novelden Chapter 372 - 175: We Don’t Want Ideology
Chapter 372 - 175: We Don’t Want Ideology
"I have to make a choice."
Smith took a deep breath, his gaze sweeping over the crowd as he roared out each word.
"From this day forward, I, Ron Smith, am officially leaving the Republican Party!"
"For the survival of Erie City, to secure that funding, I will join Leo Wallace’s faction as a Democrat!"
That single sentence was more shocking than his entire preceding speech.
If his speech had lit the fuse, then this sentence detonated a nuclear bomb.
The air in the square instantly froze.
The cheering stopped abruptly, as if severed by an invisible blade.
Old Jack leaned on his cane, his cloudy eyes filled with dazed disbelief.
A few old women in the front row even subconsciously made the sign of the cross.
They had just come to terms with cooperating with the Democratic Party for their own benefit.
But they had never considered becoming Democrats themselves.
Those were two entirely different concepts.
In these small towns of Western Pennsylvania, the Republican Party wasn’t just a political option; it was a way of life, an identity, almost a religion.
Smith stood there alone, looking rather solitary.
He was a lone hero, but he also looked like an exiled heretic.
Just then, a piercing "SCREEE—" from a microphone cut through the square’s silence.
Behind Smith, the massive LED screen—normally reserved for municipal announcements and holiday festivities—suddenly lit up.
The screen flickered a few times before splitting into six distinct panes.
Six faces appeared on the screen.
A commotion rippled through the crowd.
"Who’s that?"
"I think that’s the Mayor of Scranton."
"The one with the glasses... I’ve seen him before. He’s from Johnston."
The top-left pane zoomed in, filling the main screen.
It was Joe Byers, the Mayor of Scranton City.
He sat behind his desk, a Pennsylvania state flag hanging in the background.
He looked even more disheveled than Smith, his tie askew, his hand clutching a crumpled paper cup.
"My brothers in Erie."
Byers’s voice boomed from the massive speaker systems flanking the square.
"I’m Joe Byers, the Mayor of Scranton."
"I’m watching the livestream."
Byers stared into the camera, his expression fierce.
"Ron Smith didn’t lie. He’s not in this fight alone."
"Neither am I."
Byers held up a document.
"This is a notice from the state. Scranton’s eight-million-dollar highway maintenance subsidy has been suspended."
"They’re threatening me."
Byers slammed the document down on his desk.
"For the sake of his political games in Washington, to keep that young Mayor of Pittsburgh from scoring a win, he’s decided to let us starve."
The screen switched to another feed.
This time, it showed a gaunt, middle-aged man with the famous cable-stayed bridge of Johnston in the background.
"I’m the Mayor of Johnston."
The man’s words were brief and forceful.
"Our glass factory has been blockaded, too. The state police have set up roadblocks on the highway, and any truck heading for Pittsburgh is being seized."
"They’re calling it a ’safety measure.’"
Six mayors. Six cities.
One by one, they spoke.
Their voices converged, creating a strange resonance.
It was the groan from the depths of the Rust Belt, and the roar of desperation pushed to its absolute limit.
The crowd in the square began to stir again.
The feeling of isolated, helpless fear began to fade.
So it wasn’t just Erie.
It wasn’t just Ron Smith who had gone mad.
All of Western Pennsylvania, the entire Rust Belt, had been pushed to the brink.
This was a collective uprising.
"Did you hear that?"
Smith raised his megaphone again, turning to point at the large screen behind him.
"We’ve all been abandoned."
"Those bigwigs in Washington, they sit in their climate-controlled offices, sipping Evian Water, talking about grand strategies and party purity."
"They demand our loyalty."
"They say, ’You are Republicans. You must stick to your principles. You cannot collude with the Democratic Party.’"
Smith scoffed.
"Principles?"
"Can you eat principles? Will principles pay your pensions? Will principles get the factory machines running again?"
On the screen, Joe Byers picked up where he left off.
"We’ve had enough of their -isms."
Byers roared from the screen.
"They lecture us about conservatism, about liberalism, about this -ism and that -ism."
"We don’t want -isms!"
"We want jobs!"
"We want to put food on the table!"
"We want to survive!"
That line ignited the square.
"That’s right! We want to survive!"
Someone in the crowd started shouting along.
The sentiment spread like a virus.
In the face of survival, all political labels seemed pale and meaningless.
Republican, Democrat, left-wing, right-wing.
Those were all word games for people with full stomachs.
For the starving, there are only two sides: the one that feeds you, and the one that takes your food away.
Leo Wallace gave them orders, gave them cash, gave them a lifeline.
And Russell Warren, the patron saint they had worshipped for thirty years, had torn the roof from over their heads just before winter’s arrival.
"Look at this map."
Smith pointed to the screen.
The six mayors’ feeds rearranged themselves, forming a map of their cities across Western Pennsylvania.
"We’re surrounded."
"Warren wants to corner us, to sacrifice us for his re-election."
"He thinks we’re sheep, livestock to be slaughtered at his whim."
"But he’s wrong."
Smith walked to the edge of the stage, looking down at the sea of upturned faces.
"We are wolves."
"And when a wolf pack has no meat, it will devour anyone who stands in its way."
"No matter who he is."
"No matter how much power he has in Washington."
"No matter what party’s pin is on his chest."
Smith stretched out a hand, pointing south.
"If he’s going to be cruel, then don’t blame us for being vicious."
"Since he cut off our path, we’ll carve out a new one for ourselves."
"Tell Warren."
"We don’t need his handouts, and we don’t need his protection."
"We have our own alliance."
"From this day forward, Erie, Scranton, Johnston... all of us forgotten cities, we stand together."
"We only recognize one truth: We support whoever lets us survive."
On the screen, all six mayors nodded in unison.
It was a pact forged from the instinct for survival, one that transcended party lines and ideology.
A tremendous roar erupted from the square.
The rage of betrayal and the fear for the future found their release, transforming into the united strength of those who shared a common enemy.
The workers pumped their fists in the air.
The retired seniors raised their canes.
Smith watched it all unfold.
He could feel his heart pounding in his chest.