I was standing before the whole village, holding my gun up high, and saying my final words: “Who hell you think are, you, whose children are sweaty bastards! My father ruled village, and I his rightful vessel!” I had decided to ignore grammar in favour of directness. The stares of the villagers felt like angry fish in my head. I shook them free. These grease-people of the lower classes, they had insulted me for the last time, and I was here to avenge.
Look! Dumb surprise filled their fish-like faces! I had caught them! A final triumph for me, in my aged defiance! They had gathered to watch a theatre play, and I had mounted the stage just as the miserable, amateurish climax approached. It was a dumb fairytale romance about country life and love. The actors were my enemies, but I knew that in the eyes of God, I had beaten them. Around me they stood, four disabled people plus extras, all dressed as fishermen, mermaids and kings, and they were finally exposed; this whole wretched scheme was finally exposed. By the craftiness of poor people, they had elected these four handicapped to depose me; me, whom they should have loved as their protector. What did they think this horrid insult would bring? I was a child of the beloved village too, but my wealth they were jealous of. My wealth, and my so-called corruption.
The disabled people, installed in power, had made the town hall into a farmyard, had passed laws that made all the food free. The village had been weeks in an anarchist dream – but here was I, my honour rescued, though my robe of office would be sacrificed. I swung the red robe about my torso, and took measure of the dusty faces below me. Then I stopped, and felt a moment of silence, as my return burned into their consciousness.
“I not here for forgiveness, prodigals, nor I here to hear desperate pleas! And the order that I brought to the village will not be re-ordered for you, dirty ones! I here, for this simple one purpose, to show virtue.” Again I flashed the gun before their faces. It was nearly time.
But then look! Oh! Heaven had interrupted! A flash of blonde, a whisp of ruby caught my eye – Trixi! Dear Trixi, the jewel in my head, the fire of my loins – my gold-bodied goddess had appeared in the crowd beneath me. Trixi – my secretary. I thought of the one thousand times she had brought my crunchy biscuits and my tea, of the one hundred times she had asked for my signature for a certain protocol, and of the one million times I had failed to tell her of my love. Her breasts were my only true home, even though I lived a life in exile from them. And I remembered the moment when I realised that she had been the one to betray me to this mob of immoral peasants. But perhaps I could still forgive, if the occasion took me. And now she stood up, pointed at me and said, “You,” the red-painted nail on her beautiful finger flashed in the sun, “are an embarrassing arse.”
It was time. “I am sick!” I declared, “You people are bloody ridiculous! This is not honour. I sick of you all. I sick of it all. Goodbye, cruel village!” And then I shot myself. But I missed, and the hot bullet buried in my arm, and smashed a bone. The bullet seemed to enjoy it, for the pain was laughing. I looked at the people, and the laughter spread across the purulent cluster of faces like oil on a flock of floating ducks.
This is when the army arrived. They wore black, and the stage crumbled and collapsed beneath their bullets. Children and women screamed. The army shot many guns, arrested everyone, and put me in jail with the villagers. They keep me now in a separate cell.
I am being counselled by a woman with a twitchy eye. Through the bars, we watch mongooses killing snakes every day.
Mongoose Revenge
I was standing before the whole village, holding my gun up high, and saying my final words: “Who hell you think are, you, whose children are sweaty bastards! My father ruled village, and I his rightful vessel!” I had decided to ignore grammar in favour of directness. The stares of the villagers felt like angry fish in my head. I shook them free. These grease-people of the lower classes, they had insulted me for the last time, and I was here to avenge.
Look! Dumb surprise filled their fish-like faces! I had caught them! A final triumph for me, in my aged defiance! They had gathered to watch a theatre play, and I had mounted the stage just as the miserable, amateurish climax approached. It was a dumb fairytale romance about country life and love. The actors were my enemies, but I knew that in the eyes of God, I had beaten them. Around me they stood, four disabled people plus extras, all dressed as fishermen, mermaids and kings, and they were finally exposed; this whole wretched scheme was finally exposed. By the craftiness of poor people, they had elected these four handicapped to depose me; me, whom they should have loved as their protector. What did they think this horrid insult would bring? I was a child of the beloved village too, but my wealth they were jealous of. My wealth, and my so-called corruption.
The disabled people, installed in power, had made the town hall into a farmyard, had passed laws that made all the food free. The village had been weeks in an anarchist dream – but here was I, my honour rescued, though my robe of office would be sacrificed. I swung the red robe about my torso, and took measure of the dusty faces below me. Then I stopped, and felt a moment of silence, as my return burned into their consciousness.
“I not here for forgiveness, prodigals, nor I here to hear desperate pleas! And the order that I brought to the village will not be re-ordered for you, dirty ones! I here, for this simple one purpose, to show virtue.” Again I flashed the gun before their faces. It was nearly time.
But then look! Oh! Heaven had interrupted! A flash of blonde, a whisp of ruby caught my eye – Trixi! Dear Trixi, the jewel in my head, the fire of my loins – my gold-bodied goddess had appeared in the crowd beneath me. Trixi – my secretary. I thought of the one thousand times she had brought my crunchy biscuits and my tea, of the one hundred times she had asked for my signature for a certain protocol, and of the one million times I had failed to tell her of my love. Her breasts were my only true home, even though I lived a life in exile from them. And I remembered the moment when I realised that she had been the one to betray me to this mob of immoral peasants. But perhaps I could still forgive, if the occasion took me. And now she stood up, pointed at me and said, “You,” the red-painted nail on her beautiful finger flashed in the sun, “are an embarrassing arse.”
It was time. “I am sick!” I declared, “You people are bloody ridiculous! This is not honour. I sick of you all. I sick of it all. Goodbye, cruel village!” And then I shot myself. But I missed, and the hot bullet buried in my arm, and smashed a bone. The bullet seemed to enjoy it, for the pain was laughing. I looked at the people, and the laughter spread across the purulent cluster of faces like oil on a flock of floating ducks.
This is when the army arrived. They wore black, and the stage crumbled and collapsed beneath their bullets. Children and women screamed. The army shot many guns, arrested everyone, and put me in jail with the villagers. They keep me now in a separate cell.
I am being counselled by a woman with a twitchy eye. Through the bars, we watch mongooses killing snakes every day.
