Political Cortex: Brain Food for the Body Politic

CHAPTER ONE

It all began as a dare. Actually, it was a triple-quadruple dare. A triple-quadruple dare is pretty high up there on the "I dare ya" food chain. You know how kids are; scaring the hell out of each other; challenging each other to screw their courage to the sticking place and do crazy, life threatening stuff.

The kids of Saint Michaels, Maryland were no different than children anywhere in America. A bunch from the Willow Green/Church Street neighborhood of Saint Michaels had gathered in the garage of Tommy Richardson's house the day before Halloween. The talk was of costumes, candy and shaving cream. There was lots of laughter amidst scary ghost and banshee sounds from the boys. It was a mixed group of youngsters, including the Lovejoy Twins: Jill & Billy.

Jill and Billy Lovejoy were fraternal twins; a girl and boy, nine and three-quarter years old. They were an oddity for sure. None of the kids really understood how a boy and a girl could be twins; something about two different eggs, but none really wanted to delve into the gory details. Suffice to say, the Lovejoy twins were an accepted and integral part of the neighborhood. It was to Jill Lovejoy the fateful triple-quadruple dare was made.

"I wouldn't go up there in a million years," said Sally Strathmore, "Not even if you paid me all the tea in china and all the gold of the Maya." Sally was a ten year-old brainiac. She read three books a week and fell asleep every night listening to Mike Malloy on Air America. Yet, as smart as Sally was, she too was spooked by the House.

"What's the big deal?" asked Tommy Richardson with a sneer. "It's just an old house."

"Well, if it's no big deal," asked Billy Lovejoy, "Why don't you go up there?" Billy was younger than Tommy by a year, but it didn't stop him from challenging the older boy. Tommy wasn't a bully; he was just full of hot air.

"Why don't you?" shot back Tommy Richardson. "I dare you." There was a collective gasp amongst the children. This was getting serious. None of the kids wanted to go up the hill to the house. It was haunted by the ghost of evil. They all knew that.

Not even the parents would venture up the hill to the house. Chilling shivers would dance up and down the spines of any who even drove by the long, winding road that led up to the house. The house belonged to a once very important man. For a time, the man was arguably the most powerful man in the world. The man was responsible for the brutal deaths of thousands, the misery of millions and the near-destruction of the entire planet. The parents would not even say his name. They didn't like to think about those dark times in America when the people were held hostage to fear and loathing.

"Why don't you, Tommy?" challenged Jill Lovejoy. "I double-dare you to walk up to the front door and knock." Sally Strathmore's eyes opened wide at Jilly's dare to Tommy. The girls were fast friends. Sally was smart and Jill was brave. Sally liked Jill's brother, Billy, too, in ways she didn't even understand. Sally was an only child so she clung to the Lovejoy twins like her own brother and sister. The twins didn't mind. Sally never flaunted her brainy ways in front of them. Not like Tommy Richardson who wasn't nearly as smart as Sally, but acted like a know-it-all.

"Yeah?" taunted Tommy Richardson. He leaned in close to Jill Lovejoy with an intimidating sneer. Billy was ready to pounce, but he saw his sister was enjoying the test of wills. "Well, I triple-dare you to go up to that house at night, knock on the door and wait for an answer."

Jill Lovejoy loved a challenge, but she wasn't stupid. The house was haunted by evil spirits; everyone said so. She once asked her own parents why everyone was afraid of the mansion on the hill. She remembered her parents' exchanged glances and raised eyebrows. Finally her dad had said, "It reminds us of those dark times, Jilly, and all the bad things that happened back then. It's better to leave that bitter old man alone."

"What man?" Jill had asked. There were more knowing looks and shoulder shrugs. Neither parent wanted to speak his name. This was astonishing to the girl. Her parents weren't afraid of anything. They were always honest and open. Even when Jill was five years old and she asked them point-blank about Santa Claus, they told her the truth. That caused a big fight in the house because her twin brother Billy wasn't ready to handle the truth. But, that's another story.

