"One of the marks of success in a career politician is a rooty distrust of The Press -- this cynicism is usually reciprocated." Hunter S. Thompson
"The only way a reporter should look at a politician is down." H.L. Mencken
When I first met the ghost of journalist Raoul Duke, I was aware as a presidential candidate that I was on shaky ground just by granting an interview to a ghost much less the author of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. He was a short Mexican man about the size of a barn. I found him sitting on my porch one night after I had had a particularly successful session in a vineyard with several small animals. I had come back to the porch to clean up before ringing the bell to be let in.
"Cato," his voice was soft and the accented English smooth and pure. He patted his thigh offering me a place on his lap, and as it looked very large and soft, I obliged. I settled myself before he spoke again.
"Cato, I want to ask you how you met Richard Nixon?" Duke, of course was an upstart journalist, completely unafraid to ask anything at any time. I was aware that several members of the press knew about my past history with Nixon. I did not realize, however, that the knowledge of it was widespread.
"Well, Raoul," I settled my bottom on his thigh and turned to look at him and smiled. "That is indeed an interesting story."
"It was on Highway 93 back East somewhere in one of those little states that hardly matter unless it is primary season. Nixon knew that I was a seriously addicted to pro football as he was and he wanted a companion on his way down 93 to some god awful state in the South for yet another primary. It was 1968 and no one took him seriously. The serious candidate that year was Nelson Rockefeller."
It was a very weird trip. Both Nixon and I enjoyed it, this was before he turned into a prime-A asshole and mislead the American public while he bombed the crap out of Cambodia. There were only two of us in the back seat. The cop driving held the speed at exactly 65 mph. Whatever else might be said about Nixon -- and there is still serious doubt in my mind that he could pass for Human -- he was a goddamn stone fanatic on every facet of pro ball. At one point in our conversation, I mentioned a down and out pass in the waning moments of the 1967 Super Bowl -- the mismatch between between Green Bay and Oakland -- and obscure, second-string Oakland receiver named Bill Miller that had stuck in my mind because of his pinpoint style and precision . Nixon hesitated a moment, lost in thought, then he slapped me on the thigh and laughed. "That's right, by god! The Miami boy!" I was stunned, not only had he remembered the play, but he knew where Miller had played in college."
"However, Raoul after Vietnam and Watergate, I just hoped he would die a horrible death," I dug my claws slightly into his thigh to emphasize my point. "When it finally happened, I waited a good six months before I traveled to his grave, not to pay my respects, but to dig up the bones and gnaw on them to make sure that he was truly dead." I paused to let that sink into Raoul's brain.
"Is this for attribution?" Raoul whispered.
Six month later the little Mexican was back on my porch this time with "...two bags of grass seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers [...] and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyls." He offered me some catnip, which I gladly accepted.
While I was rolling around in a feel good frenzy, he asked his next question.
"What was your involvement in the Massachusetts caucuses of 1972 -- actually what do you know about the Cambridge caucuses?
"You're asking about 1972?"
He nodded.
"I wasn't alive then, neither were my parents." I grinned.
"Yes, but you remembered your encounter with Nixon. I have been advised that you remember all your lives," he whispered.
My feel good frenzy was over and a chill shot up my spine.
"I don't know what you are talking about."
There was a long silence.
"I understand that there could be a very dark side to your presidency."
I did not respond.
He sighed. "Let me refresh your memory."
"Neutering for everyone in your administration?"
"This is a matter of public record. I believe politicians can better serve the public if they are neutered."
His accusations came faster.
"Your plan for dog control?"
"The cat across the street?"
"Gun control?"
"It's obvious to me that when you have the skills to kill and eat your own food, what do you need guns for? Why bother to dress a moose, when you can eat it raw?" I licked my lips at the thought.
He continued. "Your plan to change the constitution so that non-humans may run for all manner of political office?"
This is not a secret it's a part of my campaign slogan 'The human race had its chance and squandered it.' It's obvious from McCain's recent choice for vice president that a feline, particularly a neutered one, would have been a better choice. Humans are increasingly exhibiting an inability to think well, cats do not have this trouble." I blinked.
He was silent for a moment. I feared what he was thinking.
"Yes, but when these things are put together in a package, your presidency appears rather dark."
