Anton Neale v. Earth

Martha eyed the double doors across the room as she waited to begin the ceremony. From those doors, the members filed in. Ipek Engin, ambassador for Turkey, Darcy Bailey, ambassador for Canada, Xuelin Na, ambassador for China. Along with the other 190 members, they each casted a determined shadow as they took their seats at the crescent-shaped table. Everyone sat quietly for a moment, pondering if what they were about to do would at all remedy the situation.

“Enter.” Martha said, projecting her voice toward the doors. In response Anton Neale stumbled in, restrained on both sides by two men in blue shirts, each fitted with gold badges which read “United Nations Security”. Journalists who sat on the pews divided by the walkway which Anton resided clicked their cameras as he was forced toward the hostile table. He blinked against the camera flashes in an uncharacteristically pathetic manner, holding up his hands in a distressed attempt to disguise his face, a face the world couldn’t forget. The officers shoved him into steel chair which sat at the centre of the table. This whole ceremony was Martha’s idea, but she especially contributed to Anton’s chair, small to belittle him, cheap to imply his worth, uneven so he’s never comfortable. But Anton’s body language seemed to be doing most of that for her. Anton peeked looks at the members—who smelt deceit in his actions—before sheepishly looking down to the black marble floor.

Martha’s chair creaked as she stood, breaking the silence and drawing the room’s attention as she began, “Anton Neale, leader of the international terrorist organisation M.I.N.A. Responsible for riots, shootings, and bombings in every nation. The result of such leaves you solely responsible for a combined…” She swallowed before resuming “Two-hundred-and-fifty-one million fatalities.” Some bowed their heads, others gasped, most said nothing.

Martha continued, “as World Judiciar, I condemn you t-”

“It wasn’t me.” Anton said, just louder than a whisper. The room’s bowed heads were instantly raised. Martha cocked her head to the right as her expression grew tense. The wooden table grew coarser as she gripped its edges with greater strength.

She took in the cold air with a swift inhale before responding. “This is not a trial; you cannot plead insanity. Though I don’t doubt for a second that you are mentally unwell.”

“I don’t know how it happened but, the man you are talking about, I’ve never heard of him.” Anton said, the sweat on his neck now quite visible.

“Ok, I’ll bite,” Martha said, grinning.

The members twisted around in their chairs to see the famous face of Anton blown up on the projector screen which draped the back wall. His head titled upright and fitted with a black beret. His moustache was groomed to perfection, and he stared confidently offscreen. All of which starkly contrasted the shrivelled mess before her. Nonetheless, they were identical.

“So, what’s the story, impersonator? Doppelgänger? Evil twin?” she said in an almost inappropriately casual tone, as to demean him.

“Like I said, I don’t…” Anton paused, abruptly stopping his knuckle fidgeting, and squinted toward the screen. “H-he has a mole, on his left cheek, I don’t.” His eyes widened to accompany his now hopeful demeanour. He turned his face to the side, allowing his left sweat-covered cheek to face the global jury.

“So? It’s not exactly difficult remove a mole.” She said, attempting to extinguish his fetid hope.

“Look, if there is one difference there must be others! I request a DNA test!” Anton announced. His newfound flame of hope was immediately doused with a pale of ice-cold laughter from the entire room.

“The only thing you could, request, of us would be to remove your head from your neck.” She replied, struggling to overcome the laughter escaping through her throat.

“Please, I-I’ll comply with any demand, just do this for me.” Anton said, hands and knees plastered to the floor as his distorted voice bounced off the marble.

“Your willingness to comply is irrelevant. However, if it means more tragic displays like this, I’ll gladly let the world see you squirm,” said Martha. “In the meantime, let’s not hold up any longer, and get the proceedings underway.” Martha gestured to the person sitting at the leftmost side of the crescent.

The ambassador for Afghanistan nodded before declaring the countless crimes and offences Anton committed toward them. The ambassador then walked toward Anton, casting a deep shadow over his visage before stabbing a thin syringe into his thigh. He emoted in pain to an uncaring audience. The ambassador filled the syringe to capacity before returning to his seat.

Martha, who noticed Anton begin to question, abruptly cut him off, “Like I said previously, this is not a trial. Now, Albania?”

This process repeated for 5 days, a country would list his crimes, then puncture his body and drain his life. On the fifth day, Anton was limp. The guards had to wheel him to the table, revealing to all his pale and porous skin, a spongy vampire. His left eye droopy, his right, patched. Anyone who approached him covered their face lest they smell, or even taste his dank iron-deficient stench. It was a sight so horrid not even the reporters stayed, they had taken enough horrific photographs during Anton’s reign.

“It’s your last day Anton, are you excited, it’ll all be over soon,” said Martha, smiling once more. “Now, who were we up t— “a thin, suit-wearing attendant bursted through the doors, immediately directing the entire room’s—beside Anton, who many weren’t sure was still sentient at this point—attention toward his blushing face.

“Well?” She said.

“The results of the DNA test returned…that man is not Anton Neale.” For the first time in days Anton showed signs of life, resigning his slumped position as he sat up in his wheelchair. His remaining eye spouted tears as he adopted a relieved, yet sorrowful expression. His flame returned. All heads turned to each other to reveal emotions of all kinds, shock, horror, anguish, anger, confusion. All bodies at the table stood up to echo their expressions in their words. Shouts cracked through the air like a whip, condemning the attendant’s supposed lies, Martha’s supposed foolishness, or Anton’s supposed tricks. Martha gripped the table once more; her fingers investigated the harsh cracks and crevices in the wood’s grain as her muscles tensed.

She broke the tension, “You idiot, what do you think is going to happen, that we’ll let you go?” Said Martha, her smile turning into a deep snarl.  “Oh, don’t worry everyone he wasn’t the guy, who is? Who knows, guess we’ll go find him,” she said in an almost childish manner, her voice at an unusually high pitch. “There’ll be riots, on every street. And even if it’s not us, someone will kill you. So, either way, you die, and I’d prefer the way in which we don’t look like imbeciles.” Anton’s flame was snuffed out once more, he looked towards the domed ceiling, tears continuing to stream, and closed his eye.