The Desecration of Boris: The Tale Of A Drunken Dictator.

The Desecration of Boris: The Tale Of A Drunken Dictator.

When the food runs dry and the white rain falls,
The idols shall crumble, bringing freedom to all.
And the soldiers that marched down the longest night,
Will turn and flee from the rain in fright.
The god-kings scream and the dog-kings weep,
Waking millions from the suppression of sleep.
When our hope runs dry and the white rain falls,
The idol will stumble and bring laughter to all.

The Supreme President General Boris Devotchky, He borne of a virgin unicorn on the peak of Mount Olympus and soon-to-be God-king of the world, had a foul hangover. In an effort to dampen its effects, he slurped scalding hot coffee from his most valuable porcelain mug and winced as a sharp bolt of pain cracked open his skull. Discarded wine bottles, beer cans and caskets of vodka littered his opulent office. The level of abandoned alcohol containers ascended to such a great height that Boris’s vertically challenged butler, a sweaty, squeaking man that the Supreme President had affectionately nicknamed Fido, did not dare enter, for fear that he would sink up to his chin in discarded liquor bottles. The numerous paintings that portrayed dozens of glorified visions of Boris, engaged in all sorts of incredible activities, like riding on backs of rampaging sabre tooth tigers atop sweeping cliffs whilst waving ceremoniously to cheering masses of emaciated peasants, were lopsided or had fallen onto the thick, carpeted floor. Worse still, someone had knocked over his elephant foot umbrella holder and several gilded umbrellas now were scattered amongst the various puddles that had seeped from the multitudes of abandoned canisters, flasks and bottles. Something foul assaulted the Supreme President’s cavernous nostrils. It originated from a puddle of gelatinous vomit that had pooled onto a pair of Boris’s favourite crocodile skin shoes.

The day that The Supreme President General Boris had been dreading for the past two months had finally arrived and for the first time in his long and viscous reign, Boris was terrified.

Like all the most impressive dictators, Boris was a diminutive and unremarkable looking man. With his short stature, flabby neck, receding hairline and squinty eyes Boris hardly cut an intimidating figure, especially when one held it up in comparison to his international reputation for habitual ethnic cleansing and other human rights infractions. Even his military uniform, complete with two dozen medals that dangled smugly from his breast, was two sizes too big and made him look slightly ridiculous. Well, regardless of whether the uniform they were attached to fit their master the medals were well deserved, if Boris said so himself. The bottom four had been awarded for: Exceptional Services to Boris Devotchky awarded by…none other than Boris Devotchky. He was the first man to win the award four years in a row. Boris’s moustache was small and greasy and on cold days strings of wet snot would end up ensnared in its hair in disgusting strands.

Boris’s right hand man: Commander Vladimir the Ninth, observed his shaken God with growing anxiety. Vladimir was a little man, as Boris made a habit of hiring vertically challenged individuals as his advisors and generals. It made him feel much better about his own diminutive physicality. In fact, one time, a student called Travis had managed to manipulate his way into the position of the Supreme President’s personal butler and had disguised his height by walking on his knees for nine whole months, until one of Vladimir’s scouts spotted him standing up to polish a bookshelf. That night, the dictator’s twenty-seven Persian cats had been treated to an extra-large portion of meat for supper.

Vladimir clung to his leader’s success and bravado in a way that resembled a parasite more closely than a human being. It was a talent he had honed meticulously over the last seventeen years of servitude to the State. He was so used to seeing his Supreme President full of unhindered confidence, no matter how horrific the results of his decrees and witnessing him in this diminished state was most distressing. A weak leader was dangerous. Weakness would inevitably breed dissent and dissent could ultimately breed chaos and chaos, invariably, culminated in bloodshed. More often than not, it was the blood of the dictator and his closest acolyte’s that ultimately soaked the streets whenever a rebel faction chose to undertake the ritualistic purging that was a crucial component to any half-hearted revolution which, for someone in Vladimir’s position, was an even more worrying fact. Without his glorious leader to cling to, Vladimir dreaded to think what would become of himself.

Of course, Vladimir knew exactly what had brought on the tyrant’s depression. Today was January 15th, 2016. Today was the day that Supreme President General Boris Devotchky, He borne of a virgin unicorn on the peak of Mount Olympus and very-soonto-be God-king of the world, was due to meet with the U.S President. Apparently, the godless, democratic vermin at the U.N weren’t too pleased with the actions Boris had taken against the enemies of his regime. Personally, Vladimir had found the combination of napalm and alligators to be quite effective.

Boris despised the U.S President. Behind his desk a photograph of the tall and beautiful man had been converted into a sort of dartboard with fifty points available to be rewarded for a shot to the head. Boris always won dart matches played with his generals. Then again, you tended to win when you declared anyone who defeated you a traitor fit only to be lynched from the trees in Boris’s private garden. Boris loathed the very nature of democracy and anyone who supported it, but he had a special place in his heart for that smiling bastard of a President. Boris hated how that man led a country wealthier, happier and more powerful than his puny domain with such little ease. When that man spoke, people nodded because his words compelled them to. When Boris spoke, people nodded whilst armed troops held guns against their heads. It somehow made the hysterical cheers and wild applause at Boris’s rallies seem emptier. And why was it when American politicians spied on their people illegally, nobody ever complained but when Boris decided to execute a few thousand or so political prisoners all perfectly legally, suddenly it was a war crime. The hypocrisy of the West knew no bounds. How many children did the American swine kill in Nagasaki and Hiroshima?

Boris didn’t see anyone at the U.N busting America’s balls over that particular misdemeanour. Just thinking about the unfairness of it made Boris throw his gilded unicorn shaped ashtray across the room. It hit Vladimir hard in the family jewels but, ever the professional, Vladimir shook it off.

About The Author

Rhys Clark

I am an English and Theatre Studies student at the University of Warwick. I particularly enjoy dystopian literature and political satire. My influences as a writer are George Orwell, Christopher Hitchens, Kurt Vonnegut and Harold Pinter.

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