In a far off land that changed its name more often than its borders, the hand of his chief bodyguard rocked the General’s shoulder as he slept. The General was leader of the military government by the ageless and venerable constitutional instrument known as Buggin’s Turn.
He struggled with consciousness and what was to become a monster hangover. He growled, pointing to the naked body lying next to him. The Political Advisor stepped up to the bed, folding a sheet over the human form, shaking it roughly, and dragging it away.
The Political Advisor advised that the people had taken to the streets.
He was instructed by the General to have the army shoot them.
The General stood next to the bed scratching his balls and then headed for the bathroom calling for coffee as he went. He returned in a robe and grabbed the coffee hungrily.
The Political Advisor cleared his throat and indicated that it was not just the people. It was the monks and nuns. He painted a picture of the river of saffron running through the streets surrounded by a human chain, white shirts and sarongs defining, containing and protecting the violently coloured flow.
Christ what a mess. The geriatric neo-fascists in Peking would be phoning all day long about the negative impact of unconsidered and hasty action on their Olympic Games. The PLA had treated Tibet as their own private turkey shoot for the last 50 years. Must have bagged a few red ones in that time!
Sweet Jesus, Bush would be on the phone in that Christian fundamentalist whine dropping malapropisms about right’s abuse, turrism and demanding the development of a culture of democracy and all that it entrails!
It was going to be a long hard day, his head was about to split asunder, his stomach was fluttering like a Tibetan prayer flag and if he didn’t get rid of these morons he would kill at least two of them.
He roared, they left.
The Political Advisor had prepared a plan by the time the General had emerged, almost sub-human, from his quarters and entered the presidential office.
1. Arrest and torture the usual suspects.
2. Isolate some of the people from the monks and nuns.
3. When the snatch squads were sure no western cameramen were around beat the living shit out of the people and shoot some.
4. Make sure the locals know what happened and that it would happen again until this crap stopped.
5. The Abbots of the local monasteries would be cordially invited to join the General for tea and biscuits to discuss the life of the Buddha, possible economic and legal sanctions against their institutions and the hope that they would join the national council of faith and reconciliation in an advisory capacity.
6. Oh! There would be a photo opportunity with the world’s press for the old saffron slapheads to smile broadly with the General and chuckle in that self deprecating way that Buddhists have. They would not be required to say anything. Who spoke the language in any case.
Very good. These Harvard and Gollyburton graduates could do a lot of the heavy lifting when it came down to it.
The appropriately sanitised military orders were signed by the General and the troops dispatched.
Dwight Pratt was sitting cross-legged in the monastery, uncomfortable in his rough saffron robes. He was facing his tutor Tam who sat in stillness wearing his robes and his consciousness lightly. Tam had been in the monastery for twenty years and was used to the spiritual questing of the few foreigners who made it to this part of the world. What he lacked in English he made up for in intelligence and a willingness to barter enlightenment for western sweets, to which he was addicted, the occasional joint which helped to go with the flow and the sexual advances of his male or female charges, which he could take or leave. Spiritual exercises were interrupted by the director of novices who summoned all to the courtyard where they were told of the Abbot’s dream and the great river of saffron that would flow through the streets and cleanse the country of much agitation and desire.
Dwight thought the whole setup bitchin. It was amazing. He would be there in the thick, his camera phone was charged to the full and he had enough credit to send 6meg Jpegs of every position in the Karma Sutra home to his girlfriend Kelly Ann Stringer who worked on the Akron Ohio Journal. Bring it on!
The demonstration, protest, river of consciousness, whatever, set off on its journey from the monastery. It was quickly coated in a white protective shield of the local population. It flowed on into the city.
Under careful management the elite public order troops shielded the local goons from the few cameras in the square while they delivered points 1 to 4 of the Gollyburton inspired plan.
Stripped of its protective shield the mass of monks and nuns smiled beatifically and exuded warmth and humanity in a non threatening way.
