Wednesday, August 27, 2008


They dug up a potato at midday that looked to all intents and purposes like the President's head and which—after some detailed inspection—turned out to actually be the President's head. They let it sit in the sun for a while, but instead of a healthy tan, as they had hoped, the head began to take on a blueish-green tinge.

The president's wife arrived after a few days, as she had not yet been able to make herself believe her husband's head had been discovered sitting in dirt. But after the worst of the rotten flesh had been scraped away, even she recognised her husband's distinctive cheekbones. She let out a single tear and—so those were there said—cursed aloud God's name.

The funeral was held to great fanfare. A phalanx of trumpeters arrived from two towns over, along with three entire divisions of trained doves who had been draped in the gold and crimson livery of the late President's favourite racehorse. The President's head was given pride of place in the ceremony, sitting resplendently on a large cushion, which had been specially prepared by a team of widows and orphans. The head had been reassembled (from all the parts that could be found) by the court artist, to the best of his recollection. The effect was striking and regal from a distance, but utterly frightful from less than three feet away.

The funeral was a resounding success, but once the final pigeon had been swept away, the late President's advisors had time to realise they were in something of a pickle. They spent many days combing through the constitution, seeking guidance as to what should happen next. Presidential changeovers had, up until now, occured through either simple heridity or bloodless coup. A decapitation was something else altogether. The late President had no sons, and all the Generals of his army were toothless tigers, far more intent on securing a good place at the dinner table than excercising any Presidential ambitions.

Confusion reigned for forty nights, and apprehension for forty days. As luck would have it, however, on the forty-first day, the President's body turned up, uncovered in the field next to the one in which his head was found. When the news reached the city, the mood lightened considerably. The Presidential advisors installed the late President's body at once to its rightful position of power, and it ruled over the land for many prosperous years.

1 comment:

Liv said...

this one is disturbed. i'm starting to think there's something seriously wrong with you and am planning an intervention, currie.