Jarhila
24-11-2004, 20:57
It was a cold night, cold even for the Scandinavian-like climate of Jarhila. Underneath a bridge were pulled up a Tonri Conquest Grand Tourer and a Volkswagen Jetta. Tonri was a small luxury marque in Jarhila, popular among the nobility and few nouveau-riche, and the Conquest was their flagship. We all know what a Volkswagen Jetta is. The Jetta rolled down its window, and the driver held out two hands. One, a hand lazily hanging out the window holding a cigarette, the other, firm and erect holding out a handgun. The Conquest rolled down its window, and a single hand emerged holding another handgun.
“Put out your fucking cigarette before you give me cancer.” Said the Conquest.
“Or what?” Replied the Jetta.
“Or, I’ll give you a nine millimeter wide piece of lead.”
The Jetta tossed down the cigarette.
“Now, let’s get to work.” Coldly said the Conquest. “As you know, I have contacted you about employing your services. I need killing.”
“It is my business. How many?
“Seventy-three, plus witnesses.”
“My God.”
“Interesting. A hitman who believes in God.”
“It’s a fucking expression.”
“Alright, fine. How much?”
“Who are these people?”
“Well, the King and Queen, plus assorted aides to them, and political, military, and business leaders.”
“You’re mad.”
“No, merely Machiavellian. For you see, I am Prince Eric C. Jarhila. The eldest of the King and Queen. Next in line for the throne after their asses die. Coldly ambitious, purely an egoist, and caring for no one but my love and myself. Now, how much will this cost?”
“Give me the list of people.”
Prince Eric C. Jarhila handed over a PDA. “Keep it. This is just an old one.”
“But this is only a few months old, they just came out with it.”
“And they just came out with a brand new model. How much will those cost?”
“Fifty million credits.”
“Deal. I expect them killed before dawn.”
“It’ll be hard, but my men and I are the best.”
“Godspeed.”
“Humorous.”
The Jetta drove off quickly, and lit a cigarette along the way and picking up a cell-phone, dialed a number.
The Conquest stayed steady for around three minutes, and drove off in the opposite direction.
At dawn
Prince Eric C. Jarhila was getting dressed. He was young- fifteen. He wouldn’t even be able to drive if he wasn’t the son of the King and Queen. But he was. He didn’t think himself superior to anyone else, however, as he had stated, he was an egoist. He didn’t care who you were- he looked out for himself, and his girlfriend, soon, if everything went according to plan, his wife. No one else mattered. He expected everyone to treat him the same- as an equal in cutthroat competition. He did, however, demand loyalty from those he employed, as he expected of everyone else to maintain loyalty to who employs them.
He was tall and athletic, with strawberry blond hair, much more towards the strawberry, however, quite attractive to the young women of Jarhila, many of whom had posters of him up on their walls. He found it quite humorous. He was also intelligent, creative, and all of the rest.
So, other than the obvious lack of compassion and familial love, Eric Cooper Jarhila was what most people would describe as perfect. Almost frighteningly so, but he was so disarming that no one would describe him as such.
Jarhila was a Monarchy. It was a constitutional monarchy in a different sense. The Monarch held all political power- alongside with frequent bribes from corporations- but there was a constitution granting far-reaching civil rights, as far-reaching as those in even the most liberal democracies.
Anyway, he got dressed- as he would have- in normal clothes.
A buzz.
He opened the door, and, as expected, there was a messenger.
“Sir, King.” He bowed.
An adept liar responded, “Why do you call me King? I’m only the prince.”
“Your Majesty, your parents and seventy-one other people were killed last night by terrorists.”
“My God!” He made a crucifix on his chest. He was quite the atheist, but had feigned- for political reasons- Roman Catholicism for many years.
“How… how did they die?”
“Gunshots to the head. Fifty bodyguards were killed as well, your majesty.”
“I… when will the funeral be?”
“It is for you to decide, sire.”
“Today. I will get dressed in funerary clothes. Get an undertaker, and have Malchash prepare it.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He went inside, and opened an instant messenger program- secure, designed by the intelligence service- and typed off a message to his girlfriend, the daughter of the Duke of Vonien, a family almost as powerful as the Royal Family itself.
Sophia… everything is going according to plan. This message has to be quick. Come by as soon as you can. I won’t be able to fuck you right away, the people will be expecting a speech.
Alright, Eric. Should I bring the condoms?
Yeah. Catch you later. I love you.
I love you too.
He logged off, and changed into funerary clothes, and went downstairs.
“Get a camera ready. I must address my subjects.”
Within a few minutes, journalists were assembled and many cameras were trained on him.
“I would like you to forgive me for making these remarks brief- I am bereaved. My mother, Queen Alexandra, and my Father, King Thomas, are dead. They, along with two-hundred and seven others were killed in a storm of flying lead last night. I, as per the laws of inheritance and our illustrious constitution, have ascended the throne. I assure you, as their loving son, that, By God, that I shall do all that is necessary to hunt down their killers. I hope for your respect and admiration as a leader of this bold nation. Thank you.”
He stepped down off the stage. “By god, I will hunt down the bla bla bla.” He thought to himself. “God, I hate having to feign a fucking religion in this country.”
He then looked at an aide. “Inform the staff I will be… grieving… in my room for a while.”
He went upstairs to his chambers, and flopped onto the bed with Sophia. They proceeded to do what lovers do.
An hour later
“I really have to get to work- I have to get everything set up for the secret police and all those other particulars of being a despot.” he said with a detached yet humorous tone.
“Alright, Eric.” she replied with a small laugh.
