Policia Muerta
09-03-2005, 17:31
"So. Commander Nathaniel. Why, exactly, are you here?"
The question was a good one. El Presidente Mason leaned back, the picture of calm repose, in the genuine cow-hide leather-bound chair behind the desk made of wonderfully rare redwood. The square-jawed face, specked with ice-blue chips for eyes and topped with a black "high and tight," however, spoke legions beyond calm. Hard weather lines and a scar bisecting his upper lip displayed badges of war no metal could reproduce. This was further accented by his lack of designer suit or clothing. Instead, black BDU's form-fitted his muscular body, completely devoid of flashes, insignia, or awards. To make the point clear, a highly visible Kimber 1911 .45 auto rested easily on his hip. Even more clear was the AR-15 leaned casually against the side of his desk.
In comparison, Commander Nathaniel, short and squat, with what was not quite yet a paunch, showed all the makings of an arm-chair "leader." His almost-pudgy face pinched up in a slight grimace of distaste at the blunt discourtesy, but he held his tongue. Thick fingers clenched and unclenched at his side, then a clammy hand went to his thinning patch of reddish-blonde hair. To round out his altogether not-squared-away demeanor, his Policia Meurta uniform was slightly off-gig, a detail not overlooked by the military eye of Mason.
"El Presidente, my purpose here is simple. General Moore is...well...his tactics are less than noble."
Mason leaned forward, ever so slightly. "Oh."
"Yes. I mean, si. My informant tells me that he is..." Nathaniel glanced nervously from side-to-side with his piggy brown eyes. "That he is sleeping with a married woman!"
Mason spent a moment reflecting on the distaste of keeping with the natives use of Spanish as a primary language. The affectation led to his "El Presidente" moniker and the ridiculous Spanglish that permeated every conversation. The largely uneducated and impoverished latino population were easy to control, so some minor annoyances were worth putting up with, and hundreds of years of superstitions and over-bearing traditions made his indefinite rule that much more simple.
"Let me get this straight. Commander. You interrupt my day, including the two minutes I could use to not have to think about you, to tell me that my General, my commanding officer of my police force, the driven STORM behind the law and order and stability of our great land..."
Nathaniel squirmed and patted his balding head again.
"Is knocking off a piece of some puta?"
"Ah. Si. El Presidente. Magnifico."
"Jesus Christ, don't even start." Mason leaned back, rapping his fingers on the arm of the chair. He glanced up at a large mural depicting the "liberation" of Policia Muerta. It mostly consisted of the ex-Presidente being hanged from the neck until dead, with a much elaborated Davis Mason holding the other end of the rope. "Explain to me again why I put you in the military police?"
"El Presidente, because I am the brother of the woman that gave you El Bandito Sanchez."
"Oh. That's right." Melanie Nathaniel had been a concubine to El Presidente Sanchez of La Familia Pleasanto. Until the idea of "el revolucion" made her dream of more. Too bad she turned on the new Protectorate, one of the early revolutionaries to turn traitor and be hanged. And shot. And quartered. But it was for the common good. "So how exactly does that mean you stay here?"
"Ah...because...I have...the...I am involved in...I know...you trust me?" Nathaniel took a step backwards.
One swift motion brought Mason's hand off the arm of the chair, unholstered the Kimber at his side, and squeezed off a single round into the forehead of former Police Commander Nathaniel.
The shot brought in his secretary and two police officers. They immediately lowered their weapons upon surveying the scene.
Mason holstered the Kimber and smiled, all white teeth and tanned skin. "Traitor to the state. He threatened me with that gun..." he gestured at the Commanders empty hand. "And tried to get me to institute a tax increase on our poor peasants. Of course, I couldn't allow that to happen, so I executed him for national security reasons." A common happening, the "Freedom Times" would have a detailed story of the encounter, along with a picture of the traitor and his weapon.
"Of course, because of this terrible attack on the Government of the country, a nation-wide curfew must go into effect. Please tell Captain Hernandez to come see me, Officer. And get that piece of meat out of here. Please."
The two police officers dragged the body out the door, leaving a small streak of blood on its way. The secretary scribbled notes on the curfew, assuming the standard time of seven PM, as well as making note to clean up the blood, get a new carpet, and contact the editor of the "Freedom Times."
Mason swivelled about in his chair and peered through the window of the Palace de Muerta. The green land, spotted with ghetto settlements, sparkled below.
Time to open the lines of communication. With Nathaniel gone, the last shreds of the Revolution Committee were eliminated, the people believed the "activists" reported in the newspaper, and the heavy export of rare animals native to the island was creating a nice cash-base.
