“What’s the latest with the investigation?”
“We arrested a certain Laure and the Panther.”
“Good.”
“But it would seem, Mr. President, that your life is in danger.”
“I want to see the prisoners.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
He takes a closer look at the prisoner: “I don’t recognize him.”
“But National Colonel, it’s him.”
Handcuffs rubbing against the bone. No skin, no eyes, no lips, no ears, and no more hernia. “I don’t recognize him.”
“How could you do this to him?”
“He would have done the same thing to you, Colonel, if he had taken power and things had been the other way around.”
“Ah, all right then! How are you doing, Campalousca?”
“I’m doing well, Mr. President sir.”
“Ah, all right then! But you’ve lost your skin. You should have known better than to mess with power.”
“Mr. President, you know as well as I do that everything on this earth ends up hurting you.”
“Why don’t you shut the fuck up, Campalousca: you’re hardly in a position to be giving lessons. And I never asked you to go off and fornicate with those Amerindians. You wanted to die, well now you’re going to.”
This is when Colonel National Jescani entered with some very bad news Mr. President. “Speak, Jescani.”
“Speak now, will you.”
“I need to speak with you in private, Mr. President.”
“Don’t worry about Campalousca; he’s a dead man.”
“Even the dead should not hear what I’m about to say.”
“Ok.”
And so he chased the Colonel he likes to call Vauban out of the room, and he chased National Mom and Carvanso out of the room too. He chased my griot National Thanassi out of the room; now speak Jescani, we’re alone.
“Mr. President, the good lord is preparing a coup d’état: because Cardinal Dorzibanso went underground with all those wretched demons from the Sixty-Five prison. Alas, Mr. President: they’ve gathered in front of the old Sáo Juano Cathedral, singing, and threatening to go on a hunger strike.”
“How many of them are there?”
“Maybe as many as sixty thousand.”
“They are anti-people: kill the whole bloody lot of them!”
“Yes, Mr. President. But keep a close eye on Carvanso: we came across a rough draft of a handwritten letter at his place. Here it is.”
Jescani hands him the piece of paper. He says my hernia is sad. Everyone wants to seize power. And he collapses into an armchair. Why are people like this in this country? Aha! That’s Carvanso’s handwriting for sure. But I’ll let him come to me. He lacks imagination: he wants to be a hero of the fatherland, but trust me, his imagination’s not worth ten coustrani. It’s always the same with these dickless idiots; they think they can solve every problem with a drop of saliva.
He gets up and walks over to the mirror, takes a long hard look at himself before taking another look at the letter that my hernia got hold of at brother Carvanso’s place. No no and no again: you should know better than to mess with words. He looked away quickly, almost as if the sight of his own face made him feel sick.
“I don’t get it: even Carvanso wants to overthrow me. He goes to stand in front of a portrait of himself, strokes his big shameful hernia that nature stuck there between my thighs. Fitted frock coat, top hat, medals, gold tassels. Cane in hand. The other hand resting on a child’s head. In his mind, this child symbolizes the nation.”
“What a damn fool.”
Even when I’m right there wearing the outfit of the people. With this body of the people. They can still take me out. Ah, what a load of bullshit. Guzzled by the nation and guzzled by these stupid big herniated balls that get in the way of my old hose. But I, Mom’s Lopez…. Any other time he would have instructed Vauban or Carvanso to bring him to me and have him explain what’s written here…. Have him come and explain it with his own drool. So that I could hear him first-hand with my own ears and see him with my own eyes. Ungrateful bandit I even trusted with managing my hernia, managing my conscience. And still, still he wants to overthrow me.
“What a damn fool.”
And if only I didn’t care for him. If I didn’t consider him the obverse of my hernia. But no, I’m not his colleague from the country across the way who sends his opponents off on a helicopter ride with strict instructions for the pilot. I’m not like that other colleague in the country across the way who fornicates with the ministers’ wives. I’m human. I respect you all. And that’s the thanks I get? You killed my National aunt and what did I do to you? I could have hanged the lot of you. You even killed my National wife.
“What do you think, Jescani?”
Brother Jescani shakes his head and says that Mr. President sir, you’re a good president.
“Fine, but what good is that, you still take advantage of me and go waving your male utensils in my face. Now things will be different and I’m going to fire into this mayhem and tough luck for those who perish.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
He adjusts his hernia and heads out in the direction of Yambi-City where I had a villa built for my little French lady, a nice White woman who’s turning out to be as good as two real Black ones in the business of my hernia. He sets out without any god-damn escort and go ahead and kill me if you so please, I’ve had enough enough enough! We’re not going to run the fatherland as you’d operate a dick. What’s wrong with this country in which people refuse to understand that they’re not the president? From now on I’ll treat you as you deserve to be treated. He spent three days and three nights over at Evelyne Ollayat’s place, French woman of my entrails, as spicy as they come; ah Jescani, if only you’d have gotten a chance to taste her. Ah, Mom’s Vauban, if you’d been able to taste her, old rusted Vauban who prefers men, what a load of bullshit that is! He tells them the story everyone’s heard before, long before my hernia, when a loser like Berthanio became a Pharaoh, and when he made up his mind in the full light of day that the national flag would be kaki. Ah dear Mom, this country has come a long way.
“Mr. President, we found poop in your bed; looks like Laure and the Panther was behind this.”
He rushes over to see. Mother of Mom! And there, right there for all to see, on top of the photo of the girl, right in the very middle of the bed, lay a steaming blood-stained turd, with undigested stems of wild fruits protruding everywhere. He stares at this odious turd, studded with peanuts and peppers.
“Am I dreaming?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. President. What you see there is Laure and the Panther’s shit.”
“And what the fuck are the infantry guards up to? What in God’s name are they doing? Ah, this time I’ve really had it. And he summoned us all before him: the whole Council of Ministers of my hernia, the female representatives of the national unions for women, youth representatives, the representatives of the High Command of my hernia may God curse all of you. He summoned us all before this anger that’s eating me up, diplomats, the Apostolic Nuncio, representatives from the police as well as the gendarmerie, writers, musicians, painters, and no question of leaving anyone out, he summoned us before his kaki heart, and hurry up, the Companions of the People’s Action Committee, as well as representatives from friendly countries, along with the entire Supreme Committee for National Democracy. And he checks: