"The Campaign"
The Campaign
By: Brendan Cadman
1
As the dying embers of the setting sun sneak their way through the grey clouds of the early evening in the heart of November, a sea of people cascade back and forth throughout the busy city streets of Chicago. It's just the start of the rush hour in the city and the people are methodically fighting the swelling crowds on the shrinking sidewalks.
The air is thick amongst the patrons of the overloaded and overworked metropolis and the tension rises within the flock with every passing minute. Desperation begins to set in, as the natives battle to make their way into confined city apartments and cramped metra train cars barreling towards the open arms of the suburbs.
On the corner of a busy intersection, an old man with a bushy grey beard and wearing a long black trench coat stands on top of a rickety wooden crate. Though the flimsy wooden boards beneath his feet splinter under his weight, the crate remains in tact as the old man manages to keep his balance thanks to years of practice. Accompanying him is a much younger man, standing off to the side and holding a massive white sign with the numbers to certain scripture passages painted on it. As people are reluctantly forced to pass by the duo on their way to their final destinations, the old man screams the words from the outlined passages from an old tattered bible and the younger man shoves the sign just inches away from their faces.
"Repent!" the old man yells at the top of his lungs at uninterested passing schools of people. "The day of judgement is here! Those who repent will be brought into the light of the lord and enjoy the warmth of his salvation and mercy!"
Sheltered from the commotion on the streets, a middle aged business man sits in the back of an all black town car and scans over pages of notes inside of a brown leather binder resting on his lap. With the back window cracked slightly to let in the city air, the old man's booming voice from the corner creeps its way into the business man's ear. The fiery words cause the business man to look up from his work and ditch the reading glasses attached to his face to get a clear look at the origin of the disturbance just yards away.
"The sinners will be punished and the righteous will be rewarded," the old man continues to yell at the passing pedestrians. "It's time to decide who you are. It is time to repent!"
The business man lets out a little sarcastic chuckle to go with a slight smirk, before rolling up the window refusing to give the old man and his accomplice any more time in his mind. Meanwhile a young Hispanic man, Hector Reyes, sits in the driver's seat frustrated at the traffic causing the car to come to a complete halt.
"How is it looking up there?" the business man addresses his driver.
"I'm sorry sir," Hector apologizes. "It's still pretty jammed up. I think we have another ten or twenty minutes in this."
"No need to apologize," the business man assures. "You can't control the traffic. I was curious about how things were going for you and your family though? How is everyone adjusting to the move out to the suburbs?"
"It's going okay sir," Hector says. "My wife and I miss the city sometimes, but the kids are enjoying themselves. Max is having a little trouble adjusting though."
"What's going on with Max?" the business man inquires.
"He's just missing his old friends and dealing with some bullies at his new school," Hector reveals. "He'll be fine, you know how ruthless kids can be sometimes. This reminds me, we'd love to have you over for dinner again."
"Hector, you don't have to do this," the business man states. "You're a good man and you are great at your job. Just keep up the good work."
"We're all just thankful for what you've given us," Hector chatted. "You really came through for our family when I lost my job. I just want to make sure you know how thankful we all are."
"Noted," the business man smiles as he makes warm eye contact with his driver in the rearview mirror.
As the conversation fades between the two friends, a loud exchange on the corner once again draws the business man's attention. He rolls down the back window, all the way this time, and notices the old man berating two young homosexual men waiting for the crosswalk signal to change.
"Repent!," the old man yells down to the two men with their backs turned to him. "You must repent for your sinful ways if you wish to save yourself!"
"Did you hear him queers?" the old man's younger accomplice shouts at the unresponsive men.
Most people mind their own business and do not get involved with the exchange, while a few people hide muffled laughter. As the old man continues to yell at the couple, one of the men finally gives in and addresses the shouting.
"Just leave us alone," one of the gay men asks. "Just mind your own business."
"This is our business!" the younger religious man replies. "We're cleaning up the Lord's kingdom of all the sodomites and queers. So that only the righteous and pure will inherit his paradise."
"Just leave them alone," a black woman finally injects herself into the conversation to try to keep the peace. "That's more than enough!"
"Typical," the younger man smirks as the older man returns to shouting bible scripture. "Niggers and fags should stick together. None of you are worthy of the Lord's mercy."
"What the fuck did you just call her?" a black man standing nearby comes to the woman's defense.
As the young man starts to poison the air with his hateful venom again, he is cut off and attacked by two black men as a brawl ensues between themselves and the overzealous religious preachers. A few white men try to jump in an attempt to break up the scuffle, however their frantic inclusion only exasperates the melee. While the young religious man is shoved to the ground and his sign broken into pieces, the old man is pushed from his pedestal and greeted with punches and kicks on his way down. Quickly, a few traffic officers and Chicago PD members arrive at the scene to get the situation under control. Almost as quickly as it started it is over, with everyone involved laying face down on the hard concrete streets with their arms behind their backs and wrists clasped in steel handcuffs.
"What is happening to us?" the business man breaths into the glass as his words create a momentary residue of fog on his passenger window.
With the skirmish dismissed, traffic finally clears and the business man's town car's journey resumes on its way to the Wilson Tower just a few miles down the road. When the car arrives at the curb of the tower, the vehicle comes to a halt and Hector quickly exits and runs to open the door for his passenger sitting in the back.
"Thank you Hector," the business man thanks as he puts a fifty dollar bill into his driver's front breast pocket. "Say hello to the family for me."
"Thank you sir," Hector says. "I'll pick you up right here later tonight."
"See you then," the business man agrees before departing and walking through a set of large glass double doors into the building.
As the business man walks through the lobby of the office building multiple people greet him on his way to the elevators. After taking the ride in the elevator from the lobby to the top floor, the business man enters a bustling bullpen area and walks through it to a lavish office at the other end of the room. He finally sits down in his chair after the hectic morning commute and finally begins his day. The hours, filled with multiple calls, writing and responding to email, and scheduling meetings for the rest of the week, pass by in a flash.
Finally taking a break from his constant flow of work, the business man swivels around in his rotating leather chair and looks out of the clear glass windows that overlook the city behind him. He walks over to the window and gazes at the skyline above and city streets below. As he turns his attention to the giant letters that spell out "WILSON" on the side of the tower, his mind starts to wander back to the scene that took place on the streets earlier that morning. However, before he can think for more than a few seconds, his concentration is broken by the opening of his office door.
Finally taking a break from his constant flow of work, the business man swivels around in his rotating leather chair and looks out of the clear glass windows that overlook the city behind him. He walks over to the window and gazes at the skyline above and city streets below. As he turns his attention to the giant letters that spell out "WILSON" on the side of the tower, his mind starts to wander back to the scene that took place on the streets earlier that morning. However, before he can think for more than a few seconds, his concentration is broken by the opening of his office door.
"Is there anything that you needed before I leave for the day, Mr. Wilson?" a young secretary asks as she enters the office.
"What time is it?" Mr. Wilson requests.
"It's 5:30 Mr. Wilson," she informs.
"Wow really?" Mr. Wilson coughs. "No I'm okay, thank you. Have a great weekend."
"You too Mr. Wilson," she smiles.
"Wow really?" Mr. Wilson coughs. "No I'm okay, thank you. Have a great weekend."
"You too Mr. Wilson," she smiles.
As she closes the door behind her, Patrick Wilson gets up from his desk and heads over to the glass counter top supporting an assortment of well-aged liquor bottles. As he completes the short walk to the east wall of the enormous office, Wilson picks up a matching set of an engraved tumbler and a bottle of whisky. As the liquid quickly fills the small glass, he takes a sip and breaths in the smooth fire. He pours himself another drink before taking the glass and bottle with him towards the black leather sofa that is placed in front of a blank wall on the western side of the office.
When Wilson sits down, he places his belongings on the small glass coffee table in front of the sofa and picks up a small remote. The remote activates the blank wall to begin to separate down the middle and reveal a rather large flat screen television from within. Another click of the small silver remote powers the television on and Wilson sips his drink and scan the available channels. After a brief period of contemplation a breaking news story on CNN catches the Wilson Foundation President's attention.
The newscast displays pictures of an older white man being led out of a swanky office by police, as he covers his face with his suit jacket. The news anchor explains what exactly is going on, while an angry mob is shown throwing trash at the handcuffed man. The police quickly gain control of the scene by stuffing the detainee into the back of a CPD cruiser and driving away.
The newscast continues.
We have some breaking news here involving developments in the Harper and Woods investigation. Co-Founder and CEO, Derrick Woods, has been indicted on multiple charges including money laundering, securities fraud and investment advisor fraud. Officials believe that close to eighty billion has been lost to investors around the state of Illinois, with most of the victims residing in the inner city. Details are few and far between at the moment, so be sure to stick with us here at CNN as the situation develops. We'll be right back.
"Jesus," Wilson murmurs into his glass as he swigs back the remaining liquor in his glass.
Wilson gets up from the couch and heads back to his desk. When he arrives he picks up the office land line and makes a quick phone call.
"Yeah it's me," he says into the speaker of the phone. "Can you bring the car around? I don't want to be late for dinner, thank you."
Wilson hangs up the phone, picks up the navy suit jacket off the back of his office chair, swings it over his shoulder, and makes his way out of the office.
2
Standing outside in the cold November night, Hector stands in between a sleek town car and the brightly lit corner just past the glass doors of the Wilson building. Dressed in a business casual uniform, Hector opens one of the doors of the expensive town car and reaches in for a pack of cigarettes. He returns with the pack, lighter, and calmly enjoys a smoke. As a few minutes go by Hector finishes his cigarette and flicks it down into the sewer, as the resulting spark from the impact briefly lights up the dark hole. Just as he looks down to check his watch, a loud group of three young black teens walk up to Hector and the car.
"Damn, this is a nice ride you got here," one of the teens admits to Hector. "Where'd you get this baby at."
Not wanting to be rude, but not feeling up to carrying a conversation, Hector replies with a brief response. "It's a company car."
The group of teens talk and joke amongst themselves as Hector stands professionally patient and looking intently at the door, hoping at any moment that his client will walk out of the set of big glass doors a few feet ahead of him.
"Hey man, let me ask you a question," the same teen from earlier returns. "Are those threads out of the company closest too? Because that shit is whack man."
A loud laughter breaks out amongst all of the teens as Hector does his best to keep calm and not react to the jests and insults. An unimpressed and annoyed smirks crawls across Hector's face, as he clasps his hands together behind his back and reinforces his stance. Growing slightly irritated at not being able to muster a response from the target of their jokes, the teens form a half circle around Hector, who is now standing with his back slightly pressed up against the drivers side door.
"Look man, we was just playing with you," the leader of the group addresses Hector once again. "What's your name man?"
Hector responds quietly and confidently with his name.
"Alright, alright," the groups leader breaks back in. "Well Hector it's like this. Me and my boys here were thinking about hitting up a few spots tonight up on the north side. The thing is we ain't got a ride, ya feel me?"
For the first time Hector breaks his consistent gaze of the double doors in front of him and finally gives in to the steady stream of questions coming from the cornrowed black teen.
"Is that so?" Hector offers as his eyes shift and stare intently back at the teen. "Well I don't know what you want from me? Like I said, I'm working."
Hector reaches into his pocket to pull out another cigarette and his lighter. After lighting it and taking a deep drag, Hector offers a smoke to the teen.
"You wan't one?" he asks. "Are you old enough to smoke?"
"Man give me that shit," the teen says as his friends muffle their laughter behind him causing the leader to feel slightly embarrassed by the insinuation.
"You wan't one?" he asks. "Are you old enough to smoke?"
"Man give me that shit," the teen says as his friends muffle their laughter behind him causing the leader to feel slightly embarrassed by the insinuation.
Hector takes a dart out of the half empty pack and hands it to the teen. The young man smiles back at Hector as the cigarette dangles from his mouth, waiting patiently for Hector to offer him a light. Hector cuffs one hand around the left side of the cigarette and lights it from the right side. The teen takes a deep drag of the butt before slowly blowing the smoke into Hectors face, while the other three teens quietly laugh. Hector holds steadfast and refuses to give into the provocation, which only winds up the group even more.
"Look spick, you got two mother fucking options right now," the teen harshly hisses as the group closes the half circle even tighter around Hector. "One."
Before the teen can elaborate on his threatening sounding words, the glass doors behind the contemptuous congregation swing open and Patrick Wilson comes walking out talking loudly on his cellphone. Hector and the group of kids each quickly turn their heads and look directly at Wilson, as his sudden presence shifts the dynamic of the conversation. Wilson though older, is a big man and in decent shape. His well above average height and sturdily built frame suggest anything but an easy target. The teens take notice of his stature and decide to soften the suffocating half circle they have formed around their target. As Wilson notices the group standing next to Hector and his usual mode of transportation home, he walks over in their direction.
"Everything okay Hector?" Wilson asks.
Before Hector can reassure Wilson, the leader of the group takes the liberty of addressing the inquiry.
"Yeah we're cool," he says to Wilson before looking back at Hector. "We was just asking my man for some directions."
"We'll if you need directions I'm sure the security guard watching us through those cameras above the door would be more than happy to help," Wilson states as he turns slightly and points to two small black security cameras placed on either side of the entrance.
"Nah that's okay," the young man stutters back. "We're all good."
"Then I suggest you be on your way," Wilson advises.
The three teens walk past Wilson, as the leader stays back and takes a drag of the nearly whole cigarette given to him by Hector. As he exhales the smoke, he flicks the dart that ricochets off the front of the car and sends sparks spraying into the night air.
"Whoops," the young man growls before departing with the rest of his group. "See you around wetback."