Jill Lovejoy, not the least bit intimidated by Tommy Richardson, leaned into his face the final inch; their noses almost touching. "Yeah?" she said, "Well, I quadruple dare you to go up there tomorrow night, Halloween night, knock on the door, wait for an answer and say `trick or treat.'"

It was like the air was sucked out from the gathering. The very notion of doing what Jilly had dared was like jumping off a cliff into the bowels of hell. At least that's what Sally Strathmore thought. Tommy Richardson had been quadruple dared. He had no choice now but to take up the challenge or chicken out. The silence that momentarily engulfed the young friends was complete. Their lungs and hearts all involuntarily stopped for the longest moment. But in the end, it was just a moment after all.

It was then Tommy Richardson had his first and last stroke of genius. He cut to the chase, reached the bottom line and dropped the dime on his cute and gusty adversary. Oh yeah, even at just under ten-years old with her jade green eyes and mars red hair, it was plain for all the prepubescent boys to see that Jill Lovejoy was only a couple years shy of something they couldn't name, but wanted nonetheless.

"Fine," said Tommy accepting the dare, "Then I triple-quadruple dare you to come with me."

"No way," said Billy Lovejoy.

"I accept," said Jill Lovejoy, nudging her brother to silence.

"No way Mom and Dad will let you go up there," said Billy. Jill looked at her brother with supreme confidence.

"And who would tell them?" she asked him. The twins were like partners in a cop show or best-friends in a "buddy picture." They had each other's back. The idea of snitching on the other was an alien thought; unless there was serious danger involved. And while it was spooky, eerie and really scary, after all; it was just a big haunted house on a hill and there really wasn't any such thing as ghosts.

CHAPTER TWO

It was Halloween night. Halloween was on Friday this year and there was no school the next day. Their plans had been made; the conspiracy of friends in play. The little white lies, so necessary and vital to the plan, had been spread and believed. It was prestidigitation of the youthful kind. Tricking and treating with crossed fingers and half-truths. Jilly was with Sally and Billy was with Tommy and all was vicey-versey and exactly which adult was supervising which kid was lost in a haze of kidspeak and doubletalk. The parents were covered.

It would all be over by nine o'clock anyway, so what was the big deal? It wasn't like they were going up there at midnight or anything. The kids were all around ten years old. A few hours were all they could safely muster away from the home-front, but it would be enough. This was small-town America in the days after the great darkness. Hope had been restored and the future was bright. Kids could walk the streets again at night and folks often forgot to latch their backdoors.

The four amigos stood in their costumes at the foot of the hill. They had biked the mile or so from the center of town. Tommy Richardson, dressed as a policeman, shined his flashlight on the mailbox.

"666 Horror Hill Drive," Tommy said as he read the address on the mailbox. At that exact moment a big old hoot owl gave a big old hoot and somewhere in the near distance a dog began to howl at the rising full moon.

"Let's get out of here," said Billy Lovejoy dressed as a priest.

"No, wait," said Jill.

"That's not the real address," said Sally Strathmore. "I did some research about this place on the internet." Sally was costumed in MD scrubs and wore a stethoscope around her neck. Sally, at ten year's old, had already decided to become a brain surgeon.

"Yeah?" asked Tommy.

"Yeah," said Sally, "It took me a while to figure out. This is a private road and it's not on MapQuest. Anyway, the road is named Honor Hill, not Horror Hill and see somebody has messed with the lettering."

They all looked at the box again and could see, indeed, someone had morphed the original address, 600 Honor Hill Drive into the one rendered before them.

"Spooky," said Billy.

"And highly ironic," said Sally, "as the man who owns this house holds a place of the highest dishonor."

"Who is it?" asked Jill. She wore a white nurse's uniform, cap and all. Jill didn't particularly aspire to be a nurse, but she held them in high esteem and felt they were important in the scheme of things.

"Who cares?" snapped Tommy impatiently, "Let's get this over with."

So the four friends, the bravest trick or treaters in all of Saint Michaels began the climb up the hill. Leaving their bikes stacked against the mailbox and with Tommy's flashlight leading the way, the doctor, nurse, priest and policeman paid a house call.

