"Vote for whoever you want, it's a free dictatorship!"
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HeySeuss DJ Hot Carl
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"Vote for whoever you want, it's a free dictatorship!"
Meth Quokka This Was Nutter's Idea
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2 yrs ago
‘The Caribbean Cretin
The other week I had the undeniable pleasure of interviewing the brother of the controversial Caribbean dictator of a small island which is rather hilariously called The Illustrious Minor Carenthian Republic of Tremendous Panache, or Carenthia for short (and the for the purposes of this article). The Most Esteemed Presidente Erasmus, known for his mysterious use of just a first name, his record of extravagant substance abuse and a knack for violating human rights was unavailable for an interview but his brother Boris, who holds a ceremonial rank of General, stepped forward to provide an insight into the workings of the man.
General Boris Von Reich stood as quite possibly the least decorated military general in history; he had never seen conflict before in his life and was never relied upon for tactical instruction. Surely then this appointment was seen as nepotism? General Boris wholeheartedly disagree with this notion; instead stating his impeccable service record as a “mall security officer” and his university degree in Man Management, from a university we have yet to find any record of, makes him the ideal candidate for an “outside voice” for their military. The man stands as a testament to idiocy; a monument to just how stupid a man can get: calling Erasmus’ “election” to leadership a “perfectly democratic process where the military voted” and the extravagance of Erasmus’ life style as “perfectly appropriate given the job he does; he made all that fortune through business and he spends it as he sees fit”.
Except for Erasmus his “business” is a fledgling nation of some 600,000 people with a fully functioning (yet hilariously outdated) three-winged armed forces covering the air, sea and land theatres of war. The very how and why of this man’s continued existence in his dictatorship is an mystery; he abuses his people yet when he’s seen in public he inspires loyalty in his people and when he speaks his people listen with a devout fanaticism. One thing for sure, an interview with the imbecile of a brother, General Boris, has revealed nothing new about this enigma of a man.’
General Boris von Reich finished reading the article into the somewhat darkly lit room containing his brother, a few other senior military officials and about 30 ‘high-class escorts’. The air was full of the acrid smell of suspiciously substandard ‘cuban’ cigars, open alcohol some of which being the infamous Carenthian Rum and the smell of paid interaction clung through the air. It was a filthy place at the moment; it was just one of the many party rooms within the People’s Palace; personal abode to Erasmus, his chosen guests and the army-sized host of servants.
The sound of jazz wafted throughout the building; accompanied by the occasional scream and smash of breaking glass. The entire building was filled with debauchery but this was a common occurrence; hell even some of the palace staff were getting in on the action, despite his fearsome reputation Erasmus was known for being rather impartial to seeing people wielding fearsome hangovers. Speaking of the man himself, Erasmus was slumped in an archaic, over-sized monstrosity of an office chair constructed of solid woods and soft leather large enough to hold him and the four girls perched on his lap. “General Boris, brother. Why are you telling me what some two-bit newspaper journalist wrote about you?” asked Erasmus, his words somewhat slurred and broken
“Well we can’t just let this slide past; they dared to insult our nation and it’s leaders, especially me and as a member of this family you can’t let that go. We should invade this National Enquirer; maybe drop some bombs on their printing facility in New York.”
His brother and the various military staff around him burst out into abrupt laughter, mocking the rather less-than-intelligent General and as his face showed a mask of confusion, a young Colonel piped up saying “You can’t invade the paper, you idiot; it’d be invading the United States of America and unless you’ve got a few million soldiers that we don’t know about we aren’t going to manage that.”
“I’m sorry, did you just call my brother an idiot” interjected Erasmus and suddenly the room fell deathly quiet; even the band in the corner stopped playing. Despite his somewhat calm demeanour, everyone who knew the Presidente in the room; everyone but this young Colonel, knew what was coming.
“Well yes but –“ the rest of the Colonel’s sentence was cut off by .44 catridge entering the front of his head and casually deciding to make an expansive mess of it; spraying blood, brain and bone parts in an arc around the room.
One girl stifled a squeal yet this drew no reaction from the Presidente who simply said “He was rather right though, we can’t invade the US and it is your own fault for accepting the interview albeit they did pay you rather handsomely from what the Erasmites tell me. But I will not hold it against you, get a drink and some girls and let us enjoy this fine night.” Even as he spoke of such pleasantries two guards were carrying the body of the former colonel – minus the head, out of the building.
The other week I had the undeniable pleasure of interviewing the brother of the controversial Caribbean dictator of a small island which is rather hilariously called The Illustrious Minor Carenthian Republic of Tremendous Panache, or Carenthia for short (and the for the purposes of this article). The Most Esteemed Presidente Erasmus, known for his mysterious use of just a first name, his record of extravagant substance abuse and a knack for violating human rights was unavailable for an interview but his brother Boris, who holds a ceremonial rank of General, stepped forward to provide an insight into the workings of the man.
