[gaslight] // The Gentleman by Daniel Guido

A freshman senator attends a secret midnight committee hearing where politicians receive sacrosanct prophecies...

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The Gentleman by Daniel Guido

Ascending the steps to the United States Capitol building, Thomas Fairs (D-NY) wondered whether or not it was a prank. His footsteps surged forward, bouncing back to him off of the grand columns he couldn’t look up at.

Not at this hour.

He’d only been a Senator for two of the six years he was elected to serve. Despite this, his party still selected him for the Intelligence Committee. He was glad to do it, even if it meant sitting through hours of current affairs. He was serving his country the best way he knew how. He’d given it his everything up until this moment.

This moment. This hour.

His head swiveled, taking in the spire as it braved the black wind.

Monday, in the hall outside of the chamber they had just retired from, a group of senators led by Rafe Gudelman (R-MO) had approached him.

“Senator Fairs?”

Thomas extended his hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Gudelman took it, pulling him in, and put his arm around his shoulders while leading him down the hall. The other senators packed in tight. Beyond the wall of questionable flesh Thomas could hear a stampede of press looking for the next clip to premiere on all of their socials.

“Listen, I hate to be a bother but I have to cue you in on something since you’re newly appointed to the committee. We do it about twice a year annually.”

Thomas’s ears sprung up. “What is it?”

“You see, we enjoy a pleasant bipartisan relationship in the interest of national security as part of this committee,” Gudelman went on without answering, “so each of us are willing to make certain…sacrifices.”

“Spare me the lecture Gudelman. What do you need?”

Thomas looked under every nook and cranny in his mind trying to predict what he might say next. A favor for a rich buddy of his? Support for a particular bill that had many strings attached in the interest of “saving the budget”?

But then Gudelman stopped walking, shooing him into a crevice of wall once the mob had dissipated to another area of the building. “We’re holding an emergency meeting on Sunday morning,” he said. “It’s urgent.”

“That’s fine. What time?”

“Two in the morning. Sharp.”

Thomas scoffed, “If you wanted to make an ass out of me go babble to your buddies at Fox.”

The other senators took two steps forward, forming a tighter circle.

“Thomas, make no mistake, I’m not joking. If you don’t show up we’re going to have to assume you aren’t serious about the committee or the security of our nation, including those of the citizens in New York that you represent.”

“Jesus Senator, you have to understand how it sounds.”

Gudelman removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket, blotted his forehead, and pushed up on his glasses. “Sorry Fairs,” he folded it back, stuffing it in his pocket, “I’m worried sick. We all are. I can’t stress how important this is.”

Thomas addressed the other senators. “You’ll all be there?

Marcia Wexler (D-CA), Morris Slough (R-TX), and Nelson Garrick (R-FL) nodded, though it seemed more of a shiver. Their lips twitched in anticipation. Were they fighting a laugh? A scream? He couldn’t tell. They all kept looking over their shoulders.

Sunday, two in the morning. He stood before the doors to the Capitol staring at himself in the reflection of the glass doors. It was a brisk autumn night, his coat fluttered in the dim wind behind him as he gripped the metal handle. His black leather gloves squeaked as his fingers tightened.

He pulled.

Locked.

He pulled a few more times on the other doors. Part of him wanted to walk around, maybe he was using the wrong one, but he dismissed this. He’d be lucky if there wasn’t someone watching him with a camera somewhere capturing this moment. Maybe he wouldn’t be fit to serve anymore if this were used as evidence of a nervous breakdown.

And he’d walked right into it without a second thought. They seemed so concerned.

He clicked his tongue, ducked his head, and began to walk down the steps. When he saw Gudelman next, he’d give him the New York one finger salute, and that would be that. He chuckled. At least it wasn’t anything serious.

Hinges. Halfway down the steps, he heard hinges. Goosebumps ravaged his arms as he turned back, looking up the steps.

“Fairs?”

Senator Slough stood in the doorway, half his face illuminated by a wax candle. The shadows made his heavy cheeks appear as if they were melting.

“Get your ass inside. You’re five minutes late.”

Thomas checked his Rolex. Six, actually.

He hurried up the steps.

