The newspaper hits the hardwood flooring a moment before the coffee mug. The handsome ceramic shatters, spattering the front page headline with freshly ground Arabica.
"Governor found with mistress bound"
A grainy but unmistakable photo shows Governor-elect Ryan Blithe in a swank hotel room giving a handcuffed young woman a taste of the lash. The article states that campaign funds were used to rent the hotel room. Furthermore, in an interview, the young woman claims that "this was not the first time, not at all," and that "Ryan has always had unusual... tastes."
Governor-elect Blithe tears at the paper, reducing it to limp, stained shreds. Bits of paper get caught in his snow-white bathrobe, staining it. He slumps against the kitchen's marble countertop, his eyes wide as he peers through the wooden blinds for movement in the yard. Who knows where those bastards might be hinding, he thinks. He sinks to the floor and runs a large, soft hand through his greying hair. He slowly removes his finely wrought reading glasses.
"Honey, I'm going to jump in the shower. Could you leave me some coffee?" his wife calls from the top of the stairs. Panic grips him as he lurches to his feet. He shuffles down the hallway, past tastefully framed snapshots of his life, faded gap-toothed smiles, a sun-drenched sandy beach, his first law firm. A snow-white slipper lies abandoned on the kitchen floor, soaking up cold coffee.
The study is cold. The dark wood paneling seems to suck the heat from the air. An orderly stack of pamphlets and folded posters teeters on the desk. "For your files," a note stuck to the top reads. Also on the desk is a bible, opened to Corinthians. The book slams shut and falls to the floor. Re-opening, the pages settle on Leviticus. The stack of papers flies against the wall, fluttering to the floor to pile in chaos. Ryan Blithe glances at the topmost flyer. A full color picture of his face grins back above the headline,
"Vote Blithe - Vote Community - Vote Family"
Pipes stop humming and a door opens upstairs. "Are you all right down there, dear?" Ryan smacks his large, soft hand over his mouth to muffle a whine. "What was that, dear?" his wife asks. "Nothing, Julie, nothing," Ryan yells after a moment. He falls back into the large leather office chair. I'm finished, he thinks. The is the end. She won't forgive me again. Not after Charleston.
The election. Campaign funds. Hotel room. Vote Family. Handcuffs.
The rear screen door slams shut behind him. The combination lock on the shed, normally stubborn, opens on the first try. A stubbed toe does not register as pain, but as annoyance. The cylinder is oiled, its action smooth. All six chambers are loaded. He removes a package, a fancy beige jacket for his wife, from a shop stool and puts it on the workbench behind him.
The heavy gun barks, spattering the new beige jacket with freshly spilled lifeblood.
No comments:
Post a Comment