“La Guillotine Will Claim Her Bloody Prize….” – By Jason Zachary Pott
II.
Later that evening, as the Bastille Day feast drew to a close, the American President stood before his ally, the French President, to bid his farewell, thanks for the elaborate dinner and false gratitude for the invitation before retiring for the night. In truth, his secret service has found a blackjack table and it is waiting for him somewhere in this foreign city. He is looking to double what he made in profit from the taxpayers with his private businesses being overseen by his family members. He didn’t want it to just sit in overseas banks without enjoying some of it. Why not? He is the President of the United States after all. It should be his right. Fuck ethics.
Looking back on the events from the feast, the President is extremely unhappy. Apparently honored guests aren’t honored the way he was expecting, voicing his displeasure openly to his aides while the second course was being served. Many of the French politicians and diplomats sitting nearby overheard the exchange, understanding English perfectly while conversing amongst themselves in their native tongue. The President was ignorant of this fact, of course. They sipped their wine, peering over the rims of their glasses at the fat glob from the White House, embarrassing himself in front of a nation, completely unaware. When the President had made an extremely absurd, narcissistic observation about his role in the festivities, an eavesdropping diplomat almost choked on his mouthful of food as he laughed. He quickly recovered and was grateful the American buffoon hadn’t caught on to his predicament. His husband was fast with a glass of water to which he smiled his gratitude. His husband had looked at him with sympathetic eyes telling him he wouldn’t have to endure the disgusting man’s presence for much longer. The diplomat had smiled for a second and fought back his anger at the American President’s inexcusable ignorance to the significance of his country’s holiday—why they celebrate it. If anyone else in the world could understand it, it would be an American. It’s what makes is so much more insulting the President of the United States does not have the capacity to understand the importance of his country’s history.
The same diplomat is now watching his President bidding the American President a good night in front of a large rendering of Claude Monet’s painting of the Paris Festival of 30th June 1878, celebrating Bastille Day. It makes him sick to his stomach watching the scene unfold before him and he quickly melts into the crowd, escaping from the insanity.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” says the President of France. “Thank you for gracing us with your presence on the day we celebrate the birth of democracy in our country. A grand ideology both our nations share and one worthy of celebration for each year it survives. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Who the fuck do you think you are? echoes through the President’s diseased mind. This asshole Frenchie is mocking me! I don’t know how, but I’m certain he is!
Casting a slight sideways glance of annoyance to the aide on his left, whose eyes flinch with fear at the acknowledgment, the President returns his attention to the gracious host. He fixes his best smile he can conjure onto his face like a mask to hide his embarrassment of his prior outburst during the pre-dinner cocktail party.
It had happened again.
Amongst the huge gathering of people—dignitaries and prominent French citizens—he had seen it again. The face from stage left. Pockmarked with pitted scars, dripping boils and sores that burned with infection.
Once again he had chased that elusive face through the crowd. His exhausted secret service dragged in his wake on invisible tethers they would have rather cut than being pulled into the vortex of the President’s madness.
The face!
“Always a pleasure,” replies the self-absorbed American President. His aide looks at the floor, attempting to swallow his embarrassment at his leader’s lack of manners and weak knowledge of decorum. He hopes the President of France doesn’t notice, but it is too late.
And that’s it. Always a pleasure.
Appalled at the President of the United States’ rudeness to their hosts, the President’s chief travel aide, his associates and the secret service quickly begin to usher their leader out of the official building in which the festivities are being held. The group swarms down to waiting private elevators through ornate hallways from France’s rich, historical past. Quickly they herd the bloated, old President through the yawning doorway of the lift. The President looks bewildered and hears his lackeys mutter to one another:
That was a fucking disaster! No shit, really, you think? What are we gonna do? I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do: no fucking press conference! Agreed! And that’s just for starters…!
The President is facing the mirrored rear of the elevators car, staring at his sulking reflection. He refuses to believe he has caused a diplomatic rift with France. That’s what they’re basically saying, isn’t it? He can see the reflections of his aids talking amongst themselves, standing outside the elevator doors. There isn’t enough room for all of them and while half of his staff and security are inside the elevator with him, the rest are going to have to wait for the lift to come back for them. They are heading for the underground carport where the President’s limousine waits. From inside the elevator, the staff gives their last-second instructions to the others who will be left behind to the possibility of an ambush by the unfair media. The Press has not been kind to the President’s first few months in office—not kind at all. This debacle will not help.
As the doors close, the light from the hallway illuminates his staff and security’s faces and he stares at them, wishing he could trade places. He looks at the young secret service men in the corner, near the bank of buttons by the doors. He would rather be him. Thirty-two? Thirty-five? That’s a good age to be, he thinks. Lots of pussy! Yeah. He would really like to trade places with him. And as the outside light slowly disappears with the closing doors, the President’s eyes fall upon—
Wait! That… face!
