Monomachy

In the three days following Frank McKinley’s nomination for president, he had managed to kill twelve men. On the fourth day, a mirror appeared on Monomachy Beach.

In antsy preparation for the duel with his final opponent and the current president of Dixieland, Scott Marcus, McKinley had arrived at the beach some fifteen minutes in advance. And there, parallel to the sea, was the mirror. Not just any old mirror. Measuring an astounding two-hundred and twelve feet in height, it stretched along a solid two miles Dixieland’s coastline and glinted like a razor in the sun. Every lighthouse keeper, fisherman, and tweaker worth his salt had stood in puzzlement before the morning news crew and sworn: “On my grave, I was on that beach last night and there was no mirror.”

And yet…there it was.

Tabloids speculated it was the work of the infamous artist Jonesy, but that theory didn’t last long. Erecting a structure of this size (overnight no less) was too great a feat for even the talented recluse to achieve. In all the frenzy, news on the presidential ascension dwindled, and soon the country was divided over conjecture and hearsay. Some claimed it had been left by aliens. No, not aliens, said others. This was God’s work.

At any rate, the McKinley-Marcus duel was postponed, along with Frank’s shot at presidency.

“I don’t see why this should affect proceedings,” Frank complained to his wife one night. “At this rate, we’ll never get a new president.”

Virginia McKinley did not look away from her task, which consisted of lining up nine pills of various colors and shapes on the bathroom counter. “Indeed.” She ended the formation with a green capsule, and then stood back to regard the lineup. In profile, she looked the same as when he’d married her fifteen years ago. Same blonde curls, same pert nose.

“Marcus isn’t bothered by the mirror,” Frank mumbled around his toothbrush. He’d developed a wattle under his chin which jostled whenever he spoke or ate or brushed his teeth, and he kind of liked it. He brushed with gusto, enjoying the vibrations of flesh along his jaw. “I say bomb it. It’s probably propaganda from that extremist group. You know, those global warming freaks.”

“Probably.”

“I wish you’d look at me when I speak to you.”

With a slow, jerking movement, she regarded him in the bathroom mirror. He could see the fifteen years. The once sensual mouth looked pinched now, the soulful eyes jaded. Golden hair now dishwater-blonde. At least she’d kept slim. Men could get away with putting on the pounds as they aged. Frank himself was rather proud of the paunch he’d cultivated over the years. Not to mention the wattle. So what if his hair had thinned, balding at the top? Age and weight looked good on a man. It was a sign of accomplishment, of a life lived. Of money. It just wasn’t that way for a woman. She had a few good years to get a husband before antiquity set in.

Lowering her gaze again, Virginia placed each pill into her mouth. She chased them down with water from the tap, the vaulted ceiling capturing her swallow and volleying it against the tile floors, repeating and repeating and repeating in Frank’s ears.

“Anyway.” Frank spat into the sink. “I plan on tailoring my campaign. The people need to know someone’s prepared. I’ve always been a proactive leader, you know. A man of the people for the people.”

“Are you prepared?”

“A man of the people for the people. Did you like that? I just came up with it.”

Virginia took another drink of water, sipping this time.     

“I’ll get Bill to write it up for my new slogan. It’ll look great on the bus.”

“Yes, dear.”

Later, lying in bed, Frank envisioned his impending duel with Marcus. It was good to plot these things, to prepare. When Virginia killed the light and turned over to sleep, he whispered: “Can you…do you think you can…?”

A pause. Then a sigh. Without rolling to face him, Virginia reached behind and fumbled blindly for the waistband of his underwear. With her other hand she turned on the radio. He didn’t need to ask her at this point, she just knew to turn it on. He wasn’t that loud, but he didn’t care for the sound of her hand.

This should be a marriage requisite. His marriage wasn’t bad, just stale. All marriages became that way at some point. He didn’t ask a lot, and he didn’t expect to make love like they used to. Didn’t want that actually. This way she didn’t have to look at him and he could still get off. Mutual benefit. He thought about his new secretary, Lucretia, about the movement of her mouth over the three syllables Loo-cree-shuh, about her pencil skirt, and he thought about what he would say to her next time. He did well with shy girls. He did really well with them. They probably sensed a father figure in him. He had some ideas on how to get with her. He always had his best ideas while cumming, like when he’d thought to run for president. Really, he was at his best in that state. What a way to measure brilliance.

After, without turning on the light, Virginia pulled a pack of cigarettes from the side table. A match flashed, momentarily illuminating her face before she shook it out. In his post-orgasm state, Frank felt emboldened to ask, “would you be sad if I died tomorrow?”

The cherry of her cigarette flared in the dark. “You won’t die.” She exhaled. “You never do.”

† † †

It took Frank and his contingent an hour to drive to the coast and an additional fifteen minutes negotiating the crowds of curious citizens clogging the entrance to the beach. Marcus’s campaign was nowhere in sight. Excellent.