“Why are you carrying a candle?” Thomas asked, following Slough into the building. A series of twists and turns in pitch black hallways made him dizzy. All the lights were off, even the exit signs. Slough grunted in response, continuing to a set of stairs.

They stopped. Slough pointed up.

Again, Thomas spoke. “What’s with the damn candle?”

Slough squinted. Thomas rolled his eyes, then jerked his thumb at the steps. “I can’t even see where I’m going if you don’t follow—”

“Be quiet.”

“Fine,” Thomas murmured, putting one foot up on the first step. Slough’s face fell with relief, but then he stopped. He held onto the railing and turned back. “Just real quick before I go, what’s with the candle?”

“They don’t like the lights because They don’t like the buzzing. Now shut up and move,” Slough spit through grit teeth. Thomas threw his hands and went up the stairs, his footsteps loud. He didn’t care.

“SHH!”

Slough looked capable of murder, a fat finger pressed to his lips. Thomas imagined his salt and peppered mustache speckled with blood, some of that Dick Cheney hunting trip action. It made him shiver. Slough took a breath in, but before he was able to fire off a scathing diatribe, his attention was called to the front door again.

Another late arrival had pulled on the handle. Thomas ascended the last few steps.

When he looked back down, Slough had vanished.

Thomas arrived outside the chamber, the door gaping. Save for a few candles, it was pitch. The two other Senators were in their coats still. Gudelman approached. “A little late, but we’ll excuse it. Before we go in, put this on.”

He handed him a half-mask: The eyes and nose of Tony Bennett, along with a candle.

“Why?”

“Your questions will be answered. Just take it.”

Thomas did. For the next ten minutes he listened to Gudelman deliberate with Wexler about silicon valley stock options until Slough arrived with Nelson Garrick.

“Senator Garrick,” Gudelman turned, “You’re late. This won’t be tolerated again.”

They were all still. Garrick swallowed. “It won’t happen again.”

“I know. Put this on. Everyone else, please follow.”

Garrick slid on his mask - Tom Petty - and Thomas followed, his vision closing in to circular slits. Gudelman was next, Walter Cronkite. Slough was Willie Nelson, Wexler was Marilyn Monroe.

“Fairs, from here on, you are Mister New York. I am Mister Missouri. This applies to the others as well, we’ll try to steer clear of names. Do you understand?”

“Sure,” Mister New York replied, “Are we the only ones?”

“Yes,” Miss California answered, pulling him aside while the others inhaled. Were they bracing themselves?

Mister New York cocked his head, leaning into her. “Is this a sub committee?”

“Of sorts. Unlisted. We don’t keep record of it,” she said. “A little pro tip: I remember my first time. If I can offer you any advice, any at all, it’d be to stop asking what you’ll come to know in time. We like you, New York. That’s why you’re here.”

Thomas clammed up.

Mister Missouri said, “It’s time,” and led them in. Seeing the room at night struck him sideways. The room wasn’t “off”, but colder. The twinkling flames cast their shadows long on the far wall. Four of them climbed the steps, taking seats where their nameplates, now bearing their codenames, told them to. They set their candles down next to their microphones.

All four of them sat watching Mister Missouri approach the table opposite of them, beneath them. He went into his suit pocket, removed a red candle and a stand. He struck a match, lit it, and jogged up to his spot at the center of the council, between the four of them. His chair rolled forward and he clicked his mic on.

“Testing,” he said, speakers booming. “Alright, perfect. Senators, please keep your mics muted unless you are spoken to directly.”

They nodded, masks crinkling on twitching cheeks.

Mister Missouri cleared his throat. Thomas kept his eyes focused on the red candle’s flame. He recalled the countless times over the last couple of months he felt bored sitting in this exact spot. Now he heard his heart in his ears.

Thomas had heard the stories, of course . You always do. Moreso when you’re on the way up. People love to speculate what happens behind closed doors. People love to imagine it’s a twisted, sickening party. Thomas scanned the room. No children. His mind checked that off. He hadn’t been propositioned, either.

But the masks.

He couldn’t rationalize the masks.

Mister Missouri muted his mic, then waved both sides in close. The Democrats, Mister New York and Miss California, wheeled in from his left. From his right, Mister Texas and Mister Florida did the same. They huddled.

