Salvador Dali for World Leader

By Richard Davidson

Good morning," the citizen begins his day, kissing his wife on the toaster, and pouring maple syrup down the sink.

It's a glorious day in his fictional country, where a man can order "Nutty Nervgas Nougat" Ice Cream directly from the internet, until his eyes bug out like overbaked almonds. Then, waving a sultry goodbye to his three and a half children, he begins his daily commute to Wall Street, which isn't nearly as fictional as he believes.

On the bus, the train, and the subway, he sees various unkempt ne'er do wells; lavishly dressed costumers; and among them everywhere, evildoers. They writhe grotesquely in the carnivorous waste that makes up the world they created, slurping down Ajax and seltzer like there's no tomorrow.

"Accidentally" poking one of the sad, dangerous souls in the eye with the tip of his umbrella, he tips the hat he never bought that one day in Seattle, and disappears into the rot of human flesh on the platform, spilling out onto the street above.

Slowly he walks past derelicts half crazed from cheap wine and car exhaust, living a dream that was handed to him in a crumpled Cracker Jack box a thousand years ago, in a world of kings and horses. He brushes lightly past a one-eyed painter, who has his own perspective, all right.

Into the crystalline door of the grey, fetid building, the smooth chrome, and obscene marble are but mute witnesses to the sick flow of humanity filling its every pore. Our hero, the madman of wasted maple syrup, can only pant hungrily after the dream these urban water buffalo chase, and mince tenderly towards the janitor's closet to which only he holds the key.

His fingers grasp mightily this power, which gleams in the dank air like an Elvish sword at the gates of Mordor, never more sure of his destiny, or that of his nation. He swears at the night man, who has left the mop bucket full, creating a lonely stench of stagnation where there should have been only face numbing chemicals lingering thoughtfully.

He will say nothing into the sour wind that nips so harshly at what was once a soul, and he will pray for a black, angry cloud to rub its finger carelessly across the human race, flicking dead cells into the rat-strewn alley with all the caution of a rabid ten year old.

"This is nasty business," he says to a fleeing roach, "and I fear we've only just started."

This roach is particularly indifferent to the musings of such a narrow fool, and scurries down the drain hoping to be rid of the entire conversation, once and for all. In the time it takes him to reach the basement, the trading will have begun, and lives will be tossed like dice upon rich green velvet.

This then is the world the last of the Mongol Warriors would lay asunder, and snarling Visigoths will defend. A world where our humble citizen will summon casually his own death, at the end of a hostile chili dog.

"And to the victors go the spoils" will be our dead brother's last mortal thought.

Will it be enough? Even the least cynical doubt it, and yet they go on. No one will ever dare to ask why.

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