The mighty beast pauses in the doorway. The memory of decades of pain and frustration flashes through his mind: the Cold War defeat; the years of hibernation; the start of the fight back; the rise of the fake Messiah; the battle for Shit TV; the destruction of the Cocksack army. And now this. The fake Messiah dead, his broadcast platform ready and a new supply of world-controlling venom arriving soon. Slowly, he pads towards the bed.
He stands over the corpse, his giant paw gripping the hem of the sheet. This is it. His enemy is defeated, his destiny fulfilled; fortune’s wheel turns no longer; it is fixed eternally in proclamation of the new Russian power. The rule of the Great Bear.
As he pulls back the sheet, he’s shocked by a stabbing pain in his thigh. The surprise of the truth dart is nothing compared to what is beneath the sheet. Pierre lies lifeless before him. As Tomas gestures to his guards to manacle the prisoner and lead him to the cameras, the Great Bear’s order – ‘Kill him whose words hurt me most’ – spoken in anger and haste, comes back to his mind.
The root of all evil …
The Shit TV dais is on the beachfront facing the hotel. The deep blue sea forms a contrasting backdrop to the blood red of the Russian flag flying in the breeze behind the speaker’s podium. All the cameras and paraphernalia required for a global broadcast are ready. Shit TV, promised a spectacle by King Rat, one that’ll change the world, now awaits the star of the show.
The West is confused by the destruction of the Cock-sacks. Was it an accident? A joke? A precursor to today’s programme? As for Sicily’s flattening of the reserve army, what incredible magic was that? Whatever the answer, these unprecedented events have sent the world into a frenzy of intrigue and speculation. All work has stopped. Governments didn’t even bother to declare a holiday; the planet has taken one anyway. Now five billion people, the biggest audience of all time, wait to hear the answer.
The Great Bear is conducted to the dais by none other than the new Messiah. ‘What’s this?’ thinks Shit TV’s programme director. ‘The new Messiah serving the Great Bear? This must be part of the show.’ He gives the countdown for the broadcast to begin. Silence descends across the world. The excitement is palpable, like lightning in the air. The biggest broadcast of all time, on the largest network in world history, live from Cannes.
Tomas steps up to the podium. He surveys the bank of whirring cameras for a full thirty seconds. Only when the tension is at breaking point does he lean into the microphone to speak.
‘Citizens of the world,’ he says. ‘We have a first in broadcasting history today. Breaking decades of silence, the Great Bear will speak live on this network. This is an incredible event; and I have the honour of being his interviewer.’
The Great Bear comes into shot.
‘Great Bear,’ Tomas says. ‘The world is holding its breath. There are many unanswered questions.’ He pauses, momentarily uncertain that the truth drug will work. ‘What was the purpose of your plan?’
The Great Bear grimaces and struggles in his restraints, hidden from the audience by a fur camouflage. But the serum of the truth dart is coursing through his veins, its power too strong to resist.
‘To subvert the West,’ he replies in a staccato outburst. ‘We sent oligarchs with yachts and jetted in prostitutes to incite jealousy and avarice. We bought football teams and extolled the virtues of the “ballers” nihilistic lifestyle. We corrupted bankers – not a difficult task – and other servicers of the rich and turned them into our servants. We silenced our enemies at home and watched the West turn a blind eye in its weakness and moral apathy. We perverted values. Already much has been achieved.’
‘We know this,’ Tomas replies. ‘But what was the purpose of the Cocksacks?’
‘Can’t you guess? I’m surprised that you ask. What is the world’s most pernicious evil? What corrupts nearly everything and tempts even the good man? For what does a woman forget herself and fall into sin? What is the Devil’s currency? What corruption is more sickening than a sewer, more putrid than rotting meat?’
The programme director is uneasy with this line of questioning but continues nevertheless. He orders the cameras to pan in on the Great Bear. His scared face with snarling jaw, mottled fur and black eyes fills every television screen in the world. He pauses, struggling against the truth serum. A look of pain and fury contorts his face. He fights hard, but can’t resist, even though the answer’s now obvious.
