The last speech

Everybody should be warned that what I am about to narrate is not true, since it hasn't happened.

Yet.

As always, the decrepit dictator has risen from the grave. This time the health issue was serious, and probably, very much painful. Serious enough to be declared secret of state, thus sending a clear message to all rumor-mongers in La Habana and elsewhere. (I don't really know, if he is -in fact- alive, I believe the deception was made to measure the response of different grous to such notice and gain intelligence from all the analysis made... just me, always thinking the worst of bloody tyrants...)

He raises from the hospital bed, embarks in the Venezuelan Presidential Airbus (previously made to accomodate the degree of the health of the old parasite), and delivers a brief, but hopeful message on the non-aligned meeting.

A final farewell, of the ailing leader.

His best crafted piece of oratory falls on an empty hall.

Most of the delegates did not know of his presence, and believed just another tirade of one or other speaker. At the end, Fidel collapsed on the arms of the representative of the Vatican, startling the sonambulant diplomat.

When this happens, the media has already got word that Fidel has risen from the grave. They rush into the hall, and open the door, finding Fidel postrate on the armas of the cardinal, who's crying for help. Almost inmediately the photos explode all over the worlds media outlets.

Meanwhile.... in the men's loo

Tribilin enters the men's facilities to relieve himself before entering the hall to listen and applaud his idol's eulogy. He has learned more of the machiavelian art of politics in the last weeks more than in all his previous adventures.. With Fidel's scare, to the plot to let the world speculate as to his health, while everything maintained the staus quo. Fidel is a fucking genius! Only He could pull it off, I tell you.

The only setback is that we've been so scrutinized, that I've not have the opportunity to relieve my balls in a proper way. That bore Perez Roca is following around me all day, it's good that the reporters started asking all those questions. I will be able to call, Maricela, the gorgeous Argentinian flying aide Fidel had employed for our flight. I'm sure she is also a bodyguard... he dialed the number of the in-cabin telephone.

It seemed forever, but she had picked the receiver. She looked back at the pilots, one of them said, pick up, its for you. Whith her most husky voice she answered - Yes, Mr. President?

She added a couple of almost imperceptible gasps and added, Is there anything you need?

Meanwhile, in the Hall's entrance, Perez Roca quickly ended the Press Conference, and hurried behind the orangutan, now loose. He had been trying to loose him since he got his actual assignment. Shadow the orangutan, as the G2 commonly reffered to the political heir to the Glorious Revolution. The indignities one had to endure, all for the glorious fucking revolution. The pay was better than good, the perps where without equal, now the stability was starting to crumble. At the last minute one of the aides had found the telephone to the presidential airplane.

Finally, he found him getting out of the Men's services. I got the number! But the tyrant's apprentice looked at him as he were crazy. Oh, yeah, he remembered that the whole day this bothersome wannabe had been pestering about this. Information is power, he was thinking, while the Cuban delegate dialed the number into his cellular phone. The face of the bureaucrat turned crimson and he shouted into the phone, Who do you think you're talking to, child? Get me the Comandante.

What! It was not a question. He shut closed the phone. After a pause, he faced the orangutan looking at him with a childish smile.

He's already left the plane! his face becoming livid with same speed it had seemed like exploding seconds before.

They both followed with their gaze while one of the journalists passed them like he was being followed and kept on running through the long corridor leading to the hall. They both feared the worst.

We're late! and took of after the wake of the racing journalist.

The pack of journalists were massed at the entrance of the hall, all shouting at once. With great difficulty, both leaders forced their way through the pandemonium but could not believe the scene unfolding in front of their eyes. Their beloved Comandante of the Glorious Revolution was inert embraced by the Vatican's delegate. The delegate was looking up, and imploring someone called for help. He was praying for the man's life.

The Cuban foreign minister stood there paralyzed not only by the impossible image unfolding in the front of his eyes. But also looking at the helpless body of the his nation's hero, whom he came to conclude was immortal, and the PR disaster this was making.

At his side, the orangutan immediately started to inflate like a puff-adder. In a fit of jealousy, and sensing that Fidel should have collapsed in his hands -and nobody else's- sprang towards the moving scene and snatched Fidel's body from the despised Cardinal. His reaction was so sudden, and his actions so brusque, that he broke Fidel's neck, thus killing him instantly.

The doctor said, he had passed out because of his deteriorating condition. But the cause of death was severe trauma to the neck caused by careless mishandling. Basically, Tribilin broke his neck and thus caused his early death. On a question by one of the reporters, the chief surgeon said: no, he didn't suffer. He was unconscious.


bang!