Posting a character concept; will do nuts and bolts if you like it enough to want him to join the campaign. Otherwise, I'll come up with something else.
The specifics of his grandfather's death are, of course, open to modification in order to fit the campaign better.
*************
The election. That’s where it all started going downhill for me, Reverend. Shoulda been a means to an end – a necessary, but ultimately insignificant, step on my path to the governor’s mansion. Or maybe Washington. Either one, no matter. Yeah? Well even that speakeasy on Washington
Street’d be just Jake with me, now. Who wants to be mayor of Manchester anyway? Not me.
Hey, d'you know I didn’t even drink back then? I wouldn't
touch it! Nope – not me, eldest grandson of the esteemed Henry W. Blair, former senator of the Great State of New Hampshire! Me being a Blair doesn’t mean much to you down here, but believe me, up there, back then, being a Blair meant you were dry as a bone, and expected everyone around you to be, too. I’d bought into it early on – helped that great state pass it’s ratification referendum. Went to a hundred-and-sixty-flippin’-four of those damned town meetings. (
Hmmph. Nine people, six cows and whole gaggle of…chickens standing around in a barn. That’s your town meeting in most of New Hampshire’s little places.) But we passed it, and I was a damned shoe-in for mayor. I tell you what: voting for Prohibition, then, felt a lot better to people than living under it does, now! After being mayor, I was going to be governor. Grandfather practically guaranteed it. And only thirty years old, just like old T.R. in New York, Grandfather said. Of course, that night, he died. And they asked me how, and I told them. And that’s when things really went downhill for me.
See, Grandfather didn’t die like the records said. He didn’t get sick, didn’t even die in the arms of some younger woman like most of the other New England roylaty. That old man got his insides chewed up by a horsefly that was truly the size of a horse. At least, that what I think it was. Looked like it, to me anyway. I tried to shoot it – Grandfather kept a loaded pistol mounted on the wall of his library, but the damned thing misfired. The fly stuck it’s tongue or whatever down my grandfather’s mouth and pulled up what had to be his heart – maybe some other stuff, too, I don’t know.
(I know you don’t believe me – no one does. Not sure I do, some times. Maybe if I’d shot it there’d have been proof…) Anyway, the thing flied out the window after it…after it turned to look at me, straight in the eye… and I just stood there for I don’t know how long, until my brother came in.
He didn’t know what’d happened; just that it was something bad and something bloody, and that I’d been there. I still couldn’t talk – I just stood there stupid while he cleaned everything up and put Grandfather on the washroom floor – like he’d fallen or something. Then my brother sat me down and tried to bring me out of it. Didn’t work, though. Just sat there stupid until the bulls arrived and asked what happened. That was the first time I opened my mouth. Before my brother could come up with a story about the washroom floor or something harmless, I told them about the big fly. And how it ate my grandfather’s heart and turned to stare me down before it flew away out the window. They looked at me as if I was blotto – wish I had been. The family doctor arrived a little later, but while the bulls were still there, and pronounced it a heart attack after whispering with my brother for a while. I laughed out loud, and the bulls we even surer that I was flozzled, so that went into the official report, too.
And that’s how I lost the race to become Mayor of Manchester in the Great State of New Hampshire in 1920, the Year of Our Lord. My opponent got the
Union Leader to print my statement to the police on Sunday morning. He said I could disavow it and admit I’d been drunk or stand by it and admit I was crazy. I, rather convincingly I thought, maintained that I’d been “distraught”, but the damage was done. I mean, it’s a lot easier to believe that an old man fell and that his Prohibitionist grandson was actually a raving drunk, than it is to believe a five foot fly came in through the window and sucked down the old man’s heart before giving his grandson a thousand Evil Eyes and flying away, right? It was a landslide.
So I left Manchester – came down here and set to the task of becoming what I’d been accused of being – a raging drunk. In between benders, I’m trying to figure if I was crazy, or whether there really are pony-sized flies flitting around sucking out old men’s internal organs. When I get an answer I can trust, I figure things will either take a turn for the slightly better or one for the much worse. I will certainly let you know..
Now, I know you’ve done a lot for me, Father, I appreciate you drying me out, and I appreciate the kind offer of job at the Diocese. But I’ve got money, enough, Father (it’s pride and character I lack.). After tonight, I’ll even keep my promise and stay dry. But that thing killed my grandfather in front of me four years ago tonight, and tonight.... tonight, I’m going to drink.