As the teens disappear into the Chicago night, Hector walks over to Wilson and grabs his belongings. Before opening the passenger side door, he places the objects carefully in the trunk of the car and takes a moment to decompress. Wilson walks over towards the rear of the car, and before entering the vehicle, waits for Hector to close the hatch. As he does, Hector notices Wilson waiting to make a connection with him to offer a simple nod and a reassuring pat on the back. Afterword the two men finally take their respective places, as Hector closes the door behind Wilson before getting back into his comfortable driver's seat. The car's engine revs as the cold air forms a visible cloud of smog that quickly floats away before the car too disappears in the night along the usual route towards Patrick Wilson's residence.
3
The car containing Hector and Patrick Wilson cruises down a highway sprinkled with headlights, as the traveling companions make their way out of the city and head towards a cozy western suburb. As the illuminating city skyline slowly sinks further and further beneath the horizon, a dim overhead light glistens in the rear interior of the car and provides just enough light for Wilson to jot down notes on a pad resting comfortably on top of his crossed legs. Meanwhile, Hector vigilantly scans the few cars that come into his sight line from either angle, as he flips on the sound system to a low volume.
"Will you need to make any stops tonight sir?" Hector calls out from the front of the car as soft jazz music dances around the vehicle.
"Not tonight Hector," he replies looking into the rear view mirror at the face of his driver faintly enlightened by the cool blue lights of the dash board. "I am having dinner with my wife and daughter tonight, so we'll be going straight home."
"Very good sir," Hector acknowledges. "If you don't mind sir, could I ask a favor of you?"
"What is it?" Wilson inquires.
"I would just really appreciate it if you didn't say anything about that little altercation that happened before you arrived," Hector pleads. "I just don't want any hassle from my boss."
"I don't think in the time since you've started driving me that I ever talked to your boss," Wilson curiously ponders.
"I was actually talking about Mrs. Reyes," Hector laughs and jokes.
"I don't think in the time since you've started driving me that I ever talked to your boss," Wilson curiously ponders.
"I was actually talking about Mrs. Reyes," Hector laughs and jokes.
The two men share a laugh before a comfortable silence ensues between them. As the car races down the highway, Wilson sits in the back seat once again working from his brown leather binder before turning his attention to the sound of the quietly transmitting radio floating throughout the vehicle.
"Could you turn up the radio Hector?" Wilson says breaking the silence. "There is some news I want to keep track of."
"Could you turn up the radio Hector?" Wilson says breaking the silence. "There is some news I want to keep track of."
"Right away," Hector agrees.
Updating you on this story we have been following all day: As we expected, Derrick Woods has been formally charged with ten Class-B felonies stemming from the indictment brought on as a result of an investigation into the Harper and Woods Investment Cooperation. We have learned that a series of investors, in the form of real estate developing firms, are said to have been swindled out of close to eighty billion dollars in a Madoff-like ponzi scheme. The developers, who have not been named at this time, believed that they were teaming with Harper and Woods to build a series of affordable housing complexes in Chicago's inner city. The affordable housing was believed to be an attempt to aid the homeless, violence, and quality-of-life issues that are plaguing a number of Chicago areas and neighborhoods. In another expected development, Woods was quickly charged and arraigned before posting bail and being released under police supervision to his suburban home. The feeling around this case is that it will move quickly with a trial set to begin by the end of the month.
"Turn it off Hector," Wilson interrupts from his back seat. "I think I'm going to be sick."
As Patrick Wilson attempts to digest all of the news, he peers out of his back seat window, not seeing the other cars around him, not seeing the large concrete walls that enclose the highway on either side, nor the trees and houses that rest comfortably just beyond those walls. He is looking past these things, past everything and into nothing, hoping to pull down one of the millions of stars in the clear night sky as an answer to a question with seemingly no solution. Hector glances in the review mirror and, as the back of the car intermittently goes from dark to bright by the passing highway street lights, every now and then he catches a brief glance of his clients contemplating face.
"Everything okay, sir?" Hector asks.
"No, Hector, everything isn't okay," Wilson sighs. "I've spent my whole life building this empire that I've created. I've done some good things, I've made some mistakes, but when I'm realizing that I haven't truly contributed anything to the world."
"That's not true, sir," Hector assures. "Your charities have done a lot, you've helped a lot of people, you got me a job."
"Did I help them?" Wilson questions. "Did I truly help those people or did I do those things to help myself. Everything was in front of cameras, taking pictures, shaking hands, meeting business associates and politicians. Did I actually do it for them or was it for me?
Hector sinks deep into the leather of his driver seat as he is caught off guard by the vulnerability and honesty of the words coming from his boss. He too contemplates deeply about the admission as the car continues to methodically sail over the sea of gray concrete back to port. Just as Hector formulates a response that he hopes will brighten Wilson's mood, he is interrupted by the low sound of the radio hosts' voice.
Breaking news!
Both Wilson and Hector perk up at the sounds coming out of the stereo system, as the driver pushes the volume to a more audible level.
We are back with incredible new developments. According to eyewitnesses from the scene, hundreds of displaced residents, victimized by the fallout of the Harper and Woods scandal, have formed a human barrier and begun demonstrative protests outside of Derrick Woods suburban home. Our sources have told us that an employee at Woods' company posted Woods’ home address on the companies Facebook page, allowing the victims and general public to learn of his whereabouts. The address has since been removed, but obviously not quickly enough. Stay with us here at WKBB for live coverage from outside of the home of Derrick Woods when we return.
Hector looks once more into the rear view mirror only to see an now horrifying look stapled on the face of Wilson.
"What's wrong, sir?" Hector inquires.
"You have to get me home now!" Wilson pleads.
"I don't understand," Hector confides. "Is everything okay?"
"That asshole lives two doors down from me," Wilson informs.
Hector heeds Wilson's words with haste and pushes the gas pedal of the car to the floor, jolting himself and his passenger firmly into the backs of their seats. The car expertly swerves between lanes, picking up speed with each passing second until the exit ramp suddenly materializes out of nowhere like a ghost. The car flies up the ramp before coming to a screeching halt at a red light. As soon as the whites of Hector's eyes turn green, the car once again quickly flies out of the gates like a thoroughbred at the derby. The car twists and turns through narrow and compact neighborhood streets, knocking over garbage cans placed precariously too far from the ends of suburban driveways.
Patrick Wilson is now perched up just behind Hector holding on to the divider separating blue collar from white. As they reach Wilson's street, the normally calm and peaceful residence is now thrown into chaotic turmoil. Sirens blare, police lights flash, commands trumpeting from megaphones fall on deaf ears. The angry mob grows more and more vicious by the second. The mob rings out chants against their detractor as people climb trees to peer into the dimly lit home for a glance of Derrick Woods.
"Whose Street?, Our Street!" a woman's voice echos through a megaphone as others behind her march back and forth in front of Derrick Woods' house repeating the words and waving picket signs in the air.
The longer Woods hides out in his house and refuses to acknowledge the wrong doing he has committed against the crowd on his street, the more angry and intense the mob grows. Before long, the horde begin tearing out the meticulously planted pieces of sod in the front lawn, ripping flowers and bushes from their roots, and overturning the car parked on the driveway of the house they have gathered around. Hector's company lease vehicle comes to a grinding halt just before a police barrier in the middle of the street. Wilson briskly exits the automobile and tries to bypass the fortified blockade.
"Whose Street?, Our Street!" a woman's voice echos through a megaphone as others behind her march back and forth in front of Derrick Woods' house repeating the words and waving picket signs in the air.
The longer Woods hides out in his house and refuses to acknowledge the wrong doing he has committed against the crowd on his street, the more angry and intense the mob grows. Before long, the horde begin tearing out the meticulously planted pieces of sod in the front lawn, ripping flowers and bushes from their roots, and overturning the car parked on the driveway of the house they have gathered around. Hector's company lease vehicle comes to a grinding halt just before a police barrier in the middle of the street. Wilson briskly exits the automobile and tries to bypass the fortified blockade.
"Stop!" a burly police officer shouts as he grabs Wilson. "Nobody is allowed past this point until we get this situation under control."
"I live here, my house is right there!" Wilson yells as he points to his home just past the mass of angry intruders. "Please, I have to get to my family. I at least have to get them out of there and away from this madness!"
"Look around you!" the officer states. "This thing is completely out of our control. If they saw you going into one of these house, there is no telling what would happen."
"Where are the rest of your officers?" Wilson barks. "Where is your backup?"
"Everyone we have available at our disposal is out here working to get this mob under control," the officer says as the two men look out at the chaos of protesters rioting and clashing with law enforcement. "The best thing for your family is to stay put in their home behind locked doors."
Wilson is determined to get through and tries to push his way past the guard. After a final warning, a swift swing of the officer's billy club through the air comes down with a thunderous crack across the back of Wilson's head, sending him crashing down to the street. Hector runs to the his aid, lifting his client from the now blood stained street, and propping Wilson against the front of his car. Wilson staggers to his feet, covering the bleeding wound with his hand, before resting against the car.
"I've got to call them," Wilson stammers.
As he pulls out his cellphone from his bloody coat pocket, Wilson dials his home number in an attempt to reach his loved ones. Just as a shaky but gentle voice answers the call, a terrible cracking sound distracts Wilson from responding. Instead he watches as a tree starts to uproot under the weight of pressure from members of the angry mob occupying it and comes plummeting down. On its way down, the tree falls into the power lines and obliterates any attempts at communication. Sparks fly as the power lines flail like a deep sea fishing line with a marlin at the end. The sparks and embers from the lines rain down on the people and the neighborhood like an April shower setting fire to the fallen tree and the grass of the house in between the Woods' and Wilson's.
Wilson can do nothing but watch as the mob stampede away from the growing blaze, like deer in a California wildfire. Patrick Wilson watches on in paralyzing horror as the fire consumes the lawns, the trees, the Woods home, the house between, and finally his own.
4
Two Weeks after the fire.
In the aftermath of the fire that broke out during the protests outside of the home of Harper and Woods CEO, Derrick Woods, the city of Chicago is left searching for answers. In an attempt to find them and cool down the heated atmosphere amongst the citizens, an emergency city council meeting has been called in the chambers of city hall. With every seat in the chambers filled and lines of people standing in the back of the room, citizens openly display their outrage at the unresolved Harper and Woods scandal, as a full board of defensive city council chairs and Mayor Vince Bronson try to keep the proceedings civil.
"Please everyone calm down, we will not proceed until we have some sort of law and order," Bronson appeals to the yelling and shouting crowd
"You should all be in jail!" an angry citizen's voice booms out amongst the mass of angry faces.
"Please everyone find a seat and if you have a question stand in an orderly fashion behind the microphones provided in each of the isles," a city council woman implores.
Just like that the people in attendance form long lines, that stretch all the way to the chamber doors, in the three isles with microphones placed in the front. As the people take turns one by one, Mayor Bronson and the City Council members listen, as the outraged citizen share their comments and concerns.
"What are you going to do to fix what Derrick Woods did?" a middle aged black woman asks. "I am a single mother of three and that housing development was supposed to be our new home. Where are we supposed to go? What are we supposed to do?"
The crowd roars in support of the woman's questions.
"We are setting up emergency shelters at designated government building around the city until we can find a permanent and viable solution," a city councilmen states.
The crowd reacts in disgust, as some people point and shout at the government pundits sitting in their large leather seats around the city council platform surrounded by the United States, Chicago, and State of Illinois flags.
"What are you going to do about Woods?" a voice shouts in the crowd. "Where is all of our money? Where did it all go? How are we going to get it back?"
"Look I know Mr. Woods," Bronson tells the crowd. "I have known him for years and worked for him in the past. He is a good man in a very difficult spot. Mr. Woods has assured me that he is fully cooperation with the authorities. Furthermore, at this point there is no definitive proof that he had anything to do with this unfortunate situation. Given recent events and the public opinion, Mr. Woods has been released into protective custody at an undisclosed location until we can figure this whole things out fairly and correctly."
"What!?" multiple citizens in the shout back as the crowd reacts harshly and unfavorably to the comments from the panel sitting in front of them.
"Please everyone calm down," a city councilman pleads to the shouting and ranting crowd. "We want to address all your question, but we can't do so with all this raucous and disobedience."
"People died because of what he did," another voice rings out in the crowd.
"Please be quiet!" Bronson aggressively orders the crowd who slowly settles down. "Listen. This whole situation is an ugly stain on our city and what has happened isn't lost on me. However."
Before Bronson can finish his statement, the sound of one of the chamber doors opening catches the attention of everyone in the room. As they all turn their attention to the opening door, the center of attention in the room is shifted to an middle aged man wearing a large black peacoat with his back turned to the crowd.
"Sir?" Bronson calls out in the now eerily silent city council chambers.
Without saying a word, the man methodically turns around and makes direct eye contact with Bronson sitting in the middle of the panel of city council men and women. The eyes revealed to be those of Patrick Wilson, stare back unrelentingly intense at the Mayor of Chicago. His look of anger, defeat, sadness, and irritation, say more than any words could. Everyone is left speechless at not having noticed him sitting in the back the entire time and watch in stunned silence as he walks out of the city council chambers without saying a word.
Eight Months Later.
Following the fire and the City Council meeting, Patrick Wilson is spending another solemn and lonely night in his new home at The Twelve Town Tavern. He has spent nearly every night in the back corner of this rustic, and hardly ever crowded pub since he lost his family. There is no end to his drunken residency in sight. The bar located just a few miles from his office is dark and shady, much like what remains of Patrick Wilson's heart. As he sits alone in his corner booth, with a glass of scotch in front of him, Wilson rolls a cigarette between his fingers and stares into an unseen abyss.
"Could I get you something to eat Patrick?" a young and friendly female server asks over Wilson's shoulder.
"No," he coldly replies. "Nothing to eat, I'd just like to be alone."
