pjbooks Chapter 187 Cracks in the Iron Curtain
Chapter 187 Cracks in the Iron Curtain
If God were to look down upon the world at this moment and slowly unfold a map of Pennsylvania, he would find that it is not like a solid landmass, but more like a frozen ocean.
The Appalachian Mountains in the west rise like towering waves, carrying the fury of tectonic movements millions of years ago, standing majestically on the edge of the earth. They are not only a geographical barrier, but also a psychological fortress.
Philadelphia in the east is a gray mudflat left behind after the Atlantic Ocean recedes.
The people there, dressed in fine suits, talked about freedom and the constitution, as if they were still living in the glory of two hundred years ago.
Scattered across the vast heart of the Midwest are rusty cities like Erie, Scranton, and Johnstown, like black reefs half-submerged, half-floating. Appearing and disappearing in the tides of history, covered in coal dust and rust, they silently endure wave after wave of economic recession. For decades, this sea has been red.
That is a deep-sea current called "conservatism".
It is cold and hard, which it uses to resist the unsettling changes in the outside world.
Russell Warren is a beluga whale that has been navigating these waters for thirty years.
This beluga whale is riddled with broken harpoons left by countless challengers of the past, but they all failed, so he remains massive and ferocious. He tightly wraps himself in the thick grease of "God and guns," and uses the hard shell of "tradition and order" to defend himself against everything. He mocks the sailors who try to hunt him with frivolous promises, just as a whale mocks a fragile canoe.
But today, the taste of the sea has changed.
Warren has not become weaker.
In the final week of his campaign, he remained like an angry bull, roaring across the state.
He went to the coal mine, to the church, and to the veterans' club.
He promised the miners to regain traditional dignity and the suburban mothers to restore the old order.
Ten years ago, such a low murmur from the deep sea would have been enough to shatter the hull of any adversary.
However, this time, Murphy came.
Or more accurately, it was a steel warship named "USS Pittsburgh" that, with a suffocating sense of oppression, smashed through the red ice. Murphy stood at the bow.
But he was not the captain who drove the warship, nor did he have the determination to perish together with the white whale.
He was more like a puppet totem tied to the mast, a symbol pushed forward.
What truly propelled the ship was the steam engine in the lower deck, which was operating at overload and emitting a deafening roar.
That was the $500 million bond that Leo Wallace set ablaze.
It was thick black smoke billowing from the chimney of Yili Steel Plant.
It is the roar of every truck engine loaded with cement and steel in the closed loop of the supply chain formed by rusted belt cities.
This is a completely new power.
Warren's defenses, based on cultural identity, seemed so weak and powerless in the face of the roar of the machines.
The rolling over of voting results is like a rising tide.
This was a murky torrent mixed with rust, coal ash, engine oil, and sweat.
It surged from Pittsburgh in the west, along the logistics arteries, across the Appalachian Pass, washing over every crimson valley, and submerging every once-impregnable Republican stronghold.
In Philadelphia, a traditional Democratic stronghold, voter turnout was barely above average.
Those liberal elites, dressed in fine suits and drinking Evian water, either abstained because they were disgusted by Murphy's "vulgarity," or pinched their noses and cast their votes for this "not-so-bad choice" with a look of disdain.
But in the rust belt, the voter turnout is a vertically upward line.
Those older blue-collar workers who haven't been to a polling station in years, those truck drivers who can't even distinguish between the Democratic and Republican party platforms, and those unemployed workers who once swore they would never believe politicians' nonsense again.
They flocked to the ballot box like pilgrims.
Warren has fallen.
Just as Ford's Model T assembly line crushed the coachman's livelihood, and Edison's light bulb overshadowed the whaler's grease lamp, a more vibrant form of social organization was born on the land of Pennsylvania.
This force is so powerful, so unstoppable.
So much so that it no longer needs to prove its legitimacy through the ballot box.
Its very existence is a declaration.
A new era, stepping over the corpse of the old era's behemoth, rumbled and crushed into the past.
Independence Square, Philadelphia.
