261. Now the crocodile is in his coffin

Now the crocodile is in his coffin, his peers will gather for a eulogy of manufactured sorrow.

They’ll say he was a great man even if they know he wasn’t. They’ll proclaim him an enlightened leader though they’d rather have led themselves.

His widow will be showered with kind words of compassion but none of his peers will honestly miss him.

In all likelihood, they’re already plotting the next coup, a politicide on a new generation of hungry wolves.

In this trade, survival is the name of the game. By all means possible.

And they’re all sure they’ll live forever.

But in the end a crocodile is just a handbag in waiting.

 

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170. Your vote will make a difference

Your vote will make a difference touted the huge Ministry of Information billboards that lit up the metropolis. Fester Jiggins did not believe the claim. Like 43 percent of the population he hadn’t bothered to vote last time as, to his mind, all politicians were bottom-feeding no-good schemers.

Yet for some reason this year’s propaganda to get the vote out resonated with him. Perhaps it was the hipster way the slogans swirled around the voting booth in the funny yet sweet infomercials. Perhaps it were the more gorgeous than ever holograms of barely-clad ladies that walked up to you on Second Street to convince you to exercise your democratic right. Or the free coupons for Sushi World you’d get in exchange for your proof of voting.

But Fester mostly was swept away by the positivism that had engulfed the country since the Ministry of Information had kicked the voting campaign into high gear. Whether gulping down beer in a seedy café or traversing a zebra crossing in the financial heart, all people were talking about was how – despite some obvious flaws – amazing this country was. And could be if every citizen just went out and elected the most competent candidate they could.

In the end  hope for a bright future swept the country to the tune of a 95 percent turn-out on election day. Fester too had walked the 500 yards to his polling station before devoured some tasty chirashi at Sushi World. His candidate in the end was not victorious, but that was irrelevant. The system worked. That was the important thing.

“Even better than we thought it would”, the Minister of Information told the president – now in his sixth term – up North, as both of them glibly oversaw the burning stack of never to be counted ballots.

 

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147. I call it the sincerity machine

“I call it the sincerity machine,” his press manager told the president. “People may still agree or disagree with you, of course. But I’d like to see them challenge the uprightness of your words.”

In the middle there were two luminous mirrors at an askew angle. But otherwise the machine had the appearance of a cumbersome grey box, nothing particularly high-tech.

“Won’t they notice the thing?” the president asked. “Especially since there’ll be two of them?”

“That’s the beauty of it, mister President. They won’t. They’ll be too transfixed by your words.”

That would be a nice change of pace. The president had trouble with speeches. People kind of noticed he had learnt them by heart or read them from cue cards. And thus the electorate did not believe he fully endorsed his policies.

“So how do I hook up to it?” the president asked.

“You don’t.”

“It’s wireless?”

“Not quite. But it doesn’t have to be connected to the speaker himself. Just to the team of tech wizards that keep it running. And to me.”

“Then I don’t see how it will augment the sincerity.”

“The machine will free you. Go on, sir, give it a try. You’ll see it works.”

The president stepped onto the podium and took his place behind the desk. The sincerity machines were placed to the right and left front of him. Words were scrolling down their luminous mirrors. His speech.

“Just make sure you switch from left to right from time to time,” the press manager suggested.

The president took a closer look at the text.

“This is not the speech I wrote,” he said.

“Yeah, that’s the one catch with the sincerity machine,” his press manager replied.

“We’ll be writing your speeches from now on.”

 

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130. The MP for Islingworth

The MP for Islingworth rose to her feet. She had prepared a scathing speech for the Prime Minister. The subject: his refusal to hold a Commons debate about what was clearly an inevitable path to war with Liechtenstein.

The right honourable member of Parliament scraped her throat and put her glasses on, to look even more stern then she usually did.

 

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