T S Brock Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

    The rally was to begin at 3 pm. From late morning, people began to wander into the Lake House. In the style of a chateau, this large elegant mostly wooden structure served as a grocery store, souvenir shop, bar, and music hall. There was a soda stand just opposite the bar catering to the younger clientele. Just to give you an idea of the size of the place, there was capacity for 300 people to easily move about, shop, dance, and mingle.

    Long and wide windows faced the waters. The building jutted out significantly onto the lake. There was a large stage at the back, behind the bar. Solid oak plank floors and a state-of-the-art sound system put the venue on the map for the most popular venues. And so Luke and the Gun Slingers were damn happy to be booked on this Saturday night late in August.

    Yet the day had just begun in terms of entertainment. As mentioned, there was a political rally happening on the beach. It was a rarity for this vacation spot and was sanctioned by the state government just a few days earlier. Nonetheless, the rally gained momentum and became an event.

    As the clock struck 3, all could see the large man, carnival-like, arms outstretched in the mid-afternoon sun, armpits sweating, the white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, and the gold necktie askew. Don “Joey” McDonald held the audience hostage with sing-song patriotism and calculated fear mongering.

    “Drake Parker and his Commie newspaper print nothing but fake information. They twist things up so bad, so bad, they don’t even know what they are talking about. Sooo bad.” He sweet-talked into the microphone as one might into a lover’s ear.

    A large group in the front rows waved their banners and signs, clapped their hands, snorted, giggled, and jumped up and down, while other sycophants and followers gathered closer and closer until the mass became an absurd collective audience reaching down to the shore and even into the shallows of the lake.

    In the recesses, Herbie Block and a group from the Mercury café, including Jamaica and Audrey, stood in measured postures, partly in shock, jeering at McDonald and his supporters carefully. There was a portend of violence in the hot summer breeze as if a cloud of humidity were about to burst, as if all hell might break loose.

    “And beware the pixies in your government offices cause they’ll turn on a penny if they’re exposed to their friends and family… and to you brother and sister as well.” He continued in the manner of a minister or car salesman. “These pixies are liars and thieves. They will steal the paychecks you work so hard for every week, and they won’t bat an eye. Believe me… I mean… You know how disgraceful that is? Am I right? Really folks. Aren’t I right?”

    Don McDonald smoothed back his orange hair, perhaps oiled or given a treatment. “If you vote for me on election day, you will have eliminated the Communist and pixie threat within this beautiful country. Imagine…” Don lifted his arms like a revivalist his bright blue eyes star-spangled in the heat of the sun. “Imagine the Grand Canyon in the hands of Russia!” The crowd broke into enthusiastic boos, cheers, and chants.

     “Make us Great! Make us Great!”