On the giant LED screen, red elephants and blue donkeys clashed on the vast battlefield of Pennsylvania, with hundreds and thousands of ballots being cast into the machine every second, forming dazzling curves of numbers.
The time was 11 p.m.
The voter base in Philadelphia and its surrounding suburbs has closed, and a blue wave has swept through the Delaware Valley.
But everyone knows that was just an appetizer.
The true deciding factor was the West, that silent land.
Voting data from Pittsburgh, Erie, and Scranton began to flood in.
This blue torrent surged forth from Allegheny County, flowing upstream with unstoppable force, washing over the traditional red forts of Westmoreland County and turning them blue.
Washington County, turning blue.
Beaver County, turn blue.
Those Republican strongholds that had been cultivated for decades turned against them overnight.
When the votes for the last constituency were confirmed, the final result was displayed on the screen.
John Murphy, 54 percent.
Russell Warren, 46 percent.
There was no evenly matched contest as expected, nor a tense tug-of-war.
John Murphy won.
This invisible man on Capitol Hill, a congressman regarded by everyone as a moderate and nice guy, personally ended Russell Warren's 30-year rule in Pennsylvania on this night.
The square fell into a brief silence.
Immediately, a deafening cheer erupted.
The champagne corks shot into the sky like bullets.
People hugged, screamed, and cried.
Below the dance floor, Leo Wallace stood with his hands in his coat pockets, quietly watching the scene unfold.
He watched as John Murphy emerged from behind and walked toward the speaker surrounded by flowers and a microphone.
Murphy wore a dark blue suit specially made for the campaign, the cut of which fit his body perfectly.
The man who used to tear his hair out of anxiety because of a lack of funds is gone; the cowardly politician who roared at Leo on the phone, fearing the ruin of his political future, has disappeared.
The person standing there at that moment had his back ramrod straight, as if an invisible steel bar had pierced through his spine.
Murphy raised his hand in greeting to the ocean below.
His waving motion became slow and heavy, each gesture stirring up the fate in the air.
The spotlight shone on his face, making him look like a god.
Leo noticed that Murphy's face was glowing with a strange red light.
That was the sickly glow that emanated from deep within the skin when power surged within the body.
It excites people, makes them feel invincible, but at the same time it silently drains their lives.
Murphy's gaze swept over them.
Those eyes, which once wavered in hesitation, have now become deep and profound.
It contains too many unspeakable secrets and too many compromises made in the dead of night.
He no longer looks at any specific person.
My gaze swept past the volunteers in the front row, who were shouting themselves hoarse, and past the union workers whose faces were streaked with tears.
He looked at everyone, yet it was as if he wasn't looking at anything at all.
He was like a high and mighty shepherd, coldly and compassionately observing his flock.
Leo suddenly felt a little unfamiliar.
This man was someone he had personally mentored.
It was he who, in his office, forcibly planted the seeds of ambition into this man's heart with a blueprint for a five-hundred-million-dollar bond.
It was through a series of schemes and crisis management maneuvers that he thrust this old bureaucrat, who had planned to coast through retirement, into the spotlight. But now, Leo feels like he doesn't recognize this man anymore.
"Look, Leo."
Roosevelt's voice echoed deep within his mind.
"This is your masterpiece."
Leo did not answer; his gaze remained fixed on Murphy.
Murphy supported himself with both hands, not in a hurry to speak.
He simply gazed silently at those faces.
Those faces covered in coal dust, those faces etched with wrinkles by wind and frost, those faces filled with weariness yet burning with hope.
A full minute of silence.
This silence was more powerful than any shout; it suppressed the clamor of the entire arena and made the howling of the cold wind clearly audible.
Murphy moved closer to the microphone.
"tonight."
His voice resonated in everyone's chest through the sound system.
"I'm watching you all."
"What I see is not just supporters, not just voters, but also a group of survivors."
These words instantly gripped everyone's hearts.
Murphy's expression was solemn, as if he were presiding over a mass.
"We live in an era that is calcifying."
"I know how you feel. That suffocating feeling of waking up every morning with a huge rock pressing on your chest. That panic of looking at the bills and not knowing where next month's rent and your child's tuition will come from."
