MURDER PARTY

Vasilika Vanya Marinkovic                        Secret World Entertainment ©

Mike Blakely relaxed back into the car seat as his wife Melissa did the driving. It was nice for once to not have to be tense, fighting through the traffic. The couple were headed for a formal party in honor of Mark Jackson Stanfield. Mike and Melissa had campaigned long hours for the man-even taken some verbal beatings from left-wing people who’d cried out their angry words of hate against him. The event had tossed Mike off the wagon. And he’d begun experiencing bloody visions of the future, as he always did, when off the wagon.  

Melissa darted her eyes over to her husband, knowing he was jumpy, knowing he desperately needed to wet his pallet. They were pulling into the Atlanta Hills Country Club at this moment. Mike’s eyes relaxed back to their corners as the little wife eased into the parking spot, and he anticipated a nice vodka tonic and beer to welcome him to the dinner party.

Little white birds made a spiral formation above the Atlanta Hills Country Club. It was a misty fine day, and these flying creatures blended into white, foretelling of other colors to come, red perhaps. Yes, while off the wagon, Mike Blakely had the uncanny ability to sense when slaughter loomed in the future. And it was looming, but hopefully not for him. As he envisioned and tasted his upcoming vodka tonic and beer, he hoped his visions of blood, slaughter and impregnable death, were meant for others. Then he realized he’d been so lost in his ghoulish and alcoholic thoughts, he was actually outside the vehicle and trailing his wife half a foot up the quaint walkway into the esteemed club.

Stepping into the massive country club hall and breathing in the fumes of delicious foods like Beef Wellington and lobster, Mike Blakely began to sniff out the bar instead; he smelled spirits and snapped his fingers for someone at the bar to follow him to his table.

Over three hundred patrons were dressed in their finest. They had just elected Mark Jackson Stanfield to the state legislature. He was a very big man size wise but those who knew him really well were aware that he wasn’t very big in the brains department. Tall with blonde hair that was becoming gray he’d been prodded into politics by others with an agenda. The others included Mike Blakeley, who usually sat aside for politics and let others bloody their hands. But the agenda the silent group had set up was simply too much for Mike to have passed up; the promise of bloodshed, by any of the opposition. This was a roundabout way of having his macabre and alcoholic dreams come to fruition.

However, tonight, Mike was having strong visions, especially now that he’d been served his vodka tonic and beer. Yes, strong and vivid visions of the macabre began to pound at Blakely’s mind. The very supporters of Mark Jackson Stanfield were in imminent and grave dangers. Blakely smiled viciously, how freaking fun this night may pan out, not such a boring political affair after all!

Mike Blakely let out a big and nasty belch, as Mark Jackson Stanfield made his way up to the podium. By his side was right hand man-Joseph Petrolli who served primarily as his campaign manager. And Petrolli shot Blakely with a dangerous look with his eyes. Blakely sat arms folded, beer in his hand, wearing the expression of “I could care less asshole” as his wife appeared a tad disgusted and humiliated.

A thousand cherry red balloons descended over the crowd. The balloons were a signature of the Stanfield campaign- masterminded by Petrolli. But to Mike Blakeley, they reminded him of droplets of blood. The band rounded up a festive musical piece. The applause wound down and Mr. Stanfield waved a thank you to the room.

“My heart goes out to all of you, each one of you in this room. You have all stood beside me through this very challenging process and I’d like to extend my thanks to you all.”

Wild applause and cheering ensued and Stanfield graciously waved it down with both hands.

“It is never easy entering the political market. But I’m here today to tell you that through your contributions and support, that now we can aim even higher.”

As applause took hold of the large banquet hall, Mike Blakely shot those around him with a phantom gun, feeling all nice and lush with his liquor, his little server bringing another round.  Stanfield raised his voice excitedly, as his campaign manager stepped closer to him.

“Now don’t get me wrong. I sure appreciate being propelled into the state legislature and am more than ready to serve you. But who knows, perhaps one day, through your continued support and a bit of publicity I become mayor.”

Random applause shot up and a couple drunken patrons cheered. Mike Blakeley burped and made the noose signal, pointing at Stanfield. Petrolli frowned, shooting vicious eyes at the strong campaign contributor, one obnoxiously drunk Blakeley.

