They left him with the map and the button and he turned his attention back to Scotland and the sting of revenge to wash the taste of disappointment away. Hennessy walked the pilgrims to the lift, praying to a different God they didn’t try to talk. No such luck.
“It is a good thing ye do brother,” said the pastor, placing an arm on the agent’s shoulder. Hennessy looked at the hand and the pastor’s broad confident smile.
“Lay youse hands on me and I’ll layse mine on you,” he said. He exaggerated his Scotch brogue to show anger – somehow Celt accentuated the threat of violence.
The fake father quivered a little but not enough. The hand withdrew, but slower than the agent liked. The smugness hung in the tight confines of the lift.
Hennessy knew what they were, but what really sickened was understanding his tolerance of their lies and venality strengthened them while diminishing his own integrity. He leaned into the anti-Christian. “Know what a knife fuck is?” he said.
Doubt flickered in the churchman’s eyes. His flock glanced at each other nervously. “It’s when I take a knife, like the one I got in my pocket, and I open up your face so you look like the cunt you are.”
He turned to the church nymphs, second guessing a nervous giggle if he left it too long. “I believe in equality. You act like a slicey cunt fuck you get treated like a slicey cunt fuck.”
Wide eyes, dry mouths, sweaty foreheads. Hennessy was pleased he still had it in him. When the lift doors opened the flock left in silence.
THE MORBID FASCINATION OF WATCHING A DOG LICK HIS OWN BALLS SOON TURNED TO THE HORROR OF A DEFORMED CHILD CHEWING HIS OWN SHIT
Jonesie was smoking a cigarette on the porch outside when Hennessy took a lungful of air. It always tasted so fresh and clean after any time in the bunker. They both watched the ‘angels’ climb into an MPV with Jesus Is In You airbrushed in flames on the side.
“Never thought I’d be a smoker,” said Jones, staring down at the stick in his hand with both resignation and disdain. “Just needed to get out of there for a while, y’know?”
Hennessy sighed. “Yeah, I know.” Jones was a newbie, ears still wet from Quantico, but the bunker got to all of them, even old farts like Hennessy eventually. The morbid fascination of watching a dog lick his own balls soon turned to the horror of a deformed child chewing his own shit. “We all need some fresh air time to time.”
“Do you think he knows?” said Jones. Here we go, the question on everyone’s lips that no-one wants to answer, because they’re still trying to figure it out.
“What makes you say that?” said Hennessy.
“I caught him playing with himself,” said Jones. “Well, trying to anyway. He was looking at pictures of his daughter while he was doing it.”
“And?”
“Every day he bombs more towns on that map. He sleeps, eats, bombs. If he thinks this is real, then in his head he’s murdered millions, and he still won’t stop, just keeps on going. Maybe…”
“Maybe he’s the one conning us? Maybe he isn’t the stupidest sickest fuck in the universe?”
Hennessy snorted. The whole damn world was delusional in his eyes – the man was a red hot poker job as much as his flock. Instead he was coddled with junk food, games and handjobs from fans at the tax payer’s expense, because apparently it was healing to pander to liars rather than stamp them out.
“Maybe it doesn’t matter either way kid. Every one does what it takes to make it through the day. If he knows or doesn’t know makes no difference to him being there til the end of days.”
“I guess I just thought I’d be able to see why…” Jones shook his head and threw the cigarette down mid-drag.
“Probably a good thing you can’t,” said Hennessy. The food delivery arrived and Hennessy took a last glug of air before heading down with the order, leaving the young guard staring down at the butt at his feet.
He made a mental note to get Jonesie transferred on the next rotor. There was no shame in it, the job wasn’t for everyone and he’d be doing the kid a favour in the long run. Walking around the mind of an asshole wasn’t much fun if you can’t find the exit.
WE ALL NEED TO BELIEVE WE ARE NOT WHO WE SUSPECT WE ARE
When he brought the Big Mac and fries on a tray into the war room he looked up at the map and saw Scotland was blank now. There was a cruel smirk on the culprit’s face.
Hennessy paused. Part of him wanted to slice that face off and make him eat it. That rage helped him get through the day. Made him believe he wasn’t just a sociopath’s nappy-changer.
He said nothing, put the tray down, straightened his back and walked out. The turd’s giggling burned his ears behind him. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist, but closed the door without a word.
Hennessy was an adult, he understood life. He knew the biggest monster could have the happiest time in the world, while a good decent man may spend a life of guilt and persecution if the simplest pleasures brought shame.
It was a matter of perception. You don’t like the world? Reshape it. Make yourself the hero, don’t be stuck being the villain. Keep winning long after you’ve lost.
Our perception of the world could be delusional, but that delusion provided the armour necessary to survive. In many ways, the greater the fantasy, the stronger the armour.
We all need to believe we are not who we suspect we are, and the biggest mark in everyone’s con was themselves.
Back in the war room the President finished his meal. So good they kept the restaurants open even through the holocaust just for him. That was the power he possessed.
He fingered the red button, trying to remember who last insulted him. Maybe after a snooze it’d come to him when he woke. He closed his eyes and a smile crossed his lips as sleep gently cradled him.
He was President, he was the best President, he would always be President.
He was happy.
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