The Family

22

The Family 

Hilaire Vériquin gets out of voluntary isolation today, after months of seclusion in his own home. Those four long days under custody he went through, handcuffed, conveyed between the courthouse and the prison like livestock in a armored paddy wagon, and frisked regularly, usually while naked, strongly affected his mental equilibrium. Fortunately for Hilaire, Naomi fought tooth and nail to get him exonerated, after learning from Chuck Canada that the taxi driver only played a minor role in her terrible ordeal; a living nightmare entirely planned from abroad by Jones Brooklyn. Hilaire Vériquin will forever be traumatized by his incarceration at the Rivière-des-Prairies detention center. His first phone call to Tatie Monique, after forty-eight hours of confinement, gives a good idea of his preoccupations during his unbearable sojourn inside the walls of that penal institution. 

"Sell our cars, Tit Mone. Get rid of all the tools crammed in the shed and take a new mortgage on the house. Just do whatever it takes to hire the best lawyer we can afford. Pick a man, a old one who dresses nicely and doesn't smoke. I don't want a woman or an immigrant with an accent, and certainly not a young rookie who just graduated from law school. Make sure that our man looks like a judge himself."  
"I already got in touch with Bérubé-Castonguay, Lèlè. He'll be representing you on your next court date, Thursday. Apart from that, are you hanging in?"  
"I'm lucky I have lots of extra fat around my waist. I haven't eaten in the last forty-eight hours. They serve you an indigestible breakfast around seven, then around four P.M., two slices of bread with cheese which could be used to seal wall joints. I'm afraid to use the showers. I heard too many stories about what might happen to me in there. They threw me in a sector called, Protect, along with the snitches, the mentally challenged and the rapists. One of my cellmates told me he was charged with breaking and entering his ex-wife's home with a stolen semi-trailer truck."  
"I don't understand."  
"That's exactly what I'm talking about, Monique. There's absolutely nothing to understand. That's why they've locked this lunatic up for good. The dork used a twenty ton vehicle instead of a key to enter his former house. He wanted to make sure his ex-wife's new boyfriend would not profit from what he said he built with his own sweat. You don't want to know what my other roommate did. To give you a small idea about his constant state of mind, he starts every sentence by reminding you that most people think he is crazy.''  
''Are you safe in there at least, Lèlè? Do you fall asleep?"  
"There's only a set of bunk beds, but there's three of us. There's a bunch of unwritten laws in jail; and being the new guy in an overcrowded cell doesn't give you a lot of rights. I have to hang up now. There's a hairy brute waiting behind me. He wants to use the only phone available and wants it now. I don't need this inmate mad at me. He is the guy who decides what television channels everyone else must watch and who gets to eat dessert." 

Hilaire Vériquin learned the good news yesterday. Burns Breton has finally been extradited. Hilaire feels he can now come out of hiding and start living again. What that maniac did to the employees of that motel on the South Shore is beyond evil. Georgelina is waiting for her uncle in the car with Minerva, Emerson and Tatie Monique. It's Sunday, tam-tam day in every corners of the Mount-Royal Park. Hilaire needs the sun and the exercice. He must release a lot of tension and relieve stress urgently in order to keep his sanity. 

*** 

The SSG ceased to exist. Chief Police Bilodeau made a promise to Little Ronnie Costco. The officer told him he would ignore the minor infractions of the clan in exchange of a couple of names. Unfortunately, Bilodeau could not keep his word for ethical reasons. Costco had been released on parole after serving one third of his last sentence. That reinsertion measure was automatically revoked by a judge, when the prosecutor informed the court about the nature of the new crimes Costco was accused of. The interim chief of the SSG was sent back to the Montreal Detention Center, commonly known as Bordeaux Beach, to finish the remaining two thirds of his punishment. His trial will begin in three months. The Crown is accusing Little Ronnie Costco, born Wilmer Alderman Gascon, of drug possession, of carrying a concealed and prohibited weapon for a purpose dangerous to the public peace, of careless use of a firearm, armed assault, vandalism, and a number of other charges Costco might find indefensible, mainly due to the fact that he was filmed in high definition while doing most of his misdeeds. 

