says.
I throw down my pen. “What’s up now, Tiepolo?”
“Another assassination attempt, I’m afraid.”
I squint and mutter, “Successful?”
He shuffles his feet. “Yes.”
I shudder once and then cry: “Well, let’s fix it. Not a big deal really. How many have we got left, by the way?”
He holds up the plaster skull. “Several thousand. There are storerooms under the museum. We’re on schedule.”
I accept this news with relief. “Good.”
“Shall I fit this one now?”
I wave a consenting hand and he proceeds past my desk and through the open windows onto the balcony of my tower. Fragments of previous skulls crunch under his feet. The crowd surge below in the public square. My headless body, the one punched all those centuries ago, sways to the rhythm of collective feet, not my own. The mob are departing. Tiepolo fits the new false skull onto the pillar of my neck. He glues it there, and suddenly there is a President standing on his balcony again. The assassins have been cheated. This is the job that fate has decreed for me, perhaps the only one. But there are hobbies as well as careers. I’ll get back to that point later. Meanwhile, let me add that there are speaking tubes which run from each of the offices and merge into one hollow pipe which curls around the leg of the President on the balcony and up his waist and torso and over his right shoulder. It ends in a flared amplifying horn and any of my mouths can talk through it from the safety of our desks. We take it in turn to make speeches.
Tiepolo returns through the windows, wiping his hands on a cloth to free them from the grease associated with my neck. I ask him, “What other news?”
He replies: “The real President has already started doubting his mud tower. Soon he’ll be free to reclaim his position. You’ll be his Caretaker no longer.”
“I’m ready for that,” I say, but this is untrue. I’m enjoying myself too much here. So I add, “Anything else?”
“Yes. I’m pleased to report our scheme is working perfectly. There’s less fighting in the provinces. Some groups of rebels and revolutionaries have decided to disband and make peace. The warriors of Butter Wood have melted down their weapons.”
“I know of no such warriors nor place.”
“They are the descendants of the original inhabitants of Milk Wood. They were forced to change its name when the region was churned by an earthquake.”
“Damn earthquakes! Think they can get away with anything...”
“Well, that might change soon enough!”
I smirk. We’ve already discussed the need to create new legislation. But I’m bored now. Or rather I have an urge to be alone. I wave him away. He goes. I have all the necessary qualifications to operate as the ultimate Caretaker President. My many bodies give me an advantage. I can mollify the mob with speeches and calm the chaos from my balcony, while doing the real work indoors at my desks at the same time , a thing no other man can do, which is why nobody has been chosen for this role until now. My speeches are spoken transcripts of the best songs of the Cussmothers, my own songs, which I heard on the news while I was in Swansea, chanted by the first rampaging mobs to set foot, or feet, on the long road to the single world state. They are old standards and I know them by heart. They work.
I can’t be overthrown. Part of me is always somewhere else. There’s just too much. And my public body on the balcony can be assassinated again and again by headshot after headshot. The skulls from the museum are a perfect fit. I pretend this is a coincidence. My assassins are usually followers of the old President who fear I have usurped his position. I probably haven’t. Sometimes it is Percy who assassinates me. I am happy. But my scars still throb. The surgeon who operated on me is the same fellow who invented the celerycopter. He’s efficient but weird. Complete separation was impossible. I would die. My individual
I throw down my pen. “What’s up now, Tiepolo?”
“Another assassination attempt, I’m afraid.”
I squint and mutter, “Successful?”
He shuffles his feet. “Yes.”
I shudder once and then cry: “Well, let’s fix it. Not a big deal really. How many have we got left, by the way?”
He holds up the plaster skull. “Several thousand. There are storerooms under the museum. We’re on schedule.”
I accept this news with relief. “Good.”
“Shall I fit this one now?”
I wave a consenting hand and he proceeds past my desk and through the open windows onto the balcony of my tower. Fragments of previous skulls crunch under his feet. The crowd surge below in the public square. My headless body, the one punched all those centuries ago, sways to the rhythm of collective feet, not my own. The mob are departing. Tiepolo fits the new false skull onto the pillar of my neck. He glues it there, and suddenly there is a President standing on his balcony again. The assassins have been cheated. This is the job that fate has decreed for me, perhaps the only one. But there are hobbies as well as careers. I’ll get back to that point later. Meanwhile, let me add that there are speaking tubes which run from each of the offices and merge into one hollow pipe which curls around the leg of the President on the balcony and up his waist and torso and over his right shoulder. It ends in a flared amplifying horn and any of my mouths can talk through it from the safety of our desks. We take it in turn to make speeches.
Tiepolo returns through the windows, wiping his hands on a cloth to free them from the grease associated with my neck. I ask him, “What other news?”
He replies: “The real President has already started doubting his mud tower. Soon he’ll be free to reclaim his position. You’ll be his Caretaker no longer.”
“I’m ready for that,” I say, but this is untrue. I’m enjoying myself too much here. So I add, “Anything else?”
“Yes. I’m pleased to report our scheme is working perfectly. There’s less fighting in the provinces. Some groups of rebels and revolutionaries have decided to disband and make peace. The warriors of Butter Wood have melted down their weapons.”
“I know of no such warriors nor place.”
“They are the descendants of the original inhabitants of Milk Wood. They were forced to change its name when the region was churned by an earthquake.”
“Damn earthquakes! Think they can get away with anything...”
“Well, that might change soon enough!”
I smirk. We’ve already discussed the need to create new legislation. But I’m bored now. Or rather I have an urge to be alone. I wave him away. He goes. I have all the necessary qualifications to operate as the ultimate Caretaker President. My many bodies give me an advantage. I can mollify the mob with speeches and calm the chaos from my balcony, while doing the real work indoors at my desks at the same time , a thing no other man can do, which is why nobody has been chosen for this role until now. My speeches are spoken transcripts of the best songs of the Cussmothers, my own songs, which I heard on the news while I was in Swansea, chanted by the first rampaging mobs to set foot, or feet, on the long road to the single world state. They are old standards and I know them by heart. They work.
I can’t be overthrown. Part of me is always somewhere else. There’s just too much. And my public body on the balcony can be assassinated again and again by headshot after headshot. The skulls from the museum are a perfect fit. I pretend this is a coincidence. My assassins are usually followers of the old President who fear I have usurped his position. I probably haven’t. Sometimes it is Percy who assassinates me. I am happy. But my scars still throb. The surgeon who operated on me is the same fellow who invented the celerycopter. He’s efficient but weird. Complete separation was impossible. I would die. My individual
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