After the doors close and the sensation of the descending starts, the President whirls his bulk around in the claustrophobic surroundings to confront the face! Immediately, the lights go out—darkness explodes around him—and the President feels a pair of hands slam him against the mirrored back wall of the elevators car. He hears the crunch of glass spider-webbing around him in the inky blackness as pain explodes through his back with pieces of crystal spilling down the back of his collar. He blindly claws at the invisible hands gripping him, finding thin, leathery arms in the dark—slick with a wet, thin film of fetid slime. He has smelled that stench before. The arms are strong as steel, holding him pinned to the wall as he struggles and sputters until he hears it. The sounds are filling the darkness surrounding him.
Tearing. Ripping. Gurgling. Choking. Spattering. Splattering. Pleading—
Chills rocket through the President’s nervous system, delivering shocks of terror so severe he lets go of his bladder. Urine puddles at his feet as the unseen hands powered by thin, steel-like corded muscled arms keep him anchored in place—nothing more.
Then the screaming starts.
Agony becomes sound, piercing his ears. The President’s blood curdles as he grips the skinny wrists in the dark. Even though he can’t see, he recognizes the cries of unmerciful pain. It’s his chief travel aide—the one with the Buddy Holly glasses. Wetness strikes his face in a spattering. He tastes copper on his lips and the screams rise in their crescendos with each new wet, ripping sound he hears.
There’s a wet thump followed deathly silence.
The strength in the hands pinning him are inhuman—supernatural—paralyzing him within the jagged trench of broken glass his backs impact has created with the elevator’s mirrored wall. The sensation of glass being ground into his flesh brings a whimper from his quivering fish lips. He can smell the foul breath of the ghoulish being assaulting him. It smells of blood and putrid entrails, making his eyes sting—watering.
“M-mister… P-p-president?” dribbles weakly from a torn mouth in the enveloping darkness—an aide—a wet crunch follows, then silence once again.
The foul breath of his attacker is nauseating, making the President want to vomit. Snot streams out of his nostrils as he struggles, comingling with his tears. His whimpers grow more frantic. The grip grows tighter and jagged nails puncture his chest. Now he feels warmth running down his belly to his bulging waistline. A snort sounds inches from his face.
He feels the elevator come to a halt as it reaches the underground carport. The doors will soon open, allowing the light from the parking garage to spill in, revealing the President’s captors.
As the doors to the elevator engage to open, before the President can see his attackers in the soon to be growing illumination, an unseen palm slams his head back. A crunching echo burrows through his skull and as the blackness deepens, his brain loses consciousness.
Someone is dragging him by his collar. He can feel the pain of his bulk being scraped across a slick surface—the carport. There is a sound of a heavy car door opening followed by shuffling—chattering. Is that communication? He feels himself being lifted up, falling forward—landing on something soft, surrendering to the blackness once more.
When he awakens, he can hear the sound of wheels on the smooth asphalt of a motorway. His secret service must have recovered him and were now rushing him to a safe-house. His vision is foggy—full of sepias—and he shifts in his seat as he struggles to regain a grip on reality.
I’m in my limo?
It is a guess. He still can’t focus on his surroundings but he looks ahead of him and makes a serious attempt. He struggles, trying very hard, catching a glimpse of the desiccated driver. His rough profile wobbles in static as he regains his consciousness. He can see the windshield in front of the blurring driver, streaked with a coagulated substance and a growing shock of recognition grips him by the balls—Is that dried blood?
He stares in terror at the driver’s profile. He doesn’t have to look around the limousines interior to know they are the only ones within it. He can see what’s left of the driver’s tattered hands gripping the steering wheel—thins strips of decayed flesh hanging from them in tiny ribbons, shiny and moist. Puss oozes from the cracks in the skin peeling from the knuckles as the hands steer the President’s official car down the freeway.
Panic grips the President’s rattled brain as he instantly realizes his secret service—the fucking cowards!—haven’t rescued him. He is being kidnapped and quickly forgetting about what happened in the darkness of the elevator, deciding how he is going to fuck up this miserable asshole’s life once his security apprehends him. He hopes his advisors remember to have the US Special Forces commit to the search and rescue, not the fucking French!
Why should they lead? We had to bail their asses out of two world wars! Or so his dad had told him one night when they were bludgeoning to death a tenant who was leading a renter’s strike against his father. It will be Americans who rescue him—preferably white. No one else!
His mind wanders from terror to self-absorption, back to terror again as the driver looks over its shoulder at him shivering in the back.
The face!
It may have been human once. It is the driver’s and the driver grins with clenched, rotting teeth—tiny trails of puss seeping from between its black gums, dripping off its chin. With an unholy, rusty voice that seems to gurgle from the abyss, the driver asks the President a simple question—one he isn’t expecting from the horrific visage he is gazing upon.
“Do you know… our history… Mister President?”
The President of the United States hears a child screaming in horror, suddenly realizing it is him. He is straining his vocal cords, choking on his hoarse hysteria.
The driver is laughing at him.
Something rips in his mind.
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