I sighed. "What do you want to know about the caucuses?"
"So you do remember your past lives?" I had no idea why he was hounding me about my memory, but I was soon to find out.
"Yes, I remember everything from the beginning of my incarnation -- my original incarnation at the dawn of time. I am eternal........ " I decided to switch gears. "It was Saturday, the gym of Assumption College was packed. The median age was about 33 years. This was a little old for McCarthy supporters. That's why George McGovern locked up 62 percent of the caucus voters that day. A real coup. This left McCarthy to split the rest, more or less equally, with Shirley Chisholm.
The Chisholm strength shocked everybody. She was one of 12 names on the ballot -- which included almost every conceivable Democratic candidate from Hubert Humphrey to Patsy Mink, George Wallace, Wilbur Mills, Sam Yorty, Gene McCarthy, John Lindsay, Ed Muskie. The Chisholm challenge was a last-minute idea and only half-organized on the morning of the caucus by a handful of speedy young black politicos and women's lib-types, but by 6:00 that evening it had developed from a noisy idea into a solid power bloc.
"What began as a symbolic kind of challenge became a serious position after the first ballot -- among this overwhelmingly white, liberal, affluent, well-educated and over-thirty audience -- half of them refusing to vote for McGovern because he seemed too conventional."
"Sounds like Iowa and Obama," he remarked.
"You might say that. But it actually reminded me of Cicero who stood for Consul in the year 63. He was the underdog as a 'new man' of the Senate. He ran against some very able opponents and still managed to triumph using his oratory skills, his insistence on maintaining the Republic for all citizens of Rome and his intelligence to win. We have very little of that now."
"You are referring to the current election and yet you remember the Republic?" He asked.
"As I said, I remember to the beginning of time............and yes I remember the Republic. There was nothing like it and never will be. Men at that time tore each other apart with their bare hands. It was a very bloody time. I made a good living as a gladiator."
"You were a gladiator?"
"Oh, yes, most cats were. I was one of the winningest. I won my freedom and I was elected Tribune in the years just before Julius Caesar became sole dictator . But this is ancient history."
"You have quite a perspective on politics," he said in an admiring tone of voice. "Who do you think will win the election this year?"
I thought carefully before I answered his question. “You can always spot a fool, he's the guy who will tell you who is going to win an election. But an election is a living thing – you might almost say, the most vigorously alive thing there is – with thousands upon thousands of brains and limbs and eyes and thoughts and desires, and it will wriggle and turn and run in directions no one ever predicted, sometimes just for the joy of proving you wrong.
"This I learned on the Field of Mars that election day, when the entrails were inspected, the skies were check for suspicious flights of birds, the blessing of the gods were invoked, all epileptics were ask to leave the field, a legion was deployed on the approaches to Rome to prevent surprise attack, the list of candidates was read, the trumpets were sounded, the red flag was hoisted over the Janiculum hill, and the Roman people began to cast their ballots."
Six months later he was back, this time with just a pencil and notebook.
It was evening and the sun was hanging on the horizon. The color of the world had gone purple and the waning light lingered just for one long moment before going out, entirely. I was sitting at the screen door looking out. I was tired and satisfied. I had had a good dinner. I purred to myself with contentment.
"Cato, I have followed you through history. It took some time, but I have followed your tracks up until now." He sat on the porch looking out on history."I have two questions for you."
"Only two?" I followed his gaze. I was too content to be afraid. Whatever he had found, I would own it. I had nothing to conceal. Still, my history is long, I doubted he could know everything.
"Which administration do you think is worse Nixon or Bush?"
"I preferred Julius Caesar. He was intelligent and blood thirsty at the same time. He was completely unafraid to seize the era and mold the greatest empire to his ideals - whether right or wrong."
He was silent for several seconds.
"The McCain camp says you fathered a child out of wedlock."
I drifted in the dark. The languor remained as I drifted off to sleep.
"Yes, I had several bastards in my time," I closed my eyes slowly with a sigh.
"Once, I was an unwed mother too," I added and I licked my lips slightly. "I enjoyed myself tremendously in the past, but politics were always my favorite.........game."
The author owes much to Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail by Hunter S. Thompson, Imperium, by Robert Harris and to the Great Cat.
