The conspirators sat around the table in gloomy silence, unruly sheafs of paper scattered between them. The leader of the group - a thin woman - took a long drag on her cigarette, holding the smoke in her lungs before exhaling it through her nose like a sailor. "Well," she said. "Our friend does indeed seem to have the Devil's luck."
She was answered by a chorus of assent and a row of nodding heads. "We have tried thee time - three times!" an old man with a nose like a hawk's beak said. "And we have not succeeded in doing more than inconveniencing him."
Another of the conspirators joined in. "I can believe an assassin's bullet missing its mark. It is not impossible that he managed to avoid the poison. But to survive a bomb without even so much as a scratch? Impossible!"
There was a moment of contemplative silence before the cigarette-smoking woman spoke again. "But we are still all agreed that this tyrant," she spat the word out, "this despot must die?"
"It is essential to the revolution," came the reply. The hawk-nosed man slammed his hand down on the tabletop, scattering the papers. "Essential," he repeated. "He must not survive to become a beacon for the counterrevolutionaries."
"Nor should he become a martyr for them to rally around," said a young man.
The cigarette-smoking woman shook her head. "That will be impossible. We have used our dead as martyrs. What makes you think they," she jerked a contemptuous thumb over her shoulder, "will not do the same?"
A fat-faced man spoke up. "There is another way to deal with him, but it is highly unorthodox. And it would require someone who is willing to risk death - or worse."
"We are all committed to the cause," the cigarette-smoking woman replied.
"Ah, but." The fat-faced man raised his finger to interrupt her. "We do not want a fanatic for this. We need someone with a sense of humour."
* * *
The president stood on the saluting base, his arm raised in a proud gesture. He waited for the thunderous applause to die away before continuing with his speech. "These ridiculous rebels." He paused to let the words sink in with his audience. "These fools who believe in a false paradise."
As if he had been waiting for the word 'fool', a man in a clown costume raised his arm and hurled a pie at the president. The missile hit true and shattered, spreading its contents over the president's face. As the president clawed the hot, sugary mess from his eyes, another clown stepped forward to hose him down with a stream of seltzer water.
It was impossible to stop the laughter.