“Before we begin, take a minute to say a prayer to your chosen God,” he said, looking around. Thomas sat upright. Mister Texas said, “What?”

“What if we don’t have one?”

Mister Florida chuckled. “You will,” he said.

A pang of dread shot through Thomas’s knees. This was more than frat initiation. They were bringing personal belief into it and it didn’t seem to matter which. Was that an admission of feebleness? Was it instead for their mental states?

They returned to their spots.

Mister Missouri cleared his throat, engaging the mic. The speakers crackled to life. Palpitations riddled Mister New York’s chest. He noticed Miss California’s hands were shaking. She caught him looking and plunged her hands beneath the desk.

“Annuit cœptis,” Mister Missouri said.

“The Gentleman from The Other Side is recognized.”

When he was ten years old in Utica, Mister New York would sit out back on the porch to read. His mother described him as voracious, and he’d needed a dictionary to understand what that meant. She used to say, “Thomas wouldn’t hear a bullet if it whizzed passed his ear” if he was reading. It was true.

Mister New York loved words.

He’d been thumbing through a Webster’s Dictionary when his father had called him four times for supper. He marked his page, 506, where he’d been reading the definition of the word “Homograph”. He stood from the wood loveseat he’d been lounging on, stretched, and turned to set the book down.

Standing on the back cushion, inches from where his neck had been only seconds before, was a spider. This realization that he’d been sitting there, unaware of this thing crawling so close, made him more lightheaded than seeing it altogether. The world ebbed back and forth. A bulb of pressure shot from his brain stem and up into his head, filling it like a hot air balloon.

This was the exact feeling he had sitting in the shadowy chamber after Mister Missouri uttered those words.

“The Gentleman from The Other Side.”

He didn’t consider himself religious. Spiritual maybe. He hadn’t attended Mass since he was a teenager, maybe earlier. He kept his gaze on the red candle’s flame.

It wavered once, then straightened.

A trick of the low light. He was peering from slits. Maybe the wick had shifted, or maybe a draft had come in.

It waved twice, then straightened.

His mind drew blank.

It wavered over and over, until just beyond the light cast, he thought he saw a silhouette emerge from the rose of shrouded chairs. Then, a rubbery scream in front of them. Thomas clamped his molars so tight he thought they might shatter. The chair opposite of them continued to squeal as it moved backward.

The figure took a seat, scooted forward, and rested its arms on the table. The face was sallow, turquoise, and loose at the jowls. It took a few seconds to register who he was looking at, and a few seconds more to wonder if he was dreaming.

Ronald Reagan leaned forward, adjusting the microphone. “Thank you, Mister Speaker.”

Mister Missouri nodded. “Present are myself, Mister Texas, Mister Florida, Mister New York, and Miss California. Our first questions are usual, having to do with each state and their populations.”

Reagan’s eyes crawled the committee. As his eyes passed Thomas’s, he felt invaded, as if maggots would burst through the slits and take his face at any second. Reagan returned to Mister Missouri. “Your people can expect good things this year. Another Super Bowl victory, crime will be average, nothing of serious to note. Missouri will continue to be Missouri.”

“Thank you,” Mister Missouri said. Reagan tilted his head. “Texans and Floridians can both expect significant major hurricanes this season. Category Fives, one for each state—”

“Where?” Mister Florida cut in. They all twisted their necks at him. Reagan’s eyes closed, a scowl forming on his face. When he opened them, he tilted his head forward and Mister Florida’s sleeves tore, two slashes forming down the lengths of his forearms. He screamed, steam rising fro the slits.

“Bad manners to interrupt,” Reagan said. “But to your point, Hurricane Jerry will speed toward the West Coast after passing the Cuban strait in early August. Rapid intensification. Costs in the billions. Direct landfall will be between Tampa and Naples, with a last minute pivot into Cedar Key.”

Mister Florida’s hands covered his mouth. “Jesus Christ, a five there? They’ll all go.”

Reagan hissed, “Thousands of people die in your state every minute of every day to a myriad of causes. This is no different.”

“Texas will be hit under similar circumstances just two months later. It will look like a repeat of Hurricane Katrina given the early path, but another last minute pivot puts us with a landfall at Houston. My suggestion for the both of you? Suck the FEMA tit dry.”

