A pair of fulminating fingers stretched upward like cosmological Aztec temples;
clutching at the fuscous firmament as hunger surpassed civility. Like the cluttering
chimneys of a massive underground mansion, the old Twin Towers appeared to drag
the daylight down to earth; pulling the sun's brilliance out of its body like a taloned
torturer gutting a victim through the paleolithic process of taking hold of his intestines
with both hands, tossing them over his shoulder and wrenching the whole molested
mess out of his mouth as if doing a one man tug of war against the conventions of
anatomy. That macabre metaphor in mind, Vladimir Volscenzi craned an achesome
neck in an obscure bend to gaze at his empire out of graven glass windows which
served more as a wall. From this vantage point it was almost as if he was suspended in
space; protected from the elements only by his own assumed saintliness. In the
oncoming dark, the signs of life could be made out like red X marks on the map of a
crime scene in a police conference room. He pointed and stabbed his fingers at the icy
glass like a dismissive westerner forced to tackle a stir fry with chopsticks. He wanted
everything accounted for; his eyes were the eyes of the gods. Any apartment light and
neon cavalcade he hadn't authorized; any flitting excursion of life which hadn't been
okayed by his lordly countenance would quickly be subjected to a dreary demise.
Backed by the light of a single blood red candle and a haranguing rhapsody which
blared out of shindy speakers to his inferior's displeasure, the temeritous totalitarian
hugged a vaunting brood of farcical field medals to his chest and persuaded himself that
his satanous sovereignty had been achieved not through primogenital passage, but via
wartime heroics. Whatever the gullible populace believed, he cursed the powers that be
that kidding himself was a trickier undertaking.
Brushing his mat-like military crop with a cold hand, he strummed up his
voicebox like an operatic impresario of such low reputation that he had to front the
show himself. In his own eyes, Volscenzi was a symbol of conquest, of patronage; the
pinnacle of human evolution. Clad in auriferous army attire, he sought to prove the
viability of an age old fallacy; that outward appearance reflects a similar character.
Despite his atypical clothing, Volscenzi did not so much appear as a savage dictator as
an obsessed debt collector, since the war ravaged roughness of features and character
which he much assumed he possessed did not run as deeply as he himself would have
his minions believe. His demeanor was that of a man of command rather than one of
action; a pen pushing general rather than a rugged veteran who was more used to
viewing politics and warfare from afar in terms of dreary digits on a computer screen
than measuring first hand such bland statistics in terms of the horrific death and
destruction with which his hapless pawns experienced the same conflicts. But sadly for
the disjointed general, war was now nothing more than a distant memory. He looked
back on those days with mixed pride and sorrow. It was home. Not just the place, but
the experience. He had fought in minor scuffles on the front line, but always managed
to worm his way out with some ingenious cocktail of bribery, deception and plain old
fashioned cowardice, but in his own twisted mind he had battled almost single handedly
in every mismatched conflict he had had the pleasure to serve in. Militarianism seldom
breeds more than the rabid infection of despotism to countries who practice it, and far
worse individuals who do the same.
Yurihita Abreru; the tense tyrant's temper tortured private bodyguard; directed
his glance from one blazing light fitting to another in a vain attempt to contract an
impermanent presbyopia which would facilitate a pleasing period of sickness where
'work'; as it was indulgently referred to; would have to be put aside like an
embarrassing childhood photograph in the back of a family album. Wishful thinking
failed to smother Volscenzi's adopted persona as lay preacher of the apocalypse; "It
says in the Bible; 'if Satan cast out Satan, he is divided against himself, and if I by
Beelzebub cast out devils, by whom do your children cast them out? Therefore they
shall be your judges.'" He took a long and conceited breath and watched a single,
mellow taxicab roll from one end of Wall Street to the other as if one of the many
scrutinous security cameras he had installed to perform that self same task. It was most
definitely a case of a robotic slave built in its master's image. Then he returned to his
favorite subject; "I am the judge. Through Satan, I cast out Satan. Through favouritism
I cast out both poverty and inequality." Abereru failed to see quite what his employer's
strange notion of how a state should be run had to do with scripture, but made sure he
didn't make that observation public. "And what better way to decide with whom my
favouritism is to lie than through a fair system of payment and privilege? People know
what they want; how they think. I merely put those dreams into practice. I cast out
their devils. What matter is it what character I possess? Whomever claims to seeth me
seeth not, for I am invisible amongst men. I am transparent. What better man to govern
that one who has no form and no ailments? Perfection is mere subjective opinion.
Pragmatism is necessity. Nobody ever got anywhere with peace, Mr. Abereru, but to
the doors of death itself."
