Time of the Americans
You’re getting now that this is the story of two men, both on opposite sides. Here’s what I didn’t tell you: Charles Winchell was my brother. Kidding, kidding. Nothing so dramatic as that. I was just a small town professor working on a novel. He was President of the whole Goddamn world. Our lives would eventually cross like brothers. I won’t invoke Cane and Abel. I’m not good enough to be Abel. Let’s just say that, spiritually, we begat each other.
At this point, I was ignorant of the goings-on in the oval office. I only know now. I was working on my book, teaching writing classes, lusting after my students (another story). I kept plugging away at the novel, unaware that I was writing what was actually occurring. They say that in the infinite number of planets that exist in the universe--nevermind in multiverses--it is statistically possible that there is an exact replica of Earth with people living similar, or identical, lives. Maybe that’s all that I’d hit on, a case of probabilities. Then again, Winchell’s campaign slogan was "Chuck is Good Luck."
It didn’t take an incredible leap of imagination to start thinking about a Biblical apocalypse in the making. Israel had started erecting the third temple. It was proof enough to a great many people that prophecy was being fulfilled. The boldest move that Winchell made was to bring a lasting peace to the Middle East. This was no small feat, of course. Militants are afraid of peace the way scientists are afraid of God. It puts an end to their jobs, everything they know. Winchell was instrumental in creating a new Middle Eastern coalition--The Union of Middle East States, a name that could only have American origins. TUOMES, or Tombs if you were cynical. It was a group of ten Middle Eastern countries, including Israel, and, as the broker of the deal, the United States. Suddenly, Middle Eastern countries took care of their own, and terrorists became the minority. President Winchell was a hero. America was once again a world savior.
I’ll get more into the terms of this peace as time goes on. In a sense, these were hard times to be writing an apocalyptic manifesto. Lighten up, Eugene, everybody said. This is good news. For instance, a friend of mine, a Spanish professor named Ian Orede did not believe my paranoia about Winchell, saying, "You’re not supposed to think these things." Case in point, he called it paranoia--about UFOs, secret society plotting, and the rest. Intellectuals are the worst kind of liberals: they’re conservative.
So instead of trying to convince people of what was happening and feeling like a drunken priest shouting on a streetcorner, I poured it into my book--some of which you are reading now.
Most people didn’t seem to realize that the Anti-Christ isn’t an evil motherfucker like Hitler or bin Laden. The Anti-Christ is charming and beloved and makes good on seven years of peace. Charles Winchell was this man. As soon as he started The Plan, his approval numbers started going up. And why not? He was promising and delivering peace in the Middle East.
Due to both paranoia and foresight I saw the Middle East coalition as part of Winchell’s plan. A ten state cartel came right from the Book of Revelations. This didn’t turn me into a Christian convert, however. Actually it had the opposite affect. Part of the reason I was writing my novel was to explain the prophecy in rational terms. Though I have to admit there was always a nagging issue: a person aiming to fulfill prophecy might be the prophecy itself.
Incredibly, President Winchell was playing the role of Anti-Christ so the world could usher in the one true Christ. What nobody knew was that Winchell was going through one hell of an identity crisis--probably the worst case in the history of mankind.