Author: Monique Singleton.
copyright 2016
Published by Monique Singleton
Copyright 2017 Monique Singleton
Visit my website at http://www.moniquesingleton.com/
Disclaimer
The characters, organisations and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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ISBN: 9781370829163
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Table of Contents Warmonger
Gather the Tinder
Strike the Match
Fan the Flame
Watch it Burn
About Monique Singleton
Connect with Monique Singleton
Sneak preview: Primal Nature
I start wars.
Wherever I go, war follows.
It’s what I do.
And it’s not even that difficult. You humans create the conflict. I just throw the gasoline on the fire that you started: the result is a new war.
What I do doesn’t bother me one bit.
I have no regrets, no meaningless emotions like empathy or sympathy. Nothing.
What I do is necessary.
This world is grossly over-populated. Your kind, homo sapiens, is an infestation with absolutely no regard for Nature. The same Nature that gives you the essentials necessary for your pathetic life.
Still, you ravage the earth. Everything must yield to your needs, your demands.
War is the natural cull.
It restores a touch of balance. The only really important equilibrium is the balance of Nature, the balance of the planet.
In the three thousand years that I’ve roamed the planet, you have never ceased to amaze me.
The inherent violence in mankind is completely out of proportion to any other creature in the animal world. Even the lion’s infanticide, the chimpanzee’s monkey hunt, or the female spider’s cannibalism after mating, fade in comparison with what humans are capable of.
I have seen it all. The debasement, the sociopathy, the total lack of ethics, morals. Is there no limit to your bloodlust and debauchery?
I guess not.
As a direct result, any remorse that I may have harboured seems irrelevant.
In that way, you make my job easy and extremely fulfilling.
Like I said, I don’t create the conflict. I just make sure that it results in strife and death: in WAR.
This particular time, I decided to start the war in France.
I thought it was about time they were knocked down a notch.
Creating a war is more difficult now than it was a thousand years ago. The evolution of communication and collaboration between nations actually obstructs my work. Nations now talk to each other, and occasionally, they even listen.
It used to be a lot easier—make sure that A has something that B lusts for, quite often in the form of a woman or land, and hey presto, the basis for war. Then, people just acted. Now, they talk.
My job has become more of a challenge. Not necessarily a bad thing. After having done this for a couple of thousand years, I still enjoy a challenge.
A new war, and certainly a global one, would have to come from an unexpected angle. Something no one saw coming. Something no one had anticipated. I needed to get creative.
I had an idea.
Back to France.
I’ve had my eye on France during the past few centuries.
The arrogance of the French has reached an exorbitantly high level. They fancy themselves as the major global power—the voice of the world. They live in the illusion that they know what is best, not just for their country, but for every other country on the planet. Coupled with this belief is their total delusion of power.
In the early half of the twenty-first century, French politics took a definite turn to the right. The National Front, originally established in 1972, gained enormous popularity due to the refugee problem caused by another of my wars—Syria and the IS. Fanatically nationalistic, the National Front managed to disguise their radicalism with the intention of gaining public acceptance and acclaim. But take away the veneer and the real character comes out. That happened mid twenty-first century, and with that, they played directly into my hand.
Internally, France was a mess by then. Bordering on civil war, the National Front lost any resemblance of control. With the influx of the refugees and the failing economy because of the energy crisis, the gap between rich and poor resembled the conflict of the pre-revolution times in the 1780s.
There was abject poverty, for the immigrants but also for the French working class. The people who had helped the National Front get into office now turned against the elected principals. They joined forces with the same immigrants that they had so vehemently opposed not so long before. There was nothing nationalistic about the struggle anymore. Now it was down to simple survival. Race and nationality were no longer an issue. Staying alive was paramount in everyone’s mind.
This was where I came in. All the elements for war were there. All it needed was some extra attention, some of my special brand of gasoline.
And then a match.
Gather the Tinder.
President Armand Duval sat behind his imposing desk and fumed.
For the umpteenth time, his ministers had failed to do the simple things he had requested of them. How difficult could it be? Didn’t they see the whole picture? Was he the only one who understood exactly how this country should be governed?
Well, obviously he was.
The exorbitantly expensive pen he had received as an inauguration gift from his wife buckled and finally broke under the pressure of his tense grip, the ink staining the page and his fingers, thus angering him even further.