The waitress respects his demands and, after a complimentary fresh pour of scotch into a mostly empty glass, leaves him to himself in that dark corner of the tavern. An hour passes by as Patrick nurses his drink before he gets up from the table to finally make his exit. He walks by empty tables, some likeminded patrons glued to the stools at the bar, and through a heavy wooden door at the far end of the building from where he was sitting, as he finally stumbles his way out. A yellow cab sits at the corner eagerly waiting for a passenger, as Patrick appears from the opposite side of the door. He walks over to the cab, pulls the back passenger door open, and falls into the back seat.
"Where to buddy," the cabbie questions.
"There," Patrick says as he points to the glowing Wilson tower a few miles ahead in the distance.
Though it has been months since the fire, reconstruction on the place he once called home has come to a crawl. Not that Patrick would dare to spend another night in that place once it was finally finished. Instead, he has spent many nights on the couch of his office or floated around from hotel to hotel when the itch for a soft mattress became unbearable. However, tonight was an office night. Tonight was a night where the formal setting of his unnecessarily posh and luxurious office would help distract his mind away from the near paralyzing thoughts and memories of the fire. The short ride from the bar to the tower ends and Patrick pulls himself out of the cab, indiscriminately tossing a number of bills through the partition and onto the leather seats on the other side.
"Here's your change," the cabby's voice speaks before getting cut off by the sound of the car door closing swiftly and firmly.
Patrick steps up onto the sidewalk after exiting the cab and for a moment stands underneath the luminosity of the brightly lit overhang extending out from the tower. He rummages through his coat and pockets until he finds an ID badge. Patrick then walks up to the glass doors of his building and swipes the badge across the face of a security scanner, activating the locked doors to open and allowing him into the empty and quiet office.
The beaten down and drunk shell of a former confident and powerful business man saunters through the first floor of the building. Guided by the dim lights in the ceiling, he navigates his way through the lobby, past the reception desk, and down another dark hallway towards the elevators. Patrick reaches the hall with a bank of elevators and he pushes the top one of two buttons on a grey sliver rectangle mounted to the marble walls. The circular button lights up a shade light shade of yellow, as the down arrow above the elevator door in front of him glows blood red. As Patrick stares at the arrow above the doors, the awful red color triggers the debilitating memories of blood pouring down his face as he watched helplessly while his home burnt to the ground, along with his family.
"Fuck!" Patrick screams as he violently shakes his head and punches the unforgiving steel door of the elevator.
A brief moment of silence passes as Patrick regathers himself. He looks down and examines the already red and swelling knuckles on his right hand. The silence is broken by the chime of the elevator doors parting and inviting him into the portable carriage. He steps in as the doors close and presses another circular button to transport him to the top floor. Standing on the hard tile floors as the elevator rises up through the building, one of the lights on the ceiling gets Patrick's undivided attention as it flickers slightly. Almost as if it were calling for his attention, when Patrick looks up, he catches a slightly distorted picture of himself in the reflective paneling placed above him. Though the elevator stops and the doors open to his final destination, Patrick can't help but look up and stare at the image looking back at him. For a moment he truly ponders whether this is what time and circumstance has done to him, or if the image is simple a product of an unflattering surface and angle. His trance is broken as the door closes. Patrick cautiously places his hand between the closing doors, causing them to part once again.
He steps out of the elevator and walks through the bullpen of the giant top floor office. Passing by empty cubicles, smaller individual offices behind closed doors, and various other break rooms and bathrooms, he finally reaches the back end of the floor and his office doors. Patrick breathes a relieved sigh as he pulls open the doors to the office that overlooks everything and haphazardly tosses his belongings on the coffee table in between the big screen television and leather couch to his left. Walking over to his desk and placing his suit jacket and overcoat on the back of his chair, Patrick grabs a few items before heading over to the liquor counter. He grabs a bottle, glass, and small bucket from underneath the glass counter. He brings everything over to the couch, before briefly exiting to retrieve ice to put in the bucket from the break room freezer.
When he returns, Patrick plops himself down on the couch and grabs the remote he retrieved from his desk. He powers on the television, places ice into his glass, and pours himself a drink. He puts the glass up to his lips and sips, as he flips the bright and glowing television screen, faintly illuminating his entire office, tuning into Chicago's late night newscast. Patrick relaxes deep into the depths of the leather couch, as one arms hangs over the back, and watches as the anchors update him on various stories throughout the city and state. Thirty minutes pass, as Patrick finishes his heavy first pour and watches the news. Slowly, but surely, he fades into unconsciousness.
"Patrick Wilson," the anchor's voice says causing Patrick to jolt and sit up in his seat.
And others like him know first hand how much the racial tension, political corruption, and the seemingly endless quagmire of conservative and traditionalist policies, have griped and torn apart the City of Chicago. It seems that this once proud city has never been more divided. Adding to the the strain and agitation flowing through the streets, is the upcoming mayoral election. Incumbent, Vince Bronson, despite being painted as a cog in the same broken machine of the political landscape, is seen as the favorite even before the race begins. Though our surveys show that a majority of the public do not trust Bronson or believe he will deliver anything to effect a needed radical change, the public still feels safe in the accepted status-quo. Here is Bronson announcing his intentions to once again seek re-election in Chicago's upcoming mayoral race.
The television cuts to a shot of an entrenched bureaucrat standing behind a podium, with a number of mounted microphones, on the steps of city hall as he beings to address members of the press and members of the public who have gathered around.
"I am here today to announce my intentions of seeking re-election as your Mayor of Chicago," Bronson informs to a smattering of polite applause and muffled grumbling. "I know that our city has hit tough times and that a divide has come between our people. But I promise you that my team and I are working around the clock on these issues that are besetting the fine citizens and organizations of this still great metropolis. Under my steady and reliable leadership, I promise that incidents like the Woods scandal and protests will be a thing of the past!"
As Bronson starts smiling and waving, the television cuts back to the anchors sitting patiently at their desk.
Until another steps forward, it looks like another four years of Vince Bronson. We'll be right back.
Patrick powers the television off and sits alone in the darkness of his office. He leans sits forward on the couch and runs his hands over his face, then through his medium length brown hair. Then he examines the nearly empty bottle of booze standing on the coffee table in front of him, until he once again slinks back into the depths of the soft leather sofa. Staring straight ahead, the gears in Patrick's mind begin to turn. After a few minutes of deep contemplation, he struggles to free a pen out of his front left suit pant pocket. When he finally does, he leans forward to grab the napkin resting underneath his glass. Patrick writes two words on the napkin before placing it back down on the coffee table.
"Campaign Policies"
Patrick intently peers at the words. The words stare right back at him. Slowly his eyes grow heavy and his vision starts to blur. He then makes himself comfortable in the couch and passes out.
A loud knock on his glass office doors startles Patrick Wilson out of his deep sleep. He gains his bearings and looks over at the source of the unintentional alarm. Patrick's assistant, Cynthia, is standing on the other side of the doors with a concerned look.
"Are you okay, sir?" she ponders.
"Yes, I'm fine," Patrick stammers as he coughs and clears his crusty eye's with his hands.
"Everyone should be starting to arrive to the office in about thirty minutes," Cynthia states. "Is there anything you need or that I can get for you, sir?"
"Thank you for waking me," Patrick starts. “Yes, actually there are a few things that you can get for me. Water, Aspirin, and Jake Dillon in this office within the next two hours."
5
The elevator doors to the top floor of the Wilson Tower swiftly open and a young, but experienced, campaign manager confidently exits and briskly walks through the now busy and crowded office environment. As employees begin to notice Jake Dillon walking and scrolling through his smart phone, the workers begin to stop and mumble to each other under their breath. Their chatter is hidden by the sounds of ringing telephones, noisy computers, and by the low hissing volume of the various number of ongoing conversations. Dillon pays no mind to the glances and whispers, he hardly even notices anyone else around as he walks through the office.
"No, no, tell him I call him back tomorrow with general specifics," Dillon speaks into his smart phone now firmly pressed against his right ear. "Just let him know that we are the only ones who will get this done and done right. I'll call you back, I'm running into another meeting."
As Dillon hangs up the call, he reaches out and pulls open one of the doors to Patrick Wilson's office. Hearing the sound of the opening door, Patrick swivels around in his chair. Placing one hand for support on the desk in front of him, Patrick uses the leverage to get out of his seat and walk over to the entering guest.
"Jake Dillon?" Patrick ponders.
"Hello Mr. Wilson, thank you for calling me in today," Dillon answers.
"Call me Patrick," the elder of the two men requests as he welcomingly extends his right arm and hand out towards Dillon.
"Alright, Patrick, what can I help you with?" Dillon responds as the two men break their hold and take their respective seats at the large glass desk.
"How about a drink first?" Patrick asks.
"Sure, why not?" Dillon says as the two men share a brief chuckle.
The two men get up from their seats and walk over together towards the small ledge full of liquor, ice, and glasses. As they do so, Patrick and Dillon converse politely and even crack a few jokes here and there. Patrick gives his guest a quick tour of the rather extravagant office, before the two men trot over towards the big glass windows over looking the buzzing bullpen. As they talk and examine the activity of the workers who dream of one day standing exactly where Patrick and Jake Dillon are, some of those amongst the busy space of cubicles begin to stop and take notice. Quickly, Patrick and Dillon take their beverages and move back to the chairs waiting for them at the desk a few yards behind them.
"So I'm really curious," Dillon admits as the two men sit down in their places at the desk. "What is it that you want or need from me?"
"Just a second," Patrick orders as he grabs a small clicker laying atop stray papers on the surface of the glass desk top.
After a firm press on the small black circle in the middle of the silver rectangular clicker, blinds begin to descend from above the windows and office door. Dillon turns around in his chair to notice the approaching cover of privacy and the disappearance of curious faces just beyond the halfway covered glass.
"That's better," Patrick says as the blinds complete their journey. "Before I let you in on what I am thinking, I was hoping that I could actually ask you some questions?"
"Um, I don't see why not," Dillon marvels as he leans back in his seat and swings his left leg over his right into a more relaxed position. "What would you like to know?"
"There is word going around that you aren't going to be running Bronson's campaign in his re-election bid," Patrick speaks. "Is that true?"
"How did you hear about that?" Dillon puzzles. "I haven't made the information known to anyone, outside of a small circle of people."
"You don't get to my place in life and achieve the success I have in business without knowing certain things before everyone else knows what's happening," Patrick informs. "It's not always about the question or piece of information that you want to know. Sometimes the most important thing is who you're asking."
"Ha, well," Dillon responds with an uncomfortable laugh as he briefly covers his mouth with his right hand. "Yes, actually. Yeah it's true."
"Well there is also another rumor going around that I was hoping you could shed some light on," Patrick says that causing Dillon's heart to leap into his throat and his stomach sink to the floor.
"What's that?" Dillon ponders though instinctively already knows what is coming.
"There is a rumor that the reason you aren't going to be working for Bronson anymore is because you had a serious falling out with Vince," Patrick pointed out. "Not only that, but you also tired giving away Bronson's campaign strategies to sabotage his reelection. Essentially blackballing yourself and your political career."
Dillon looks down shamefully at his glass of liquor and takes a sip. Still unable to make eye contact with Patrick, the line of questioning unrelentingly continues.
"You weren't asking for money or for another job," Patrick says. "You weren't trying to blackmail anyone into a better position, so this whole situation confuses me."
"What do you mean?" Dillon mumbles as he finally looks up from his drink and up at Patrick.
"Why?" Patrick questions. "That's the only thing I don't understand. Why did you do it? Why throw your career, future, and life away like that?"
"I've been working on his campaign's, and people like him, my whole career," Dillon glumly states. "Every time I worked for someone like Bronson, I felt like I lost a part of my soul. We were doing, and saying, anything it took to win the election. We used people, we used the system, we used this city for our own selfish desires. We helped destroy and turn this city into what its become. I just couldn't do it anymore." "I had to change something," Dillon continues. "I just didn't know what or where to go. I should have known it would have ended the way it did. The system is broken. We're all broken."
"Well there is also another rumor going around that I was hoping you could shed some light on," Patrick says that causing Dillon's heart to leap into his throat and his stomach sink to the floor.
"What's that?" Dillon ponders though instinctively already knows what is coming.
"There is a rumor that the reason you aren't going to be working for Bronson anymore is because you had a serious falling out with Vince," Patrick pointed out. "Not only that, but you also tired giving away Bronson's campaign strategies to sabotage his reelection. Essentially blackballing yourself and your political career."
Dillon looks down shamefully at his glass of liquor and takes a sip. Still unable to make eye contact with Patrick, the line of questioning unrelentingly continues.
"You weren't asking for money or for another job," Patrick says. "You weren't trying to blackmail anyone into a better position, so this whole situation confuses me."
"What do you mean?" Dillon mumbles as he finally looks up from his drink and up at Patrick.
"Why?" Patrick questions. "That's the only thing I don't understand. Why did you do it? Why throw your career, future, and life away like that?"
"I've been working on his campaign's, and people like him, my whole career," Dillon glumly states. "Every time I worked for someone like Bronson, I felt like I lost a part of my soul. We were doing, and saying, anything it took to win the election. We used people, we used the system, we used this city for our own selfish desires. We helped destroy and turn this city into what its become. I just couldn't do it anymore." "I had to change something," Dillon continues. "I just didn't know what or where to go. I should have known it would have ended the way it did. The system is broken. We're all broken."
The two men continue to sip the brown liquid rocking back and forth like tiny waves in their crystal clear glasses. Dillon talks about how, like most well-meaning people, he wanted to get into politics to make a real difference in a city that he loves. He tells Patrick about how he understood there would be steps and rungs of the ladder he would have to climb, before he could get into a position where he was capable of doing so. Though at some point he realized that once he started doing what he had to, it became almost impossible to do what he wanted to. One day he realized that he had become just another broken piece to the same clogged and malfunctioning machine he wanted to fix.
