With Apologies to Nixon

At exactly 10:05 am my sub-conscious took over my conscious. I was staring at the carcasses of the waffles that I had for breakfast. Their syrupy juices swirling together like a raging torrent. Then it happened. I stared at the bottle of maple syrup. A Canadian maple leaf was on the bottle. I froze. What's this? Is this what it is to be Canadian? Drinking beer and maple syrup while having five o'clock shadow, chopping trees with my red checked shirt on? I pondered this for some time. I couldn't grasp it. The sub-conscious had a grip on me. I was losing it. Then tearing my eyes off the bottle I glued them to my plate. I saw him. Nixon. His face, smeared and sticky, gazing up at me. I had to get away. I couldn't allow him to get me. So I slowly backed away, trying to appear calm in front of maple Nixon. I went around the room and decided my only chance was the window. I slowly, slowly, slowly began gather the provisions I would need for such a daring, and risky endeavor. I grabbed my shoes, no sense in running out in the cold without them. Wearing my leather jacket that I had slept in the night before I moved like smoke across the room gathering my needs. Two tins of beans, a lamp, three socks (not pairs), and my red checked shirt. I scrambled away out the window onto the fire escape, looking for any Nixon agents that were trying to halt my sudden discovery of the maple goodness of Canada.
I slowly went down my feet ringing like the bells of Notre Dame against the rusted metal. Every window could be the last I see. I crept with great care down, down, down like I was descending into the bowels of hell. Maybe I was, trying to escape Nixon, going to go to the very edges of reality. Or perhaps just mine. Finally after what seemed like minutes I reached the parking garage. I leaped and slid among the parked cars. Blatant shows of opulent wealth all around me. Or the inane desire to show ones superiority to another being. I finally reached my own chariot. I got the keys out trying not to make a jangling noise alerting my pursuers that I had taken the lamb. Opening the door which creaked in groaned in protest I threw my provisions for the trip in the back. I put the key in the ignition and turned it.
"Traitor" I exclaimed as the car roared to life, like a dragon woken by a vengeful knight. I couldn't stop now. I had to get out and fast. Pressing my 10 dollar sneaker against the pedal I screeched out of the parking lot leaving only smoke and a memory behind. I was free. For now.
Driving along the road I began to question my motives and wondering why all the trouble. But my sub-conscious was in control. I had no logic, no reason. My conscious self was locked in a metaphysical cage deep within me, powerless to help me. So I drove on. White lines were shooting across the blackened sky at me. Then I adjusted my head. The blue sky was now above with the sanguine darkness below. The white lines, like white lies were being hurled at me. Shot by the agents of Nixon in an attempt to stop me. But no one could. Green, yellow, red. Colours I should have known but didn't. At least not then. Red. Communists. Nixons' communists trying to put an end to my adventure. All around me people were braking in a uniform, proletariat way. I sped through. Cars yelled at me as I flew by. I paid no heed. Nixon can't win this round. I won't allow it.
On and on I drove. I couldn't turn on the radio for fear of the Nixon communists blaring propaganda ads at me. I knew my name would be on the news. Headline news. That's just what they wanted. They wanted me to turn on the radio, lose that second of concentration and crash my freedom ride into an unthinking tree. I could see the headline, "Man loses life on road, Nixon to make winning death". No, they wouldn't get me. I kept driving. The sky turned a communist gray. As if sensing the very thing that was keeping me moving. I knew my destination now. But saying ti would ruin it all. When I got there there would be agents waiting to grab me, hold me, take me to a 6-by-4 cell. So I stayed quiet. Just so they couldn't crack me.
Finally, at exactly 6:43pm I arrived at my sanctuary. Carefully listening to the gravel that cracked like bones beneath the balding wheels of my capitalist pride. I parked not in the driveway but a ways into the woods. The woods. Safe, primal, remote. No man could ever find me at this cabin, this castle. I procured my items from the back and rolled and dived to the door of the house of refuge. Can't let them get a clean shot. Nixon communist snipers waiting in the ancient ents around my fortress. I got the key to open the door to salvation. Then a thought oozed through my frantic mind. That's just what they wanted. To go through the door. In my mind I imagined Sergei and Boris Smith, two burly Nixon communists, waiting for that handle to turn and seeing my limp lifeless form fall to the cold earth. No, I couldn't go that way. So stealthily I slithered to the back door. Always got to go through the back door. I put the key in the lock preparing myself for either sanctification or salvation. The door creaked open.
Silence. Unyielding silence. I peered through with my peepers until I saw all of the one room shack. I hit the floor. Crawling on my belly like some Darwinistic fantasy until I was in the dead centre of the room. Leaving my belongings there I did a thorough sweep of the hut. No listening devices or agents of death I could see. So I had a few moments to collect and sort my thoughts like so many stamps. Wearily, I sank down into a vintage sofa. Then my sub-conscious pulled me again. I had to make it appear as if Nixon was here. So I got up, talking to myself in a most genteel sort of way, making it appear to all the world as if not a thing was worried about. When in my ramble and babble I got to the window I began to sketch the face I saw so long ago in that mess on my plate. Nixon. I drew him as I saw him. A leader of the pack. A mover and shaker. A bright star among dead worlds. I put his visage on every pane in that room. Satisfied at my clever ruse I went to sit on that chesterfield. Chesterfield. How distinctly Canadian. Where did that word come from. For a moment I was petrified. How could that word come into being? What was I becoming? Was I becoming a being?
Then I saw him. Nixon. He was everywhere. Snarling and laughing at me. I slowly bent down to the wooden floor and popped the top of a can of beans. Drinking and eating with Nixon all around me I felt the fear of a generation. A generator of fear was in my chest. When I had finished consuming the cold, slimy meal. I realized one thing. I was too late. My sub-conscious was pumping ideas and fears through my head like a heart. I left the cabin through the front door. Never use the back door for escapes. Their expecting that. I ran, ran, ran up a hill by the cabin, fleeing the caricature of Nixon. When my body gave out. I felt like a hundred and four. Wheezing and choking on my own ineptitude. I lay upon the summit. But still I heard him. A rumble from up in the clouds alerted me to his presence.
"Damn you!" I cried towards the heavens. My fears were reality. Or at least as reality can be when ones sub-conscious controls himself. I heard his laughter up in the stratosphere. Chuckling at my failure, guffawing at my lack of will, snickering at my hopelessness. I laid, spread-eagle up that hill when the spit from his sick jest came upon me. Slowly at first, then more and more until a torrent of saliva was on me. My jacket, leathery and cracked resisted the water but my red checked shirt sucked it up like it was dying in the desert. Wet, drenched, sodden, I scrambled like eggs down the mound. I couldn't believe it. He had won. Followed me to my place of dreams and now had invaded my state of mind. My sub-conscious strove to find a breadcrumb to the problem. Like a sledgehammer to a watermelon it hit me.
My conscious self was back in control. The raging maelstrom of ideas and thoughts were silenced to a trickle. My sub-conscious was tied and bind, chained and locked back within the dormant part of myself. I realized Nixon was dead. He and his Reds couldn't do anything to me or mine. I was free. I drove back reflective upon my sub-conscious expedition into the realm of the unknown. Was it worth it? I believe it was. To unleash the torrent of mad-cap insanity one must be willing to let go of ones perceptions. Now, I had returned to where it all began, but with apologies to Nixon.

FIN