Campaign Trail Hell

I was on the campaign trail for President of the United States.
New Hampshire holds its primaries early every election year
Right behind Iowa
Political candidates are obliged to visit door to door in different neighborhoods
And around certain areas that vote majority Democrat or Republican.
So, I approached this house that was far back from the road I was on
I slid through the front gate.
Moss and wild vegetation had grown from the ground, entangling the gutters. I knocked and announced myself.
An elderly man that seemed seven feet tall had answered wearing a tan suit,
His hair was completely gray, but full.
Behind him was his wife, who was short with broad shoulders. She wore a green dress and black slippers that made her footsteps soundless.
Upstairs, there was a man in a robe sitting in a recliner that she took care of.
He had really bad dementia, he didn’t know where he was or what was going on, he would just occasionally grunt.
After the pleasantries, I sat down and talked to the man of the house.
All he spoke about was “The War” And how the powers that be were manipulating the messages
concerning what was really going on over there, and how long they’d be,
How the general masses were destroying the morale of the troops with their protests,
How Women’s Rights movements were being run by low-rate home-wrecking floozies.
How the colored soldiers fought just as bravely as the whites during “The War '' but weren’t allowed everywhere, to keep up appearances in the Media.
He thought Black people demanded too many rights and land for as lazy as they all were.
He was a  misogynist and a racist but he didn’t seem spiteful,
Just held onto an old traditional dumb ass schools of thought.
His wife brought the man with dementia some stew with crackers to feed him.
The veteran looked at her and smiled,
He began discussing her first and last job at a shipping yard during “The War.”
He said that: “When the old boys left, they let the women do a lot of different jobs, ya know...”
The woman hoisted the incapacitated man up,
Then sat him on the toilet rim with no lid to give him a quick sponge bath. He’d shit himself.
Soon thereafter, she was back, serving us stew with crackers as the veteran continued on about “the War”  
He never touched his food.
After dinner he noticed that I was dozing off
He then pointed to a cot behind me and said: “Make yourself at home...”
So I spent the night.
In the morning, I jumped up and slipped my clothes back on then fixed my lapels. I was late!
I darted to the kitchen where I found the wife toiling over the stove and the veteran flipping through a dated newspaper.
“Can you stay for breakfast?” He asked
“I really can’t sir, I need to get to my office.”
At campaign headquarters, a staff intern overheard me talking to my chief strategist, and campaign manager about where I was last night.
He’s from the district that we’re in and he said:
“Oh, I know that house on the road you’re talking about. That couple’s been dead over 60 years now.”
“What?” I shouted.
“Yeah...except for the man upstairs. He’s still living. When he shits on himself you can smell it all they way up the road over there.”
I glared at him, incredulous.
I tried to take this in, tried to figure it out.
The man with dementia still grunted from time to time, so he was still breathing.
“Think about it,” said the intern, “the newspaper clippings are dated between the 1920’s through the early 1950’s. All he talks about is “The Great War.””
So, I piece it together now, the newspaper in his hand at breakfast was from the last century.
“You’re telling me,” I asked. “that the man upstairs is being kept alive by the dead people downstairs?” He nodded yes.
“So, if they don’t eat, then what the hell do they feed the living man upstairs?”      
He replied: “Hell, I don’t know. You didn’t eat over there did you?”
Needless to say, I vomited all over my Ivy League suit.