"Sorry, I feel like have been talking forever," Dillon confesses to a content looking Patrick leaning back comfortably in his large leather chair. "I came here to learn about you and what you wanted from me. I feel like I'm in a therapist's office spilling my guts."
"It's quite alright," Patrick jokes. "This has actually gone better than I anticipated. I have to confess I had an agenda for this conversation."
"Really?" Dillon speculates.
Patrick pours a little bit more scotch into the two empty glasses resting on stained wood coasters on the top of the glass desk. As he caps the bottle of booze, he gives a meaningful and intent look towards Dillon as he leans back into his chair. Patrick tells him how he is confident that Dillon wouldn't have taken this meeting without doing two things. His research on Patrick's business and personal life, as well as believing that Patrick had something important to offer him. Patrick expresses his hope that his long track record of success in business, along with recent and well documented tribulations, would speak for themselves for the first account. All that leaves is the matter of what Patrick has to offer Dillon.
"Before I could tell you that I wanted to get a sense for who you are," Patrick states as Dillon leans forward with a look of honest curiosity sprawled across his face covered in beard stubble. "More importantly, I wanted to see if our philosophies were compatible,"
"Philosophies?" Dillon questions.
Before divulging any further, Patrick slowly stands up from his seated position. He grabs his glass of scotch, turns around, and walks a few steps closer to the large glass windows that reveal the tranquil Chicago skyline and turbulent city streets below. After a few brief moments, Patrick invites Dillon to join him. Shortly the two men are standing shoulder to shoulder, gazing out at the complex and beautiful landscape. As the two men watch cars stop and go on the busy streets below them, while a variety of different people do the same, the duo stand in a peaceful silence.
"I think we believe the same things. I hope we believe the same things," Patrick began breaking the silence as he continues to look straight ahead and out the window. "I believe you think the government in this city is broken. I believe you when you say that you truly want to inspire change. I believe that, like me, you love this city and want to save it and the people from falling any further into the dark abyss it's trapped in."
Patrick looks over towards Dillon who is still looking straight ahead. Feeling his gaze, Dillon gives a simple but assuring nod that what Patrick has been saying is indeed correct.
"So what do you want?" Dillon asks as he finally turns his head in acknowledgment.
"I want you to run my mayoral campaign," Patrick states. "As disillusioned as we both are with the state of politics in Chicago, it's undeniable what influence and power you have within the political climate. The work you did for Bronson's campaign's was truly remarkable. With your expertise and my vision, this is your opportunity to affect real and sustainable change."
An excited look of finding a rare and precious second chance beams over Dillon's eager face.
"Before you make any sort of decision I should give you fair warning," Patrick advises. "The only way we are going to be able to change everything, is by destroying it all. Something this bureaucratically entrenched and this fundamentally flawed doesn't change or adapt. It endures or it dies." "So that's what we are going to do, we are going to kill it," Patrick affirms. "We're going to use the worst parts of this political system and use it to our advantage."
"So this is about the system is it?" Dillon interrogates. "It's about tackling corruption and purging the illnesses infecting Chicago's political anatomy?"
"What are you getting at?" Patrick wonders.
"You know I was at that city hall meeting?" Dillon states. "Like everyone else, I saw you get up and leave. Tell me this isn't about your family. Tell me this isn't about getting back at the city for not being able to protect your family and then letting the man responsible off with a slap on the wrist. Tell you aren't disguising your vengeance as a self-righteous against corruption."
"That was just the wake up call," Patrick admits. "I can't deny that it played a factor in my decision to pursue this, but it's not THE factor. Because this is bigger than me, than you, it's even bigger than my family. Nothing will bring them back or justify what happened, but I can make sure that we live in a place where it doesn't happen to anyone else." "To do that we have to change everything," Patrick continues. "We have to re-define what it means to be a civil servant and re-shape the political system."
"If you do this they are all going to come after you," Dillon warns. "Anyone whose lives, careers, and bank accounts will be affected by it. Everything will change for us as well, there will be no going back. This is a bell you can't un-ring."
"Can you handle that?" Patrick asks.
Dillon turns around and puts his glass down on the table. He walks to the middle of the room and paces back and forth in deep contemplation, stroking the stubble of facial hair poking through the skin of his chin. Meanwhile, Patrick refuses to break his transfixed gaze of the city outside the window.
"Before you make any sort of decision I should give you fair warning," Patrick advises. "The only way we are going to be able to change everything, is by destroying it all. Something this bureaucratically entrenched and this fundamentally flawed doesn't change or adapt. It endures or it dies." "So that's what we are going to do, we are going to kill it," Patrick affirms. "We're going to use the worst parts of this political system and use it to our advantage."
"So this is about the system is it?" Dillon interrogates. "It's about tackling corruption and purging the illnesses infecting Chicago's political anatomy?"
"What are you getting at?" Patrick wonders.
"You know I was at that city hall meeting?" Dillon states. "Like everyone else, I saw you get up and leave. Tell me this isn't about your family. Tell me this isn't about getting back at the city for not being able to protect your family and then letting the man responsible off with a slap on the wrist. Tell you aren't disguising your vengeance as a self-righteous against corruption."
"That was just the wake up call," Patrick admits. "I can't deny that it played a factor in my decision to pursue this, but it's not THE factor. Because this is bigger than me, than you, it's even bigger than my family. Nothing will bring them back or justify what happened, but I can make sure that we live in a place where it doesn't happen to anyone else." "To do that we have to change everything," Patrick continues. "We have to re-define what it means to be a civil servant and re-shape the political system."
"If you do this they are all going to come after you," Dillon warns. "Anyone whose lives, careers, and bank accounts will be affected by it. Everything will change for us as well, there will be no going back. This is a bell you can't un-ring."
"Can you handle that?" Patrick asks.
Dillon turns around and puts his glass down on the table. He walks to the middle of the room and paces back and forth in deep contemplation, stroking the stubble of facial hair poking through the skin of his chin. Meanwhile, Patrick refuses to break his transfixed gaze of the city outside the window.
"What are you thinking?" Patrick says into the glass of the window.
"There are a million things sprinting through my mind right now," Dillon's voice echoes over Patrick's shoulder and into his ear from behind. "There are so many things to consider."
"Like what?" Patrick asks.
"First of all it's so late into the campaigning season it will be insanely hard to get the kind of voter awareness you'll need to be a serious threat," Dillon groaned. "Have you ever been involved in a campaign? These are experienced, crafty, slimy, and ruthless people. They will tear you apart. Even if you can handle the campaigning, media and public attention, nobody is ready for this." "People don't trust politicians now," Dillon worried. "People aren't ready for this radical change, they aren't ready to put their brittle faith in something with no proven stability."
"First of all it's so late into the campaigning season it will be insanely hard to get the kind of voter awareness you'll need to be a serious threat," Dillon groaned. "Have you ever been involved in a campaign? These are experienced, crafty, slimy, and ruthless people. They will tear you apart. Even if you can handle the campaigning, media and public attention, nobody is ready for this." "People don't trust politicians now," Dillon worried. "People aren't ready for this radical change, they aren't ready to put their brittle faith in something with no proven stability."
"None of that matters," Patrick calmly exclaims as he stops Dillon's pacing dead in his tracks and interrupts his rant. "We're going to strip that all away. We're going to cleanse the entire system, the entire way of thinking, of living, of existing."
"How?" Dillon asks as he inches closer back to the window from the middle of the office.
"By tearing it all down," Patrick says in a serious and determined tone of voice.
"Great," Dillon sarcastically blurts. "Great, so we win and tear down everything the people know and trust. We'll be outcasts in our own homes. Shit! What if we win? The way you say you want to win will make us pariahs, lepers, untouchable, how long can that go on?"
"As long as the people and this city need it to go on," Patrick jested. "You can analyze, calculate, speculate, whatever all you want. It all boils down to whether you believe in it or not. If you can handle the risks, the costs, and the consequences. Can you put your faith in something that is bigger than you or I?" "That's all that matters," Patrick coaxed. "You said you wanted to affect real change, to help these people, to help this city. Well? This is the best chance you're going to get. So what's it going to be?"
"Great," Dillon sarcastically blurts. "Great, so we win and tear down everything the people know and trust. We'll be outcasts in our own homes. Shit! What if we win? The way you say you want to win will make us pariahs, lepers, untouchable, how long can that go on?"
"As long as the people and this city need it to go on," Patrick jested. "You can analyze, calculate, speculate, whatever all you want. It all boils down to whether you believe in it or not. If you can handle the risks, the costs, and the consequences. Can you put your faith in something that is bigger than you or I?" "That's all that matters," Patrick coaxed. "You said you wanted to affect real change, to help these people, to help this city. Well? This is the best chance you're going to get. So what's it going to be?"
Suddenly a spark inside of Dillon's chest ignites and quickly turns into a roaring fire.
"Yes, yes!" Dillon exclaims. "I'm tired of these corrupt career politicians who promise the world to get elected and then pull the rug out from under everyone who voted for them once they're in office. I'm tired of these bureaucrat's praying on our insignificant differences to keep us divided and torn apart, so that we don't see that they are the problem and not us." "I want a system that actually works for the people it is supposed to be serving," Dillon continues. "I got into politics to help people, to help the less fortunate, to help my city. Instead all I've done is further my own career and career's of the people who've selfishly destroyed everything redeeming about politics. It's time to end put an end to this cycle of greed, corruption, and deceit."
Patrick finally makes an official job offer, while Dillon takes a moment to consider everything he has heard and everything that Patrick has offered him. He takes his time and paces back and forth in the middle of the office again. Suddenly he stops, and walks confidently back up to Patrick who is standing behind his desk. Dillon picks up the glass of scotch he had previously set down and finishes it without hesitation, before vehemently raising his arm and extending his hand.
"I'm with you hundred percent," Dillon proclaimed.
"We've got a lot of work to do," Patrick states as he grasps Dillon's hand.
6
Patrick and Dillon walk together through an empty building, which Dillon has rented out to serve as Patrick's campaign headquarters.
"I know it's not the biggest space in the world," Dillon admits to Patrick who is assessing the layout of the provided office area. "But I know the guy who owns this office building, he's a friend. On this short of notice he is really doing us a huge favor. Thanks to the discount he is giving us, we can really allocate the majority of our funds towards the campaign itself."
"It will work just fine," Patrick agrees. "Nice job."
"I've also finished your announcement speech for later today," Dillon adds. "I figured we could go over the talking points, just to make sure we stay on message and come out of the gates strong."
"That's a great idea," Patrick compliments. "Let's see what you've got."
The two men walk over to a barren desk in the middle of the room and unfold two metal folding chairs, as they sit down and go over their designated strategies. Patrick jots down ideas and bullet points on a notepad, while Dillon shuffles through papers in a folder to find the speech he has prepared for the announcement of Wilson's mayoral bid.
"Okay, so I think we want to stick to the main things that we've already talked about internally," Dillon advises to his boss. "Hit on the state of the political system, the constant corruption rumors and accusations, how the public doesn't trust that their best interests aren't being made a priority, and how we're going to change the system to make it work for them."
"Make sure you write down some avenues that I can go off of on each of those talking points," Patrick requests. "I want to make sure I cover everything as thoroughly as possible and hopefully look like I know what I am doing. Like you said, we need to come out of the gates strong. First impressions are everything."
"Absolutely," Patrick agrees as he hands Patrick the speech and notes.
Patrick scans over the materials and intermittently scribbles down ideas and other messages down for himself to use when he is making his address.
"Is there anything you want me to add or that you think is missing from the speech?" Dillon asks.
Patrick hesitates to respond, as he looks down at the papers in front of him.
"No it's great," he finally informed.
"Are you sure?" Dillon says noticing the hesitation and the uncertainty in Patrick's voice. "I just want to make sure we are on the same page. A big part of our message is about unity. If we want people to take us seriously, we've got to be in sync and be unified ourselves. That way no one can drive a wedge between what we say we are going to to and what we're actually doing."
"I know," Patrick admits. "I'm just nervous I guess. Sometimes I think this whole plan is crazy and that there is no way it's going to work. I'm afraid people are going to see right through me and what I'm trying to do."
"Listen," Dillon demands. "I'm not going to lie, but I've had my fair share of doubts. I've been scared that this whole thing is going to blow up in my face. I've felt the same things that you've been feeling. But doesn't being scared let you know that what you are doing is important. Doesn't it mean that your doing something that actually matters."
"That's why I wanted you working for me," Patrick states. "Your passion. It's really refreshing to work with someone who believes in what I'm trying to do, as strongly as I do. Maybe even more than me."
The two men share a laugh, as Dillon looks down and notices the time on his watch.
"Whoa," Dillon blurts. "We should probably get going. It wouldn't be the best look to show up late to your announcement speech."
With that said, the two men get up from their respective seats. Dillon grabs all the papers on the desk and puts them neatly into order, before putting the stack inside a red folder. They both walk at a brisk pace through the building until they reach the front doors. Dillon walks slightly ahead to open the doors for Patrick. Once outside, they both walk up to the back doors of a black SVU wedge between two identical looking vehicles and enter the car. As quickly as the doors close, the caravan takes off in unison and heads to the site of Patrick's announcement. Dillon and Patrick continue their conversation regarding the imminent speech.
"So like I said," Dillon says as he shuffles through papers. "Corruption, new legislation, and making the city and government work with the people. We want to stress those points."
"Uh huh," Patrick dribbles as he is looking down at his cellphone.
"What are you doing?" Dillon asks in a slightly annoyed tone.