Thomas swallowed hard as Reagan turned to him.

“New York, New York,” he said, “Your year will be boring with the exception of rising crime rates in Buffalo, Syracuse, Manhattan and Albany. You’ll also have one frozen hell of a Nor’easter, but your people will be fine as long as you can hold off your constituents pissing Canada off. Your role this year is mediator. The deck is in your hands and I take you to be a gambling man.”

Trembling, Thomas engaged the mic. “Thank you, President Reagan.”

Mister Missouri folded his hands.

“You’re very welcome. Miss California,” he sighed. “More sodomy on the streets at the end of the western world, I’m afraid. It breaks my heart to see it.”

A faint air of sarcasm. Reagan’s flesh glowed. As Thomas’s eyes adjusted to the low light, he noticed a pulsating wall of red lining the back wall, luminous and ethereal, another reel bleeding into this reality.

The seats behind Reagan were not empty. There were other silhouettes, shoulder to shoulder, in the seats behind him. One, he could see in the outline, wore a powdered wig. Next to him, a gentleman in a tophat, slim and taller than the rest. One of the chairs had wheels. Another silhouette was missing half his head. They continued onward, as wide as the room was deep.

Reagan cleared his throat. “The public at large will find out more about the Hollywood circle. Of course they won’t know how long it’s been going on, or of our role in it, but there will be a wave of arrests. The lords of today will make room for the more obscure ones of tomorrow, fans garnered from other avenues. The TV Age will finally die with this. A few will remain and restart in other sectors.

“Wildfires will plague the northern part of the state again, these more fierce than before. The smoke will blot out the sky over your state for months.”

Miss California nodded.

“As for the continuing docket, we’re expecting to close a few national parks for drilling and an increase in CO2 emissions. Some of you will try to stop it, but the Executive branch has abused you all so thoroughly that you’ll roll over anyway. And it won’t matter by the middle of the year, in fact, some of you that are most opposed to it will support it because the United States will declare war on Iran. We’ll need to drill our own oil. Mister Texas, your state will be crucial for this if we’re to win.”

Mister Texas nodded.

“The floor is now open for General Inquiry,” Reagan smiled. His teeth were jagged, skinny blades. Withered nubs that beat atop bleeding gums. He swallowed rosy saliva back with each breath.

Mister Texas rose a hand.

“The Gentleman from Texas is recognized,” Mister Missouri said.

“You mentioned oil drilling setups. Let’s say there’s a push back because the nation isn’t expecting a sudden war?”

“Hardly sudden, Senator. And I’m disappointed in you. In my party. We should be using every available resource we’ve been given.”

“Taken,” Thomas said, shocked that it slipped from his mouth. The rest gasped. Reagan’s eyes shot over. “Yes,” he said, “it’s true. Taken. Didn’t Guthrie tell you? This land is our land.”

He held up a hand, scrunched his fingers, and yanked back. Thomas coughed hard, and with it, three of his teeth flew out on to the desk. His mouth beat with gum pulp, blood, and pain so excruciating tears streamed down his cheeks.

Reagan pointed, “Interrupt me again, Big Apple, and I take your tongue and one of your eyes next. Harder to read that way, you know,” then in Thomas’s mother’s voice, he said, “I know you like to read. You wouldn’t hear a bullet whizz by your ear if you were reading.”

Thomas’s smart watched warned him that his heart rate had spiked to 185.

“Mister Texas, my apologies. The committee is more talkative than usual. The reason I told you about the war is so that you can start lobbying now while you’re ahead. You have benefactors that could stand to make a killing, no pun intended. If you get enough senators on the other side on board it won’t matter what New York or California has to say. You’ll all profit.”

“Thank you, President Reagan,” Mister Texas said. Then he sighed.

“What is it?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s just a lot to consider.

“PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER”

A simultaneous chorus that made all of them duck into their desks. Reagan jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You’re getting them rowdy. That’s never good.”

“What’s the endgame?” Mister Florida asked. “Who initiates the conflict? Who wins?”

Reagan tilted his head. “Do you even have to ask that? We strike first. We occupy their land, and we take control of their oil reserves. We need a wartime economy. It’s the only way the American appetite can sustain itself without starving to death.”