‘Money,’ he gasps, ‘the root of all evil. That was the Cocksack’s load. Streams, rivers, oceans of it.’
The global audience exhales a collective gasp. Of course, money. But why this apocalyptic description?
‘And the effect of spreading it across the West?’ Tomas asks.
‘Anarchy, of course,’ replies the Great Bear. ‘People jumping, crying, screaming and screeching for this manna. And then pushing, punching, clawing and fighting. Finally, killing. The strong overpowering the weak. The man with a handful of notes ambushed by the gang hoovering up the street; the old lady smashed in the face for her single bill.’
‘Then what?’
‘A deluge of death and destruction; marauding gangs more intoxicated by money than any drink or drug. All perspective lost, normality shattered. Citizens attacked, houses ransacked, cities in chaos. Do you think the armed forces and civic authorities would help? With money raining on them too, they’d be the worst offenders. Global disaster. Hell on earth. Evil annihilating good. Nothing sacred. Nobody safe. A money blast more lethal than radiation, enveloping the planet with its contaminating seed.’
‘But … What about your Empire?’
‘Simple,’ the Great Bear replies. ‘Empires arise from ashes, don’t they? What do I want, a world in perfect working order? And who’s easier to control, the good and decent or the evil and venal? Once a man is corrupted, he’s a slave to himself. It’s not difficult to make him slave to another.’
Tomas reflects on the malign brilliance of the Great Bear’s plan. Wars are fought with weapons – but why use them? Why not money? Rain it down and the enemy will annihilate itself. As he imagines clouds of notes billowing in the air, the Great Bear’s apocalyptic vision becomes a reality in his mind.
Shit TV’s programme director is also agitated. ‘Where’s this leading?’ he thinks. ‘Is this really the promised show? Should I pull the broadcast?’
Tomas is quick with his next question. ‘What about the amount of money needed?’ he asks. ‘How could the supply possibly endure?’
‘The pipeline to our friend and neighbour the Iranian Hawk,’ the Great Bear replies. ‘He gave us oil in return for technology and our support for his madness in the world. Also … ’ The Great Bear battles against the serum. Today he’s defeated, but if he can just conceal this detail, maybe one day, decades hence, the wheel will turn and he’ll have his revenge.
Tomas wonders how the Iranian pipeline alone could produce the billions needed for the Great Bear’s plan. But he dismisses the thought and is about to ask another question when he remembers Pierre’s article about the pipeline extension – a secret Pierre never managed to expose.
‘Where does the pipeline end?’ Tomas asks.
The Great Bear inhales deeply. He clenches his teeth and pulls a hideous grimace, forcing his mouth to lock. He begins to shake his head from side to side, looking demented. The programme director almost cuts the feed.
‘Where does the pipeline end?’ Tomas repeats.
‘In Iraq, of course,’ the Great Bear spits out at lightning speed. ‘Just over the border from Iran, in the biggest oilfields in the world. Why do you think we’ve fomented trouble in the region for decades, feeding the flames of Western policy and encouraging Iran to ever greater extremes? Obviously, it was to distract attention from our activities.’
‘How is this possible?’ Tomas asks stupefied.
‘Very easily,’ the Great Bear replies, ‘it’s a lot less difficult than flying to the moon. A pipeline is just a subterranean tunnel dug with machin
es. It is also impossible to detect: satellites can’t see underground. Oil is abundant in the area, with deep reserves stretching across borders. We’ve acquired billions of barrels while you’ve been busy chasing shadows. And what’s the worst that can happen? You find out and ask for it back.’
Tomas is amazed. Of all man’s thefts of land, people, power and riches in history, this is the most simple and devious. Technologically easy and impossible to detect, taking advantage of a unique combination of circumstances. That the scheme went so far and lasted so long was testimony to the madness of the world.
The idea of dementia triggers a final question in Tomas’s mind. ‘What is Shit TV’s role?’ he asks.
Instantly the programme director moves to cut the satellite signal, but the Alien locks the network’s satellites in time and space. No interference is possible. Five billion people hear his answer.
