Policia Muerta
10-03-2005, 18:49
"Sir." Lieutenant-Captain Olsen came to attention in front of El Presidente Mason's desk, a manilla folder tucked crisply under his arm.
Mason ran a hand through his black crew-cut, rolled his shoulders once under the form-fitting black BDU's and gazed at the low-level officer in front of him.
One of the first changes he had issued, years ago, was a heavy batch of upper-officer rank echelons. Kept them busy striving for a new rank, while getting not worrying too much about the top spot.
"The report?" Olsen was with Civilian Intelligence. The unit functioned mostly on how to keep money flowing from the citizens into the infrastructure, use up resources, and give money back to the citizens, minus some. What was good for Policia Muerta and El Presidente was good for....El Presidente. But it kept the people busy.
"Si, El Presidente. Lots of suggestions."
"Suggestions."
"Si. Well. Offers of suggestions. Ideas that might work."
Mason stared down the Lieutenant-Captain, who started to wilt a little bit. His almond-shaped eyes flicked to the AR-15 assault rifle leaned against the desk, then back to the ex-Mercenary residing at the desk.
"What I mean to say, El Presidente, is that we compiled the list of ideas you gave us and determined which were viable."
Another long pause. A bead of sweat ran down the Lieutenant-Captain's temple.
"And by that I mean, all your ideas are exactly what our great country needs and I have compiled them in monetary order for you to decide which we ones we should implement. At your convenience. Sir."
Mason nodded, once, and the Lieutenant-Captain set the file on Mason's desk, right between the snow globe of Mount Liberty (a semi-dormant volcano that holds the desecrated graves of the former government officials) and a glass unicorn. Olsen's eyes flicked to the unicorn, again perturbed by the daintiness, but kept his face carefully neutral. The bead of sweat itched.
"Thank you, Lieutenant." A slight breach of etiquette and insult, no attaching the Captain honorific to the title. "That will be all. Send in my secretary on your way out. Please."
Olsen saluted, took one step back, spun on his heel, and marched out. The creepiness of Mason's always final 'please' made his vertebrae shiver.
Mason's secretary crept in, perpetual notebook hovering while Mason flipped through the file report.
"Contact the Minsterio del Rupple. Tell them to get all their contacts together. We need a project, or this crap-hole is going to implode. Basket weaving only goes so damn far. And the animals are about dried up."
The secretary nodded and held her pen ready.
"We don't need weapons, so that will put us under the radar a little more. We do need infrastructure designs...specifically, I was thinking a..." Mason flipped through the folder. "An airport, a wharf, a canal system, irrigation, mass transit, and electrical power and sub-stations built. A TV in every home! Broadcasting Freedom TV, twenty-four seven."
The secretary nodded and scribbled.
"Also, we need contracting to help build a hospital. The cess-pit in Democracy Village is going to fall apart soon, and if we don't keep up the morphine shots, some of those people are going to get pissed."
She nodded again.
"Have the minister contact the UN. Tell them we're ready to look at some of their, uh, agendas and...issues...in return for some open god damn trade. Open call to any nation who wants to open a market" He swiveled in his chair and peered out the glass window. "These huts need to become sub-divisions before the end of the decade, by god."
The secretary, knowing her cue, backed out of the room.
His voice was quiet as he repeatedly open and closed his fist. "We'll give them the dog and pony show. I'll show them human rights. I'll show public resources."
Anytime there were lands of the free and homes of the brave, the opportunity for defection was high.
No one was leaving him with a worthless piece of rock. Or a vote of no-confidence. A hospital, a monorail or, hell, public go-karts, some busy construction work...that would keep the playthings in line, make 'em feel pro-active.
The setting sun cast an orange streek across his tanned and scarred face. All he needed now was another nation to bite.
But not too hard.
"
Mason ran a hand through his black crew-cut, rolled his shoulders once under the form-fitting black BDU's and gazed at the low-level officer in front of him.
One of the first changes he had issued, years ago, was a heavy batch of upper-officer rank echelons. Kept them busy striving for a new rank, while getting not worrying too much about the top spot.
"The report?" Olsen was with Civilian Intelligence. The unit functioned mostly on how to keep money flowing from the citizens into the infrastructure, use up resources, and give money back to the citizens, minus some. What was good for Policia Muerta and El Presidente was good for....El Presidente. But it kept the people busy.
"Si, El Presidente. Lots of suggestions."
"Suggestions."
"Si. Well. Offers of suggestions. Ideas that might work."
Mason stared down the Lieutenant-Captain, who started to wilt a little bit. His almond-shaped eyes flicked to the AR-15 assault rifle leaned against the desk, then back to the ex-Mercenary residing at the desk.
"What I mean to say, El Presidente, is that we compiled the list of ideas you gave us and determined which were viable."
Another long pause. A bead of sweat ran down the Lieutenant-Captain's temple.
"And by that I mean, all your ideas are exactly what our great country needs and I have compiled them in monetary order for you to decide which we ones we should implement. At your convenience. Sir."
Mason nodded, once, and the Lieutenant-Captain set the file on Mason's desk, right between the snow globe of Mount Liberty (a semi-dormant volcano that holds the desecrated graves of the former government officials) and a glass unicorn. Olsen's eyes flicked to the unicorn, again perturbed by the daintiness, but kept his face carefully neutral. The bead of sweat itched.
"Thank you, Lieutenant." A slight breach of etiquette and insult, no attaching the Captain honorific to the title. "That will be all. Send in my secretary on your way out. Please."
Olsen saluted, took one step back, spun on his heel, and marched out. The creepiness of Mason's always final 'please' made his vertebrae shiver.
Mason's secretary crept in, perpetual notebook hovering while Mason flipped through the file report.
"Contact the Minsterio del Rupple. Tell them to get all their contacts together. We need a project, or this crap-hole is going to implode. Basket weaving only goes so damn far. And the animals are about dried up."
The secretary nodded and held her pen ready.
"We don't need weapons, so that will put us under the radar a little more. We do need infrastructure designs...specifically, I was thinking a..." Mason flipped through the folder. "An airport, a wharf, a canal system, irrigation, mass transit, and electrical power and sub-stations built. A TV in every home! Broadcasting Freedom TV, twenty-four seven."
The secretary nodded and scribbled.
"Also, we need contracting to help build a hospital. The cess-pit in Democracy Village is going to fall apart soon, and if we don't keep up the morphine shots, some of those people are going to get pissed."
She nodded again.
"Have the minister contact the UN. Tell them we're ready to look at some of their, uh, agendas and...issues...in return for some open god damn trade. Open call to any nation who wants to open a market" He swiveled in his chair and peered out the glass window. "These huts need to become sub-divisions before the end of the decade, by god."
The secretary, knowing her cue, backed out of the room.
His voice was quiet as he repeatedly open and closed his fist. "We'll give them the dog and pony show. I'll show them human rights. I'll show public resources."
Anytime there were lands of the free and homes of the brave, the opportunity for defection was high.
No one was leaving him with a worthless piece of rock. Or a vote of no-confidence. A hospital, a monorail or, hell, public go-karts, some busy construction work...that would keep the playthings in line, make 'em feel pro-active.
The setting sun cast an orange streek across his tanned and scarred face. All he needed now was another nation to bite.
But not too hard.
"