Mister Missouri leaned forward. “Mister President, we’re closing soon.”

“I understand,” Reagan said. “Which one?”

Which one?

Thomas’s tongue ran cold. His head throbbed so hard he thought a vein might burst and send a culvert of blood over Miss California. Thomas engaged the mic. “If I may ask, what does The Gentleman mean by ‘which one’?””

Reagan slammed a fist into the table, the sound rocketing off the black walls of the chamber. He laughed, “New blood, huh?”

“I forgot to mention it.”

“Not a big deal. I could tell. Still, Gudelman, I expected you to say something,” Reagan said. A curtain of scorn fell over his face, and Mister Missouri bled from his ears. He covered them. Reagan turned back to Mister New York.

“One of you comes with me.”

“Where?”

“You know where,” Reagan leaned forward, the candle flame making his decrepit face a marbled sculpture. They were locked in quiet tension for a moment. Thomas swept a hand through his hair, it came back full of sweat. “But In God We Trust, right? I mean, shouldn’t we be covered?”

“Oh, Mister New York, you really are a politician. Did it ever occur to you that there’s a reason In God We Trust is so vague? To serve in any one of the seats in this chamber, in this capital, hell, in this city, you must know that dirty deed have to be done. Mister New York, you’ve lied, cheated, and slept your way to the top with the bet of them. Why don’t you refresh my memory with that one matter…The Marshall Incident?”

Thomas’s eyes widened.

“Yes, Marshall King, remember him? You ran against him for the Senate. Only, he decided to concede right before he election and you ran uncontested. Why is that, Thomas?”

Between quiet gasps for oxygen, he said, “A change of heart I think.”

“WRONG.”

Reagan clapped, looking over his shoulder. “Wrong indeed! You found out Marshall King had sexual abuse allegations made against him in private by female coworkers and teenagers. Instead of informing the police, or even the public, you blackmailed him with it. He now lives in a comfortable suburb outside of Rochester. You represent him now, as a citizen of your state. He is not a felon because of you, and because of you, he’s sleeping with a fifteen year old this very moment.

“You enabled his depravity, Thomas And I wish I could say it was just you but it’s all of us. It’s the only way to swing in the big leagues and swim with the big fish. It’s not just who I’m taking now,” Regan explained, a thin grin crusting over his face, “all of us are going to Hell, today or tomorrow. No rosary can save you. When you were sworn into office the price was your soul. You laid your hands on the bible and pledged allegiance to something else. To us. You seared your name from the good book, and you gave it all up for Marshall King.”

With a shaky breath, Thomas pointed at his constituents. “And they knew all of this?”

Reagan added. “All of your cohorts do.”

Silence settled over the room. Reagan turned to Mister Missouri. “Pick one.”

Missouri looked to his right, then to his left, right into Thomas’s eyes. He leaned forward.

“The chair delegates to the will of The Gentleman from The Other Side.”

“Lazy, but fine,” Reagan said. He studied each person, giving them careful consideration. He lingered on Thomas. Then, all of those stories came to life, waiting in the wings of his mind. The eternal torment, the languish, the fire, the suffering, and to think before he had taken the seat that he would’ve laughed at someone for trying to warn him of it. He recalled the numerous times he’d walked beyond the call of a street preacher screaming to save his life. What God could fashion such a place? But maybe that was the wrong question.

He thought of what Marshall King was doing at that very moment.

Maybe he should’ve been asking what God allows people like them to exist. His hypocrisy tasted bitter and his head fell into his hands. He knew he deserved it. He knew Marshall King deserved it. He knew the whole damn Capitol deserved it.

“Ah, what the hell,” Reagan said, turning his head one last time, “I miss my home state.”

Miss California stood, her chair rolling back. “You can’t,” she gasped, “What about the wildfires? What about Hollywood? What about…what about…” Miss California’s words were evaporating. Reagan pointed, then beckoned his finger. The Monroe mask slid forward, the tie snapping at the back of her head, but she caught it and pressed it down to her face.

“Feisty,” Reagan said. “I like that.”