"Fear, hatred, and an intense craving for material things that cannot be obtained have woven an invisible iron curtain above our heads." Murphy raised his hand and pointed to the dark sky.
"This iron curtain blocks out the sunlight, and it also blocks out hope."
"What do the elites in Washington and the traders on Wall Street want us to become?"
Murphy's voice began to grow shrill.
"They want us to become soulless machines!"
"They want us to become cold, lifeless numbers on a balance sheet! To become creatures that only vent anger according to partisan directives! To become the leeks waiting to be harvested under their scythe!"
"They told us to hate each other, white people to hate black people, poor people to hate poorer people, and natives to hate outsiders."
"They made us kill each other for those pitiful resources, they made us tear each other apart in the quagmire, while they stood on the high bank, holding red wine, watching our wretched state and laughing at our stupidity."
"Our minds are slowly suffocating under this iron curtain."
"Our spines are slowly bending under this heavy pressure."
The crowd below began to stir.
That was a resonant tremor.
Murphy expressed the pain they wanted to say but couldn't.
He was empathizing with the pain.
Leo looked at the radiant man above him, his mind filled with countless thoughts.
"Well said."
Roosevelt's voice echoed in Leo's mind.
"He's got it right. In this era, suffering is the greatest common denominator. Whoever can explain suffering will have power." "Look at his eyes, Leo. He completely believes what he's saying. That's the highest level of acting; even the actor himself is immersed in the role." Leo didn't speak, just listened quietly.
The speech then entered its second phase.
Murphy's tone shifted from somber to resolute.
"A lot of people have asked me this week."
"Murphy, who put you here?"
"Which big corporation wrote the check? Which political faction made the deal? Which big shot in Washington gave you the green light?" Murphy shook his head, a hint of contempt on his face.
"I told them."
"Nobody's here."
These words resonated deeply.
Leo raised an eyebrow.
"There isn't a single large check from Wall Street in my campaign account."
"There are no political bigwigs behind me who want to manipulate Pennsylvania."
"It is you who have brought me to stand here."
Murphy stretched out his hand and pointed to the crowd below.
"I want to thank the father who drove his pickup truck to the construction site at four in the morning. His hands were calloused and his lungs were filled with dust, but he still worked hard to make breakfast for his family."
"I want to thank the mother who calculated bills under the lamplight late at night and refused to bow to poverty. She was meticulous in saving every dollar for groceries, but she never gave up on her dream of sending her children to college."
"I want to thank the truck drivers in Erie, the coal miners in Scranton, and the nurses and teachers in Pittsburgh."
Thank you to each and every one of you.
"Thank you for rejecting those lies that peddle anxiety in the cold wind."
"Thank you for casting your votes for hope, not fear."
"It is you, flesh-and-blood people, and your will that has triumphed over the arrogance of capital."
"This victory does not belong to any office, nor to any political party."
"It belongs to every street, to every family, to every Pennsylvanian who refuses to submit!"
Cheers erupted again.
This time, there was less grief and indignation in his voice, and more pride.
Murphy successfully portrayed himself as a people's representative without any descendants.
He erased all the political deals, the games behind the $500 million bond, and the name Leo Wallace. He cleaned himself up completely.
"He deleted you." Roosevelt's voice held a hint of amusement. "In his narrative, you don't exist. The five hundred million dollars seem to have fallen from the sky, and the port seems to have appeared out of magic."
"I don't care," Leo replied calmly to himself. "The name doesn't matter; the result is what matters."
"No, you do care," Roosevelt exposed him, "but that care is unnecessary."
"When Moses came down from Mount Sinai with the stone tablets inscribed with the Ten Commandments, he would never tell the believers below the mountain which roadside craftsman had carved the tablets for him."
"He must claim that it was a gift from God himself."
"His current forgetfulness is a sign of his maturity."
"Let him enjoy this glory. The brighter the halo, the darker the shadow, and we are his shadow."
Murphy's emotions began to surge, and the pace quickened.
He was about to reach the climax of his speech.
He released his grip on the speaker, his body ramrod straight.
"But, my friends!"
"Simply winning the election is not enough!"