Was there no one else who understood that the current immigration strategy was crippling the economy? The influx of refugees from yet another war in a far-away country was swamping France. There were just too many. No way could they continue to finance the continuous burden that thousands of unemployed and destitute refugees imposed on them. As the port to Europe, as he saw it, France bore the brunt of the problem.
The years of suppressing his true opinions about politically sensitive matters were taking a toll on his patience. He was a die-hard, right-wing politician—a fascist—if truth be told. In the Presidential campaign that had resulted in himself sitting behind this desk, he had been forced to haggle with other fractions and agree to what he regarded as ridiculous concessions just to get him to this point. He had endured the petty imbeciles and their endless ranting, all as a means to the ultimate prize—the presidency.
And now he had achieved his goal. He was the President of the mightiest country in the world—France.
He had ultimate power. Yet here he was, still forced to deal with imbeciles and the dregs of society. What use was his pos
ition if he could not rule absolutely? If his word was not the law?
Calming his anger, he unlocked and reached into a drawer in his massive desk taking out cleaning tools and a muslin wrapped Smith & Wesson .500 revolver, arguably the scariest revolver ever produced on the planet. Some said it could drop an elephant. That he doubted, but it would make a hell of a hole in anything. He loved the power the gun exuded. Holding and cleaning it gave him a feeling of enormous power. Known as an avid gun collector, all the guns in his collection had been rendered inoperable as a precaution here in the Presidential Palace. All but this one, that is. The security people didn’t know about this working model; and to top that off, he had the bullets to complete the package. He felt indestructible just having the loaded gun in his office, especially since no one was aware of it.
The only other things that brought a smile to his lips lately were his countless conquests. He loved the way he was able to seduce the most beautiful women in France and far beyond, one after another. Without fail, they fell for his charms, his silver tongue and naturally the lure of his office. He was, after all, the President of the most important country in the world. And that in turn, made him the top dog, not only of France but of the whole pathetic planet.
Now he focussed his attention on a magnificent woman from the publications department. In one of his frequent visits to the staff in his barely camouflaged hunts for new conquests, he spied her at a desk in the back of the office. She was reluctant to speak to him. Hiding behind the enormous computer screens, she blushed when he walked by, stopped and retraced his steps to speak with her. She wouldn’t look him in the eye. The timid-ness, not something he usually found endearing, turned him on no end. He had to have her, needed to have her. The prospect of conquering Solene—what a beautiful name—brought a smile to his lips. That, and a tightness to his pants.
It would take time, but that was part of the attraction. She was a challenge.
His assistant Hugo was on the case, finding out all there was to know about the fair Solene.
In the meantime, he would get his pleasure elsewhere. After all, he, a man in his prime needed his release. His wife was out of the question. The bitch had married him for the status, but hey, that was mutual. Theirs was a marriage of convenience. He needed a trophy wife, and she wanted to be the first lady.
He hated her from the moment she set foot in his life. A beautiful statuesque blond of excellent pedigree, she was undoubtedly the ideal first lady. That, and only that, was her function in his life. He had fucked her once in their 7-year marriage. The cold bitch was completely immune to his charms and had just lain there while he laboured above her. After that, they kept separate rooms, and separate lives. He called the blond bombshell in communications. She would come running. All the communication skills he needed from her at this moment were her cries of joy and her luscious lips.
Juliette Duval sat on the reclining sofa in her office in the eastern wing of the Presidential Palace.
This was what she had dedicated her entire life to—she was the First Lady of France—the most important and influential woman in the country—in the world. Even though her imbecile husband was the actual President, her influence was enormous. He didn’t know it, but she was party to everything that happened in this palace and far beyond its walls for that matter. She bartered with the multiple fractions, achieving recognition and influence far greater than that of her stupid husband.
She thought it was so typical of the male chauvinistic pig that he didn’t realise that true power lay not with the President but with those directly behind him. Those who were actually involved in the politics. Not the figurehead. All he was good for was catching the shit when it hit the fan.
And it looked as though that was about to happen. The country was in disarray. The idiot and his moron cabinet had passed yet another law lowering the benefits for the poor. Once again, the imbeciles had alienated the people. Once again, they had screwed up. It was up to her to soften the impact.