"I just had a few last minute tweaks and ideas that I'm writing down for myself," Patrick answers still playing with his smartphone.
"What about?" Dillon insists.
However, Patrick does not respond and instead continues to tinker with his phone. Just as Dillon starts to grow even more annoyed, Patrick locks his phone and looks up at this campaign manager.
"Hey what do you think about this for a slogan," Patrick blurts as he outlines an invisible banner in the air with his hands. "Save Chicago."
Patrick looks at Dillon for approval.
"I've definitely heard worse in my time," Dillon laughs.
"It's quick, to the point, and on message," Patrick assures. "Don't you think."
Before Dillon can answer, the car comes to a halt and the back passenger doors to the SVU are swung open by security.
"This way gentlemen," a bulky security guard says as he ushers the two men out of the car and through the back alley of the sight where Patrick will make his announcement.
The two men walk through a red and rust metal door of a single story office building, and walk through hallways on the way to a room set up for a press conference.
"Hey what were those speech ideas you were working with on your phone?" Dillon asks as he holds the handle of a door to a small conference where Patrick will address the small assembly of reporters gathered inside waiting for him.
"Oh don't worry about it," Patrick says as he motions to Dillon to let him through the door.
After a split second, hardly noticeable at all, Dillon swings the door open causing the press to likewise swing their heads around to snap pictures of Patrick walking into the room. As Patrick walks in between two sets of seats filled with the press on either side of him, he quickly positions himself behind a small podium. Meanwhile, Dillon leans against the back wall of the room and watches as Patrick addresses the media.
"Thank you for all coming here today," Patrick welcomes the small audience. "I promise this won't take too much of your time. To get right to the point of why I invited you here today, I have decided to launch a bid to be the next mayor of the city of Chicago."
The statement launches the reporters into a craze of shouting and waving their hands in the air, hoping Patrick will answer their questions.
"As I can tell, it's obvious you all have a lot of questions," Patrick continues. "I won't be taking questions today, but I will do the best to answer what you want to know through the rest of my announcement."
The room grows quiet, expect for the stray flash and shutter of cameras snapping photos, in anticipation of what Patrick will tell them.
"I have decided that I have sat on the sidelines for too long," Patrick states. "I have watched this city fall into the hands of corrupt, the greedy, and the dishonorable, for too long. I've decided that it is time that somebody did something about it. That I did something about it. So that's what I am going to do." "I am asking the people of this once proud city to support me and when the time comes, to vote for me," he continues. "I am asking that they vote for someone who will look out for them. Who will put their interests in front of his own. Who will offer transparency into the working and decision making process of the city's government. Someone who will tackle and punish corruption, instead of covering it up or sweeping it under the rug. Someone who will clean up the streets of the criminals, homeless, and un-welcomed outsiders."
Dillon's head perks up at the last sentence, in a state of perplexity and puzzlement. He vehemently tries to make eye contact with Patrick, in attempt to keep him on message.
"For too long I have watched my city fall into chaos, disorder, and abomination," Patrick booms as his voice gains volume and intensity. "I've watched crime, discrimination, and hate, consume the streets and the people for as long as I can stand. It's time that we take back our integrity and decency. It's time for the moral and righteous to be rewarded and prosper." "It's time to save Chicago!" Patrick shouts. "Thank you!"
In a flash, Patrick moves from around the podium and walks down the isle separating the media to the back door of the room. The reporters bolt out of their chairs in hopes of getting any sort of comment from Patrick, as photographers take hundreds of shots in a frenzy to find the perfect photo for tomorrow's front page of every paper. Patrick politely declines to offer the writers any additional comments more than he has already given them in his speech. As security ushers the newly minted challenger to Vince Bronson's title as Mayor of Chicago out of the conference room, Dillon walks side by side with his client.
"Patrick," Dillon calls out as the two walk through a narrow and loud hallway away from reporters following them desperate to secure a quote. "Patrick, I need to talk to you."
"What is it?" Patrick responds while answering messages and declining phone calls.
"What was that?" Dillon demands. "You totally got off message at the end of your speech and started talking about things we haven't even discussed between ourselves yet."
"Sorry," Patrick apologizes still tinkering with his smartphone. "It was just a spur of the moment thing. It just felt right in the moment."
"Yeah well I'm the one who is going to have to answer to these reporters about everything you said," Dillon says as he is boxed out by two security guards who allow Patrick to exit the back alley door to the waiting SUV's. "What am I supposed to say to them? I had no idea you had these thoughts or plans."
"You'll be fine," Patrick assures as he walks through the door and down a short flight of stairs. "I'll see you back at my office."
Standing in place for a moment too long, Dillon is swarmed by the hungry reporters begging to speak with him. With a confused look on his face, the caught off guard campaign manager watches over the crowd engulfing him as Patrick enters one of the waiting vehicles and speeds off back to Wilson Tower.
7
"I promise you that if you follow the laws of our city and are here legally, then under my reign as mayor, you will have nothing to worry about," Patrick says as he wraps up his speech at the top steps of city hall. "My legislation will only target those who reside in our city undocumented and un-welcomed. There will no longer be free rides given to anyone viewed as drains on our citizens, businesses, and economy."
"What do you say to those who claim your policies will unfairly target minorities?" a reporter calls out from the large crowd that has gathered behind the gated off section at the bottom of the city hall staircase.
"I say that we have the right to choose who will thrive, love our city, flourish, and paint our people in the brightest light," Patrick responds to a mix of cheers and boos from the large gathering of supporters behind the press.
"Mr. Bronson do you have a response?" the reporter asks the incumbent mayor standing at a podium just off to the left of Patrick.
"Like I always have, I will continue to welcome everyone with open arms," the incumbent states to a more positive response.
"Mr. Wilson!" another reporter shouts as Patrick points at her to acknowledge her question. "Some businesses have begun to revamp their background checks and screen for legal documentation of their Hispanic employees in the wake of your strong take on immigration and Chicago's over population situation. What do you say to those business owners and employees who have been subsequently fired?"
"I think it's great that Chicago's business owners are being proactive even though I haven't taken office yet," Patrick responds. "It really shows their dedication helping us return to a fair and thriving city. To the unfortunate Mexican people who have since lost their jobs and what not, I'm sorry that you tried to take a short cut. But, if you get all your paper work in order, then we'll gladly welcome you back as a legal and documented citizen."
Another response of cheers and boos swirling together erupts amongst the crowd.
In their first public appearance together, Patrick Wilson and Vince Bronson, have addressed their large and decisive groups of supporters that have gathered in huge numbers at the bottom of the city hall stairs. Bronson's speech reassured his entrenched stances and policies that have seen him win re-election for multiple terms, while Wilson continues to build on his decisive and controversial comments.
Each group wears their blue and red cladded paraphernalia that displays which candidate they have aligned themselves with, as they each take turns ranting and chanting disparaging slogan's about the other sides candidate. Ever since declaring his candidacy, the campaign trail and rally's have become more uncivil and insubordinate, the more Wilson has started to stray from his initial policies and into more radical and racial territory.
"Can't you see what he is trying to do?" a woman wearing a blue "Bronson" t-shirt shouts from the left side of the Chicago City Hall staircase at a man on the right side in a red "Save Chicago" baseball cap. "He is trying to cover up his lack of political savvy, experience, and knowledge, with racism, sexism, and discrimination. He isn't fit to lead our city. He is a pig."
"Oh grow up honey," the man in the red hat dismissively responds across the gap separating the two groups just outside the city hall entrance. "You and all your politically correct snowflakes can't handle what he is saying because you know it's the truth. Just because he doesn't fit into your perfect, post-modernism, cookie cutter world, doesn't make him a racist. He is speaking the truth that everyone else is afraid to say. He's gonna take care of the criminal's, drug addicts, and homeless." "He is going to save our great city," the man yells to a huge roar from the other Wilson supports surrounding him on the staircase."
"You are all just a bunch of sad and lonely losers just coming out of your mother's basement for the first time in your life!" the woman replies to the man on the other side of the stairs.
"You sound like a stuck up bitch who needs to get laid sweetie," the man fires back as the other men and supporters behind him loudly laugh without care."
Soon the two sides begin to throw objects at each other from across the isle, forcing police officers on duty to drag away an unlucky few souls destine to spend the night in lockup. Before too long and before the rally can get too far out of hand, the on hand law enforcement restore some semblance of order.
"I see a lot of passionate citizen ready to take back their city from crime, corruption, and a system that has stopped working for you!" Patrick shouts to his group of supporters. "Sometimes that means rolling up your sleeves and getting your hands dirty! That's what it's going to take to save our city!"
On cue, a "Save Chicago" chant breaks out amongst the Wilson supporters. As the people chant, boo, cheer, and yell, Patrick and Bronson step in front of their respective podiums to take a rare photo together for the reporters and photographers present. Camera flashes explode as Bronson and Patrick come together.
"Good luck," Bronson says as he offers his hand in a sign of good faith in Wilson's direction. "I hope you are cut out for this."
"You have no idea what's coming," Patrick smiles as he quickly grasps on to Bronson's hand and smiles back at the cheering crowd and flashing cameras.
As the two politicians are set to go their separate ways, another loud and commanding voice rings out from the settling crowd.
"Mr. Wilson!" the unknown voice booms angrily from somewhere in the mass of gathered onlookers. "Mr. Wilson!"
As Patrick turns around and looks out to the crowd, Hector Reyes steps forward and props himself above the crowd by standing on the gate at the bottom of the city hall stairs. Patrick looks back unresponsive.
"Why are you doing this?" Hector yells feeling betrayed.
"What do you mean?" Patrick responds.
"Because of the things that you've been saying my boss looked into my background and found out that my family hasn't gotten our citizenship yet," Hector cries. "He fired me, we lost our apartment, and my family was forced to leave the country. Why did you do this to me?"
"You did this to yourself" Patrick coldly replies to cheers from his supporters. "Maybe if you followed the protocol and came here legally and documented, this wouldn't have happened to you."
"Mr. Wilson you knew we were all studying and getting ready to take our citizenship tests," Hector says. "I need your help."
"I'm sorry have we met sir?" Patrick asks.
"What?" Hector replies in honest confusion. "Sir, it's me Hector. You know me."
"I'm sorry you must have me confused with someone else," Wilson says as he turns to leave."
"You know me!" Hector screams. "Why are you doing this? Why won't you help me? You know me! You know me!"
As Hector grows more and more upset he tries to bypass the gate and rush up the stairs. However, the police on the scene quickly get control of him and pin him down on the stairs. As Hector is being handcuffed and dragged away he continues to scream at a departing Patrick to acknowledge that he knows who he is. Patrick pays no attention to his pleas and cries, as he walks away from the scene.
Three Months Later.
Now into the heart of the election season, the Wilson Campaign has gathered more support and momentum than any of the political experts saw coming. The people have responded to Patrick's refreshing stance and promises of salvation, transparent leadership, and matter of fact views of the world around him. However, as he predicted, others have not taken so kindly to his blunt and at times controversial tone and words. Political pundits have condemned his campaign as opportunistic race bating, discrimination, and flat out bigotry. While non-supporters have lined the streets in protest and blasted his character, lack of experience, and claimed Patrick unfit to lead the city. The jarring difference in philosophy between the supporters and the opposition have caused the divided within the citizens to reach hostile and dangerous levels of tension. With clashes and racially charged incidents occurring throughout the city.
However, Patrick's increasingly radical message and contentious rally's have also started to take their affect on his relationship with Dillon.
"Hey Patrick, can I talk to you for a minute?" Dillon asks as he walks behind the curtain to a make shift stage that separates the candidate from the gathering public.
"Can you excuse us please?" Patrick requests from two advisors helping with final talking points and preparations.
"Thanks," Dillon offers as the advisors gather their papers and belongings before shuffle down the stage and towards an ongoing media scrum.
"What do you need?" Patrick asks.
"Honestly, I'm having second thoughts about all of this," Dillon confesses. "When I agreed to come on and help you win this election you made it sound like we would be going after the outdated political system. But it hasn't felt like that lately."
"What has it felt like to you?" Patrick says as he shuffles his speech papers into their correct order.
"I don't want to be out of line, but it feels like you've started to alienate yourself and the people who support you," Dillon expresses. "You've taken this "Save Chicago" mantra and turned it into an us against the world ideology. Like you are trying to justify your hatred for the world around you, using this election and political landscape as justification."
"It seems like you've been thinking about this for awhile," Patrick says into a portable mirror as he fixes his hair and tie in preparation for his big speech.
"Not initially, but it's started to become more and more evident the longer we go," Dillon admits as he sits down in gray steel folding chair.
Patrick notices Dillon sitting uncomfortably on the chair as his internal conflict starts to visibly boil over. He walks over to his struggling friend and places a comforting hand on his shoulder, causing Dillon's growingly distraught eyes to look longingly into Patrick's.
"I know that this isn't easy and at times might even feel wrong," Patrick sighs in an attempt to ease Dillon's mind. "But I told you before we started that it was going to be this way and that it was going to be hard. I just need you to hang in there and believe what we are doing is right and is going to be for the greater good."
Music starts to play over speakers that signal a call for Patrick to appear from behind the giant black curtain and join the sizable crowd of people and reporters on the other side of the stage. Patrick removes his hand from Dillon's shoulder, gives his tie one last straightening tug, and prepares to make the walk.
"Good luck, Dillon speaks as he stands up from the chair and watches Patrick begin to walk towards the opening in the curtain and out to the waiting podium.
Patrick finally emerges from behind the curtain to an explosion of cheers, applause, and flashing camera lights. As he stands and soaks in the moment for a minute, the hopeful candidate greets the eager crowd with a wide smile and a consistent wave of his right hand. He slowly saunters up to the tall wooden podium with a "Save Chicago" banner draped over the front and stands silently behind it as the crowd begins to chant.
