Martin O’Malley and the Vision Quest of a Thousand Bernie Sanders Supporters
“I have to win…”
“I have to win…”
Martin clutched the sheets hanging over his bed and pulled himself off of the floor and onto his bed. Now the sheets were spread all over the floor, but he was on his bed. Martin’s eye twitched and he rolled over on top of a pillow. He reached his unclutched arm up into the air and mimicked grabbing a lightbulb from the fan and taking it over to his face.
“There’s not much else I can do, Martin,” he said. Nobody was in the room except for him. His campaign managers had either left him for different candidates or were fired during his Great Purge last week.
“The excesses of the campaign are gone. But so are the results.”
0.6%. That was his vote in Iowa. And it was the only number he could focus on anymore. It was the only thing that mattered.
“I have to win…”
Martin sat up and gripped his forehead. He had a headache, but it wasn’t a bad one. It was almost a good one, in fact. It helped him get out of bed, where he had been waiting for far too long.
He stood up, got out of the bed, and walked out of his bedroom. He made his way out of the cramped hallways and into the living room, which had turned-over furniture and newspaper clippings scattered all throughout the room. Their headlines were all ones about Hillary and Bernie.
He dashed over to the urn and opened it. Instead of the ashes of his grandmother, it poured out strange blue liquids, seeping onto the wooden floor. Some of it went through the cracked floorboard and pooled into the gap. Martin bent down and lapped it up with his tongue.
He turned over the coffee table, revealing a large scroll taped on the table’s underbelly. He unraveled it, revealing a large pentagram, several blood smears scattered throughout the paper.
“I have to win…”
He pressed down on the pentagram with one hand to keep it from rolling back up, and with his other hand he dipped into the blue liquid on the ground, carried his hand over to the scroll, and let it drip onto the pentagram.
With his liquid-covered hand he pulled a match from his pocket and lit it against the coffee table. He set fire to the blue liquid and it shot up in flames. It did not, however, damage the scroll, which now laid flat on the floor without Martin’s assistance.
“The Dark Ones command me,” he said, taking a pocket knife out from his other pocket. He dipped it too into the blue liquid and then held it against his wrist. “This has to happen.”
“I have to win…”
He sliced open his wrist and blood poured out onto the pentagram. It mixed with the fire and the blue liquid, and then the fire spread. Martin collapsed onto the floor and the fire latched onto his body. But he did not feel the pain. His mortal soul was already dissolving into the pentagram; his body was the sacrifice needed to conjure the spirits to help him.
His eyes, now embodied within his soul rather than his body, saw swirling lights and flashes of worlds both future and past:
An injured and battered Jim Webb facing off against two dozen killer cyborgs, his breath weak and heart weaker…
A ragged, orange-suited Hillary Clinton sitting on an electric chair, imagining the face of her former lover Ben Ghazi, shedding tears from her eyes…
A wistful and blinded Lincoln Chafee laying on the concrete of the sidewalk, his lemonade stand collapsed upon him, his heart shedding its red tears, with Martin himself walking away from the wreckage…
An intoxicated Joe Biden staring intently at Lindsey Graham, his hand reaching out as if to touch the other man’s shoulder and keep him from running to his destiny…
A cracked-glasses, thin-haired Bernie Sanders pointing at Hillary Clinton, his supporters storming the debate stage, ripping the woman limb from limb…
Martin realized exactly what he wanted. Nay, what he needed. His spirit split into thirty-four pieces and each one travelled across the cosmos, learning the secrets of realities and the truths of existences. They felt at peace and returned to each other, uniting into a creature of its own political making.
Martin O’Malley was reborn. He was no longer the former governor of Maryland with a solid track record and big progressive ideas. He was now the embodiment of the negative energies exuding from the universe, pushing back against that which it could not fully contain.
His spirit re-entered the body from which it came. The fire, now consuming the entire body, was instantly extinguished.
He tried to open the body’s mouth, say “I have to win…”, but it was burned off. The body’s vocal cords were singed and would no longer work. He cobbled together the energy to let the body move forward, but it stumbled over the furniture in the living room. He could not control it in a way that felt satisfactory.
It simply could not contain the power that his spirit possessed, and as a result, its overcharge made the body unwieldy.
He let his spirit make a few adjustments. The Dark God that he now possessed allowed him to manipulate his charred flesh and transmute it into a success that the American people would be proud of.
The endless, ever-reaching tentacles and spikes flowed through his new body, bursting forth through the old one like a cocoon of slime and terror. The pain surged through his body and put him at peace.
Using his spirit’s powers he transported himself from his living room, leaving the fungus and flames behind to destroy the house. He no longer needed it; his body was his new home.
He manifested himself above a crowd at a Bernie Sanders rally. His transformation could not be complete until he fulfilled the contract with the Dark God and let the inner workings of the universe devour him.
So he reached out his infinite limbs and grabbed the Bernie Sanders fans, picking them up and throwing them into the air. His mouths swallowed them whole as if they were suction cups.
He did this again, and again, the people attempting to run away screaming, but failing as he took them and silenced them with his crushing grip. Eventually, everyone was gone except for Bernie Sanders, who stood on the stage, still ranting and raving about the one tenth of the one percent of Dark Gods who controlled the vast majority of the souls of the country.
Martin laughed. His laugh obliterated the stage and erased Bernie Sanders from the planet for good, leaving only a blood splatter behind. He had finally won the election, hadn’t he?
He needed a new name before he could become President. The best name for this situation was probably Mrtatnaitn O’M’L’E’Y. Yes. The name rolled off his innumerable tongues very well.
Before casting the rest of New Hampshire into a pit of eternal darkness, he let his body touch the dead winter grass one last time. It felt beautiful. He dripped the blue liquid oozing from his body onto the grass, and it shriveled up into nothingness.
Just like him.