This can be a real bummer if you are an underfed, underpaid eighteen year old grunt in the local forces of law and order. If you are turbocharged on testosterone and plagued by acne such a pacific disposition is a positive incitement. A certain amount of verbal abuse and shoving was suffered by the monks but in tribute to their respected position in society it was relatively restrained and of course the chanting of the supplication to the compassionate Buddha does have a calming effect on those doing it and most of those hearing it.
Unfortunately Ky was near starvation, he was being pursued by the loan shark who serviced the police headquarters and he was a martyr to piles and a variety of STDs. He was sure the monk in front of him was not from hereabouts. He was a head taller, he smelled much worse than the local monks. Ky shoved Dwight. Dwight yelled imprecations that involved Ky’s mother rather than the compassionate Buddha and shoved back. Being an offensive football specialist and about 50 kilos heavier than Ky, Dwight had the edge! Ky landed on his arse with little ceremony. Adrenalin, testosterone and the insult to his mother, who he had never known, propelled Ky back onto his feet and coiled his body about the baton in a position which promised to deliver Dwight a fractured skull, at least. With the naivety and simple belief that goes all the way back to the Transylvanian silver cross, Dwight raised his cameraphone as a powerful talisman; red rag to a bull really.
A gentle, perfectly balanced hand moved Dwight to one side just as he was taking his ‘snap’. Tam stepped smiling in front of Ky. He stood in contemplation as the baton descended on his skull. It appeared to witnesses that, as the baton broke over his head,Tam blossomed like a flower. It was this picture, captured by the cameraphone digital delay, which passed around the world to Kelly Ann and made Dwight a millionaire several times over in an instant. He and Kelly Ann retired to a beach house in Carmel which they called, Kahma, and lived relatively happily ever after on the proceeds, chat shows, merchandising and royalties.
The compassionate one ensured that Tam was reincarnated and his spirit moved to a puppy that was born at the same instant the baton cracked on his skull. Well all those boiled sweets, pan drops and sherbet lemons had to be atoned for somehow.
The General’s hangover had not improved.
He did what?
The picture went where?
They captured the pictures and put tits on the monk?
They didn’t stop it?
Jesus Christ on a bicycle am I surrounded by morons?
The Political Advisor had a plan….
The General brushed it all aside.
This idiot Ky will be tried for murder, child molestation and not respecting his community elders!
His village will be burnt!
He will disappear!
The General directed that a memorial will be erected to the monk Tam and the worlds religious and secular leaders will be invited to participate in a ceremony of dedication to encourage peace love and friendship amongst nations.
What a f….ng day. The General was not to be disturbed. His 22.30 appointment should be shown into his quarters with two bottles of Bowbank after the usual body search.
He would review the situation in the morning.
ONE YEAR LATER
The General moved to the podium. Since the discovery of oil and uranium in the north of the country a few of the morally unbending westerners with broom handles stuck up their arses had agreed to join him in celebrating the life and spirituality of a man of peace. Tam was the embodiment of humanity, self sacrifice and all that shit. So he was about to unveil the monument. It was a crap piece of bronze in some contorted way meant to symbolise something, whatever, really the General just wanted to get through to the end of the year when Buggin’s Turn would mean he could enjoy the 100bn dollars he had prudently invested in ah… that would be telling!
A few words from the guests…. people moving into position and here we go.
The Abbot of Tam’s monastery had been invited and characteristically provided a cheerful smiling photo for the world’s press. He moved back when the first flash went off. He stepped on the tail of the dog that housed Tam’s spirit. The Tam dog barked and set off towards the chief bodyguard. The guard drew his side arm and aimed at the dog. The dog hit him midriff and the resultant shot severed the femoral artery of the Political Assistant.
A phalanx of lesser bodyguards formed round the podium and fired at the Abbot. The worlds press and television captured the sight of the smiling Abbot having his chest ripped apart by a fusillade. The general was captured on live feed being bitten by a nondescript dog and trying to shake the mutt off.
The dog lived out its life happily enough after escaping in the confusion.
The fact that it was infected with a new form of CJD only found in Asian dogs meant that on reincarnation it became a butterfly.
The General was not so lucky. His mind began to disintegrate within a month of the bite, and within the year he was to be found wandering the streets muttering and drooling….!
So the great wheel turns.
