The Eagle Over Hiroshima

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
Now edited!
The abridged biography of Membalé Dalé Fagarac, one of the greatest minds of the mid twenty-first century. This is slightly futuristic, and it is a dystopic piece. This is the rather rough draft, so any advice would be great!

Submitted: September 15, 2007

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Submitted: September 15, 2007

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My name is MembalDalFagarac, but of course, you know that. I was born on the fourth of April in the year 1984 in a small town in Roslovenia, but isn't every town? My occupation is . . . difficult to explain. You could say that I am a Population Control Officer, but that is only one side of the sword.

I was born to both a mother and a father, but who cares? There is very little interest in my youth, and as such, I will fast forward through the majority of it. I went to school, I graduated, and well, here I am.

I first entered the realm of American politics in 2008, at the age of twenty-four. It was not much. I was the main aide of a then-small congressman from New Hampshire named Arthur Tyler. When he lost, I was fired. It was my first true experience with failure, and right then and there, I decided to never again experience the bitter taste of defeat. In 2012, I was the aide of Scott Fitzgerald, a democratic candidate from New York. In the wake of the Battle of the Greater Good, he was the best candidate, and so, when he was elected to the White House, I became his unofficial advisor. It was a great time for the first few months, but on April 28th, 2013, I was hit four times by a sniper while in Pensacola, Florida for a state event. The first bullet hit my right knee, the second struck my left shoulder, and the last two ricocheted into my face. After that day, my smile would only lift the right side of my mouth. Needless to say, I was changed by that experience. Fitzgerald completely forsook me, the guy who took four shots meant for him. It was then that I fell out of politics for a while. I spent almost five years serving on the police force of Roslovenia, learning how to use nearly anything to either kill or maim a person. In 2018, I resigned from the RPD, and returned to the United States of America. Once there, I decided to look up my old friend Scott Fitzgerald. He hadn't changed his locks in five years. Frankly, the feelings I felt as I dragged his carcass towards those of his family were some of the greatest I had ever felt. To play God like that was, and still is, intoxicating. To tell the truth, I didn't even realize what I had done until I was washing the blood off of my hands.

I meant to spend the next decade seeing the world. But, in 2024, I was arrested by the National Bureau of Security for the quadruple murder I had committed on May 30th, 2018. I was immediately detained, without a trial, in Shimatta Re-education Center, and I vanished for four years. It is futile for me to even attempt to describe my experiences within the center, as there is no word I know that could truly describe it. Let's just say it was horrifyingly mundane. I was deemed "Reprogrammed" on April 15th, 2029, and so, I returned to Roslovenia. Once there, I hid under the name Norbert, just to avoid further detection. Three years later, my life changed.

Tuesday, October 19th, 2032. 5:14 pm. I remember everything about the day my past called me.

"Is this Norbert?" The quiet voice on the other side said.

"Yes."

"I have a job for you."

"What sort?"

"Murder, of course. I saw what you did to Fitzgerald, so I know you can do it."

"I was re-educated for half a decade for that!" I snapped.

"How lucky that it was only five years." The voice replied. It was then that I realized two things: the identity of the caller and how I escaped with five years for four counts of murder. I shivered slightly.

"Indeed." I replied. "When shall I come?"

"I will meet you in Boston on Monday."

"Thank you, Mr. Tyler." I said, hanging up the phone. In retrospect, I should have waited for his response.

Despite his request to not meet until Monday, I was in Boston twenty-four hours after the call. Every good assassin scouts the field. I had an urge to go to the east coast for a few days, but I doubted that would be wise. The East War had been going on for ten years now, and so, it looked like, well, a war zone. I wandered around the city for quite some time, carefully avoiding the NBS Building. Call it an old habit. The most interesting tidbit I discovered was the day's newspaper. Naturally, yet another election was nearing, but the candidates were the most interesting. The United Republican Party Candidate was a man named Lucas Manson, and the National Democracy Candidate was my old friend Arthur Tyler. "So, he needs a bit of protection." I muttered to myself. I later rented a hotel room at a gaudy place called the Hilton. I smiled, recalling the enormous scandal that had ruined the Hilton family. It had to do with something about Paris purchasing Marlboro and accidentally filling the cigarettes with asbestos. Anyway, I was laying on the horridly lumpy bed, staring up at a water stain that bore an eerie resemblance to the Archibald of TV fame. Once I tired of that, I turned on the television.