Abereru crossed his feet back and forth and wondered why there had been
nothing about having to listen to and agree with a madcap despot with undebatable
transparency in the surprisingly few clauses of his contract. As a bodyguard, the only
qualifications were killing efficiency and obedience, and any man with lesser resistance
to boredom and gross inactivity would have been dismissed or disposed of in some
more unsightly manner many months ago. But Abereru had staying power; that was
what made him a fighter, and what made him an infallible bodyguard. He was as
disinterested in politics as he was in the salvation of such a gruesome hellhole of a place
which, for the record, he loved according to his contractual bond, and no more.
He shut his eyes and blocked out the tedious blare of torrid nonsense which
dutifully poured forth from the darkest recesses of Volscenzi's seemingly unfathomable
voice box. "I am a savior to this god forsaken place. I am the redemption; the
emancipation. My father was a decrepit, senile old man. He never knew what was best
for this state, He never understood his role; his importance. He never realized that
society depended on him, and was answerable to him. It isn't easy to run a government;
a city; a nation. It's not pleasurable to have to put up with such deviance from the path
I have provided for their majestic exuberances. Sons of my ancient mother, you riders
of tides, how often have you sailed in my dreams. And now you come in my
awakening, which is my deeper dream. Gibran; like me; a prophet. I am the creator of a
utopian game; a poet with no need for words; I am an angel of iniquity; guardian of rich
and poor, black and white." This idle display of illegitimate statesmanship was steadily
growing tiresome, but it is advisable to give a maniac his space. "I am lord and master
here, and he who steps into my kingdom uninvited walks toward fire, brimstone and
untimely death. "
Volscenzi bit an old scar on his lip and remembered the war. Unlike many of the
American veterans who habitually littered the streets of old New York on remembrance
day, the head of New York State had fought on the other side, though had he made
sure nobody knew that. His family had moved from the Ukraine to the Balkans when
his father was offered a semi lucrative business contract, and had he been hastily
whisked off to the army, where he attained the rank of Captain before the first signs of
the war which would leave the world in disarray had manifested themselves. There had
been troubles in the former Yugoslavia not so long beforehand, but a quagmire
catalogue of pacts, treaties and agreements seemed to have halted the disruptions,
thereby proving a great many bygone sages wrong. The millennium came and went
without much sign of the catastrophe and devastation which had often been ascribed to
such a significant date, but unfortunately this did not ensure that a world threatening
conflict would not soon emerge from inside eastern Europe, and the ancient fortune
tellers, if a little late in their predictions, would have had the last laugh if they were
callous enough to indulge in such black humor; and, furthermore, if they had still been
alive. The UN army were precious miles from Belgrade when Volscenzi had the idea
which would later earn him enough respect from a tyrannous father to be pushed up the
family's hierarchical ladder ahead of his elder brother in the queue to be prospective
inheritor of the reassuringly vast family business empire. He personally assassinated a
known American operative who had been doing surprisingly little damage to the
country under the US president's orders since a full decade before the conflict erupted.
He then adopted the deceased spy's identity and nationality, shot himself in the arm and
smuggled himself into a UN hospital, where he persuaded a somewhat dubious
lieutenant who he was; or more accurately wasn't; and negotiated exile to America for
he and his immediate family, who understandably played along by producing huge,
irrefutable amounts of fabricated evidence identifying them as struggling opposition
elements not to mention ethnic targets of the military government who had given the
injured American operative the information and support which had kept him alive and
active throughout the years. Today, everybody knew who Volscenzi was, but since the
collapse of the UN and the near destruction of American forces in the escalating war,
nobody of any significant global political authority save a handful of largely ignored
pressure groups had either the time nor the resources to do very much about it.
The western world was a mess, and America; always first to blindly hurl its
sizable hat into the ring when war came knocking on their door; or more likely on that
of some faraway nation where they really held little authority; embroiled itself whole
heartedly in the conflict from the bitter outset like a dog diving into a marshy pond to
salvage its master's throwing stick. Money had become a rare commodity since the war,
and as long as the White House got their much needed coffer fillers from the sale of a
city which was chaotic and over populated to the point of absolute pandemonium, how
clean or filthy that money was was really of little concern when equated with the larger
scale war losses for America and her allies across the waters.
