Honest to a Fault

As his chauffeur driven car cruised to his next engagement he reflected on a recent press conference. A foreign reporter asked him how he had escaped assassination. He explained that he killed potential assassins before they become a threat. Then to prove his point he shot a loyal bodyguard in front of them. There were no further questions. He had founded the Honesty Party on the recommendation of a team of marketing analysts who located a popular need for more honest politicians. The proud capital 'H' in his party flag stood for just that kind of honesty: the kind of honesty one can look up to, towering and monolithic, the honesty with which he could openly and unashamedly defend a bad system with good, traditional fear of change. How much more would they let him get away with? As long as he was honest about exploiting them there seemed to be no limit to what he could ask. He had taken their jewellery. He said it was needed to pay the debt. He didn't say it would be used to pay the debt. He had taken away their holidays, telling workers to call in sick if they want a holiday. He had uprooted them from their homes and talked them into renting caves, promising that it would increase property values. Now he believed that his unfortunate people were ready to make the ultimate sacrifice for their country. After all, a war would at least get them out of the caves. The war would be against a country they liked. They would fight for a small island rumoured to hold buried treasure and as many as five geysers. Neither he nor his enemy counterpart really cared about the disputed land and were just looking for a way to increase their power, to thin out the population, and to test new weapons. He would not need to explain his decision. The people knew he didn't like them. He once even told them that they remind him of rats. They expected to be mistreated by him and appreciated his honesty. The car parked and he got out. As usual he was met and surrounded by an escort of loyal bodyguards armed with assault rifles. These men protected him as he traveled on foot between his bulletproof car and his screened public appearances. Today's venue was strange and desolate: the City Morgue.
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© 2007, 2013. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.