“Then governorship” Stanfield spit out unable to control himself.

“Yeah!” hollered Mike Blakeley and the crowd responded with laughter. Joseph Petrolli scowled. This was getting slightly out of hand. But he supposed that the crowd would be better off on a high. After all, tonight there was no way to go but down. They might as well relish in the high of the moment, for it would soon be gone.

“And then the Presidency!” Stanfield cried.

“I’m going to step in a moment before our good friend here elects himself God” said Petrolli.

“Why not?” bellowed Blakeley. “At least if there was a God, he might spare a few people tonight!” and he laughed. The crowd gasped and there was a light murmur of disapproval. But Petrolli flicked his hand rudely toward the noise as if a nuisance. The damnable drunk Blakely wasn’t going to give anything away tonight, for this crowd as any were sheep, flocking to their slaughter. Looking sheepish, Stanfield gently took the microphone to close up.

“Forgive me; I have rambled on a bit. Here is my esteemed campaign manager Joseph Petrolli, who will enlighten us with his incredible gift of publicity and marketing.”

Petrolli wore a tight smile. “We want to thank you all once again, and honestly, we appreciate your efforts. However, in the final analysis, your efforts haven’t been quite up to par.”

There was an uncomfortable silence from the crowd as many Stanfield supporters had never met Petrolli and were not familiar with his style. Nor were they in the mood to have their party merriment killed. Several patrons poured themselves more wine and/or champagne. Mike Blakeley downed a shot of tequila. Melissa squirmed in her seat worrying about just how “smashed” her husband was getting.

“But you guys have got guts.” Petrolli offered.

There were whoops and hollers of affirmation for this remark.

“All Stanfield supporters have guts, and we may expose these innards here tonight.”

The crowd went wild with many supporters now considerably drunk. That’s the spirit thought Blakeley as he burped loudly. Melissa shot him angry eyes. Petrolli took this all in.

“With a bit of calculation, we can use your guts and my stamina to further along Stanfield’s career. Come on folks, we need immediate and effective publicity; God willing or God unwilling, we can jump the gun here and make my good man Stanfield an immediate candidate for Governor, as long as you do whatever it takes to help us with publicity, whatever it takes!”

Being served a third round, Blakeley saw blood, lots of it, as the crowd cheered. Ah, the sacrificial lambs. And hopefully his number would not be called tonight. Petrolli plugged on in macabre fashion.

“These are troubled times, and sometimes extreme measures must be taken to gain the upper hand. Will you do anything to get the proper king elected? Will you put your neck on the line?”

Continued cheer and applause and Blakely laughed so hard, that alcohol sprayed out of his mouth, the little wife turning away in utter disgrace.

“The guillotine?” asked Petrolli and the crowd laughed, believing the question to be a jest.

“I hope so. Because I am here today, to tell you that a few dollars here and a few dollars there just won’t cut it.”

Patrons were oblivious to the fact that several guards went about the business of securing the doors. Other guards stood beside the doors protectively.

“I want you all to think carefully about your lives, about your country and about the legacy you may leave behind, when placing your complete trust in a man such as Stanfield. Folks, we need leaders like Stanfield, and we need publicity, because publicity brings campaign dollars.”

“You got that right!” Blakely shouted, excited about the bloodshed he sensed was coming. He’d been watching the guards secure the heavy doors and cell phones being confiscated.

“The hour of our dramatic publicity stunt has approached my comrades.”

The sudden paralytic effect in the audience was unmistakable, especially since two huge guards were wheeling in a massive antiquity of a guillotine up on stage, right next to where Petrolli and Stansfield stood.

My God thought Blakeley, this was going to be a hoot! Although Blakely’s stomach tightened and he found himself angered that he might be the very first victim if Petrolli wished it.

Blakely loudly emitted a round of exaggerated and howling laughter and Melissa shot outraged eyes at him. Needless to say, Stanfield supporters were becoming uncomfortable and at present, on woman fumbled with the heavy doors, which refused to open. Petrolli took the cue.

“But I’d mentioned the guillotine earlier and it so happens we have brought one here this evening, for your delights and added entertainment pleasure. And with nor further adieu, I would like a Stanfield supporter to say goodbye, that’s right, goodbye.”

Believing this to be one of Petrollis’ strange marketing techniques, the audience laughed-yet it was laced with anxiety.

Blakely burped lewdly, tasting his digesting food and alcohol, oh yes, and blood. Petrolli didn’t falter.

“These are hard times and tactics we must resort to, to get our way, can be harsh. But let us not face the matter so seriously. After all, there’s probably a heaven. Though I normally find sentimentality repugnant, I believe that may be an incentive in the journey several of you must face here tonight.”

Suddenly there was a commotion, as a couple ran for the exit. Violently guards tossed the straying couple back into other patrons, with the woman smacking into the floor. Her head hit it hard, with blood making an appearance. Mark Jackson Stanfield’s body became stiff, and his face carried a massive amount of tension. Blakeley’s heart rate sped up in euphoria.

“No fair” complained Petrolli, staring at the woman bleeding on the floor, as several people around her, clamored to assist.

“We need an honest-to God volunteer, no fakers. You can’t accidentally die and raise the morale of our party!”

Several patrons scampered for the door, while several shouts rang through the air. Blakely snapped his fingers toward a cowering waiter for another drink.

“Now, now, there is no need to complicate this any further” Petrolli tried to soothe, the growing hysteria unfolding within the Stansfield supporters.

“Get me tequila now!” yelled Blakely to the bewildered waiter who seemed relieved with the chance to leave.

The fallen woman was assisted up, with a napkin placed on her forehead, blood quickly collecting into its folds.

“Oh goody, no accidental deaths on my conscious. Now let’s get an honorarium to step up, buck up. Come on! Who will volunteer?”

Another struggle took place by the doors but ended with a bodyguard punching a man, while another guard whipped out a handgun. Patrons screamed and smacked into each other, in the center of the ballroom. Blakely impatient for his drink found this commotion a great opportunity to snatch a drink from the next table downing it in a single shot.

“Wonderful. Now that’s the spirit. Every one of you has had a change of heart and has rather smartly decided to volunteer. Well, that’s splendid. But remember, this is not a massacre, we only require a handful of ambitious and patriotic volunteers tonight. Who will they be?”

Not a soul came forward. Women were crying, while men reached for cell phones that were not there. Blakely grunted in the euphoria of upcoming slaughter. Who the hell knew, maybe he would be called upon to have his head chopped off? Perhaps it would be fun. The wife was crying, and he gave her a disgusted grunt. The others at the table looked at him as if he was crazy. But Blakely believed them to be the insane ones, for they did not have the ability to see death at every turn!

“If not one of you bastards has the bravery and balls to step forward and do your patriotic duty in propelling Stanfield forward, I will be choosing the volunteers.”

Screams and shouts shot through the air with Melissa falling over wracked in sobs. Petrolli stepped up to her and she screamed in terror. Staggering, Blakely gathered his wife in his arms believing Petrolli was attempting to dance with her. 

“No!” he barked drunk and delirious as all hell.

“Oh, I think so. She literally threw herself at the opportunity.”

“No, you can’t have her-

“Oh, I can. And I will, beyond possibility, do anything I please in furthering Stanfields career. Now remember, this is why you hypocrites dressed up tonight, got on your shiny tuxedos, your whorry lipsticks, your garters. Don’t dare tell me what I can and cannot do or I will volunteer the lot of you!”

People screamed and once again, a struggle ensued with guards, while many men were wrestled to the floor. And the cruel-hearted Petrolli laughed indignantly.

“Stay away from my fucking wife or I’ll hang you, mother fucker!” slurred Blakely.

Petrolli snapped his fingers, and three guards dragged Mike Blakely over to the guillotine. People began screaming and many women cried. By this point guards were holding their guns at the entire group. Mrs. Blakely screamed and wailed as the first victim was panning out to be her husband. Petrolli’s eyes filled with tears of happiness.

“Good, we have a solid volunteer. I so wish one of you would have humbly stepped up more willingly, to die with courage for the cause. Though this way has its perks, for instance, even more publicity. We are certainly geared for the presidency in 2012. Gentlemen?”

The crowd moaned and screamed insubstantially as the unfortunate “volunteer” was placed on the guillotine. Slowly Petrolli raised his left hand, ready, at any moment to give the fatal signal.

THE END