"The enemy we face remains powerful. The forces that seek to enslave us are still watching us."
"We must say no to those rulers who treat us like cogs in a machine!"
"You are not machines!"
"You are not cattle or horses!"
"You are human beings!"
"You possess a perception of life, a yearning for freedom, and the capacity to love and be loved!"
Murphy waved his arms as if tearing apart the invisible iron curtain in front of him.
Machines only have programs, but humans have souls!
Machines only offer efficiency, but people have dignity!
"As long as humanity breathes, freedom will never perish!"
"Current technology, which should bring us closer, instead makes us further apart. Current wealth, which should make us more prosperous, instead makes us more anxious." "This is wrong!"
"I'm standing here tonight to tell Washington, to tell the whole world."
"We must reclaim this stolen power from those heartless robots!"
"We want to return it to every blue-collar worker in Pennsylvania, to every hardworking farmer, and to every student with a dream!"
"We're building a world for one person!"
"Not a world of algorithms!"
"This is not a world of capitalism!"
"This is a world that belongs to you!"
The entire venue erupted in cheers.
This declaration, brimming with populism and blending class resistance with humanism, ignited the passion of everyone present. The workers raised their fists and chanted Murphy's name.
At that moment, Murphy was no longer a politician.
He became a totem, a symbol, a savior endowed with divinity.
Leo watched this scene unfold.
He had to admit that Murphy spoke very well.
"That's the power of language."
Roosevelt commented.
"The limits of my language are the limits of my world."
"What Murphy just did was to forcibly reshape the world of those thousands of people using his language. He defined unemployment as sacrifice, poverty as survival, and anger as awakening."
"Once he has the power to define this, he has the power to control the souls of this group of people."
"Words themselves are power."
"Because the United States, in essence, is a castle in the air built from the language of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution." "It captures and tames thoughts. It forcibly compresses the chaotic, intangible, and primal desires in the minds of millions of people into a single container."
"We build consensus through language."
"To convince 300 million people that they belong to the same community and are willing to die for the same abstract concept."
"We use these abstract words to motivate real flesh and blood to charge forward, to build, and to sacrifice."
"Lincoln spoke for only two minutes at Gettysburg, but he used those two minutes to redefine the Civil War that killed hundreds of thousands." "Me too. I sat in my wheelchair, facing a microphone, and used my voice to build a bridge called confidence in the air." "Now, Murphy has learned this magic as well."
"So, he won."
The speech was drawing to a close.
The clamor gradually subsided, and Murphy's tone softened.
"In the Democratic Party, in the Pennsylvania Blue Collar Caucus."
"We will no longer discuss those labels that divide us."
"We don't ask if you're white or black, or whether you live in the city or the countryside."
"We must transcend the hatred that has been deliberately created."
"We must move towards true freedom."
Murphy opened his arms as if to embrace all of Pennsylvania.
"Pennsylvania's revival will not come from a few bills or a few projects."
"It's not that we need to find our own hearts."
"To repair this broken society, we must first repair ourselves."
Look at the sky!
Murphy pointed to the dark night sky above.
A beam of searchlight swept across, piercing the darkness.
"The Iron Curtain is heavy."
But light can always find a crack.
"We're heading to Washington first thing tomorrow morning!"
"We must change them!"
"Thank you, Pennsylvania! God bless you!"
"boom!"
As the last sentence was uttered, a deafening cheer erupted in the square.
Confetti burst forth, and the music was deafening.
Murphy stood in the center of the dance, bathed in light, waving to those around him.
His face radiated the glow of a victor, a confidence and composure that suggested he was born for this moment.
Leo looked at that familiar yet unfamiliar figure and did not go up to congratulate him.
He knew that the dance belonged to Murphy at that moment.
Moreover, Murphy probably wouldn't want to see him either.
Seeing him reminds me of those dirty deals, those unavoidable compromises, and that I'm not as glamorous as I seem. "There are born leaders in this world."
Roosevelt said.
"Like you, like me. We are sparks in the wasteland, living on instinct, anger, and a crazy vision of the future."
"We are both destroyers and creators."
"But, Leo, you must understand."
