Prelude 2: Hours after Day 3 of the GOP Convention

Day 3 of the GOP Convention

The elevator dinged open, and Ted Cruz smiled as he stepped out. Take that, you smug bastard, he thought. He knew the booing had been prompted, but didn’t care. Trump and his cabals had dared to attack him? Attack his family?! And they called him a monster…no, this fight would end with Cruz smiling as he stabbed a knife--maybe figurative, maybe literal--into Trump’s heart.

Cruz was going to be president. He knew it. Then he would have the power. Then he would have it...the soup…

He strolled past the bodyguards, two of them large men in suits blocking the door, the other two invisible cloaked figures carrying scythes hiding in the corner. Sure, this year was lost, but four short years down the road...maybe 2020 would be his time. Or maybe the Elders would just say it was all for Cruz anyway, and he could wear a Donald Trump Suit instead…but first, he had to strike while the iron is hot. First he had to talk to Adleson. Money was how this worked, and Adleson had money. Then Cruz would have money. And soup. Delicious Soup.

Cruz waited in the main room of the suite. And waited. Too long. Cruz hated waiting. He was itchy--always itchy. This skin…

Finally, the door, but Cruz’s mouth flared up like he smelled something terrible. “You’re not Mr. Adelson.” No, this was just a pawn--easy to sacrifice. Chubby, blonde, harmless. The servant shrugged. “I’m sorry Senator Cruz. Mr. Adelson isn’t available at this time. Perhaps at a later date?” Cruz’s face went into a sneer. “He’s HERE!! We--I--can SMELL him!!”

The attendant shrugged. “He was here, but he had to step aw--NO!!” The Attendant was pushed up against the wall by Cruz. His voice was distorted, like it was thousands of Ted Cruz’s all speaking in unison from a very far way off. “Don’t lie to us, meat. We don’t like liars…”

“Ok, Ok!! He’s here, but...he’s warded. Against you. He won’t even be able to see you. He’s not going to meet you. You--you should have just went with the program!”  Cruz let the man slide down the wall, stepped away, straightened his tie. “You mean he’s going to work with Trump and not us?!? I am a Senator! I encited the Oath of Te’! The Elders promised they wouldn’t interfere!  He….wait…”

Cruz stared at the man, his eye’s black like a shark’s. “This is HIM, isn’t it?” Even Cruz didn’t dare to speak his name, not in this room. But it was so obvious...The attendant shook his head, ignorant and panicky. “I-I don’t know who you’re talking about. W--whose HIM?”

Cruz was staring at the ceiling lost in thought. If it was HIM (and who else could it be?), then this went beyond money. Cruz didn’t need resources anymore. He needed weapons. He needed to kill the Trump-man, and then he would take the presidency. Then he would take the Soup.

He looked in the eye of the hidden camera in the corner. “Mr. Adelson, We apologize for wasting your time. When you step free from the wards and watch this, please know We will not interfere with you or your actions...so long as you stay out of mine.” Then Cruz turned on the attendant. His mouth swung wider than any mere mortal's, and a fire-hose of black erupted from every hole in the man’s head. It wasn’t liquid, but instead glistening chitin as a billion spider-things came pouring out of the thing that rested where Cruz’s soul had once been. The attendant didn’t have time to scream--by the time he opened his mouth to breathe, his lungs were already filled with arachnids.

A moment later, the room was just Cruz, alone, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He left the room, past the body guards (all four of them), and pushed the button for the lift. First he would gather his armies. Then he would kill the Trump-man, and the Elders of the Gule and the Azure, and then he would claim Washington DC. And then the world. And then he would have the Soup...

All. the. Soup.

Prelude 1: West Oaks Texas, March 1, 2016

Jeb looked out at his father’s land, deep in introspection, lost in his thoughts. This week had been one of the worst in his life--Dad was sick, and he had let him down. His brother had been quietly gloating the entire time, and now it was becoming all-too-clear that orange-skinned jackass was probably going to win...he sipped his beer, tried not to think about it.

The press had been right, of course. He hadn’t really wanted to run. He had seen what the Chair did to his father, to his brother. The governorship was hard enough--all those voices, all the signs, the portents. No one understood what it was like, unless you knew what it was like. You didn’t get the vision unless you had the visions.

He didn’t hear Georgie sit down--he always was a quiet one. The expansion of foam from the can was Coke, not beer, but it shook Jeb from his thoughts, twisted his stomach. Georgie slurped the soda noisily, then gave that shit-eating grin he always had. “Well...you gave it a good shot. Dad was happy when he saw you on the screen.”

“Well, that’s why I was running. Hopefully it kept him happy. Maybe give him a few more years…”

Georgie laughed, starting beyond the horizon. “I guess. Doesn’t matter, though--he’s got his reward waiting for him.” The words of a true believer, the tone of one who KNOWS. Jeb didn’t roll his eyes, but he couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Right.”

Georgie turned then. His eyes were sharp, his voice tight. “Just because you didn’t have the guts to finish, don’t be a smartass. Our father was Presided, given the blessings of the Grand Old Ones. His afterlife is secured, and his works will be remembered...just like mine.” He laughed that mean laugh of his. “That’s one thing you’ll never be able to get over me know, Jeb. You might have been the smart one, but my manse is ready, my name now immortal, my hand has guided to the Day!”

Jeb shouldn’t have risen to the ribbing, but he was tired and angry and scared for the future. “Yeah Georgie...thanks to me and Cheney’s Nixomancers. You can have your big house in heaven--remembered forever as the shittiest president of the twentieth cen-”

He was thrown from the porch by a mighty invisible hand. Georgie was now up, the coke spilling at his feet, his eyes burning with the Red. Jeb was hovering in the air, trying to breathe, distracted by the small spheres of beer floating around him. Georgie was barely keeping it together. “I am so. Damned. Tired. Of your crap…” He raised his hand, and Jeb could see he hesitated. He knew he shouldn’t, but he really did want to use to closing sigil.

Jeb realized that a part of his brother would really try to kill him. For real.

Jeb didn’t let him make the decision. He was only a governor, but that was enough--besides the Bushes were always good and avoiding attacks. He willed the katas, and blurred out of Georgie’s grasp, on the ground, ready. One hand was shaped into an ancient sigil, a red-white burning sword in the other. Jeb squinted--Georgie had more power, obviously, but he never knew what to do with it…Now this would be finished.

“Boys!” From the poarch, their mother glared at them. You might be the head of a nation or a state, you might have the power of elder sleeping deities, but when your mother scolds you...the two men released their powers. Georgie pointed an all-too mortal finger at Jeb. “He started it!”

Barbara scoffed. “I don’t care. Don’t waste yourselves out here…”She templed her fingers, and the dark shadows coalesced in her hands. “...save it for Trump. We’re going to war.”