Challenge #01658-D197: Fallen From Grace
It’s like they used the power of righteous hatred the same way some people use the power of love. -- RecklessPrudence
Some hated him because he had committed treason and bragged about it. Some hated him because of what he had done to his wives. Some hated him because of what he said. Most hated him because of what he had done. They had cause to hate each other, but the hatred of the man who claimed to be their leader was the one thing that united them.
The Oligarch was uncomfortable on his throne to the point where he had fled the country, but that didn't matter. His nation had armed themselves, and they were moving in for the kill. As he crossed borders, so did they. As he boarded ships, so did they. The Oligarch was not safe. He had alienated all but his nations enemies. In fact, there were very few, indeed, who would give him succour. And many of those, he brought with him.
At least, until they became inconvenient. Then, he traded their safety for his life. He didn't care about the betrayal. He had never cared about anything but money and power. And now, without either, all he cared for was his continued existence.
The allies that had helped him gain power did not care for him. He received the same betrayal he had committed when he let them assist him in treason. Those allies now cast him aside as if he were any other peasant begging for alms. He was no longer of use to them now that they had what they wanted.
All he had left was to run. A plump and unfit man who had never exercised anything more than his voice, going as fast as he can for as long as he could, away from the millions that wanted their pound of flesh. Pounds that the Oligarch lost in his desperate flight.
He ended it in a freezing shanty town, miles from anywhere he knew. Scraps of newspaper stuffed into his remaining designer clothes declared that his reign ended in ignominy. That his family had been found guilty of aiding and abetting his crimes. That his sons had been executed. That his daughters were chained into the sweatshops they had once used to make their clothing. That he had been tried in absentia and found guilty of everything. That bounty hunters and assassins were searching the world for him.
They would not look for him here, amongst filth and squalor. Amongst the very people that he had once attempted to purge from the earth. In a place where they had seventeen different recipes for rat and cockroach. Where one was lucky if one found a fragment of unadulterated food from those of a higher status.
Where he had to decide about whether to use a newspaper to stuff his clothes or keep the fire burning for a few more minutes.
The other denizen of this shack was roasting a rat on a stick with no intention of sharing it. It was a big rat. A New York rat. Enough for a couple of days. Maybe more if she found some decent Popping Roaches. But he'd learned not to ask out loud for anything. Not to speak. Of all the things that had changed since his downfall, his voice had not. People still knew it.
"I remember you," she said.
The Oligarch-in-exile shook his head. He wanted to look away. To focus on feeding the pitiful fire. But his eyes kept drifting back to the rat. To the roasting haunch. Surely she could let him have a drumstick. A thigh...
Fifty-odd years of steak and potatoes, and he was salivating over the thought of Rat Drumstick.
"You were the one as gave me that blanket, last snow. Right? Mute-boy Jeff."
He shook his head again. This time, sadly. The only time he'd ever given anyone anything, it had been the brief employment advice to, "get a job." There was dung in the corner. It didn't matter what it came from. It was dry and it would burn and he needed his newspapers for insulation now that the cold crept in through every pore in his body. He washed his hands in the dirtier-looking bucket outside the tattered sheet that served as a door. The cleaner looking one was for drinking out of. He knew that, after a few false starts.
"I know I know you. We met before."
If it was worth a bit of meat, it might be worth lying. He still looked at her face. Trying to match her features with the people he could recall. Was she on the run, too? Was this one of his exiled wives, fallen on hard times?
He made the mistake of saying, "I don't recall."
Her eyes flared, briefly. Then she said, "My mistake. You looked familiar is all." She took a small knife out of her layers of rags and carved off a haunch of rat. "Tastes like rat," she said, "but it's warm and it's food enough for another day."
"Thank you," he said. It was hot. And it did taste like rat. It was tough and sinewy and more than a little like rotting fast food. But he was grateful for it. He gnawed it right off the bones like a barbarian.
"No," she said, wiping her knife on her pants. "Thank you. For the wonderful opportunity."
He almost got to ask her what she meant, but she was too quick. Years of hunting rats made her fast. The knife slid between his ribs so quickly that he almost didn't notice it. He did notice her stripping out as much paper as she could grab from his clothes.
"I once asked you how you expected me to live without welfare, when you cancelled the plan. I always remembered what you said," she said. "You said, 'I don't really care, you're a leach'. Words that stayed with me all these years. And now I get to cash in the ten billion dollar reward for you. Dead or alive." A smile like someone with all their worries taken away. "And frankly, I don't really care which it is."
She pulled out the knife. Tied him like a hog and placed him in most of an old shopping trolley. The cold ate him as he bled onto the dirt. As the light faded away, he wondered, What did I do to deserve this?
He could have looked all around himself, upon his works, and despaired.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / bazilfoto]
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