Between the full moon-glow and the flashlight, there was plenty of light to guide their way. It was about a quarter mile from the road to the house.

"Are you scared?" asked Jill of her friend Sally.

"I was," said Sally. Indeed, the girl had many misgivings about tagging along with her braver friend tonight. She didn't believe in ghosts or evil spirits, but she did believe some people could do bad things. "Then, I decided to find out the truth. He's just an old man with a wicked past. I'm sure we can outrun him if we need to."

"Shh!" shushed Tommy. "There it is!"

They could see the hulk of a big house standing before them. Faint light cascaded through curtained windows. Black smoke trickled out the chimney against a dark grey sky. There was a stone-stair pathway leading up to a big, wraparound porch. And there, center-stage; was the heavy wooden door that stood between them and their frightful imaginings.

The four stealthily began to climb the stairs. They were breathing hard but quiet as they could. None said a word. They reached the porch and then stood motionless at the top of the stair, each waiting for another to make the first move toward the door.

Tommy, in his police officer getup, was visibly shaking. He didn't have even a toy gun, but he did have a rubber night-stick that would be no use against ghosts. Billy in his priest's frock wasn't shaking, but his mouth was dry and he was ready to run with the rest of them at the slightest noise. Sally knew who would take charge and she looked to her friend. Jill Lovejoy, smiled tightly, gave a slight shrug of her shoulders and walked toward the door.

As she approached, Jill saw a big brass knocker on the door. What the hell? she thought. She reached up and rapped the knocker three times sharply against the thick, hardwood door.

Billy was ready to bolt, and if his sister wasn't there he would have. Tommy Richardson was paralyzed from the waist down and the neck up. It was like his feet were nailed to the porch floor and his brain short-circuited. Sally held her breath. Maybe no one was home or maybe the old man was deaf or maybe the TV was on and he couldn't hear or maybe he could hear, but didn't care. There were lots of things that could or couldn't happen that could lead to an anticlimactic conclusion.

Jill turned around to her friend, Sally, and asked, "Who does live here?"

The children heard a dead-bolt unlock, and the door begin to open with a deep creaky squeal.

Tommy, let out a scream and began to run back down the hill. Billy really wanted to run after him, catch up to him, pass him and leave him in the dust. But he would not leave his sister.

The door opened and there he stood.

CHAPTER THREE

He was a dour, pudgy old man, bald with dark circles under his storm grey eyes. He looked like Uncle Fester strung out on a double Quaalude & espresso cocktail.

Billy sucked in an involuntary breath of surprise and dread. Sally recognized the man immediately, though he seemed older, frailer and sadder than his picture on the internet.

The man was dressed in a midnight blue, button down shirt and dark grey slacks.

Jill Lovejoy held out her candy-sack. "Trick or Treat!" she said.

The man stood there for a moment with a sneer on his face. He looked around to see if there was anyone else about. There were no other houses around. This wasn't a trick or treat neighborhood. Three little kids shouldn't be out alone. This was a dangerous world. Sick bastards were everywhere. The old man should know. He'd seen them up close and personal. He'd spent his life in dark, smoke-filled rooms with some of the dirtiest, sickest bastards ever to come down the pike. His sneer for a moment almost turned to a grin, but could never quite escape the sneer stage. After all, he thought to himself, it takes one to know one.

"Where are your parents?" the man asked gruffly.

"They're waiting at the bottom of the hill," said Sally quickly.

"Uh-huh," said the old man. "Well, I'm afraid I wasn't expecting any trick or treaters. I didn't know it was Halloween. Now go on home."

From behind the old man, somewhere inside the house an old crone's voice asked, "Dick? Who is it?"

"Kids," said the old man with disgust. "It's Halloween."

"Well for goodness sake," said the woman, "Are they all dressed up? Witches and goblins?"

"Looks like a doctor, nurse and a priest," the sour old man shouted back into the house.

"Sounds like your annual check-up, dear," said the woman with a cackle.

