Mark M Bulmer

"Fuck!" I yelled, snapping awake when something hit me in the side of the head.

A white brick wall was in front of me, a shadow covering both it and the polished concrete floor. Walls to both sides, all white brick.

I reached for the blanket, but my arm didn't move. I kicked to heave it away, but my leg didn't move.

I wasn't in my bed. I was in a chair.

"What the fuck?"

I thrashed about but was securely bound. I torqued my head right and left, twisting farther than the old bastard should go on a good day, but there was nothing to see.

"Meester President," a man's voice said from behind, a strong accent I couldn't identify.

"Who the fuck are you? Where am I?"

"This is not important."

Further thrashing dug black zip ties into my wrists. They weren't the cheap commercial shit or even the expensive military gear. These were heavy-duty, strap-a-gorilla-down ties holding me to a solid wooden chair.

"I will tell you story."

"A story? What's this shit?"

"Long ago, many years, I sit with friends. We talk, we drink. Someone turn on television." He paused and there was the tinkle of a spoon in a fine China teacup. "I have no time for people do pretend. No interest."

"I'm going to nuke your country."

"Country?" Scorn was clear. "I am no country. I am no ruler. I tell you, rulers have no power."

"You're in the deepest shit there is."

"Pyotr," a snap of fingers, "will show you."

A shimmy of movement behind. A hand settled on my bare shoulder. It was enormous.

"This," a matching hand came into view holding the biggest pistol I'd ever seen, "is Desert Eagle XIX. Made Israel, 1999." The hand turned the pistol to provide a full view. The flat black finish ensured anyone who saw it recognized it as a pistol, though it looked more like a piece of refurbished construction equipment.

"1999 is best year, Pyotr say." The pistol was withdrawn; the hand left my shoulder. "He kill thirty-seven people with this gun. More without. Men, women, couple child." A gruff chuckle. "Owner of company think he is powerful. He is dead. Political think nobody get close. She is dead."

He moved in his chair, the leather creaking. The click of teacup meeting saucer. A soft sigh.

"President, maybe he believe he is safe. Maybe he think nobody get into big White House."

"Hold on."

"Maybe he think nobody bring him to room in basement and put him in chair."

"Hey—"

"Maybe he think is no Pyotr to wrap hands around fat throat and squeeze until you are dead."

I chose to keep quiet, which was always difficult for me. He did the same and we sat in silence. It felt like hours.

"Someone turned on the TV," I said.

"My story." I heard the smile in his voice. "It touch me, you remember. Television was on with loud voices and pointing fingers, all angry. It is funny, these little men yelling on handful of dollars."

The flick of a lighter. A blown breath. The scent of tobacco, but different; harsher, more acrid.

"Our talking, it stop. We watch little bit, everyone chuckle at the stupid." Another exhalation. "This is good word, stupid. I like sound of."

Soft mumbling of words I don't understand.

"Burbon is excellent. I would offer drink but is too early for you." The clink of glass on glass. "We watch, someone say would be good if fat man was president. Everyone laugh. Loud laughs."

Clink.

"Everyone but me. Words of man echo in head. I see world change. I see opportunity. This is good word, too."

"What do you want?"

"Is not important you know yet."

"How much?"

Clink.

Again, we sat in silence for what seemed hours.

"I stop story." He took a couple of puffs. "I look at you in chair. I don't see man. I don't see president. I see back of head."

Clink.

"I have pistol. Smaller than Pyotr's but make hole in back of head. I tell you, I almost don't come. I almost tell to kill you and stay home. Is easier."

Something metal tapped against glass a few times.

"You maybe is dead soon. I don't decide yet." Another pause. "You offer money?"

I sat without answering.

"Back to story. Everyone thinks is funniest thing and laugh. Me, I don't laugh. People notice, they stop laughing. More notice, more stop. Only television noise. Everyone watch me."

Clink.

"I smile. I tell them, make happen. Make fat man president. And they do. Then you are president and I am happy."

A loud clap of hands.

"This was then. Now is not then. Now is now. I am no happy now."

"We can—"

"You talk but say nothing." A long exhale. Trails of smoke drifted into the light in front of me. "I think to punish you." The soft crackle of burning tobacco. A long exhale. "I ask to me, how you punish fat man think he is strong?"

"I think to piss on you. I think have Pyotr make shit on your face. Maybe this works."

A long drag.

"Maybe is no good. Best way, I decide, is tell Pyotr shove you against wall and fuck you like …" he spoke to the side, "word is punk?" Soft murmurs. "Yes. Fuck you like punk."

The sound of a cigarette being ground out.

"This what you like, go on with words mean nothing."

I didn't move.

"Things you do, most, I like. Good things for me. One thing you do, it give me concern. This is other word I like. Concern. Better than worry. I see what you do. I must pay attention to tiny problem myself."

What did I do?

"There is two countries, they do not like the other. They yell threats and shake sticks, this is good. They start fight, this is good. They kill each other, this is good. President fat man say he will make them stop. This, I no like."

I almost spoke.

"You will let them play game." The words had weight. It wasn't an instruction, not a command, but the expectation of compliance was clear. He sat for a few moments. "You talk now."

"The position of the—"

"No position."

"The Uni—"

"No country. I say you. You will do this."

"I'm afraid—"

"No." A hard voice. "You are no afraid. No yet."

I didn't answer.

"You will do this three days. On the twelve." Leather creaked again. "If you no do, I make you afraid."

He stepped forward, stopping behind me.

"Woman is here." He spoke to the side. "What is name?"

"Call me Mabel, sir." A firm voice, no accent. Strong but not military.

She's been here the whole time?

"Mabel. This is pretty name." A hand landed on my head and mussed the shit out of my hair. "Mabel will put bag on head and take back to bedroom. Walk, it is good time to think."