She called her assistant, Camille. The mousy woman was a godsend. Not only as an assistant, but as her lover. There was nothing left of the image of the small diminutive woman once they were alone. Camille was a strong, passionate, loving partner. She understood Juliette in all her complexity. Understood the demands that being the first lady placed on her. Understood the sacrifices that she made for this country. Understood her.
Camille entered the room. Saw that no one besides Juliette was there and quickly crossed the short distance to her lover. Taking Juliette’s hands in hers she raised them to her lips, kissing the fingers softly.
‘Mon amour,’ she said her husky soft voice. ‘What ails you?’
Feeling her legs turn to jelly, Juliette melted. As always, this woman caused her stern exterior to vanish, made her feel at home, at peace even. She knew what was foremost in Juliette’s mind, even without her saying.
‘What has the imbecile done now?’ They shared a contempt for the President.
‘The idiot has once again alienated the paupers,’ Juliette said. ‘Made major cuts in the health benefits. Terminal patients are on their own now. No more care or medicine.’ She squeezed Camille’s hands. ‘How will they cope now?’ Lowering her eyes, she added, ‘Armand said, and I quote, “They are dying anyway, why should they cost the country more money”, the unfeeling bastard.’
‘You must be strong, my love,’ Camille whispered. ‘He is digging his own grave. Someone will take justice into their own hands and you will be rid of him. Then finally you can take your place of real power.’
‘Yes,’ Juliette answered. ‘But not just yet, our influence is not complete. We need some more time.’ She disentangled her hands and moved to the drinks cabinet. It was still early, but never too early for a glass of wine. This was France after all. She poured two. Walking back, she offered one to Camille.
‘We have to minimise the impact, find some way to soften the blow.’
‘Yes, and in the meantime, decide how we can help Armand dig his own grave.’
I left the Middle East after the IS attack on the 2020 Tokyo Olympics. My work was done there. The seeds of war had taken root and now nothing would stop it. The final blow had been the suicide attack on the Imperial Stadium during the closing ceremony in Tokyo city. Ten synchronised bombs went off causing mass destruction and resulting in the death of more than three thousand people and injuring four times that number. The fact that it was televised to a multi-billion public worldwide fulfilled IS’s goal—they had their moment of fame, finally eclipsing the al-Qaeda 9/11 attacks.
It brought the wrath of the whole world crashing down on them like a ton of bricks. The resulting war was swift and final, the combined weight of the global military and public opinion making short work of the few hundred thousand terrorists in their self-proclaimed caliphate. Some remaining terrorists were hunted down, and that heralded a new period of relative peace in the region. The rest fled to the western countries to continue their terroristic activities in the enemy’s backyard.
The countries were too united in their struggle to crush IS for me to drive a new wedge anywhere in the Middle East.
So now I’ve turned my attention to France.
This will be a civil war. One that closely resembles the French revolution, another of my successes. Internal strife always works well in France. They have a natural talent for alienating their own countrymen.
I’ve set my goals high on this one. It’s time for a global war. World War III. The attempts that I made previously—the Middle East, Russia, Korea—have all had been thwarted by international politicians and global pressure. This time I will succeed. Not because I set countries against each other. This time the fire comes from within. The liaisons between those like-minded people will not be between countries, but between social fractions worldwide.
Putting myself into a position that will enable me to instigate a war will take time. I will need a cover that can insinuate me into the political circles and also all
ow me to move inconspicuously among the common folk. Both sides need to be cultivated. I have decided on an identity as a man of the cloth, a priest. The church is still sacrosanct within certain social circles in France. Ignoring the power of the clergy has cost many a politician their head. Poverty is so rampant in the country that the poor look to the church for help once again. The influence the clergy has over all the fractions is such that it will be the ideal camouflage for me.
There is something I should tell you about me. Besides being seemingly immortal, I have another very handy trait—my ability to change people’s perspective. Not only of what they think and how they act, but even of how they view the world and, specifically, me. When I look in the mirror, I always see the same features gazing back at me. The same characteristics as skin colour, height, weight, hair, etc. I know it’s me and that I remain the same. You, I can fool. In the flesh, or on any photographs or films where I am present, you will see completely different me. This allows me to move freely between the two fractions that I am pitting against each other without being recognised. Undoubtedly, a very handy talent in my line of work. It also allows me to fit in seamlessly in every country, culture and race. That and the fact that I am fluent in more than thirty languages.
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