"I used to think; what justice is there in this? When I sat in the courtyard of my
paternal king; sword in hand, while the emperors drifted and debated obscure things
behind the barricaded doors of this space age citadel. What does a soldier do without
an order to follow? Who does he kill? I wandered and murdered and pillaged despite
the timely raising of my father's flag above these bloody, poverty stricken streets, until
that ancient promise was fulfilled and I embraced my destiny. I am a lord among men,
Mr. Abereru, that is why I rule here. That is from where I derive my near immortality,
my dominance, my statesmanship." He leant forward in his monstrous black leather
chair and raised his hands like an obsessive conductor as the background music ground
to an edgy halt. He snapped at the resulting silence, taking an imperial glare at the
clusters of tubular buildings bathed in inviting blue moonlight and watched the
motionless bodyguard’s reflection in a bulging, promethean window before uttering the
words he and a more impatient gaggle of officials tapping their especially polished
shoes behind the chunky blast doors belatedly expected. "Mr. Abereru; bring in Mr.
Yavanov." This command was carried out with weary efficiency by a flock of poker
faced brutes in tight collared uniforms; the disgraced manager of the government's
Times Square checkpoint bustled in in front of the mirror clean desk to face what he
prayed would merely be unemployment. The quartet of bouncer like bullies backed off
like a group of picky birds retreating from a carrion corpse at the arrival of a lip licking
lioness; led by a ceiling scraping figure with stabbing white eyes which bit into Abreru's
like lasers and made him gulp as if a flustered footballer pouring a much needed energy
drink down his gasping throat petrol pump style after a shattering and ultimately
unsuccessful match away at the home of the league big boys. As he ushered half of the
grisly glut of inhuman oddities away he shoved the doors to; glad to be relieved of their
leader's demonic presence.
Yavanov prepared to make his excuses heard above the blaring opening strands
of a boisterous piano sonata originally intended for a cathedral of god rather than one
of smirchy sinners, then realized he would have to heighten the volume of his own
stumped excuse if he had the admittedly futile intention of being heard. "Sir, I...."
Volscenzi shook his head and tapped a silver plated pentop on the table like a
dispairing judge thumping autocratically with his hammer. This was enough to invoke
silence. "You surprise me. Your incompetence surprises me." Goren Yavanov lowered
his head like a slated school child more out of fear than respect or anything else and
punished himself by bringing to mind what he should have done to stop some petty,
nameless reactionary from bringing embarrassment to the checkpoint; ergo the
government as a whole; before it had even been properly rebuilt and reopened. This
was not a good way to treat your first commanding post just weeks after promotion,
and Volscenzi had a much documented knack of making his officers feel about
themselves exactly what he felt, which was invariably not good. Yavanov decided it
was best to be silent, and the hardly compulsory restraining influences of Officers
Gomez and Harazi; not to mention the evasive presence of Abereru; were more than
enough to ensure he remained so. "Am I your emperor or your equal? Am I a leader or
an associate?" Yavanov was well aware these questions were not intended to be
answered. "You will do what I order you to do for no other reason than that it is my
wish. Your self importance complements your lack of integrity far too highly. You
elevate your place in society to one akin to mine; isn’t that right? If there were two
leaders, there would be chaos. You're not worthy of positions of power- responsibility.
You can't even keep hold of a checkpoint." The tin pot general would read an element
of personal challenge into everything as a matter of course. No doubt a symptom of a
growing siege mentality coupled with a clumsily concealed uncertainty of his own
adequacy as a leader, but nonetheless Volscenzi would address it ad nauseum. "You
are but an insect to me, Sergeant. You are a pitiful little fly on the mane of the lion;
your power is so insubstantial compared to mine that I might dismiss it, along with
your life, and not even realize I had acted at all." Volscenzi would not have looked or
sounded out of place in a Shakespearean play. Afterall he was the seminal bad guy, and
held onto every word with a forked tongue as if they were droplets of rich wine which
begged to be appreciated with a full palette. "Do you think my victory was brought
about by such failures? Do you think this was given to me; do you think I didn't have
to work? Do you think I don't have to work? And you can't hold down a one man
uprising?" The despairing minnow satisfactorily cut down to size, Volscenzi relaxed
into his chair and thumbed the desktop as if a champion breeder grooming his winning
pooch. "On the one hand, I could take exception to the fact that you are new in the
job." Yavanov looked up like a dejected sheepdog awaiting the next awe inspiringly
predictable command from it's master. "But I won't. We are all responsible, Mr.
Yavanov, and we must all learn from our mistakes; provided we make them. I will give
you a chance for your inexperience. You will leave this city within two hours or be
hunted down and shot, and you know I can't say fairer than that."
Having delivered his ultimatum, Volscenzi span his chair around and Yavanov
was thrown out like a domestic cat into the snow. He flicked his pentop into the air
with one hand and snatched it back into his despotic grasp with the other. "Confucius
said that the key to ruling a successful kingdom is to treat your soldiers and citizens
with respect. I think that was respect enough."
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