. Only a shot of emotional glucose will rouse up their limited minds."

John signaled for the woman to leave, and she left the room. Meanwhile, Conner stared directly ahead at himself in the mirror. Conner was officially worn out: his slight wrinkles had transformed to crests and ridges—as if his face were the Grand Canyon irrigated by the Colorado River of politics. His eyes lacked any white, and were nearly completely red from lack of proper sleep. His hair was gray, and Conner made no further attempt to dye it back to a dark blond.

John stood behind him as Conner continued to stare at himself in the mirror. John was slim at the beginning of the race, now he was positively a twig. The man could barely afford to stay the same weight, let alone lose ten to fifteen pounds. But managing a presidential campaign, especially one that seemed to always be trailing behind the dust of the opponents, forced a manager to sacrifice some necessities. John's face was basically a skull. His cheekbones were so exposed, it was as if one were looking at an x-ray image of a man. His skin was pale from the lack of sunlight as he stayed indoors researching, planning, writing etc. His eyes were just as red as Conner's, and his hair was just about to turn gray as well.

"Look at us. This campaign has kicked our asses," Conner noted.

John sighed. "Yeah, but if I had the chance to do it again, I would. I truly believe you're the right man for the job—even if the rest of the country doesn't. Maybe in due time the people will awaken from their slumber and vote the right man into office."

Conner stared intently at John in the mirror. "But John, don't you understand? There are no more people anymore. There are only the reanimated corpses that pose as people. These are not people, but a mere shadow walking in the light of a moving body." Conner realized that this was the first time he actually voiced his zombie theory out loud to someone else.

And he expected John's optimistic response. "As much as I have to admit that many of my fellow patriots are not seeing clearly, my advice is to never give up on them. Americans are such a fascinating people. Sure they can be dumb at times, but when shit hits the fan, the American Spirit awakens and the country moves as one towards justice. Sooner or later justice will be achieved. People will soon see that NSA spying violates their fourth amendment right; people will soon see that imprisoning Muslims in TT's is just a repeat of Japanese interment camps; they will see that selling their freedom in exchange for safety is like making a deal with the devil for 24 glorious years on Earth."

Conner chuckled. "And we all know how that play ended." [24]

"Yes, but we are Americans. We will come to face with our mistakes and we will address them when the time is right. As for now, we must not lose hope in a future where common sense is restored to the general public."

Conner got up from his chair and now stood side by side with John in the mirror. "Sadly, I'm afraid I won't be alive to witness such a transformation."

"True, but you can inspire the child who does make the transformation happen. You can be the spark, the key in the ignition, the cornerstone to the restoration of rationality to the 'zombies.' You could be the cure, even if the cure doesn't take effect immediately."

Conner thought about that and realized, although John was probably just trying to cheer him up, John had been sacrificing so much to see Conner through this uphill political battle; the least he could do was not give up.

So Conner rubbed his eyes, stretched his arms forward, cracked his knuckles, ran his hands through his hair, and smiled. "Thanks John, you always keep the ship from sinking long enough to reach the shore."

"That's what a good captain does. Now go out there and make your final stand."

Footnote:

[24] Here, Jonathan Davis is referencing a plot from a popular English play Dr. Faustus by Christopher Marlowe, in which the main character sells his soul to Satan for 24 years of pleasure on Earth.