‘What do morons eating live bugs in the jungle create? Other morons. And fools in a house airing their infantile opinions? More fools. Masochists being abused by foul-mouthed chefs and smooth-tongued judges? Yet more masochists. A world of morons, fools and masochists. Shit TV is the invisible cancer, more lethal than venom, more corrosive than acid. It turns minds into mush. Its daily dose makes the world sicker and weaker and, but for you, powerless in my hands.’
In commemoration of Shit TV’s final broadcast, the Alien rotates its satellites until they become a silver soup that sparkles in space.
A dead man’s story …
As the Great Bear makes his first and final appearance on Shit TV, the Prefect of Police arrives at the murder scene. He undertakes a perfunctory examination of the room, while awaiting the arrival of the forensic experts, and notices the journalist’s computer on the bedside table. He presses a key. Pierre’s letter to his editor about ‘truth’ is displayed, the story to which it refers attached. He moves the cursor to read the story. Then a glint catches his eye. Through a half-opened door, he notices a wonderland of mirrors: the floor-to-ceiling arrangement found in expensive bathrooms. A story to change the world or an opportunity to adjust his cap in this paradise of reflective surfaces? The choice is easy. He is just completing his millinery toilette when Judge Reynard arrives. For some time he’s been concerned about Pierre’s investigations; on hearing of his murder, he wanted to be the first to look around.
The judge takes in the scene with the expert eye of an evidence-gatherer. He’s seen it all before. Within minutes, he has read Pierre’s letter.
‘Monsieur le Préfet,’ says Judge Reynard, ‘I shall require this computer for examination.’
‘Bien sûr, Monsieur le Juge,’ replies the prefect, raising his cap.
Judge Reynard sits in a comfortable chair in the salon of Tomas’s apartment. Pierre’s computer is on his lap. He presses the ‘on’ button and it whirs into life. What is this story that will change the world? Did he discover the secret of the pipeline before his death? Is this his valedictory piece? In his heart, the judge knows it isn’t. He muses for a moment on the thread that separates success from failure, victory from defeat. The Great Bear had this story within his grasp. His simple mistake was to go to Pierre’s room unguarded, wishing, no doubt, to savour his moment of triumph alone. If it hadn’t been for this small hubristic act, he would now be reading the story to the world live on Shit TV, the new Messiah his prisoner in chains.
Reynard finds Pierre’s letter and the story attachment beneath. Would Pierre have sent the article in the morning? People often feel different in the cold light of day. Pierre’s urge to reveal the ‘truth’, so enhancing to his reputation and riches, might have faltered on reflection that the truth isn’t always best. The judge presses a key and Pierre’s final piece appears on screen. Reynard sits back in his armchair and starts to read:
The story begins with a brilliant young man, Emile Reynard, training to become a doctor. He quickly masters the rudiments of medicine, but feels called to a wider role in life. On becoming a lawyer, he rises through the judicial ranks to become the country’s foremost judge, noted for dispensing wise and robust justice. He retires with his mental faculties intact but also, alas, with a terminal disease. But he’s brought back by the Supreme Justices to try Tomas’s case. Only the most senior judiciary will do. This much we know.
The story takes a twist during Tomas’s trial. On reading the transcript it is clear that Reynard, far from being hostile to Tomas, is sympathetic to him. From this, it’s reasonable to suspect that the judge also believes that the means justifies the end. Perhaps, after a lifetime’s exposure to evil, Reynard takes the same view on society as Tomas. Although appalled by Tomas’s morality lessons, he has little sympathy for their recipients.
Reynard considers Tomas’s death sentence by popular demand to be even more abhorrent than his crimes and against every legal principle. Not being a fence-sitter, he decides to take matters into his own hands. The judge personally interviews and selects the soldiers for Tomas’s execution squad and oversees all details of his execution. We also know that the others chosen to attend – the vulture and the buzzard – were nonentities, who have since disappeared. And that the judge, meticulous in every detail, surprisingly failed to make arrangements for the internment of Tomas’s body following his death.