Save Chicago! Save Chicago! Save Chicago!
"Hello friends, my name is Patrick Wilson," his voice booms over multiple microphones attached to the podium to a roaring response of excited approval from the crowd below the stage. "Thank you all for coming out, this support has been truly amazing. Now I know you are all probably wondering why here for this rally." "Well I'm sure that most of you know but for those of you who do not, this is where it all started," Patrick continues as he spreads his arms to show off the surrounding empty lot within a wealthy upperclass neighborhood. "This is where my family home used to stand. A home that was teeming with the vibrant life and joy supplied by my wife and daughter. A home that burned to the ground with them inside. A home whose falling embers will spark the raging fire of change that this city so desperately needs."
Once more the chant that has become synonymous with Patrick Wilson's campaign rings out around the rally, as people with signs and "Save Chicago" hats on their heads cheer with more and more vigor.
"We will, we will save our city," Patrick promises to the raging crowd of supporters. "We will save our city by taking on these corrupt politicians, like you know who, and making the system that has worked for them start working for you." "We're also going to clean up the streets and make our city safer. We are going to get these thugs and scum from the inner city and get them the hell out of here," he barks as the crowd grows more and more ravenous with each passing word. "It's time to let these animals know that drug users, rapists, and criminals will no longer be welcomed here. I want everyone to live in our great city, I don't care if you are black, Muslim, or Latino. But if you are going to commit crime and disrespect our people, then I'm sorry homie but you're outta here. I will make damn sure that these people aren't around and that nothing like what happened right here, ever happens to the good hard working people of Chicago again."
The crowd erupts into a deafening cheer and applause, as Patrick walks from behind the podium and to the front of the stage. He leans down to shake hands and pose for pictures with just some of the thousands of supporters that have gathered in front of the stage constructed in the middle of the posh neighborhood.
Meanwhile, Dillon stands at the side of the stage unnoticed and watches as the people in the crowd react with cheers, laughs, and smiling faces to Patrick's words. He can do nothing but stare and shake is head in disbelief and disgust at the free and open display of agreement and consent of a message lined with such overtly harsh, ignorant, and racist undertones.
8
Three Weeks Later.
It has been three week since Patrick's controversial campaign rally appearance on the front lawn of an abandoned lot where his family home once stood. With the polls set to open in a matter of weeks, tonight marks perhaps the most pivotal moment of the upcoming election, as incumbent Vince Bronson and challenger Patrick Wilson are set for a highly anticipated debate at the Chicago Theater. Steeped in busy preparation, the air in Patrick's campaign office is electric with anticipation as overwhelmed interns and staff work at a hectic pace. "Save Chicago" campaign banners line the walls around the office, while desks struggle to support the weight of flyers, binders, and various other materials. Sharing passing glances at the two sealed off cubicles with blinds drawn, at the rear of the campaign office, two interns sitting at adjacent workplaces share a conversation while one stuffs envelopes and the other manages the campaign's social media channels.
"So do you think he really has a chance to win?" the intern stuffing envelopes asks to the other has he intermittently looks down at his task and up at the door to Patrick's office.
"He better," the social media intern claimed as he stared at the computer screen in front of him. "My dad lost his job last week at the restaurant to some undocumented spick. I guess they'd rather pay next to nothing for some wetback, than fork over a little more for someone who spent their life making that place what it was."
"That's such bullshit dude," the intern stuffing envelopes expressed to his friend. "I just hope that he actually wins this thing and does what he says he will. Get these scumbags in the offices and criminals on the streets out of our city."
"What do you think of his plan?" the social media intern smirked.
"I'm all for it," the other intern replied. "I wonder who he's gonna force into that hellhole."
The two interns peer over at one of their ethnic co-workers and share a laugh, while they high-five each other. Some of the other employees in the office snicker to themselves, while others sit in uncomfortable silence at their desks. While the majority of the supporters within the Wilson campaign are well-meaning people, they have started to be drowned out by the bravado and ignorance of a growing fraction. As the two interns continue to laugh and make jokes, Dillon walks up from behind them in the middle of their loudening conversation. Before too long, he breaks up the uncomfortable exchange.
"Hey," Dillon says as he firmly throws down a new box of flyers and envelopes on one of the tables. "I need you to sort and stuff these right away and I don't want to see you goofing off until it's done."
"Yes sir," the intern replies as he puts his head down.
He quickly turns his attention to the intern sitting at the computer.
"Did you finish putting up those posts about tonights debate?" Dillon inquires.
"Just about to get to it," the social media intern replies.
"Get it done now," Dillon barks as he walks back towards his office.
As he is walking he makes eye contact with two different sets of people. Ones who were surprised by the slightly admonishing feel to the dialogue, and others who were hoping for a more definitive criticism of the content being discussed. As he reaches his office door and places his hand on the doorknob, Dillon stops in place and starts to think about everything that has happened throughout the course of his latest campaign. After breaking his trance, instead of going into his office as he originally planned, Dillon swings open Patrick's office entryway. When the door opens Patrick swerves around in his office chair, while taking an important phone call he inspects the unexpected intrusion into his quarters.
"No thank you and I hope I'll see you in the crowd at the debate tonight," Patrick speaks into the phone pressed up against his left ear. "Alright take care, have a good day."
Patrick hangs up the phone and sits in silence as he looks at Dillon standing in the doorway of the office. After looking at each other eye to eye for a moment, Dillon turns halfway around and closes the office door.
"What do you need Dillon?" Patrick says as the door closes and seals both men in the small office.
Dillon slowly takes a seat on the other side of the desk separating the two men and starts to think to himself. Patrick sits motionless with arms crossed comfortably in front of his chest, as he starts to rock back and forth ever so slightly in his chair. Before the silence can reach an awkward boiling point, Dillon finally starts to speak.
"I don't know if we can do this anymore," the campaign manager confesses.
"Do what?" Patrick questions.
"This campaign!" Dillon shouts loudly enough for those outside the office to perk up with a cautious curiosity. "It's gone way too far. I understood initially what we were trying to do, but now? Patrick it's too much and it's getting worse every day, with every speech, every rally, every appearance."
"How's that?" Patrick halfheartedly responds.
"I was walking into the office just now and the conversation I heard between two interns that work for us made me sick," Dillon confesses. "It's like we are encouraging bigotry and racism by not fighting it, condemning it, or speaking out against it. This isn't what I signed up for."
"You're having doubts about my intentions?" Patrick asks.
"It's more than that," Dillon says. "I think you've lost your way. Now you're pushing this "Poverty Control Act," which makes me think this whole thing has become about something else entirely."
"What do you mean?" Patrick states.
"We were supposed to go after the system," Dillon says. "We were supposed to tackle corruption, expose the entrenched career politicians, and bring the people back together, we were supposed to save Chicago."
"So what is it that we are doing now Dillon?" Patrick demands.
"That's the problem," Dillon observes. "We're not doing anything, it's all you now. You don't ask for my advice anymore and when I try to give input you don't even consider my opinions. This isn't about us or the people anymore, it's about you. It's about your family."
"Excuse me?" Patrick blurts as he takes a visibly more defensive position in his chair. "My family?"
"I was afraid and had my suspicions when we first met," Dillon chides. "I was afraid you were going to use this platform as a way to get back at the city. A means of retribution for the death of your family and I think that's what going on here." "If you really cared about the issues and the problems facing our city, then you wouldn't let what's happening around our campaign happen," he continued. "You aren't trying to save the city, you are trying to destroy it."
"I'm sorry that you feel that way," Patrick apologizes as he gathers stray papers and his belongings from the office desk. "I'm sorry if you feel misled or that I used you for my own gain without any concern what it would do to you or your career. But I did warn you, I did tell you that to affect real change we had to strip away everything and tear it all down."
"I assumed that we would tear it down to build something better, not just let it burn!" Dillon interrupts as he bolts up and starts to grow more visibly upset.
With coat and briefcase in hand, Patrick now to rises to his feet. Both men, separated only by a desk, are now standing as the conversation grows more contentious by the second. Patrick starts to calmly walk around the desk towards Dillon who is now standing in front of the door.
"Trust me when I say, in the end all this will be righted and everything we've done with not have been in vain," Patrick clarifies as he comfortingly places his left hand on Dillon's shoulder.
The mayoral candidate slinks around his campaign manger, who does not budge an inch, and opens the office door. The interns and staff all stop working on their various tasks and turn their attention to the sudden appearance of their leader.
"Make sure everything here is ready and set to go for the viewing party," Patrick's voice blares as he speaks to both Dillon and the onlooking staff in a more political tone. "These people have done and sacrificed a lot for us. Let's make sure they, and the contributors who will be arriving soon, enjoy a well earned night off."
Patrick turns away from Dillon and thanks the entire staff. An intern notifies him that his transportation is waiting outside and Patrick then promises to do everyone proud and bring home the election at the impeding debate. A round of applause and cheers break out, to which acknowledges with handshakes as he walks through the office towards the door. Before walking through the exit Patrick turns around and makes a brief final moment of eye contact with Dillon, who only stares slightly back at him as Patrick leaves for the debate.
9
Four hours later, the Chicago theater is filled to capacity and buzzing with palpable anticipation. A more heated atmosphere is developing outside of the theater, with supporters from both parties claiming territory on either side of the gated entrance to the home of the decisive event. Riot police stand in-between the two sets of people, with billy clubs and shields in hand on the off-chance order must quickly be restored. Those supporting Wilson, and those supporting Bronson, stand underneath the bright lights of the theater entrance and share jabs, barbs, and other insults with each other about the other's political leaning. Meanwhile, back inside, the local Chicago news station sets up their monitors, cameras, and a platform in a large space in front of the stage for the debate's moderator to sit at.
The lights dim throughout the theater and the two candidates, Patrick Wilson and Vince Bronson, make their way towards their respective spots on the stage.
"Hello and welcome to tonight's debate between Mayoral Candidates, Incumbent Vince Bronson and challenger Patrick Wilson," the moderator reads into a camera with a flicking red right on top of it. "Tonight will be the last time that both of these candidates will be in the same room together before the polls up for the election. This debate will focus on the issues outlined by both candidates throughout their campaign, as well as questions submitted by you the voters." "Let's begin," the moderator smiled accompanied with a polite smattering of clapping from the onlookers.
With that the debate began and the two men started to discuss the various topics that they have been outlining to their supporters and potential voters all along the campaign trail. Bronson discussed how he planned to use the continuing support of big business to help make the city's economy recover and flourish. While Patrick countered with talking about how his years of business supports the philosophy of keeping government and business as separated as possible. Eventually they moved to other divisive and fundamental issues including gun control, over population, how to create more jobs, equality, discrimination, health care, and the environment. All the while the crowd sitting on the edge of their seat, living, dying, cheering, and crying, with every statement the two men make. Both Bronson and Patrick have their ups and downs throughout the opening portion of the event, with neither backing down an inch.
"Okay gentlemen," the moderator interrupts Bronson who is walking back and forth on the stage during a lengthy response. "That is all the time that we have right now. We are going to take a brief break and when we return we will start the Q and A segment of tonight's debate." "We'll be right back," the moderator says straight into one of the cameras broadcasting the event live to the entire city.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the theater doors the groups of Bronson and Wilson supports continue to go at each other.
"Wilson is going to put Bronson's corrupt ass in jail," a Wilson supporter shouts as he props himself up on the chest high barricade restraining him from entering the passage between both sets of barriers.
"He's an ignorant racist that is going to destroy this city," a Bronson supporter hollers back and throws a half full water bottle across the way.
Supporters from both sides, as well as the police standing in the middle of the two growing crowds, notice the flying debris and briefly begin to toss garbage and other items back and forth. The skirmish is short lived as police officers shift themselves in front of both gates and quickly calm things down. As the shouting continues outside, inside the lights begin to dim once again and the lucky patrons able to get seats hustle back to them.
"Welcome back," the moderator smirked into the camera acknowledging the audience watching in their living rooms. "We are now ready for your portion of the night. We have received thousands of questions from around the city and now is the time for some of those questions to be answered directly by the candidates themselves." "Gentlemen, let's get started," the moderator informs to the patiently waiting candidates. "The first question will be for Incumbent Bronson. Mr. Bronson, with your well documented history as a former high ranking employee of Harper and Woods, how is the public supposed to trust you are looking out for their best interest after the housing project scandal that upended the company and thousands of lower class citizens?"
"Well that is very easy," Bronson says to the moderator and the deafly silent room of people. "I have been the Mayor of Chicago for multiple terms now and the correspondence with that firm has been reduced to nothing more than friendly chats between former co-workers whom I still have great relationships with. It's a full time job and then some trying to keep Chicago running effectively, so I really don't have the time to keep track of the day to day operations of that firm anymore."
"You see this is exactly what the people are sick of," Patrick interrupts. "You can't even answer a simple question with a straight forward answer. You beat around the bush with vague and confident sounding statements that don't have any substance behind them. These people deserve to someone who is going to be up front and honest with them."
A big applause erupts among Patrick's following.
"Ok Mr. Wilson please allow for your opponent to respond in full next time," the moderator warns as the applause in the background dies down. "Luckily the next question is for you Mr. Wilson. You're highly controversial "Poverty Control Act" has been described by your opponent as a discriminatory attack on minorities. What do you say to that and how do you defend your plan."
"Listen this plan is simply a way to help control the overcrowded inner city that is putting a strain on our economy," Patrick explained. "We are going to build a whole affordable community complex outside of the city that will also create jobs and give these people a place to go. If you ask me it is us, the ones struggling to deal with the homeless flooding our streets and criminals endangering our neighborhoods, who are the true minority. I don't care what the color of your skin is, I have a great relationship with blacks and hispanics."
