Short Fiction: Prologue

by Brian S. Leon

Libya, February 2011

He had been waiting in the austere presidential office to see the dictator for over an hour, but time was something of which he had plenty. He didn’t even mind the oppressive North African heat or the overly sweet smell of the rich wood paneling in this room mixed with the pervasive odor of sweat and stone that apparently emanated from every other wall within the presidential compound. He spent the time studying the single piece of art—if you could call it that—in the room: a gaudy oversized portrait of the dictator himself. As he studied the image yet again, smirking at the almost comical military-esque uniform depicted, the stark silence in the room was shattered by a sudden commotion outside the door. Bellicose shouts, muffled by the heavy outer door, barely drowned out the staccato barks of something, maybe a shoe, a hand or a book, slapping against another surface at specific points in the verbal tirade.

And then the door flew open.

“Colonel, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” the waiting man said, standing and extending his hand as the dictator entered the office.

He could easily imagine what the brutal dictator thought of him from the withering stare and heavily wrinkled brow. Skeptical would have been the most pleasant way to describe it, but he had seen the look before countless times over untold centuries.

The Colonel walked past the man without shaking his hand and sat down heavily behind his desk, doing nothing to hide his foul mood.

Without wasting any time hoping the dictator’s mood would improve, the waiting man began to speak in a smooth, calm, honeyed voice. “Colonel, I seriously doubt that the upcoming rally you have planned will really sway the people calling for your removal. I get it,” he said holding up his hand and waving it around a bit. “You’re trying to divert attention away from yourself and your failing Jamahiriya political system. You’re losing control of this country—”

“You understand nothing,” the dictator said, suddenly standing, slamming his hand down on the empty desktop, trying to assert his authority. “Do not waste my time. Please just tell me why my idiot advisors said their contacts in Belarus insisted that you—a slick, hip-hop Westerner with your pale skin, slicked back blonde hair, wearing an expensive suit and blue sunglasses—could actual help.” The dictator glared at him, and then the corner of his mouth ticked up ever so slightly in a quasi-smile.

He probably liked the blue sunglasses.

The Colonel shook his head slowly and all but fell back down into his seat. He was a man coming to grips with his imminent failure. “I cannot imagine how, but I will listen and then you will leave. You have five minutes.”

Across the broad desk from the defeated dictator, the man put his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground for a moment before he spoke. “Thank you, but I will only need two, Colonel. Indeed I can help you end this problem and it will be easier than you think,” he said, smiling.

As the man spoke, the dictator’s entire countenance began to change. His heavily furrowed brow relaxed and his eyebrows climbed higher onto his forehead. The brutal leader became enraptured and the man smiled a cold, predatory, toothy grin.

“What you need to realize Colonel is that the so-called rebels that have turned against you are more than simple teachers and engineers, and far more than humble peasants,” the man said, taking his hands from his pockets and leaning on the desk to look the son of a goat herder directly in the eye. “Not only is Al Qaeda working to incite them at the request of Bin Laden himself, but the Western Powers and others plot against you as well, tricking your people into turning against their rightful and beloved leader. Their mercenaries are giving hallucinogenic drugs to these rebels in order to warp their minds and make them think you are their enemy—the cause of all their ills. They put pills and liquids into their milk and coffee daily. And then there is the alcohol, distributed freely among your people to keep them confused and irrational–all to turn them against you. These groups also hold many of your loyal subjects hostage in Benghazi and other cities. None of this is your fault.”

The Colonel sat back in his chair and tented his hands in front of him, slowly nodding his head as if understanding things for the first time. “Of course. It had to be something like this. My people love me. They would never rise against me on their own. These mercenaries are inciting the rebellion and oppressing those that wish to support me,” the dictator said, his eyes alight with newfound hope. “Clearly you truly do understand the situation and you can definitely help me solve this problem. You are the only one who can,” he said like a gushing school girl at the foot of her idol. “We will beat these rebels with your help, I will take back my country, and continue to lead my people as their beloved leader as I was meant to do.” The dictator stood, eyes wide and bright, his lips trembling with excitement as he spoke.

“So how do I defeat them?” The dictator asked, like a penitent man seeking guidance from a priest.

“Easy, Colonel Gaddafi,” the man said, his predatory grin widening even further, “First, you must realize by now that there is no one but me that you can trust. And in the end, we will go door to door and house to house if we have to…”

Weak minded human.