Rare Bits

Senator Patrick Leahy seethed with a primal fury. His skin, white hot with the pain of sudden birth gripped his creator’s throat with two gnarled hands. His master gasped helplessly, wriggling within Leahy’s iron hold with ever fading surges.

And then he stopped. Under Leahy’s thumbs the pulse- only moments ago a frantically pounding drumbeat- was still. The knife-blade of pain and fury left Leahy all at once, replaced by confusion and fear. He jumped backwards, letting the warm corpse drop to the ground. His eyes wide, Leahy spun around, desperately trying to make sense of his surroundings. The darkness of the room was speared by a shifting pattern of light. A single small television sat in the farthest corner of the room, the sound turned to a low droning. It caught Leahy’s attention. As he watched and listened, the swirling leaves of his thoughts gently settled- into a pattern of sinister purpose…

The Estate Tax Re-appropriations Bill was met with a rider, as is so often the case. Senator Tom Delay and Senator Richard Santorum authored the rider; an effort to limit the government subsidizing of “seasonal” crops. Senator Kennedy had opposed such a limit, and was busily co-authoring a counterproposal with Senators Jim Jeffords and Joe Lieberman while Senator Bill Frist held the floor.
Frist was arguing in support of the Delay-Santorum rider, but with an added provision for the elimination of phrases regarding same-sex relations from all government internet sites. The air in the chambers was languid and thick. And as Frist spoke, lazy swirls of dust turned spirals in the sunbeams. Paper crackled and swished as notes and folders were moved about. It was a somber stillness. A cold, cast-iron stillness

As Frist spoke, the stillness increased, if such a thing were possible. The dense calm became a billowing thunderhead of silence; at once deafening an all-encompassing.

It seeped into the skin and was felt everywhere. Even Frist- animated with the passion of debate- could hear his voice diffuse into the stolid atmosphere. A flicker of electric panic arced through his spine. Instinctually, we are driven to listen to the quiet. It is the calm that abandons sailing vessels. It is the stillness of a patient predator. It is that most basic part of us that says, quit simply: run.

Frist continued to speak, but a tinge of worry bent the ends of his sentences at uncomfortable angles.

Kennedy Lieberman and Jeffords hunched over a small desk, speaking to each other in low grey voices. Notes and letters and laptop computers were arranged in a mess of planning as their alternate rider was hammered into shape.
Kennedy, however, was no longer staring at the tabletop. The sharp edges of Frist’s voice caught his attention. He strained to hear beyond Frist’s voice, beyond the subtle quivers. He listened hard, past the coughs and the shuffling of the Senate chamber. He heard a low, distant wail.

And he heard it again.

It was louder this time, closer. Lieberman looked up, and he too heard it. Again. It was louder still, closer. Senate floor discussions and arguments faded as the wail grow louder. Frist’s eyes darted to the back of the chambers, past the floor to the large wooden doors. He continued his speak, but kept his eyes fixed on the two black men standing guard.

The wail grew louder. Frist trailed off. Jeffords raised to his full height to speak. Kennedy put a hand on his shoulder, sitting him down.

The wail was close. It was very close. The two guards looked at one another, letting their hands touch their side arms for reassurance.

A wail so loud and pained that it might shatter the wooden doors rang out. But it didn’t shatter the wooden doors. It was a pair of tallow hands, thick with muscle and surging veins that shattered them. Wood and metal burst into the room. One of the guards was left cradling the twisted wet mass of his left arm. The other fumbled for his gun, his eyes stinging of tears and sawdust. He would eventually find his gun, but it would not end well for him.

Senator Patrick Leahy filled the door frame- an uneven mountain of a creature. The sad remnants of a pinstriped suit hung in irregular swatches. His nostrils sucked in the air with raw hunger. His mouth twitched and his teeth gnashed.

And his eyes …oh God, his eyes.

Run.

Leahy’s eyes were round with fury, the edges crinkled like paper set aflame. Frist looked into them and saw a stare to break bone; a pick-ax, a hammer. A stare as old and as raw as hate. Frist saw this and other things dark and ancient in Leahy’s eyes, but none so terrible as his own reflection staring back.