A quiet rumbling and muffled applause rise around the crowd, as smug and confident smile dawns on Patrick's face
"Okay Mr. Wilson," the moderator chimed in. "Then perhaps you wouldn't mind elaborating on this next question? What do you have to say to the people, under your "Save Chicago" mantra, who have been targeting minorities and lower class individuals, along with staging ethnically insensitive protests?"
"Obviously I do not want to condone hatred or violence of any kind towards anyone," Patrick began. "However, I believe that both parties involved in these incidents have good intentions and there are some truly good people. If you aren't a criminal or a drain on our economy, then you don't have anything to worry about. Do some of these people get carried away in our fight to clean up the streets, sure." Patrick says to a crowd sitting and staring back in slight disbelief. "But it's going to take a lot to save Chicago!"
Wilson's supporters outside the theater, listening over monitors and speakers, erupt into an overzealous hurrah. Seeing the Wilson supporters react with open glee and acceptance proves too much for some on the other end. Supporters of Bronson begin to throw objects across to the adjacent group and almost as soon as it began, it quickly spirals out of control. Seemingly snapping at the sight of the smiling and laughing faces of Wilson supporters, members of Bronson's group launch themselves over the fence and sprint for the other gate. The first handful of uncontrollable individuals are quickly tackled by at hand law enforcement, however the two crowds out number the officers and the imminent riot the was bubbling under the surface comes to fruition.
As fists swing, punches connect, and miscellaneous objects fly with ill intention, the horrific scene of people's worse nature spills into the streets causing traffic to come to a dead halt. Cars swerve and screech to an alarming stop in an attempt to avoid turing the ugly scene into something even more hideous. All the while, the event inside continues with no knowledge of what is occurring just outside.
"Mr. Wilson, some have speculated and theorized about your true intentions in regards to this election," the moderator continued oblivious to the riot raging outside. "Some believe that you have ulterior motives, stemming from your personal tragedy and the incumbents background with the connect Harper and Woods firm. Can you speak to these theories and insinuations?"
"I'm glad you brought that up actually," Patrick responds with a lamenting tone that catches the ears of everyone in the crowd. "First, I want to say something about my family."
But before Patrick can go any further a brick comes violently crashing through the glass doors of the theater. Patrick's concentration is suddenly broken by the threatening sound, as he looks up in horror at the crowd being sent into a panicked and confused scramble for safety. People jump over isles of seats, push each other over, and do whatever they can to get to the nearest exit. Almost as soon as Patrick and Bronson, still standing on stage, can take their next break security guards come rushing up to them.
"We've got to get you out of here Mr. Wilson!" a security guard informs Patrick. "We've got a serious situation developing outside, it's not safe here anymore!"
"What's going on?" Patrick demands.
"We'll explain later," the security guard ensures as Patrick and Bronson are both ushered off back stage and away from the danger.
As Bronson and Patrick are being ushered out of the building, the brawling crowd spill into the theater through the front doors. The security guards hustle to get both candidates in their transportation in the gated-off back parking lot. Patrick's black SVU peels out down the side of the building and just before making a right hand turn away from the chaotic scene, Patrick orders the car to come to a halt.
"Wait!" Patrick yells from the back seat as the SVU stops suddenly.
He rolls down the back window and looks out at the horrible scene unfolding outside the entrance of the Chicago Theater. He watches the people who came to support both Bronson and himself fighting, cursing, and confronting each other. Patrick looks on in an amused amazement of what is a truly horrific and heartbreaking scene occurring between the citizens of his city.
"Let's go," Patrick calmly states as he smiles while the window rolls up and the car violently speeds away.
As Bronson and Patrick are being ushered out of the building, the brawling crowd spill into the theater through the front doors. The security guards hustle to get both candidates in their transportation in the gated-off back parking lot. Patrick's black SVU peels out down the side of the building and just before making a right hand turn away from the chaotic scene, Patrick orders the car to come to a halt.
"Wait!" Patrick yells from the back seat as the SVU stops suddenly.
He rolls down the back window and looks out at the horrible scene unfolding outside the entrance of the Chicago Theater. He watches the people who came to support both Bronson and himself fighting, cursing, and confronting each other. Patrick looks on in an amused amazement of what is a truly horrific and heartbreaking scene occurring between the citizens of his city.
"Let's go," Patrick calmly states as he smiles while the window rolls up and the car violently speeds away.
10
BREAKING NEWS!
"We have some breaking news in the Chicago Mayoral Race," a female anchor informs as she appears on the TV sitting behind a local news channel's desk. "We are now ready to call the race for, challenger, Patrick Wilson. In what turned into a landslide victory, it is Wilson who defied the experts predictions and overcame a controversial campaign to pull of a convincing and overwhelming win. We will take you live to the Dawson Hall inside of McCormick Place in a few minutes, where Patrick Wilson is expected to make his address his supporters and give his victory speech."
Meanwhile, a in the financial district shelters
Meanwhile, a in the financial district shelters
"I can't believe it," a woman stammers watching the news unfold on a television above the counter of the crowded working class watering hole. "How did this happen? How did he actually win? What's going to happen to our city?"
"Obviously people bought into what he was selling," the woman's boyfriend next comments.
"What do you mean?" the girlfriend responds to the cryptic utterance.
The boyfriend takes a big swig of his beer before turning completely around in his chair, as he takes brief scans of all the other patrons of the establishment. In doing so the boyfriend notices three separate and distinctive sets of faces. He observes the ecstasy on the faces of those who claim this night, and Patrick's election, as a victory. He sees the sorrow of those drowning their worries in alcohol, in what they feel is the worst night of their life. The third set of faces that the boyfriend spots is those of disinterest, faces of people who genuinely don't care or claim any stake in what has transpired on this night.
"Take a look around you," the boyfriend says as he shifts is his barstool and faces his blonde-haired companion. "People are either happy, sad, or uninterested in this election. You were always out numbered. People who didn't really care probably didn't vote or even pay attention. If they did they weren't voting for Bronson or Wilson. They probably chose someone who didn't have a chance or did a write in." "Then you had people who voted for Bronson," the boyfriend continues. "He was an archetypal, possibly corrupt, definitely untrustworthy politician. Even people in his party weren't convinced he should be the mayor. Then you have the Wilson voters."
"Save Chicago baby!" a young white man in his twenties shouts at his table of identical looking friends as he drunkenly stands on his chair in the middle of the bar.
His outburst is meant with a few cheers, some laughs, and plenty of annoyed faces.
"Then you have them," the boyfriend utters as he watches the young man standing on the chair pound the rest of his beer. Oscar Wilde said, "Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth". All the racists, bigots, people with hate in their hearts, and the airheads, got exactly what they wanted. They got someone who would say everything they ever thought, believed, or wanted to say." "They got someone who would say everything they were to afraid to say themselves." the boyfriend mocked as he turned back to his drink and the television showing the Wilson victory rally getting underway at McCormick Place. "They got the biggest and most powerful mask they ever could have dreamed of. Of course he won."
The words resinate deeply with the girlfriend, as a glum look comes over her face. She sinks into her seat at the bar and thinks deeply about what her boyfriend has told her. As she sips the wine slowly out of her glass, she peers into the TV screen at the waving banners and flags of the Wilson supporters partying at the victory rally. Watching those same smiling, laughing, drunk, happy faces, having the time of their lives is Dillon. Dillon is standing backstage and holding the dividing curtain open just wide enough to get an obstructed view of the massive crowd.
"You're up in three," a rally manager carrying a clip board and wearing a headset speaks to Dillon.
"Okay thank you," Dillon responds as the manager scurries away to handle other responsibilities.
"Let's do this," Dillon assures himself as the campaigns theme song hits and his name and titled is announced over a PA system to the increasingly spirited crowd in the designated banquet hall.
Dillon bursts through the curtain and on to the stage. He walks to the podium at the front of the platform, as two bright shining spot lights follow his every step and he acknowledges the roaring approval of the chanting and clapping crowd below him. As he stands behind the podium, Dillon takes a few seconds to soak in the moment and revels in the enjoyment of everything that has led to this night.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Dillon's voice echos out from the microphones on the podium throughout the McCormick Place conference hall. "Ladies and gentlemen, what an unbelievable night. I am so proud of everything my team and you, our amazing supporters, have accomplished."
Another loud round of applause and cheers force Dillon to take a step back from the podium and listen to admiration.
"Thank you," Dillon says returning to the podium. "I really appreciate your love and enthusiasm, but this is not about me. Hell, this is not even about you. This is about the man that brought us all together. The man that made all of this possible. The man whose vision, passion, and leadership will help create the change that we, and more importantly this city, deserve."
Another loud applause breaks out, as the supporters wave their banners and flags high above their heads.
"I have a lot that I want to say to you tonight," Dillon's voice rings out to the crowd. "However, I think it's time that I turn this thing over. I think it's time that you heard from the man who is going to save our city and lead us back into a time of prosperity, success, integrity, honor, honesty and accountability. It's time to hear from your next mayor, Patrick Wilson!"
As loud as the crowd had been previously, the roar after Dillon finishes introducing Patrick is deafening and ground shaking. Some cheer, some shout, some clap, some cry, while others wave their Wilson paraphernalia. However, before too long Dillon notices that Patrick has yet to appear from behind the curtain he exited from earlier. Soon the crowd also realizes that Patrick has yet to come out to address all of his loyal voters.
"Your next mayor, Patrick Wilson!" Dillon confidently repeats into the microphones to the less enthusiastic crowd only to suffer the same confusing and unresponsive fate.
Dillon looks around in uncertainty, searching for some sort of explanation or answer to Patrick's whereabouts. He looks into the eyes of the supporters in the crowd who share a similar look of doubt and confusion. As the room falls into an awkward and uneasy low volume of muttering and whispering amongst the gathered advocates, Dillon is left stranded on an island with the spotlights and eyes fixated solely on him.
"Excuse me," Dillon stammers. "I'll be right back."
Dillon hustles off the stage and flies back through the dividing curtain, leaving the crowd to fend for themselves. Dillon runs up and down the backstage hallways yelling for someone to tell him where Patrick is. He grows more and more frustrated at the lack of answers and help. Finally after looking in bathrooms, closets, anywhere he can think of, Dillon swings open a door to a secluded back alley. As he steps out into the alley, shivering from nervousness and the bitter January air, Dillon notices a puff of cigarette smoke floating away in the night air.
"Patrick?" Dillon requests as he walks towards a shadowy figure looming a few yards away while. "Patrick, is that you?"
"You want a smoke?" Patrick asks as he leans against an alley wall.
Dillon walks cautiously towards Patrick, while his steps crunch a thick layer of snow beneath his feet.
"What are you doing?" Dillon implores as Patrick steps out of the shadows and under a low hanging light attached to the alley wall.
"Just relaxing and having a cigarette," Patrick dismisses.
"What the fuck is going on?" Dillon yells.
"You know tonight reminds me of that night I lost them," Patrick broke in. "Not exactly like that night, it's little colder and there was less snow on the ground. But there is something in the air that just brings me right back to it. Maybe it's what's about to happen, I don't know."
Patrick takes a drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke out of his nostrils. He offers a complimentary smoke, but Dillon just stands in front of him speechless and motionless.
"Alright," Patrick says putting the cigarette back in the pack and into his suit pant pocket. "I know that when we met and discussed running this campaign you had your doubts about my motivations. You were right, I never had any interest in the politics. I never wanted to change the system, tackle corruption, or save this city. There was only one thing that I wanted. That was revenge."
Dillon can hardly stay on his feet, as the weight of Patricks words come crashing down on him.
"A lot of people throughout this campaign, as you did initially, thought this was nothing more than a publicity stunt or some way of getting back at the city for what happened to my family," Patrick offered to Dillon's shocked face. "In a way I guess they were right. However, I look at it as more as fulfilling a promise. Once I pulled myself out of the bottom of a bottle, I realized that no one was going to do anything and that if I wanted justice I had to do something myself. I had to make sure that my wife's and that my daughter's deaths weren't meaningless. You can't justify death, but you can make sure it isn't vain. I made a promise to the memory of my dead wife and child that I would make the people of this city pay for what they did to them." "But I couldn't do that alone," Patrick speaks. "I needed someway to reach and get as many people involved as possible, because I wanted what I was going to do to affect everyone and everything. Because everyone had a hand in what happened to them, either directly or because of their indifference to what has been happening to our city. That led me to this mayoral race and it led me to you."
Snow begins to fall as Patrick takes another healthy drag of the cigarette burning slowly in his hand.
"I know that I told you that this campaign was going to be about tackling corruption, bringing the people of the city together as one, fixing the broken political system, and returning Chicago to its former glory," Patrick says as the cold air is illustrated with puffs of visible oxygen materializing after every word. "But I wasn't, and I'm still not, interested in any of that. What I really wanted was revenge, justice, some sort of accountability, and most importantly I wanted someone to answer for what happened to me and my family." "It was at the city council meeting just a couple of weeks after the fire that I realized that was never going to happen, so I decided to seek out something else."
"What?" Dillon says finally able to muster a weak response to newly elected mayor's revelations.
"Chaos, mayhem, confusion, doubt, panic, turmoil," Patrick sneered. "I wanted to make everyone feel the way I've felt inside since I watched my family burn to ashes for no other reason than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I wanted the people of this city to feel as helpless, powerless, defeated, and ruined, as I've felt knowing that there was nothing I could to save them. I wanted them to feel as scared, traumatized, and broken, as I've felt thinking about what my wife and daughter must have felt in their final moments. So that's what I am going to do."
"Do what?" Dillon questions as snow begins to pile on the shoulders of his suit jacket.