Time to make some phone calls.
Life was good.
The question was a good one. El Presidente Mason leaned back, the picture of calm repose, in the genuine cow-hide leather-bound chair behind the desk made of wonderfully rare redwood. The square-jawed face, specked with ice-blue chips for eyes and topped with a black "high and tight," however, spoke legions beyond calm. Hard weather lines and a scar bisecting his upper lip displayed badges of war no metal could reproduce. This was further accented by his lack of designer suit or clothing. Instead, black BDU's form-fitted his muscular body, completely devoid of flashes, insignia, or awards. To make the point clear, a highly visible Kimber 1911 .45 auto rested easily on his hip. Even more clear was the AR-15 leaned casually against the side of his desk.
In comparison, Commander Nathaniel, short and squat, with what was not quite yet a paunch, showed all the makings of an arm-chair "leader." His almost-pudgy face pinched up in a slight grimace of distaste at the blunt discourtesy, but he held his tongue. Thick fingers clenched and unclenched at his side, then a clammy hand went to his thinning patch of reddish-blonde hair. To round out his altogether not-squared-away demeanor, his Policia Meurta uniform was slightly off-gig, a detail not overlooked by the military eye of Mason.
"El Presidente, my purpose here is simple. General Moore is...well...his tactics are less than noble."
Mason leaned forward, ever so slightly. "Oh."
"Yes. I mean, si. My informant tells me that he is..." Nathaniel glanced nervously from side-to-side with his piggy brown eyes. "That he is sleeping with a married woman!"
Mason spent a moment reflecting on the distaste of keeping with the natives use of Spanish as a primary language. The affectation led to his "El Presidente" moniker and the ridiculous Spanglish that permeated every conversation. The largely uneducated and impoverished latino population were easy to control, so some minor annoyances were worth putting up with, and hundreds of years of superstitions and over-bearing traditions made his indefinite rule that much more simple.
"Let me get this straight. Commander. You interrupt my day, including the two minutes I could use to not have to think about you, to tell me that my General, my commanding officer of my police force, the driven STORM behind the law and order and stability of our great land..."
Nathaniel squirmed and patted his balding head again.
"Is knocking off a piece of some puta?"
"Ah. Si. El Presidente. Magnifico."
"Jesus Christ, don't even start." Mason leaned back, rapping his fingers on the arm of the chair. He glanced up at a large mural depicting the "liberation" of Policia Muerta. It mostly consisted of the ex-Presidente being hanged from the neck until dead, with a much elaborated Davis Mason holding the other end of the rope. "Explain to me again why I put you in the military police?"
"El Presidente, because I am the brother of the woman that gave you El Bandito Sanchez."
"Oh. That's right." Melanie Nathaniel had been a concubine to El Presidente Sanchez of La Familia Pleasanto. Until the idea of "el revolucion" made her dream of more. Too bad she turned on the new Protectorate, one of the early revolutionaries to turn traitor and be hanged. And shot. And quartered. But it was for the common good. "So how exactly does that mean you stay here?"
"Ah...because...I have...the...I am involved in...I know...you trust me?" Nathaniel took a step backwards.
One swift motion brought Mason's hand off the arm of the chair, unholstered the Kimber at his side, and squeezed off a single round into the forehead of former Police Commander Nathaniel.
The shot brought in his secretary and two police officers. They immediately lowered their weapons upon surveying the scene.
Mason holstered the Kimber and smiled, all white teeth and tanned skin. "Traitor to the state. He threatened me with that gun..." he gestured at the Commanders empty hand. "And tried to get me to institute a tax increase on our poor peasants. Of course, I couldn't allow that to happen, so I executed him for national security reasons." A common happening, the "Freedom Times" would have a detailed story of the encounter, along with a picture of the traitor and his weapon.
"Of course, because of this terrible attack on the Government of the country, a nation-wide curfew must go into effect. Please tell Captain Hernandez to come see me, Officer. And get that piece of meat out of here. Please."
The two police officers dragged the body out the door, leaving a small streak of blood on its way. The secretary scribbled notes on the curfew, assuming the standard time of seven PM, as well as making note to clean up the blood, get a new carpet, and contact the editor of the "Freedom Times."
Mason swivelled about in his chair and peered through the window of the Palace de Muerta. The green land, spotted with ghetto settlements, sparkled below.
Time to open the lines of communication. With Nathaniel gone, the last shreds of the Revolution Committee were eliminated, the people believed the "activists" reported in the newspaper, and the heavy export of rare animals native to the island was creating a nice cash-base.
Time to make some phone calls.
Life was good.