Rigging The Election: Trump Voter Arrested In Iowa On Voter Fraud Charges - If there's rigging being done here, it would once again appear that He Who Makes The Charges is actually also projecting his own supporters' behavior ont...
Saturday, November 6, 2010
One night in late winter we’re short-staffed. I am the sole deckhand aboard the last ferry leaving Surry County. Above me only the captain. Below sits one Lincoln, polished and black, with a thin-faced woman at the wheel. We three push off into the fog.
A quarter way across the river I hear her engine still running. Down onto the lower deck I go and knock on her window. She stares ahead, her eyes dry as glass. I check for a pulse in her neck and run up to the bridge to find it empty. The captain’s coffee is spilled out onto the instruments, and a police scanner is crackling some report I barely hear.
I race below, calling out to no one. And now the Lincoln’s empty too, it’s door hanging open like a mouth. Somewhere above me I can hear the click, click, click of high heels on the metal floor. The police scanner’s report: A theft. From a funeral home.
Click, click, click – something comes down the stairs. I see a hand grip the rail. Skin the color of old snow.
Now I am in the water, swimming away. Weeds tangle around my legs promising bad things. But I make it to the wet bank and climb up. Then a hood goes over me, everything dark.
“We have to take someone across this river,” says someone holding me hard by the hand.
“You’ll do just fine.”