"I'm not going to accept this election and I'm not going to be the mayor of this city," Patrick reveals. "Chicago has a lot of problems. The people don't trust the politicians and the politicians don't respect the people who put them in office. Hate, intolerance, racism, bigotry, and discrimination, have infected the institutions and minds of the people of this city. Chicago and its people have become a ticking time bomb just waiting for someone to light the fuse so they could tear each other apart. My campaign has made the more clear and more evident than ever. By exposing the corrupt, the hateful, the parochial, and even worse the indifference of good people, that's exactly what I'm going to allow them to do."
"How could you do this to our city?" Dillon yells. "How could you do this to all the people who are counting on you to lead them to a better future? How could you do this to me? I believed in you!"
"You're a good man Dillon and I'm sorry that you'll be a casualty as a result of what I've done," Patrick sincerely offers as he flicks the rest of his cigarette into the mounting snow and walks up face to face with his campaign manager. "Maybe if things were different you could have done a lot of good for these people and this city, but they don't deserve it. If they want to be saved, they'll have to finally stop counting on someone else to take of it for them. If that happens fine, but from what I've seen and what I've learned, I happily doubt it." "Good luck Dillon," Patrick says as he walks away down the alley and into the night.
"Where are you going!?" Dillon screams out into distance of the dark alley to no response. "What about all those people inside!? What am I supposed to do!? Patrick!"
Just like that Patrick is gone and Dillon is left alone and befuddled in the back alley of the McCormick Place. After taking time to consider his next course of action, he shakes the snow of his clothes and walks back into the building in a numb state of disbelief. He instinctively walks down the hallway and back towards the stage. All the while, various campaign workers come up to Dillon to find out what is going on, but all he can hear is a overwhelming ringing in his ears as if a bomb had just exploded right next to his head. After navigating the hallway filled with confused staffers, Dillon finally manages to find his way back to the opening in the curtain separating him from a room full of just as confused voters. He fumbles his way through the opening and walks out on stage to a silent room of Wilson supporters. As he stumbles his way to the podium, Dillon's heavy footed steps on the hardwood floor stage ring out around the eerily silent room and he is followed by the blaring spotlights. He takes his spot behind the podium and as the unrelenting glare of the lights fixated solely on him start to emphasize the sweat gathering on his forehead and expose the confused look plastered on his face, he looks out silently at the crowd starring right back at him waiting for answers. Dillon unable to speak, looks back at the dark opening in the curtain hoping to see Patrick come strolling out to reveal this to be some cruel practical joke. After a few silent moments of tense stalling pass, Dillon finally turns to address the crowd.
"I'm sorry," he badly stutters with scared look on his face as tears blur his vision.
"What do you mean?" the girlfriend responds to the cryptic utterance.
The boyfriend takes a big swig of his beer before turning completely around in his chair, as he takes brief scans of all the other patrons of the establishment. In doing so the boyfriend notices three separate and distinctive sets of faces. He observes the ecstasy on the faces of those who claim this night, and Patrick's election, as a victory. He sees the sorrow of those drowning their worries in alcohol, in what they feel is the worst night of their life. The third set of faces that the boyfriend spots is those of disinterest, faces of people who genuinely don't care or claim any stake in what has transpired on this night.
"Take a look around you," the boyfriend says as he shifts is his barstool and faces his blonde-haired companion. "People are either happy, sad, or uninterested in this election. You were always out numbered. People who didn't really care probably didn't vote or even pay attention. If they did they weren't voting for Bronson or Wilson. They probably chose someone who didn't have a chance or did a write in." "Then you had people who voted for Bronson," the boyfriend continues. "He was an archetypal, possibly corrupt, definitely untrustworthy politician. Even people in his party weren't convinced he should be the mayor. Then you have the Wilson voters."
"Save Chicago baby!" a young white man in his twenties shouts at his table of identical looking friends as he drunkenly stands on his chair in the middle of the bar.
His outburst is meant with a few cheers, some laughs, and plenty of annoyed faces.
"Then you have them," the boyfriend utters as he watches the young man standing on the chair pound the rest of his beer. Oscar Wilde said, "Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth". All the racists, bigots, people with hate in their hearts, and the airheads, got exactly what they wanted. They got someone who would say everything they ever thought, believed, or wanted to say." "They got someone who would say everything they were to afraid to say themselves." the boyfriend mocked as he turned back to his drink and the television showing the Wilson victory rally getting underway at McCormick Place. "They got the biggest and most powerful mask they ever could have dreamed of. Of course he won."
The words resinate deeply with the girlfriend, as a glum look comes over her face. She sinks into her seat at the bar and thinks deeply about what her boyfriend has told her. As she sips the wine slowly out of her glass, she peers into the TV screen at the waving banners and flags of the Wilson supporters partying at the victory rally. Watching those same smiling, laughing, drunk, happy faces, having the time of their lives is Dillon. Dillon is standing backstage and holding the dividing curtain open just wide enough to get an obstructed view of the massive crowd.
"You're up in three," a rally manager carrying a clip board and wearing a headset speaks to Dillon.
"Okay thank you," Dillon responds as the manager scurries away to handle other responsibilities.
"Let's do this," Dillon assures himself as the campaigns theme song hits and his name and titled is announced over a PA system to the increasingly spirited crowd in the designated banquet hall.
Dillon bursts through the curtain and on to the stage. He walks to the podium at the front of the platform, as two bright shining spot lights follow his every step and he acknowledges the roaring approval of the chanting and clapping crowd below him. As he stands behind the podium, Dillon takes a few seconds to soak in the moment and revels in the enjoyment of everything that has led to this night.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Dillon's voice echos out from the microphones on the podium throughout the McCormick Place conference hall. "Ladies and gentlemen, what an unbelievable night. I am so proud of everything my team and you, our amazing supporters, have accomplished."
Another loud round of applause and cheers force Dillon to take a step back from the podium and listen to admiration.
"Thank you," Dillon says returning to the podium. "I really appreciate your love and enthusiasm, but this is not about me. Hell, this is not even about you. This is about the man that brought us all together. The man that made all of this possible. The man whose vision, passion, and leadership will help create the change that we, and more importantly this city, deserve."
Another loud applause breaks out, as the supporters wave their banners and flags high above their heads.
"I have a lot that I want to say to you tonight," Dillon's voice rings out to the crowd. "However, I think it's time that I turn this thing over. I think it's time that you heard from the man who is going to save our city and lead us back into a time of prosperity, success, integrity, honor, honesty and accountability. It's time to hear from your next mayor, Patrick Wilson!"
As loud as the crowd had been previously, the roar after Dillon finishes introducing Patrick is deafening and ground shaking. Some cheer, some shout, some clap, some cry, while others wave their Wilson paraphernalia. However, before too long Dillon notices that Patrick has yet to appear from behind the curtain he exited from earlier. Soon the crowd also realizes that Patrick has yet to come out to address all of his loyal voters.
"Your next mayor, Patrick Wilson!" Dillon confidently repeats into the microphones to the less enthusiastic crowd only to suffer the same confusing and unresponsive fate.
Dillon looks around in uncertainty, searching for some sort of explanation or answer to Patrick's whereabouts. He looks into the eyes of the supporters in the crowd who share a similar look of doubt and confusion. As the room falls into an awkward and uneasy low volume of muttering and whispering amongst the gathered advocates, Dillon is left stranded on an island with the spotlights and eyes fixated solely on him.
"Excuse me," Dillon stammers. "I'll be right back."
Dillon hustles off the stage and flies back through the dividing curtain, leaving the crowd to fend for themselves. Dillon runs up and down the backstage hallways yelling for someone to tell him where Patrick is. He grows more and more frustrated at the lack of answers and help. Finally after looking in bathrooms, closets, anywhere he can think of, Dillon swings open a door to a secluded back alley. As he steps out into the alley, shivering from nervousness and the bitter January air, Dillon notices a puff of cigarette smoke floating away in the night air.
"Patrick?" Dillon requests as he walks towards a shadowy figure looming a few yards away while. "Patrick, is that you?"
"You want a smoke?" Patrick asks as he leans against an alley wall.
Dillon walks cautiously towards Patrick, while his steps crunch a thick layer of snow beneath his feet.
"What are you doing?" Dillon implores as Patrick steps out of the shadows and under a low hanging light attached to the alley wall.
"Just relaxing and having a cigarette," Patrick dismisses.
"What the fuck is going on?" Dillon yells.
"You know tonight reminds me of that night I lost them," Patrick broke in. "Not exactly like that night, it's little colder and there was less snow on the ground. But there is something in the air that just brings me right back to it. Maybe it's what's about to happen, I don't know."
Patrick takes a drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke out of his nostrils. He offers a complimentary smoke, but Dillon just stands in front of him speechless and motionless.
"Alright," Patrick says putting the cigarette back in the pack and into his suit pant pocket. "I know that when we met and discussed running this campaign you had your doubts about my motivations. You were right, I never had any interest in the politics. I never wanted to change the system, tackle corruption, or save this city. There was only one thing that I wanted. That was revenge."
Dillon can hardly stay on his feet, as the weight of Patricks words come crashing down on him.
"A lot of people throughout this campaign, as you did initially, thought this was nothing more than a publicity stunt or some way of getting back at the city for what happened to my family," Patrick offered to Dillon's shocked face. "In a way I guess they were right. However, I look at it as more as fulfilling a promise. Once I pulled myself out of the bottom of a bottle, I realized that no one was going to do anything and that if I wanted justice I had to do something myself. I had to make sure that my wife's and that my daughter's deaths weren't meaningless. You can't justify death, but you can make sure it isn't vain. I made a promise to the memory of my dead wife and child that I would make the people of this city pay for what they did to them." "But I couldn't do that alone," Patrick speaks. "I needed someway to reach and get as many people involved as possible, because I wanted what I was going to do to affect everyone and everything. Because everyone had a hand in what happened to them, either directly or because of their indifference to what has been happening to our city. That led me to this mayoral race and it led me to you."
Snow begins to fall as Patrick takes another healthy drag of the cigarette burning slowly in his hand.
"I know that I told you that this campaign was going to be about tackling corruption, bringing the people of the city together as one, fixing the broken political system, and returning Chicago to its former glory," Patrick says as the cold air is illustrated with puffs of visible oxygen materializing after every word. "But I wasn't, and I'm still not, interested in any of that. What I really wanted was revenge, justice, some sort of accountability, and most importantly I wanted someone to answer for what happened to me and my family." "It was at the city council meeting just a couple of weeks after the fire that I realized that was never going to happen, so I decided to seek out something else."
"What?" Dillon says finally able to muster a weak response to newly elected mayor's revelations.
"Chaos, mayhem, confusion, doubt, panic, turmoil," Patrick sneered. "I wanted to make everyone feel the way I've felt inside since I watched my family burn to ashes for no other reason than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I wanted the people of this city to feel as helpless, powerless, defeated, and ruined, as I've felt knowing that there was nothing I could to save them. I wanted them to feel as scared, traumatized, and broken, as I've felt thinking about what my wife and daughter must have felt in their final moments. So that's what I am going to do."
"Do what?" Dillon questions as snow begins to pile on the shoulders of his suit jacket.
"I'm not going to accept this election and I'm not going to be the mayor of this city," Patrick reveals. "Chicago has a lot of problems. The people don't trust the politicians and the politicians don't respect the people who put them in office. Hate, intolerance, racism, bigotry, and discrimination, have infected the institutions and minds of the people of this city. Chicago and its people have become a ticking time bomb just waiting for someone to light the fuse so they could tear each other apart. My campaign has made the more clear and more evident than ever. By exposing the corrupt, the hateful, the parochial, and even worse the indifference of good people, that's exactly what I'm going to allow them to do."
"How could you do this to our city?" Dillon yells. "How could you do this to all the people who are counting on you to lead them to a better future? How could you do this to me? I believed in you!"
"You're a good man Dillon and I'm sorry that you'll be a casualty as a result of what I've done," Patrick sincerely offers as he flicks the rest of his cigarette into the mounting snow and walks up face to face with his campaign manager. "Maybe if things were different you could have done a lot of good for these people and this city, but they don't deserve it. If they want to be saved, they'll have to finally stop counting on someone else to take of it for them. If that happens fine, but from what I've seen and what I've learned, I happily doubt it." "Good luck Dillon," Patrick says as he walks away down the alley and into the night.
"Where are you going!?" Dillon screams out into distance of the dark alley to no response. "What about all those people inside!? What am I supposed to do!? Patrick!"
Just like that Patrick is gone and Dillon is left alone and befuddled in the back alley of the McCormick Place. After taking time to consider his next course of action, he shakes the snow of his clothes and walks back into the building in a numb state of disbelief. He instinctively walks down the hallway and back towards the stage. All the while, various campaign workers come up to Dillon to find out what is going on, but all he can hear is a overwhelming ringing in his ears as if a bomb had just exploded right next to his head. After navigating the hallway filled with confused staffers, Dillon finally manages to find his way back to the opening in the curtain separating him from a room full of just as confused voters. He fumbles his way through the opening and walks out on stage to a silent room of Wilson supporters. As he stumbles his way to the podium, Dillon's heavy footed steps on the hardwood floor stage ring out around the eerily silent room and he is followed by the blaring spotlights. He takes his spot behind the podium and as the unrelenting glare of the lights fixated solely on him start to emphasize the sweat gathering on his forehead and expose the confused look plastered on his face, he looks out silently at the crowd starring right back at him waiting for answers. Dillon unable to speak, looks back at the dark opening in the curtain hoping to see Patrick come strolling out to reveal this to be some cruel practical joke. After a few silent moments of tense stalling pass, Dillon finally turns to address the crowd.
"I'm sorry," he badly stutters with scared look on his face as tears blur his vision.
THE END.
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