General Boris Von Reich stood as quite possibly the least decorated military general in history; he had never seen conflict before in his life and was never relied upon for tactical instruction. Surely then this appointment was seen as nepotism? General Boris wholeheartedly disagree with this notion; instead stating his impeccable service record as a “mall security officer” and his university degree in Man Management, from a university we have yet to find any record of, makes him the ideal candidate for an “outside voice” for their military. The man stands as a testament to idiocy; a monument to just how stupid a man can get: calling Erasmus’ “election” to leadership a “perfectly democratic process where the military voted” and the extravagance of Erasmus’ life style as “perfectly appropriate given the job he does; he made all that fortune through business and he spends it as he sees fit”.
Except for Erasmus his “business” is a fledgling nation of some 600,000 people with a fully functioning (yet hilariously outdated) three-winged armed forces covering the air, sea and land theatres of war. The very how and why of this man’s continued existence in his dictatorship is an mystery; he abuses his people yet when he’s seen in public he inspires loyalty in his people and when he speaks his people listen with a devout fanaticism. One thing for sure, an interview with the imbecile of a brother, General Boris, has revealed nothing new about this enigma of a man.’
General Boris von Reich finished reading the article into the somewhat darkly lit room containing his brother, a few other senior military officials and about 30 ‘high-class escorts’. The air was full of the acrid smell of suspiciously substandard ‘cuban’ cigars, open alcohol some of which being the infamous Carenthian Rum and the smell of paid interaction clung through the air. It was a filthy place at the moment; it was just one of the many party rooms within the People’s Palace; personal abode to Erasmus, his chosen guests and the army-sized host of servants.
The sound of jazz wafted throughout the building; accompanied by the occasional scream and smash of breaking glass. The entire building was filled with debauchery but this was a common occurrence; hell even some of the palace staff were getting in on the action, despite his fearsome reputation Erasmus was known for being rather impartial to seeing people wielding fearsome hangovers. Speaking of the man himself, Erasmus was slumped in an archaic, over-sized monstrosity of an office chair constructed of solid woods and soft leather large enough to hold him and the four girls perched on his lap. “General Boris, brother. Why are you telling me what some two-bit newspaper journalist wrote about you?” asked Erasmus, his words somewhat slurred and broken
“Well we can’t just let this slide past; they dared to insult our nation and it’s leaders, especially me and as a member of this family you can’t let that go. We should invade this National Enquirer; maybe drop some bombs on their printing facility in New York.”
His brother and the various military staff around him burst out into abrupt laughter, mocking the rather less-than-intelligent General and as his face showed a mask of confusion, a young Colonel piped up saying “You can’t invade the paper, you idiot; it’d be invading the United States of America and unless you’ve got a few million soldiers that we don’t know about we aren’t going to manage that.”
“I’m sorry, did you just call my brother an idiot” interjected Erasmus and suddenly the room fell deathly quiet; even the band in the corner stopped playing. Despite his somewhat calm demeanour, everyone who knew the Presidente in the room; everyone but this young Colonel, knew what was coming.
“Well yes but –“ the rest of the Colonel’s sentence was cut off by .44 catridge entering the front of his head and casually deciding to make an expansive mess of it; spraying blood, brain and bone parts in an arc around the room.
One girl stifled a squeal yet this drew no reaction from the Presidente who simply said “He was rather right though, we can’t invade the US and it is your own fault for accepting the interview albeit they did pay you rather handsomely from what the Erasmites tell me. But I will not hold it against you, get a drink and some girls and let us enjoy this fine night.” Even as he spoke of such pleasantries two guards were carrying the body of the former colonel – minus the head, out of the building.
Porto Junho, Democratic Republic of Junho
In a restaurant by the beach president Amando Furtado and a few friends met up with the director Arnold Bell and his crew to discuss his upcoming film The Man With the Golden Finger. The restaurant that overlooked the beach was almost entirely empty, with only two other tables occupied. Seated at these two tables were of course intelligence agents in plainclothes. For the small island nation of Junho the shooting of the film was a grand occasion. The people behind the film were of course obliged to pay fees to work on the island and the hotels they stayed in suddenly charged extortionate prices. An even greater boon was the fact that in a year or two the free publicity might lead to more tourists visiting the island.
After exchanging pleasantries, Arnold Bell, wearing a cowboy hat, Hawaiian shirt and cargo pants, ordered a cup of coffee while the president asked for rum. Despite being the largest coffee producer of the region, the coffee brewed on the island was awful. Thankfully Arnold Bell seemed to enjoy his beverage and even commented that it tasted exactly like the coffee he drank in Los Angeles.
