Sometimes my hallucinations make more sense than reality.

It was a warm summer night and I was reading Machiavelli’s ‘Prince’.  There’s nothing new under the sun and Mister Mac had it all figured out back in his day, so it’s a good read when your brain is deep in the planning stages of what ever the hell comes next.  I had just finished the book, it’s a short one, and I put it down on the table next to me and reached for my drink.

Son of a bitch, but there was somebody sitting in the other chair next to me!  It was an old dude in a purple dress with a tired face and a fucked up old lady kind of hat that balanced up on top of his head like a black velvet shoebox.  I knew him though, right off the bat.  Hell, it wasn’t hard, he looked just like the painting on the front of the book.  It was the man himself.  The OG Godfather.  Niccolo Machiavelli.

     I tried to stay smooth.  “Holy Shit!”

     The girly lookin’ fella shook his head to the side like he had water in his ear then he looked up at me.  When he talked, his face clenched up like the words hurt coming off his tongue.

     “My name is Niccolo Machiavelli.” His throat seized up and he swallowed hard.  A V8 with a nice big hole in the oilpan.

     “What are you doin’ here?  You’re supposed to be dead?”

     He nodded his head.  “I have been sent to you through the deeps of time with a message.  A prophecy.”  He swallowed again and I could damn’ near hear the gears grind.

     I wasn’t sure he was real at this point but he seemed harmless so I offered him my pipe.  I’ll be damned if brother man didn’t grab it and hit it hard.  He coughed it out but I didn’t hold it against him, it was some potent shit.  Then, he stood up and held his arm out in front of himself with the hand turned up like them statues you see down at Disneyworld in the hall of the presidents and he started to talk like he thought he was Moses with the fucking tablets.

“When the Church rides on the State’s back, both fall under their combined weight.

“Leave religion to the masses.  They’re powerless to act on their fanatical beliefs.

“When the Prince drinks the sacramental wine, it goes to his head and inspires madness.”

“In short; you’re all fucked.”

When he finished he looked wrung out, pale and limp like every word was blood poolin’ on the ground.  He fell back in the chair and reached for my pipe but he was already fading.  I had to hurry, just one more question.  “Macc?  Who was it, whose wisdom?  Who sent you back to us?”

Machiavelli was almost gone; the pipe slipped through his fingers and broke on the concrete slab.  The wisps of smoke that made up the outlines of his face seemed to smile.  “He said you would ask.  He told me how to answer.”

As he evaporated into the night breeze, the wind carried a whisper of his voice in the leaves; “He said to tell you; I’m Ronald Reagan, Bitches!”

And then he was gone.