Great Hoboes of New York

Website © 2003 by Tyler Carey
All Content Creator-Owned

The Great Hobo Party

2004 Campaign

!!!Mark Hugo for US President!!!

The Final Hours...

This is fiction. Once again, this is fiction. Mr. Hugo is a larger than life figure, and this story, as with all others, grew in the telling from a hint of an idea, to a full blown story, to the rampaging bizarro maelstrom that is presented below. We'll never say what's true and what's not. Well, maybe. I mean, buy us a few beers and we'll see what happens.

I knew there was trouble the moment I drove up Mark's driveway. I was in the area on business and decided to stop by the bunker to surprise him. The only surprise would be on me. My first clue that something was amiss was Mark's father in the front yard. He was taking down the flag and resetting it to the correct right-side-up fashion. Only Mark would set the flag in the distress position, and only if he was in a bad mood. Psychotic, one might say. But I was in a great mood. Clear, sunny autumn day. Crisp air in my lungs. Varied and colorful foliage teased and pleased the eyes. My good mood would not be deterred by one omen.

"Howdy, Mr. Hugo. Is Mark in the bunker, er, basement?"

"I assume so. Would watch myself though. He's been raving more than usual, and I think your name came up more than once."

"Wouldn't worry, that's usual. Thanks."

"Yup." He went back to his chores with a shrug.

I parked the rental and strolled up to the bunker's entrance. I turned the knob and started to step into Mark's infamous abode. I noticed two things about the bunker almost immediately. It had never been in more disarray (which is impressive) and Mark had never before been standing in the doorway with a .38 caliber revolver thrust against my forehead.

I attempted to stay calm. Watching mark's right forefinger twitch uncontrollably next to the trigger did not help. "What seems to be the problem?"

"The problem! You stole my life, Brutus, and now you're gonna die!"

"You do realize that the gun in your hand..."

BANG! I would have been shitting in my pants and enjoying my last stiffy if it hadn't been for one clear fact.

"...is a cap gun."

"FUCK." Mark turned abruptly and started rummaging through the disaster he called home.

"Do you mind telling me what this is all about? Don't worry, I won't get in the way of your search."

Mark gave up, collapsing on the one chair in the room that was not covered in junk. "No use, my mom must have hid the .38. I'll never find it now." He looked like he hadn't slept in a few days. He was getting too old for his benders. "Look, I don't have time for this crap right now. It was bad enough dealing with Karl's betrayal. Then I had to deal with yours. Now I have to deal with you in my house."

"Wait, back up. Let's deal with this one issue at a time. Start with Karl." Betrayal? No wonder Mark was pissed. He always threatened me, but never with a gun.

"I went up to the Valley to visit Karl a couple of days ago, right after I read your little article. I knew he'd be as pissed as I was," I still was not getting this, but Mark was on a roll now, "Instead of Karl, I find an empty apartment. He moved out. But I did find some mail, so I opened it. You know, played the sleuth. Turns out, old Karl's been playing us both for suckers. He's only involved in this campaign as a prep for his 2008 run. I found half a dozen letters he got back from prospective donors. Sure, most told him to suck off, especially the one from Imus, but that's not the point. At first, I figured I'd keep going. I tried to contact Roger Moore, you know that fat documentarian who pisses people off with his movies, but his people wouldn't return my phone calls. And when I finally talked to someone they acted like I was crazy and had the wrong guy. Screw him, he let himself go after playing Bond anyways." Mark took a break to take a long drought off his trusty flask.

"Hold on, why would the article I wrote piss off Karl? Or you, for that matter."

He nearly spit up, "You told the world my life was a fucking lie! The disclaimer at the end of the article, you douchebag."

"I only did that to keep you out of hot water. When I got you sprung from jail, I worked it so your hotel escapades never happened. If the wrong people read the article and thought it really happened, the cops could pull you back in. And this time they'd be pissed that we made them look like pushovers."

"Oh, didn't consider that..." Mark tapped his flask against his shin. "Anyhow, the real point is that the run is over. We don't have the dedication on this team to win. Can't trust Karl, and you can't take the heat in the kitchen. Even if it is for my defense. You've got too large a heart to manage my campaign."

"So what now?"

"I believe it was Jesus who said,

Through early morning fog I see
visions of the things to be
the pains that are withheld for me
I realize and I can see...

That suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
and I can take or leave it if I please."

"So you're going to kill yourself. I hardly think that..."

"Holy crap no. I'm just making a point. A metaphor if you will. When a man goes through a monumental change in his life, he has to first kill his past self. Every man dies many deaths before the final curtain."

"First of all, my newly philosophical friend, I think that was the M*A*S*H theme," I said. "And second, that doesn't answer my question. I'm not saying you shouldn't do something new. Our team has fallen apart, especially with Karl disappearing. I warned you about him, didn't I? No sense mulling over the past, but the question still remains: what now?"

"I wasn't going to tell you about this because of the betrayal and all..." Mark mumbled.

"Mark, I told you it was to..."

"Fuck it, I'm over it now." Mark may get homicidally pissed quickly, but he also forgot about just as fast, "It's not that I'm pulling out of politics completely, I'm just backing a bigger candidate. The greater of evils, you might say. I saw a bumper sticker that said "Cthulu for President 2004: Why Vote for the Lesser Evil?" and I said to myself, 'Fuck yeah.' Follow me, I want to show you something."

Cthulhu? What? Mark was talking about an imaginary evil god, created by a 1930s pulp writer named H.P. Lovecraft. What the devil? Mark wasn't really talking about endorsing a fictional monster, was he? That would be like endorsing Godzilla or The Mummy. Then again, with the choices on the table, would things really be so different if one of those bastards was real, and sealed the deal?

We went out to the edge of the forest behind the house. There was a small cairn of weathered stones marking the grave of Mark's childhood dog, Socks. "You see, the Old Ones have not yet awoken in their ancient city so I can't talk to the great Cthulu directly. So I must use an intermediary, such as my buddy Socks, who rests three feet under these rocks."

Then everything went a bit strange. Mark's eyes rolled back into head and the sounds that came from his mouth, barely audible and which could hardly be described as any earthly language, shook me with a fear that reached to the depth of my soul. That lasted about five minutes. Five minutes of nightmarish visions I will never recount. Then Mark threw a bitch fit and gave up.

"What do you say we go for some cocktails and cheese fries?"

"Blue Colony Diner?"

"Sounds good to me. Let's go, Tyler," Mark said. As he walked away, off towards his beat up old Volvo, he muttered something else. I think it was, "Part of a man may die, but some things never change. Good night sweet prince. May a thousand Great Ones pull you to your rest with outstretched tentacles."

Our inspiration, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, once said, "The Strange Never Die." Mark Hugo must be immortal.