The judge is immediately to hand after Tomas’s resurrection and assigns a battalion to guard him, an unusual decision. He connives in the general frenzy surrounding Tomas’s deitific status. He continues to support Tomas as he inverts an historic monument and builds a new one. All this based on the simple premise of Tomas’s resurrection. Except that Tomas didn’t rise from the dead. He awoke from sleep.
Tomas speaks of a swirling sensation in his veins after he was shot, followed by sleep: the description of an anaesthetic taking effect: the soldiers were not Tomas’s executioners but his anaesthetists. More precisely, one was. Instead of five guns loaded with live ammunition and one empty, it’s likely that all were blank except one that contained an anaesthetic dart. How was this achieved? Like all brilliant plans, with great simplicity. The squad was hypnotised by the judge, who is an accomplished psychohypnotist from his medical days. Reynard simply found the six most vulnerable to his technique: ‘Close your eyes, my son, search your heart.’
This theory was confirmed by the insusceptibility of the smoker in the squad to hypnosis. I went for treatment to help me quit and subsequently gave the hypnotist’s name to the smoking soldier. Later, I received a message that the soldier’s head was ‘blocked’. Someone had been there first.
The rest, as they say, is history. Tomas has pursued an agenda of social change, no doubt influenced by the judge. Tomasmania is an unexpected bonus for Reynard’s plan. Even without this, he has had a global platform from which to raise the debate, particularly with regard to justice, where the judge’s lifelong experience of the silver-tongued techniques of lawyers has radicalised his views. Doubtlessly, he does not expect to succeed in changing the system. But maybe lighting a fire is enough. One day the law might just ‘rupture’.
It’s remarkable but true that sometimes the oldest and least suspect people can surprise. The genius professor quietly working on a world-changing formula in his laboratory; the brilliant academic silently making a remarkable discovery. With age and experience come stealth and cunning – far more potent than young men shouting or burning flags in the street. Judge Reynard is the perfect, perhaps the ultimate, exemplar. And what is the worst that could happen? Prison? Unlikely: the State would suppress the plot in order to preserve the honour and financial position of the Patrie. In any event, Reynard is old and knows he will die shortly. And the best result? It has already happened. A global reaction against Russian roubles, bankers’ bonuses and football filth.
The only remaining question is whether Tomas was hypnotised as well? The answer is almost certainly yes. After his ‘execution’ we know Reynard spent time privately with him. It’s also reasonable to speculate that there were other occasions on which the judge
could practise his art. But it doesn’t actually matter whether Tomas was hypnotised or not. The power of belief is greater than any hypnotic spell. And Tomas’s conviction that he was the second Messiah made him ready putty in the hands of the puppet master.
So where does this end? That will be for you, my readers, to say. You may wish to continue to believe. Tomas’s influence has spread far and wide. This is the nature of a new religion. It arises, catches fire, then there’s a counter reaction. My purpose is to reveal the truth. But this may be apostasy to Tomas’s supporters. One man’s truth is another man’s lie; one man’s god, another man’s devil. Ultimately, what does it matter what we believe, or even if our beliefs are absurd? The Romans had their gods; others worship the fairies in the woods. I have shone the light. You must now decide.
Judge Reynard closes his eyes. A kindly, tired old man hunched in a chair. Perhaps he’s reflecting on life. Or maybe he has just fallen asleep. His finger hovers over another small black plastic square with ‘delete’ written on it. A moment later, he goes to join his friends on the balcony.
Sunset over the sea …
Tomas and Tereza are sitting on a sofa watching the sunset. Reynard settles on a lounger beside them while the Alien twirls around the balcony amusing himself. Tereza is drinking champagne, the bottle propped in a bucket on the floor nearby. Tomas has an ice-cold beer. Reynard takes a campari and soda, an old man’s drink. In front of them is a basket of crudités – the sort you can only get in the Mediterranean – and a dish of oil mixed with mustard, salt and pepper.
Tomas has always loved the light in the South of France. All skies are different, but the atmosphere along this coast is somehow unique. Neither too harsh, like the northern light, nor oppressive like the sun-laden skies further south, it’s a perfect blend of colour and heat; and the light show’s climactic glory is, of course, the sunset.
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