"...as big as your head. In political news, Presidential candidate Arthur Tyler will be in Philadelphia until Monday, when he will come to Boston for a personal meeting. I am Nikki Smith, good night." I smiled at the coincidence. Time to go pay him a visit.

Due to the horrid traffic, it took me nearly twelve hours to reach the "City of Brotherly Love", to use the old nickname. I had always felt that the new nickname was far better. I hurried down the streets, only meeting the eyes of a lonely homeless man, I mean, Homeless-American. It was amusing that the government had a "socially acceptable" name for the bums, instead of eliminating them like they did with the "gays". As I neared the center where Tyler was speaking, a sobering thought hit me. Here I was, forty-eight years old, rushing off to a guy who had betrayed me two decades ago. I merely brushed it aside and entered the enormous center. In the twenty-five years since I had first entered politics, rallies had changed dramatically. The scene before me called to mind the Nazi rallies of a century before. I sighed, disgusted by my fellow Americans. Slowly, I made my way down towards the stage, on which stood a single man, shouting loudly.

"The threat of foreign nations must end! America will reign both strong and true! Only a united front can hope to win! Strength through unity!" I found myself having to swallow bile, the irony of his words not lost on me.

After the rally, I was unable to reach Tyler, and so, I had to wait until Monday. I returned to the airport and walked up to Tyler.

"Mr. Tyler." I said coldly.

"Ah, Membal How good to see you, old boy!"

"Likewise. Why am I here?" He chuckled.

"Straight to business. I need you to, um, eliminate my opponent."

"Oh, Artie!" I said cheerfully. "You have an enemy!" He rolled his eyes.

"Just do it." He walked away. I stared at the back of his head. It would be so simple. I had the pistol on my waist. To draw my gun and pull the trigger would be the work of a fraction of a second. Alas, I did not.

In order to kill a presidential candidate, one must plan. My planning went like this: gun or knife? The gun is so deadly and beautiful, yet the knife is so much more personal. The last thing the victim sees is your face. Pardon the pun, but the question was killing me.

That evening, I found myself at a Charity Dinner hosted by Lucas Manson himself. I elegantly made my way through the faceless masses, my eyes seeing only my target, unaware of the dark predator slowly stalking him, watching his every move. I prepared to strike. I removed the steely blade from its plain sheath, practically feeling the deathly aura radiating off of its every iota. It thirsted for the metallic taste of blood. This kill would be a true challenge.

"Mr. Manson." I said calmly, concealing my weapon. "How are you?"

"Fine, fine. Do I know you?" He asked cautiously, his eyes frantically scanning my face as he searched for a name. I pulled him close.

"No." I whispered in his ear as the knife pierced the flesh of his back. I carefully lowered his dead body, and quietly made my way out of the room, the screams hardly piercing my thoughts.

I spent over a year in Alaska, hiding from the NBS. It was so bitterly cold in the wilderness, but sacrifice is necessary. It was months before I heard that, despite the knife in his back, Manson was recorded as having died of a stroke. I did not return to America until May of 2034. By then, Mr. Tyler had been president for over a year. Already, people were suggesting that he would be re-elected in 2036. I was welcomed with open arms back to the White House, and spent the rest of my free life as "the President's Advisor and Aggressive Negotiator". As he often put it. In the eight years of Tyler's administration, I eliminated dozens, from dignitaries to protestors, from citizens to diplomats. The Goatchildren riots in Chicago were said to have been calmed by the arrest of the ringleaders, but the truth is I got them, the bodies to never be found. On January 20th, 2041, President Tyler left the White House, and I went with him.

After that, my life once again changed. On Mach 14th, 2041, the National Times released an exposon how Tyler had ordered the murders of all those people.

"Don't worry, we will prevail." Tyler told me, but his career was in shambles. Then, the world shattered. On February 19th, 2042, an assassin from Japan killed both Tyler and the current president, Andrew White. In the interest of preventing war, I was arrested.

I am scheduled to die on Friday, March 3rd, 2045. Today is Wednesday, September 14th, 2044, and so, I have only six months to live. I have no doubt that no one beside you, Mr. Falk, sitting there in your comfortable NBS office, will ever read this. After all, this biography, though short, could change the world. My name is MembalDalFagarac, but of course, you know that.


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