"There are no born bureaucrats in this world; bureaucrats are manufactured."
Roosevelt seemed to be pointing a finger at the radiant new senator.
"Look at him."
"You gave him money, you gave him a voter base, you gave him a logic of prosperity that required no accountability. You fed him, cleaned him up, and put him on a pedestal."
"Do you think you only helped him win one election?"
"No."
"You gave him a complete makeover."
"The current Murphy is no longer just John Murphy."
"He is the spokesperson for the Pittsburgh model, a rising star in Washington's eyes, and the most important pawn for the Democratic Party in swing states."
"He learned how to walk like a senator, how to fake a smile like a senator, and how to calculate your remaining value while embracing you."
Leo looked up.
Murphy was embracing his wife and daughter in a heartwarming scene that perfectly embodied the middle-class ideal of family values. However, Leo astutely noticed that even as he embraced them, Murphy's eyes were still fixed on the camera's red dot, confirming that his profile was at the optimal angle.
It's an instinct.
An instinct that has been disciplined and institutionalized.
"He's got into character, Leo."
Roosevelt let out a sigh.
"He now sees himself as part of the ruling class, as a maintainer of order."
"In his subconscious, he has already completed the leap in social class."
"And what about you?"
"In his eyes, which have become accustomed to the bright lights of Washington, you are still that mud-splattered, boiler-stoking worker who could explode at any moment." "He will start to be wary of you."
"Because you know him too well, you hold too many secrets about how he rose to power."
"In order to maintain this newly established system, in order to protect his brand-new feathers."
"He's ready to devour anyone."
"Including you."
Leo felt a chill.
He remembered Murphy a few months ago, in that luxury RV, someone who still needed him to comfort and encourage her.
Murphy was vulnerable and genuine at that time.
Now, the man who once stood on the throne, wielding power and authority, has become a mere symbol of power.
A cold statue forged by votes, money, ideology, and the state's machinery of violence.
The abstract concept of a senator took on a concrete form on this cold night.
Leo turned his head and looked at the void beside him.
He could almost see Roosevelt sitting in a wheelchair, a pipe dangling from his lips.
"Should I feel sad about this?" Leo asked himself inwardly.
"sorrow?"
Roosevelt laughed.
"No, Leo, this is fine."
"You don't need a friend with strong opinions; you need a useful tool."
"A self-important bureaucrat who thrives within this system is exactly the battering ram we need to march into Washington." "He enjoys the glory in front, while you extract the price behind the scenes."
"If he's still that weak congressman, he can't even get a say in the Senate, so how can he help us?"
"Only when he becomes part of Leviathan will he be qualified to devour other interests."
The speech has ended.
Amidst a shower of confetti and cheers, Murphy waved to the crowd.
He seemed so confident, so arrogant.
He seemed to genuinely believe that he had won all of this through his own charm and ability.
That's the magic of power; it can make people quickly forget the ladder they climbed.
"Let's go, Mr. President."
Leo pulled up his collar, turned, and headed towards the exit.
"The show's over."
"We should go prepare to collect the debt."
He walked through the cheering crowd, going against the flow.
Everyone was watching, and no one noticed that the young mayor was quietly leaving.
He walked out of the square and onto the street.
The cold wind made him more awake.
He glanced back at the brightly lit area.
There, the birth of a new king is being celebrated.
The kingmaker, at this moment, walks alone in the darkness.
"So, do you feel disappointed?" Roosevelt asked. "That was a victory you orchestrated, but all the glory went to him." "No."
Leo shook his head.
"What I want is power."
"It is real power, the power to control resources."
"Murphy feels like he's the sun now, which is great."
"But he will soon discover that the fuel needed to keep this sun shining is entirely in my hands."
"Let him go to Washington and be a senator."
"Let him enjoy the spotlight and the flowers."
"When he sits in that office, when he faces those greedy faces, when he realizes he can't actually do anything," "he will remember me."
"He will remember who sent him up there."
Leo opened the car door and got into the driver's seat.
He started the engine, and the black sedan glided into the night, heading towards Pittsburgh.
Behind him, the Philadelphia night sky was lit up by fireworks.