ANNOUNCEMENT TO THE INTERNATIONAL COMMUNITY
Last night, seventy-three people were assassinated here, among them the King and Queen. Many other bystanders were wiped out in this horrible disaster. Their son, Eric Jarhila, has taken the throne. He requests help from all nations in securing our borders with you and hunting down the murderers of his parents.
Diplomatic condolences can be directed to the Foreign Ministry.
“Put out your fucking cigarette before you give me cancer.” Said the Conquest.
“Or what?” Replied the Jetta.
“Or, I’ll give you a nine millimeter wide piece of lead.”
The Jetta tossed down the cigarette.
“Now, let’s get to work.” Coldly said the Conquest. “As you know, I have contacted you about employing your services. I need killing.”
“It is my business. How many?
“Seventy-three, plus witnesses.”
“My God.”
“Interesting. A hitman who believes in God.”
“It’s a fucking expression.”
“Alright, fine. How much?”
“Who are these people?”
“Well, the King and Queen, plus assorted aides to them, and political, military, and business leaders.”
“You’re mad.”
“No, merely Machiavellian. For you see, I am Prince Eric C. Jarhila. The eldest of the King and Queen. Next in line for the throne after their asses die. Coldly ambitious, purely an egoist, and caring for no one but my love and myself. Now, how much will this cost?”
“Give me the list of people.”
Prince Eric C. Jarhila handed over a PDA. “Keep it. This is just an old one.”
“But this is only a few months old, they just came out with it.”
“And they just came out with a brand new model. How much will those cost?”
“Fifty million credits.”
“Deal. I expect them killed before dawn.”
“It’ll be hard, but my men and I are the best.”
“Godspeed.”
“Humorous.”
The Jetta drove off quickly, and lit a cigarette along the way and picking up a cell-phone, dialed a number.
The Conquest stayed steady for around three minutes, and drove off in the opposite direction.
At dawn
Prince Eric C. Jarhila was getting dressed. He was young- fifteen. He wouldn’t even be able to drive if he wasn’t the son of the King and Queen. But he was. He didn’t think himself superior to anyone else, however, as he had stated, he was an egoist. He didn’t care who you were- he looked out for himself, and his girlfriend, soon, if everything went according to plan, his wife. No one else mattered. He expected everyone to treat him the same- as an equal in cutthroat competition. He did, however, demand loyalty from those he employed, as he expected of everyone else to maintain loyalty to who employs them.
He was tall and athletic, with strawberry blond hair, much more towards the strawberry, however, quite attractive to the young women of Jarhila, many of whom had posters of him up on their walls. He found it quite humorous. He was also intelligent, creative, and all of the rest.
So, other than the obvious lack of compassion and familial love, Eric Cooper Jarhila was what most people would describe as perfect. Almost frighteningly so, but he was so disarming that no one would describe him as such.
Jarhila was a Monarchy. It was a constitutional monarchy in a different sense. The Monarch held all political power- alongside with frequent bribes from corporations- but there was a constitution granting far-reaching civil rights, as far-reaching as those in even the most liberal democracies.
Anyway, he got dressed- as he would have- in normal clothes.
A buzz.
He opened the door, and, as expected, there was a messenger.
“Sir, King.” He bowed.
An adept liar responded, “Why do you call me King? I’m only the prince.”
“Your Majesty, your parents and seventy-one other people were killed last night by terrorists.”
“My God!” He made a crucifix on his chest. He was quite the atheist, but had feigned- for political reasons- Roman Catholicism for many years.
“How… how did they die?”
“Gunshots to the head. Fifty bodyguards were killed as well, your majesty.”
“I… when will the funeral be?”
“It is for you to decide, sire.”
“Today. I will get dressed in funerary clothes. Get an undertaker, and have Malchash prepare it.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He went inside, and opened an instant messenger program- secure, designed by the intelligence service- and typed off a message to his girlfriend, the daughter of the Duke of Vonien, a family almost as powerful as the Royal Family itself.
Sophia… everything is going according to plan. This message has to be quick. Come by as soon as you can. I won’t be able to fuck you right away, the people will be expecting a speech.
Alright, Eric. Should I bring the condoms?
Yeah. Catch you later. I love you.
I love you too.
He logged off, and changed into funerary clothes, and went downstairs.
“Get a camera ready. I must address my subjects.”
Within a few minutes, journalists were assembled and many cameras were trained on him.
“I would like you to forgive me for making these remarks brief- I am bereaved. My mother, Queen Alexandra, and my Father, King Thomas, are dead. They, along with two-hundred and seven others were killed in a storm of flying lead last night. I, as per the laws of inheritance and our illustrious constitution, have ascended the throne. I assure you, as their loving son, that, By God, that I shall do all that is necessary to hunt down their killers. I hope for your respect and admiration as a leader of this bold nation. Thank you.”
He stepped down off the stage. “By god, I will hunt down the bla bla bla.” He thought to himself. “God, I hate having to feign a fucking religion in this country.”
He then looked at an aide. “Inform the staff I will be… grieving… in my room for a while.”
He went upstairs to his chambers, and flopped onto the bed with Sophia. They proceeded to do what lovers do.
An hour later
“I really have to get to work- I have to get everything set up for the secret police and all those other particulars of being a despot.” he said with a detached yet humorous tone.
“Alright, Eric.” she replied with a small laugh.
ANNOUNCEMENT TO THE INTERNATIONAL COMMUNITY
Last night, seventy-three people were assassinated here, among them the King and Queen. Many other bystanders were wiped out in this horrible disaster. Their son, Eric Jarhila, has taken the throne. He requests help from all nations in securing our borders with you and hunting down the murderers of his parents.
Diplomatic condolences can be directed to the Foreign Ministry.