ARMAGEDDON

ARMAGEDDON

The two faced each other across the vast bedchamber of the Presidential palace. The President, himself, hair tousled, pyjamas rumpled, having been stirred from his sleep, was sitting up in bed, adjusting his plump, silk encased pillows so that he could, more comfortably, address the intruder and disturber of his slumbers.

“You startled me. I wasn’t expecting you so soon”.

“You call. I come. Hasn’t that always been the way?”

The speaker, a debonair, bearded man of indescribable age, dressed, head to toe, in black, spoke softly but commandingly from the winged back armchair in which he seemed comfortably ensconced.

“Well, thank you for your promptness. It’s a rare thing in this country”.

“Not in mine”.

“Can I get you anything? A drink?”

“No. You know I do not partake of anything when conducting business; at least, you should know. This is not the first time that I will have called upon you”.

The President, a small man, squirmed beneath his silken bedsheets. Reaching out for the hand mirror that lay, permanently available, on his bedside table, he ran his fingers back and forth through his expensively oiled hair until he was satisfied that his normal coiffure was back in place, wiped the sleep from his eyes and prepared to make his pitch.

“Before you start. Please, forget the dramatics. This is me you’re talking to. I know you only too well, right to the very depths of your soul in fact. Just say what it is you have to say”.

Rather perturbed by this remark, the President, who had long prepared his soliloquy, now frustrated by having been halted before he had even begun his oratory, was left, momentarily, lost for words.

“Don’t be upset. I know you have honed your skills since we last met in person. Speaking on the world stage actually becomes you. Congratulations and all that. Yes, I have kept an eye on you from afar; very impressive, I must say. But I know the real you so none of your theatricals are necessary and, frankly speaking, they only serve to irritate me. We have known each other a long time, have we not? If it’s at all possible after these years of pretence, my advice is to just be your old, normal self”.

As the President listened, his mouth turned ever downwards. He didn’t care to be reminded of his true self, the old days of struggle. He had come to love his new role as the decent leader of his people under constant siege by an oppressive regime yet remaining courageous, inspiring his countrymen with his daily rhetoric, captured and broadcast internationally for all the world to see.

“Don’t be downcast, Mr. President. Look at all you have achieved...thanks to me. Do you remember that one bedroom apartment, the one with all the litter scattered on the staircase? No curtains, a toilet that seldom flushed? You were unemployed, I recall; at your lowest ebb. Most people are when they finally turn to me. You were desperate, weren’t you? You yearned for a break, a successful audition. Just one. So you could pay your rent and feed yourself. No more than that. So many, many rejections you had endured in your quest to be accepted as an actor”.

The dark clothed man rose from his chair and strode about the room, as he spoke, his feet sinking deeply into the thickness of the finest, most expensive Axminster carpet that covered the bedroom floor.

“And I helped you, did I not? I answered your call and, the very next day, your agent...aahhh, how that man could call himself a theatrical agent is beyond me, informed you that you had been chosen for that advertisement. Your first acting role. But, still, you did not credit me with this achievement. Oh, don’t look like that. It’s quite normal. Very rarely am I credited with the first change of fortune. It takes time. I understand that and time, of course, is something I have in abundance. No, what finally persuaded you of my existence was when you met her. That beautiful creature that had, like yourself, begun her acting career by being chosen to participate in that same commercial. What was it for now? Oh yes, proclaiming the virtues of deodorant. As well as your payment, you received a box of the product, did you not? No more smelly armpits for you”.

The President, being transported, unwillingly, back to his long ago years of struggle and poverty, tried to protest and rise from his bed but found himself unable to move. The interloper approached the luxurious, four poster and perched on its edge, staring balefully into the eyes of his captive listener.

“It’s important that you be reminded of our past associations, Mr. President. A man of your exalted position can, all too easily, forget. So, as I was saying, having dismissed my influence in helping you obtain your first acting role, you met her, the Madame President that is. You were besotted by her beauty, her perfume, her dazzling smile but she barely noticed you, did she. After all, she was/is a statuesque Aphrodite and you...you a mere five feet five inches of blubber-even if your armpits no longer offended. Oh, the agonies you endured, my friend. Finally, in the hope that, possibly, I may have had something to do with your minor success, you turned again in my direction and I, of course, did not let you down. She became as putty in your hands, did she not?”

Rising from the bed, the man strode to the window and parted the curtains slightly. Staring out into the semi-darkness, he gazed down upon the tanks below and the troops standing at attention, ever vigilant in the night.

“Expecting trouble, I see. Still, you resisted me. It’s quite funny actually; that you, somehow, believed that it was your charm and good looks that had carried the day. I wasn’t upset; well, perhaps just a little. But I knew that you’d be back. Your type always return. I made no demands. That’s not my style.

You auditioned for a role, your most ambitious yet and, sure enough, you turned, once more, in my direction. I ensured that you were awarded the part that helped you become a national celebrity, ironically playing the role of President in the TV hit of the decade. Art portraying life, or is it life portraying art? I can never remember. No matter, you were a huge success, earned a fortune, became a celebrity. It was everything you had ever desired, wasn’t it? Oh wait, no, not quite.

The role brought you to the attention of those power brokers, many of them my clients actually, who saw in you the perfect front man for their corrupt plans. You didn’t need my help then though because you had their support in fixing the election. Of course, in assisting them to achieve their ambitious scheme, I benefitted greatly anyway and, hey presto, suddenly you were the factual, historical President of this corrupt country. A role you were made for, my friend. One you have grown into, your offshore bank balance swelling each time you persuade another nation to contribute billions to your cause celebre- the defence of your country against your neighbouring oppressor. Now, speak. You have summoned me. What is it you need now?”

The President, finding himself, finally, able to rise, slithered down the side of his huge bed, dwarfed by the immensity of the four poster. He entered his walk in closet, emerging swiftly, dressed in his familiar khaki top and trousers, his symbol of resistance and humility recognised globally. Behind him, the closet light displayed dozens and dozens of similar costumes. Feeling more Presidential in appearance, he turned to the man who still stared out of the window.

“I recognise your greatness. I acknowledge your part in my rise. I apologise for my naivety. I want you to know that I am extremely grateful. But, now, I am in great need of your help. Our counter offensives are failing, our losses are far greater than is being acknowledged. There are tremendous shifts, politically, in the rest of the world; especially in those countries that have been my foremost allies. Further support is not forthcoming. Defeat beckons. I am scared. I turn to you, majestic lord, and I beg for your help. I will do anything you ask. Anything”.

The President fell to his knees, his hands clasped, reaching out to his benefactor who, turning slowly from the window looked scornfully down upon this imposter.

“You say you are extremely grateful, Mr President. Thank you. However, this time, your gratitude will need to be of the eternal kind. You understand?”

Looking up, fearfully, the President nodded.

“A contract is required, a payment desired. For what you ask, I shall require only one thing: your soul. I have taken the liberty of bringing the necessary document with me. You just have to sign it”.

The man withdrew a paper from somewhere within his dark clothing, a pen from somewhere else. Raising his leg onto a chair so that he could balance the contract on it, he summoned the President with a mere gesture of his head. The President rose timidly from the floor and approached. Taking the pen and preparing to sign, his eyes stared, horrified, at the cloven hoof jutting from the trouser leg and resting atop the chair.