Democratic Republic of Congo, Kinshasa.
1989, May, eve of the elections. 21:34 PM.
There was the smell of blood in the air. Nobody knew what the world would look like after that night – the direction in which Congo will go and, if given the opportunity, how the young revolutionist would lead the country he protected in its time of need. Some of the locals were literally forced off their homes to vote for a certain candidate, both the military and the foreign business interests pulled strings to have their candidate elected.
Keori would have none of that. His men patrolled the streets of the main cities and also visited the tribes away from the urbanized center of the country and informed them of the election – even protected some from hired thugs sent to coerce them into voting one way or the other. Keori was not the saint all proclaimed he was, he was a killer – a murderer. He killed many in a frenzy of drugs, and while he was sober. He participated in brutal acts, and he enjoyed them. Perhaps, for Keori, his new role would serve as a way for him to redeem himself.
He sat down with his friends around a round table outside of a bar and stared out into five voting booths at the end of the street. He was surrounded with his friends and workers in the organization, one that had dealt with the gun trade and human trafficking. They are about to make some reforms in their operation if Keori wins the elections. Morocono sat to his right and drank heavily, almost obliterating the small stock of brandy the bar had.
The mood was merry among the men – all fought alongside Keori, some as children and some as teenagers. The nineteen years old man became an adult ten years ago, and even that seemed like a century ago. Keori didn't drink much – he had already had his fill years ago, and nowadays he keeps himself sober for any unforeseen event. Just like the one happening right now.
Keori noticed a group of men, some in army clothes, forcing another group of civilians forward into the booths. They were opening carrying their weapons. Keori banged his hand against the table and whispered. The others knew what was said – they knew the magic word. Keori stood up and walked in the direction of the soldiers, his posy following behind. They will taste the wrath of the king of Kinshasa.
The King of Crime.
The King of the people.
And the soon to be King of Africa.
A shot from one of the soldiers went piercing through Keori's left shoulder blade, moving past his body and hitting one of his friends in his chest.
USA, NY, NYC, Millennium UN Plaza Hotel, The king's room
2012, August 17th , 2:32 AM.
Cold sweat enveloped the King's body. A blood curling scream shot out of the King's mouth and invaded the room. It was another one of his dreams. A dream of those girls he saw in the hands of the eldest, no – About those boys, the ones he fought with. The ones he killed with. The ones he called friends. Only Morocono is left.
The man burst into the King's room and shouted out for Keori. Morocono stood at the entrance to the King's room completely naked and holding his pistol, a slick desert eagle, "Keori, what happened?", he shouted in response.
The King tried to calm himself. His heart kept beating at an alarming rate and didn’t slow down. "A dream… It was all a dream", the King spoke quietly.
Morocono pulled down the pistol in his hands and looked at the King lying on his bed. "I… uh… It was good day yesterday. We made some good deals, and we secured that pharmaceiticles contract you so wanted-", Morocono spoke in an uncharacteristic upbeat tone.
"-It's worrying me, Moro. I don't know what will happen to me. All know of this curse, and that I have killed those men, what will happen if they know about us?", the King spoke. The fear in his eyes seemed genuine.
"You will still remain the King, friend. You will just have one more problem to take care of, and I will be there to help", Morocono answered.