General Howard was waiting for him on the beach proper, slightly removed from the military tents and press clusters. He stood with his back to the mirror, the medals on his chest sparkling in the sunlight—shiny reminders of his achievements in the Southern War of ‘65 and the Northern War of ‘72. Everything about the man screamed tough. He was the kind of person you didn’t want to cross, who understood beast and man and had tamed both, who could drink motor oil and piss it pure and be better for it. His face was rugged, from weather and age and shaving every morning, and the black patch he wore over his right eye only enhanced the utter menace of his gaze. Even the mirror looming behind him couldn’t diminish his majesty.

The mirror. You really had to crane to see the top. 

“General Howard.” Frank had learned it was better to salute the man than to shake his hand. The handshake itself wasn’t an issue, but the stark contrast between Howard’s rough and calloused palms against Frank’s fleshy softness made him feel… 

Let’s just say Frank had never drunk motor oil.

“Glad to see you made it through the sheep herd,” Howard said, his voice somewhere between whiskey and rock slide. “Don’t know why they’re all flocking here.” He jerked his chin at the mirror. “This sunnabitch so big, you can see it standing back in yesterday.”

“It is a bit different seeing it up close.”

Howard squinted at Frank’s cohort and the swarm of journos roaming the ridge. “See you brought your own herd.”

“What’s a shepherd without his flock?” 

The general grunted. “I got a theory about this mirror.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’m no scientist, but given all this sand it’s possible a bit of lightning could have made it.”

“Have we…have we had lightning recently?”

“Like I said, I’m no scientist.” Howard glowered at some point in the distance, the pose equally wistful and commanding. For a moment, both men just regarded the mirror. It was so large, it made the beach seem infinite, almost muffling the crash of the tide completely. Frank’s reflection was doll-sized at this distance, but he could discern the thinning hair and recently acquired wattle, as well as the pull of his suit as it stretched across the protuberance of his middle. Howard spoke again: “You ever been struck by lightning, McKinley?”

“No. Can’t say I have.”

“Hurts like a motherfucker. You’re either dead or don’t walk straight after.” He pointed at his eyepatch. “Don’t look up in a lightning storm. You’ll pay for the hubris.”

Frank wasn’t sure if he should chuckle or nod stoically. He was spared the quandary by the approach of three black SUVs. Howard made a disgruntled noise under his breath when Scott Marcus emerged from the front car, face pink and grinning in the sun. Even behind his wraparound sunglasses, he was clearly eyeing himself in the mirror as he ambled over. “Afternoon, gentlemen. We ready for a shootout?”

More vehicles had begun to descend the ridge. Media and campaign trucks from both parties. Anticipation fluttered in Frank’s gut. This was happening. He wondered if Virginia was watching on the television. She never came to these things. He’d once asked her why, and she’d only said, “you’re like little boys playing in the sand.” 

“You quash that little shitbird,” muttered Howard. It felt nice to have the general in his corner. There was a look on the man’s face—not a smile, he probably was incapable of that, but an expression that conveyed camaraderie.

Frank always got half hard before a duel. Something about the process, the crackle of anticipation in the air, the taut eagerness of the press. All those cameras, all those faces, all those eyes watching on the beach and at home. Walking onto the dueling lane, he was led by the knot of power growing in his loins—a primal energy propelling him forward. The process of donning his gun belt was damn near sensual. The revolver sat heavy against his hip. Old. Powerful. He wondered if soldiers felt like this before battle. He almost asked Howard, asked if he got a little hard beforehand, but didn’t know if they had that kind of relationship yet.

The mirror brought its own level of awe to the scene. Something about the sacrosanct tradition of monomachy being reflected back at the viewers. Sidling up to the tower of glass felt strange, in part due to its sheer size but also the novelty of flanking his reflection. Frank did his best to ignore the mass of people to his right and the mirrored world to his left, keeping his eyes locked on Marcus. The linesman checked the distance between the two opponents to make sure it met the required forty-five feet. When the measurements were through, a young girl of about twelve walked onto the makeshift stage that had been established at the edge of the press line. She was handed a microphone, into which she introduced herself as Georgia, and then began to sing the national anthem:

…advance the flag of Dixie! 

Hurrah! Hurrah! 

For Dixie's land we take our stand, 

To live or die for Dixie!

To arms! To arms!

And conquer peace for Dixie… 

And so the moment came. With the mirror on one side reflecting their audience on the other, McKinley and Marcus squared off. It was just past noon, and a shadow had extended from the base of the mirror. A hush fell over the beach, so quiet Frank could hear his pulse and the muffled din of the ocean. He was aware of his reflection at his shoulder. He inhaled and his reflection copied. He exhaled, fingers flexing around the pistol—

A gunshot rang through the air.