"Well?" asked the crotchety old fart, "What are you waiting for? Didn't you hear? I don't have any treats and I don't want to see any tricks. Now go on!"

Sally and Billy were eager to go. They'd done the dare. It was in the history books. They would be very happy to get back down the hill, hop on their bikes, ride back home, eat some bite-sized Snickers and hit the hay.

But Jill Lovejoy couldn't take her eyes off the man. She just didn't get it.

"Why is everyone so afraid of you?" she asked. "Even the adults are all afraid of you. But I don't think you're scary at all."

"Oh you don't huh," said the old man, offended. "Well, believe me; I'm as scary as hell!"

"No," said Jill, "you're not. You're grumpy. All I see is a grumpy old man. What did you do that was so bad?"

"Jilly," pleaded Sally, "Let's go." Sally knew what he had done. Though she agreed with her friend this man didn't deserve the fear he engendered, he had done very bad things.

"Come on, Jilly, let's get out of here," said her brother.

"No," said Jill Lovejoy, "I want to know. Why does everyone hate you?"

"Tell them Dick," said the crone from inside, "That'll scare the shit out of them." If the kids had been older and more experienced they might have noticed the slur of `holiday cheer' coming from the old, bitter woman.

The old man stood there thinking. He'd go to his grave believing what he did was right. He'd been hounded from office, prosecuted, reviled and despised. He smirked a sneer and snorted a snigger. Of course he was reviled. The people are idiots. They don't have a clue about running civilization. They don't have a clue about what it takes to secure and stabilize six billion people. Oh, don't get him started. He was an American's American. He was like Washington, Jefferson and Adams rolled into one big, giant patriot's patriot. How could little kids possibly understand?

So, the old fart did all he could. He raised his arms in a menacing way, made a creepy face, screamed like a war-hawk and chased the kids off the porch, down the steps and partway down the road.

All three kids screamed and ran at the onslaught of scariness. Though, Jill laughed as she screamed and ran with her brother and her best friend. She wasn't really afraid for her life, but when an adult runs at you with scary dramatics it's almost an involuntary reaction for a kid to scream and run away.

The trick o' treaters did not look back when Cheney stopped running. They ran down the moonlit path to the road, collected their bikes, and Tommy who was sheepishly waiting for them. They giggled, screamed with delight and peddled hard to town.

And back up the hill? Dick Cheney breathed hard and looked after the kids with admiration and sadness. This is what it had come to. His legacy: An old grumpy man atop a hill where kids would dare each other to sneak up, ring his bell and run away.

That wasn't so bad. It's not what kept him at night sweating with fear. Now, as he neared his own death, kids making crank calls and screwing their courage to the sticking place for cheap thrills wasn't what bothered him.

What bothered him were the karmic consequences of what he'd done. It was the ghosts of all those boys he'd sent to die and the psychic blame and heartache of their loved ones. It was the phantom of tortured prisoners and innocent, collateral-damaged families that sent chills up and down his spine. He was never a religious man. How could he be? But now, as he watched the children run away in fear and felt his heart tighten for the last time, he thought of the dark times and the part he played to make them. He prayed there was no God, no judgment; because the alternative was truly frightening.

The children made it home, their cover stories working to perfection. They'd done the dare and lived to tell about it. Their hearts were filled with exhilaration and accomplishment.

Two days later, on the Day of the Dead, the story was in the paper about the man who lived in the house on the hill. Jill read the story and was sad. So much fear, hate and grief inspired by this "leader" and yet she felt sorry for him.

She had looked into his eyes. And all she saw was a man. He was just a man. Not a bogeyman. And now he was dead. She thought about him for about ten or twenty seconds. And she would think about him from time to time throughout her life, but it was more about the dare, her friends, her brother and her own courage than about the old, crotchety man who had cowed the adults, but not the children.

Jill Lovejoy learned a very important lesson that Halloween. In a game of dare/double dare; the fear was all in your head. Dares were nothing more than a mechanism for self-realization. And Jill Lovejoy had realized who she was.

A ghostbuster.