“Once again thank you for your hospitality mister presidente, but we have a capable special effects team.” Arnold Bell said after finishing his cup.
“No, no, no need to be polite. I insist.” President Furtado replied with a smile. “Some of my officers are very capable and have years of experience working with explosives.”
While the director was looking for words to politely rephrase his objections the island’s most decorated and only general entered the restaurant. In stark contrast to the president who was dressed quite casually wearing a white dress shirt and simple grey cotton pants, the general wore his dark green uniform and military boots.
“Allow me to introduce General Musa Hisakawa.” President Furtado said as the general joined the table. “He actually graduated from the Tokyo University of Arts.”
As the director reached to shake the general’s hand with a look of disbelief on his face, the sound of gunfire disturbed the tranquil meeting. Not even a second later an aid ran up to the general to inform him of what was going on.
“General, rebels are attacking the prison complex. Police opened fire.” The aid whispered into the general’s ear and then quickly disappeared again. General Hisakawa only nodded and called for a serving girl to bring him a drink. Before the meeting he had been ordered by the president to cover up all irregularities that may occur. A rebel attack was a minor inconvenience but it could scare off the sensitive American tourists.
“Was that gunfire?” Arnold Bell asked hesitantly after a moment of silence.
“Hah, no need to worry senhor” General Hisakawa quickly replied. “My men are… testing the equipment we have prepared for your film. We believe strongly in ‘safety first’. If you will excuse me for a moment, I will go inquire when they are satisfied with their… tests.”
Leaving the president and the director behind, general Hisakawa calmly left the restaurant but hastened his step as soon as he was out of sight. He had a wager with president Furtado that only 5 people would die that day. Down the street he met up with the aid that had been following the situation over the radio.
“Sir, it seems that they were not rebels.”
“Then what? Prisoners breaking out?”
“No, Sir. They’re civilians breaking in. They’re robbing the prison.”
In a restaurant by the beach president Amando Furtado and a few friends met up with the director Arnold Bell and his crew to discuss his upcoming film The Man With the Golden Finger. The restaurant that overlooked the beach was almost entirely empty, with only two other tables occupied. Seated at these two tables were of course intelligence agents in plainclothes. For the small island nation of Junho the shooting of the film was a grand occasion. The people behind the film were of course obliged to pay fees to work on the island and the hotels they stayed in suddenly charged extortionate prices. An even greater boon was the fact that in a year or two the free publicity might lead to more tourists visiting the island.
After exchanging pleasantries, Arnold Bell, wearing a cowboy hat, Hawaiian shirt and cargo pants, ordered a cup of coffee while the president asked for rum. Despite being the largest coffee producer of the region, the coffee brewed on the island was awful. Thankfully Arnold Bell seemed to enjoy his beverage and even commented that it tasted exactly like the coffee he drank in Los Angeles.
“Once again thank you for your hospitality mister presidente, but we have a capable special effects team.” Arnold Bell said after finishing his cup.
“No, no, no need to be polite. I insist.” President Furtado replied with a smile. “Some of my officers are very capable and have years of experience working with explosives.”
While the director was looking for words to politely rephrase his objections the island’s most decorated and only general entered the restaurant. In stark contrast to the president who was dressed quite casually wearing a white dress shirt and simple grey cotton pants, the general wore his dark green uniform and military boots.
“Allow me to introduce General Musa Hisakawa.” President Furtado said as the general joined the table. “He actually graduated from the Tokyo University of Arts.”
As the director reached to shake the general’s hand with a look of disbelief on his face, the sound of gunfire disturbed the tranquil meeting. Not even a second later an aid ran up to the general to inform him of what was going on.
“General, rebels are attacking the prison complex. Police opened fire.” The aid whispered into the general’s ear and then quickly disappeared again. General Hisakawa only nodded and called for a serving girl to bring him a drink. Before the meeting he had been ordered by the president to cover up all irregularities that may occur. A rebel attack was a minor inconvenience but it could scare off the sensitive American tourists.
“Was that gunfire?” Arnold Bell asked hesitantly after a moment of silence.
“Hah, no need to worry senhor” General Hisakawa quickly replied. “My men are… testing the equipment we have prepared for your film. We believe strongly in ‘safety first’. If you will excuse me for a moment, I will go inquire when they are satisfied with their… tests.”
Leaving the president and the director behind, general Hisakawa calmly left the restaurant but hastened his step as soon as he was out of sight. He had a wager with president Furtado that only 5 people would die that day. Down the street he met up with the aid that had been following the situation over the radio.
“Sir, it seems that they were not rebels.”
“Then what? Prisoners breaking out?”
“No, Sir. They’re civilians breaking in. They’re robbing the prison.”
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