One minute Marcus was standing, and then the next he was falling, rigid, onto his side. Frank gaped at his downed opponent; he hadn’t even drawn his weapon. He glanced about, at his hands, at the crowd. Then he looked into the mirror. And there, still upright, revolver drawn and smoking, was Marcus’s reflection. For a moment, no one reacted. A stunned silence filled the air, all eyes trained on Marcus’s mirror image standing over his body. Sudden movement beside Frank had him yelping in surprise and tumbling onto his ass—his reflection, moving of its own accord, grinned down at him. He scrambled away from the mirror and watched in morbid fascination as his mirror image, gun cocked and raised, turned to the mirror-Marcus and fired. Now both Marcuses were dead. Frank's rogue reflection turned and aimed somewhere past Frank’s head and fired into the crowd, felling an unsuspecting reporter. Then the screaming started.

Frank was hauled away by rough hands—Howard’s—and thrown against one of the SUVs. “Keep down!” the general barked. A tank roared over the ridge and fired at the mirror—at its own reflection—and then the beach was alive with shouts and gunfire. In the ensuing chaos, it was difficult to tell friend from foe, and Frank watched in horror as a confused soldier spun about in the middle of the beach, looking between the people in the mirror and the ones behind him. Frank lost sight of him as another tank sped by. We’re at war with ourselves!

News and campaign personnel alike stumbled into each other in an attempt to flee the battle. A missile struck near the ridge of the beach, sending bodies and sand flying skyward. Frank peeked over the hood of the SUV and caught a glimpse of the mirror and surrounding battle, but Howard slammed a hand onto his shoulder. “Sit your ass down!” Then the general was up and running, loading a magazine into a rifle as he tore through the chaos. The six-shooter pistol at Frank’s hip suddenly felt useless. Inferior. The wind had picked up—whether from stampeding civilians or explosions or the mercurial humor of the world, it was hard to tell—and Frank had to bury his face in his hands to shield it from the sand blowing up and down and horizontal. Several minutes passed—maybe hours—before Howard returned, dragging a soldier through the sand by the back of his collar. “Hold ‘em in, boy,” Howard instructed the soldier before charging once more into the fray. 

The wounded soldier groaned, head lolling to regard a wan-faced Frank. His hands clutched at his stomach, holding in a glistening mess of guts and blood. “I always knew you’d be president,” he murmured, smiling despite the quaver in his jaw.

A journalist dove for cover beside Frank, breathing hard and clutching a large camcorder. The man was trembling violently, and he nearly dropped his camera twice before managing to hoist it onto his shoulder. A large sweat stain revealed itself underneath his armpit. “Mr. McKinley! Can you tell the viewers what went down? Did President Marcus really get shot by his own reflection?”

Frank stared into the convex eye of the camera and wondered once again if Virginia was watching. He could almost picture the cigarette smoke curling behind the lens. “Yes…yes he did.” Which meant that he was no longer President Marcus. He was Dead Marcus, and Frank McKinley was president.

“And how does it feel to be at war with yourself?” An explosion went off near their cover, causing both men to jolt and the soldier holding in his guts to groan. The journalist righted his camera and repeated his question.

“Myself?” Frank looked from the abyssal eye of the camera to the journalist’s sweaty pits to the panicked press attempting to clamber up the steep, sandy banks. Press, camera, pits. He turned to the soldier holding in his guts. The man nodded, encouraging, the motion almost indiscernible from the mad shudders possessing his frame. “That…that wasn’t me.” He turned to the soldier. “It wasn’t!” The soldier nodded. “See? He saw it. We all saw it. That’s not me out there.” Frank waited for the rattle of a machine gun to pass before speaking again. “There can only be one me.” He looked between the soldier and the journalist. “Right?” The soldier nodded and made a wet sound with his mouth that could have been “yeah” or maybe “right” but was clearly an affirmative answer either way.

The journalist, apparently satisfied with the interview, rested his camcorder across his knees and pulled a small, digital camera from his bag. “Let’s get a picture now, President McKinley!” He gestured with the camera, indicating the soldier beside Frank. The young man grimaced and leaned forward as much as his wound would allow. This wasn’t exactly what Frank had envisioned when he’d thought about tailoring his campaign, but he supposed nothing said for the people like a headlining shot of him in medias res. The soldier was heavy on Frank’s arm, the damp of his wounds seeping into Frank’s trousers. Kevin took a few snaps before peering over his camera at the soldier. “I think he’s dead.”

Indeed, he was dead. Frank shrugged and the body slumped to the sand. Free of its weight, he slid along the SUV until he could peer over the hood. There was so much smoke, so much flying sand, that Frank couldn’t tell where the real world ended and the mirror began. Just a haze of battle. Bodies on the ground. Faces blurring together. He supposed they did look like little boys playing in the sand. Through the haze of smoke, Frank spied a familiar face staring back at him with round eyes, appearing more excited than afraid. His reflection grinned, the expression making the wattle beneath his chin tremble.