He rose another hand. The mask launched forward, but again she caught it, and it slammed her hips against the table. Mister Missouri engaged his mic. “Marcia, don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”

Mister Texas and Mister Florida both looked away. Marcia sobbed. The mask started to rip. Thomas froze, watching the tear split into the mask further until it hung on by the size of a rice grain. She howled, “Please, please, please reconsider! Please! There is still so much work to be done!”

The mask gave way. She looked upon him with her bare face for one whole second. Her cheeks bloomed, then bubbled. Her eyes shot aflame, and her screams echoed off the hallowed walls of the Capitol building. Mister Florida, Mister Texas, and Mister Missouri averted their gaze. Thomas wheeled back, watching as the flames shot up into her hair and down into her chest. Each scream sent out orange bursts. Miss California stumbled backward, breathing fire, the sizzling of her flesh sweet, almost appetizing until the clothes broke down and released perfume. He gagged, watching the skin fall off of her bones in globular chunks.

She collapsed. The fire made quick work of her, fading from yellow, to orange, to blue, and then a radium green. When the flames petered out, she’d vanished. Nothing but soot at Thomas’s feet.

“Until next time,” Reagan said, blowing out the candle.

Thomas ran into the hall, found a trash bin, and vomited. Slough and Garrick passed him quickly, disappearing around a corner. Gudelman patted him on the back. “Fairs,” he said, “get ahold of yourself.”

The lights came back on.

Thomas wiped his mouth, standing. “What the fuck was that? What have you made me apart of?”

“We’re all part of it. It’s not a big deal,” Gudelman returned. “But you should know you’re expected to continue making these meetings.”

“And how do I know I won’t go up in flames?”

“That’s irrelevant. You will, it’s only a matter of time. Even if you live out the rest of your natural life, Fairs, you’re going to Hell.”

“But what about Christ?”

“What about him?”

Thomas’s heart dropped. “If I believe, isn’t it fine?”

Gudelman held his hands in front of himself. “Who crucified him, Fairs?”

Thomas took a step back. “The Romans?”

“The Romans. Right. And we’re The Romans now, understand? We filled those shoes. We occupy that role in geopolitics. It’s one thing to fight for Rome. It’s one thing to do as Romans do when in their company. But Fairs,” Gudelman said, moving in and lowering his voice, “It’s another thing entirely to be Rome.”

They held eye contact.

“There’s nothing I can do.”

Gudelman shook his head.

“I can’t renounce this?”

“No,” Gudelman answered.

Thomas clutched his temples. “Why? Why? Why can’t I repent now?”

Gudelman sighed, checked his watch, and readjusted his suit. “Can Lucifer be saved?”

Thomas took another few steps back. Gudelman continued, “Exactly. That’s us. The Light of The World. We are Lucifer, Fairs. We are doomed. We are the torch stick for the light. We must burn. We’ll be preserved in eternity forever as martyrs to a higher cause. It’s a big club. You should be honored,” he said. Then, he followed him close until Thomas was backed into a corner.

“Before I forget, I wanted to let you know about the tragic passing of Marcia Wexler. You see, she was driving back to her townhouse on the freeway, wouldn’t you believe it, her front right tire blew and she swerved into a semi truck head on. Her body was so eviscerated that one ‘Officer Thomas’ threw up at the sight of her. She’s having a private memorial service next week. We’ll be expected to attend.”

Thomas gaped.

“It’ll be on the front page of The Washington Post at sunrise tomorrow, and I’m sure The Times will follow. Make sure you make the funeral. She will be dearly missed.”

Gudelman strolled down the hall, unbothered, and disappeared around the corner. The door to the dark committee chamber gaped, staring at Thomas.

He threw up again.

Whatever Marcia felt at the end, she just kept on feeling it. Since the meeting ended, she kept feeling it, and as he made his way out of the Capitol building she was still feeling it. Forever, she would feel that searing pain to no conceivable end.

And he was guaranteed that fate eventually. Next meeting or in forty odd years, it didn’t matter. He would feel it. There was no getting away from that, not even if he resigned. Even if he isolated himself completely and spent time in prayer, if he was seared, he was gone. His death bed would be haunted by the faces of Marcia Wexler, Ronald Reagan, and Marshall King.

And he would close his eyes to join The Gentleman on The Other Side.