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Hydro
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Winfield, IL, USA
Jun 1999
time: 05:13
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The Planetary Council
Corozon Santiago, cool and austere, sat at the Planetary Council table, casually and lovingly polishing her shredder. It was her personal favorite, and it was shaped like an old Earth German Luger. Her hand passed up and down over its long, hard shaft and the barest hint of a smile crossed her normally implacable face. A noise from across the room interrupted her reverie, and she looked up with a menacing glare. But, the smile reappeared as she imagined pointed ‘her baby’ at the source of the offending noise and blowing his head off.
On the other side of the table Dr. Zakharov was fully engrossed in his task: the medical examination of the Chiron equivalent of the fly. He grasped the struggling creature in his clutching hands, and then, one by one, pulled off its many gossamer wings. With each pull the hapless creature struggled futilely against the ‘examination’. The wings gave way to the inexorable pressure with a satisfying ‘gink’ sound, and with each sound the Professor let forth a small cackle. He loved his examinations so! At his side was his next ‘experiment’, which was a blender filled with live mice. His examination complete, he dropped the dead Chiron fly on the Planetary Conference Table and turned the blender. He caressed the glass blender and looked at his latest test subjects. With eager anticipation he clicked the blender on ‘puree’. His cackling rose in pitch and volume as the blades transfixed the luckless mice, throwing their minced flesh, bone, and fur in a growing vortex. ‘Isn’t science fun!’ he thought to himself.
Ignoring the professor, CEO Nwabudike Morgan was busy counting his gold bars, which were arrayed in neat stacks in front of him. After finishing counting them for the thousandth time he started, and looked around the room. His eyes narrowed as he detected the unmistakable glint of greed and desire in all the other faction leaders. He seemed to be watching all of his adversaries at one time as his arms curled protectively around ‘his children’. Under his breath he muttered: “Mine, all mine! You can not have it! My precious! It is mine!” Gradually a love replaced his hatred as his eyes drifted toward his beloved gold. He resumed his counting: “One, two, three…”
Impassive as usual, Chairman Yang sat dead still at the table. Every once in a while his eyes would move ever so slightly – he was taking in all the movement and actions of those around him. His mind filed each bit of data as his eyes took it all in like a black hole. In his controlled mind is inner Yin collected the data. Battling his logical Yin, his Yang was muttering: “Kill! Kill you all! I will KILL YOU ALL! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” During this inner battle Yang’s glacial face never flickered, except for his eyes, which glinted with his perfect inner madness.
Facing Yang was the emotional Miriam, arrayed in her customary fiery Orange. Her eyes were almost closed to slits as she, too, examined the Heathens around her. Her lips formed into a snarl, one that was almost permanently ingrained into both her face and psyche. Seeing the corruption of those around her, Miriam was thankful that she believed in a loving and merciful God, one that would right all wrongs. Silently, she composed a prayer: “Wondrous God, grant me the wisdom to see your Truth, and the strength to rip the lungs out of those that would corrupt and blaspheme against your word. For they deserve nothing but a painful death, and I, as your instrument, will gladly comply with your will.” Finishing her prayer she looked at the Devils surrounding her and contemplated the tortures they would endure as ‘purification’. With that, a frightening and beatific smile crossed her face.
Ignoring all those around her, the lovely visage of Deirdre frolicked around the room, prancing up and down. Her curly raven hair bounced and twirled as she pirouetted. Then she balanced on one toe and hopped gracefully across the room. Her mind’s eye saw her beloved, and she tiptoed to embrace it: a tree. She swooned with desire as she ran her fingers over its imaginary bark, and up and down its hard flanks. Having paid homage, she resumed her flouncing dance. Of coarse, Lady Deirdre Skye was buck naked.
Sitting at the head of the table sat a petulant and melancholy Pravin Lal. Deep sags graced his lusterless eyes, and his aged hands wrung each other in ceaseless agitation. In deep despair he watched the goings on of a Planetary Council that had gone oh, so wrong. Again. He had long ago given up keeping order. In a soft and whiny voice he repeated over and over to himself: “Can’t we all just get along?”
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01-03-2000 05:09
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