Walking Dollar Bills

Chapter 33: Musings of a Dictator

A glass filled with water sits on a cubus coffee table. A pair of feet march towards the table causing the water inside the glass to ripple and shake. On the couch across from the table is a resting Richie. He is back in his palace after the book burning a few nights ago.

Amara lightly touches his forehead with the back of her hand,

"Are you feeling better?"

Richie hides his face behind a plush pillow. Amara patiently waits for him to respond. After a few seconds, Richie lifts his face away from the pillow.

Amara fights back her urge to gasp.

Richie's face is badly bruised. Patches of purple color the swollen parts of his face. He also has a series of cuts and bruises along his arms.

"You don't have to be so polite ma'am, I know I look hideous" mumbles Richie.

"Humor? I guess that answers my question" says Amara.

She grabs the glass of water and offers it to Richie, who accepts it. He downs the glass with three giant gulps and wipes his mouth with his forearm. He takes a long pause and eyes Amara,

"So, is it true? Did the plan work?"

Amara smiles and takes a seat on the couch beside Richie. The eager look on his face warms her. She can't help but be reminded of Zala every time she looks at Richie. This is how the youth should appear. Not despondent and troubled, but curious and energized.

"Yes. The rumors are true" says Amara.

A smile slowly emerges on Richie's face.

"The Nationalist have won the hearts of the Benevolent district. The people are on our side!"

Tears roll down Richie's face, but he quickly buries them in Amara's shirt. As they hug, a slight chuckle escapes from Richie's lips.

"What's so funny?" asks Amara.

Richie pulls away and glides his fingers over his bruises,

"My face is in excruciating pain. But, I'm so happy that I can't feel a thing."

***

Dictator Beneficence kicks open the door to his conference room and trudges inside. The door slowly closes until only a sliver of hallway light peeks into the room. He takes a seat at the end of his conference table and stares at the black screen on the wall to his left.

He thinks of Jayce. His General Officer of the now disbanded Crimson Brigade. While Dictator Beneficence eschews history he knows it is impossible to escape it.

There are no pictures on his table. No images of family, friends, or crystallized memories. He holds on to nothing, so that nothing holds him back. Yet the thought of Jayce pecks away at his brain. The man he considered his own son was no more.

Dictator Beneficence wonders if he was too harsh with his demotion of Jayce. He wanted to hold him accountable after failing to retrieve the pills, but were their alternative paths he could have taken? Overconfidence maybe?

Taking a deep breath, Dictator Beneficence lowers his eyes and leans back against his chair. He sees no point in defending against the emotion that infiltrates his imprisoned heart: sadness.

He is sad that Jayce has passed.

"That fool Icarus ruined everything. Those pills were the ultimate wildcard," says Dictator Beneficence.

"No. Those pills are the ultimate trump card" says a voice from outside the door.

Dictator Beneficence growls, but stops the moment he sees who it is.

A hand wrapped in white bandages pushes open the door, which pours more light into the room. Bandages cover the arms, legs, and neck of the visitor. Only this individual's rigid face and dagger eyes are unmasked.

Toure.

"The nerve of you to show your face around here. You were the worst investment I've made in quite some years," says Dictator Beneficence.

Toure gestures to his bandages,

"Unfortunately, my face is the only thing I can show at the moment."

Dictator Beneficence sits up in his chair and eyes the Viper known for being the deadliest assassin on the planet. Then, his eyes notice something missing from this character. His spear is neither strapped to his back nor held by his tail.

His eyebrows raise at Toure, who stands at the end of the conference table.

"Missing something?" says Dictator Beneficence.

"I'm not missing anything. Although, I have lost something precious to me" says Toure.

"Yes, that fact is rather conspicuous. Will you be having a seat?"

"You know my preference" replies Toure.

Dictator Beneficence leans back in his chair. He is more comfortable than before. Toure has lost the intimidating features that concerned him during their first encounter.

The thought of pressing the red button under his desk never passes his mind. Toure is no threat. He is defeated.

"So, what do you want? An exit interview? You have failed to hold up your end of the bargain" says Dictator Beneficence.

Toure nods his head,

"I don't debate that. I only want to inform you of what you are up against. If I could not defeat them, then there is little hope for you and your Crimson Brigade."

Dictator Beneficence holds up a hand,

"Save it. I make propaganda. I don't consume it."

Toure grinds his teeth and glares at the plump shrimp of a man before him.

"I'm disappointed in you, Toure. You know I wanted to kill you after your blatant disrespect during our first meeting, but I spared you. I know the Viper race isn't known for their intellect" says Dictator Beneficence.

"Then why not kill me now? I'm wounded after all" says Toure.

"Oh, I'd much rather kill your ego. That's why instead of killing you, I'll be firing you," says Dictator Beneficence clapping his hands twice.

Two men in suits race up to the room and stand visibly outside the door.

"You're fired. Would you like to be escorted out?" asks Dictator Beneficence.

Dictator Beneficence slams his fist on the table. The two men in the hallway jump, but Toure remains motionless. His eyes fix on the diminutive dictator in front of him.

"Good luck finding work after I inform every one of your complete incompetence and failure at the job. Your reputation will be shot. No one will fear you ever again. You'll be alone, poor, and in danger. You'll be like every other member of your pathetic race" hawks Dictator Beneficence.

Everything in the room pauses. No one breathes. Finally, Dictator Beneficence breaks the paralysis,

"First Jayce, and now you. It's a shame when good tools break."

A feeling of panic fills Dictator Beneficence. He quickly scoots his chair forward and places his finger on the red button underneath his table. The cold touch of the button calms him.

Toure does not break eye contact with the dictator. He calmly listens to his hateful remarks. This calmness concerns Dictator Beneficence. Why is he so comfortable? Why is he taking his dismissal so well?

"No. I won't be needing an escort," says Toure turning his back on Dictator Beneficence, "I know my way around."

Before exiting the room, Toure stops and slightly looks over his shoulder,

"There's only one pill left."

The two men in suits clear the way for Toure as he descends down the staircase.

Dictator Beneficence, once again, leans back against his seat and exhales.

"Only one pill ever mattered..."