Gunja Spliff and Jedi were assigned to a section of the Bordeaux prison under the control of their downtown buddies. They were embraced has local heroes. Their welcome party lasted for several hours. Gunja Spliff quickly found out after two hallucinatory episodes that the cannabis available inside the walls was of much better quality then the junk being sold on the streets. On his part, Jedi took his incarceration very badly. He had just met the perfect girl at the local library and was falling in love. Jedi quickly became troubled and deeply depressed. He isolated himself from his comrades, started popping pills at an alarming rate and became self-destructive, sometimes to the point of starving himself for days. His mom's prayers to Saint-Jude were answered one sunny morning. Jedi came right back to Earth and to his senses, fifteen minutes after meeting with Ace, a former lieutenant of the SSG Cell. Ace told him that Little Ronnie Costco was sucking dicks in the neighbouring aisle to pay for his daily dope. Jedi stopped playing with his health on that same day. He began participating actively in the meetings of the Brothers, a group of clean cut and God fearing convicts whose families frequently visited them. 

On his part, Gunja Spliff took a less spiritual way to deal with his despair. He asked Ace to arrange a session for him with the president of the block. Two days later, he was stabbing another inmate with a debt problem for his new boss. Gunja Spliff gained a lot of respect and was paid with enough cigarettes and pot to start a small business venture. 

The SSG Cell members who remained faithful to Chuck Three Brothers chose to keep a low profile in order to preserve their freedom. They all avoided prosecution following the Chemin Chambly incident, despite the perseverance and the determination of the investigators put on the case which made the national news headlines. The detectives gave priority to some more important matters after a while, the SSG having become practically inactive. The rest of the guys realized it was time to go their separate ways. Big Moose now works as a security agent in a South Shore shopping mall under a stolen identity. The pay is good and nobody times his lunch breaks. Four agents have more seniority than him, but the privilege to be granted the care of the master key is at hands reach. Old man Fernand is retiring next year; Roland is talking about buying a farm near Saint-Lin; Cassandra wants a baby right away; and Despina is acting like his girlfriend since he jumped her in the janitor's closet. Big Moose is extremely patient, a vestige of his childhood passions for chess and mathematics. Old man Fernand wants to leave the province of Quebec for a place with a dry climate like Arizona; Roland hopes to have success producing cheese; Cassandra is soon starting her sex reassignment therapy; and Despina is ready to help Moose with his ambitious burglary project. The largest jewelry store of the shopping center just renewed its inventory and confirmed the prolongation of its lease. As soon as the master key is handed to Despina, Big Moose will simply disappear in the haze with the store's merchandise. 

Ricardo is back in school with the support and assistance of Miron, a former associate of the SSG who came back from a trip to Haiti, completely transformed by the Grace of the Lord. After graduation, Ricardo plans to start a Creole fast-food chain, specializing in fried chicken, with a publicity budget, Tuesday specials, student discounts and all that jazz. Miron is now married and a preacher in a Montreal-North Adventist temple. His Lexus is, according to his philosophy, a flagrant proof that the Lord of Hosts is standing right behind him. Miron told Ricardo that Jeff Sprinter and Jim Falafel both found a way to return home in Quebec. Sprinter now works as the assistant manager of his aunt's snack on Saint-Michel Boulevard; Falafel drives seniors and people with reduced mobility in an adapted vehicle; they are also co-owners of a hydroponic greenhouse installed in the basement of a Brossard split-level. 

Drive-by left the South Shore of the city of Montreal for the West Island. He divides his time between his hair cutter's day job and delivering pizza at night. One client out of five who orders food past 10 P.M. also buys pot from him or ask where they can find some. Since he walked away from the thug life, Drive-by's urticaria symptoms have significantly waned. He sometimes gives his real name to strangers without being forced and even stopped watching behind his back when roaming the streets at night. 

Paolo's health also improved. His panic attacks are less frequent and he sleeps much better since he began working for his uncle Hilaire in the taxi business. Paolo really thought he could lead an honest life. That was before learning that normal people paid taxes on their income to two Finance Ministers at the end of each year. To make ends meet, Paolo feels obliged to use the vehicles of the small company to drive escorts around town for fifty dollars a trip. After midnight, Paolo becomes a wine and spirits supplier. His prices are considered high and abusive before 3 A.M., overtly indecent once the city's nightclubs are closed. 

Anaïs also moved from Longueuil to Roxboro, in the West Island. She now works in a strip joint where touching and groping is allowed. When she was dating Little Ronnie Costco, the latter kept her away from such clubs because of the high risks of abuse, but he still taxed her like a feudal baron for a protection she never really needed. Now that Anaïs is her own boss, the money keeps piling up at a dizzying pace. A regular client bought her a new hybrid car, another one dresses her in the fanciest boutiques and showers her with gifts and jewelry. In exchange, they get the privileged to stick their noses between her bosoms once in a while. Anaïs estimates that she will have accumulated enough dough in the next five years or so to open her own beauty salon in the heart of downtown Montreal. 

Florence chose to use her brain in a different manner. She first got her high school degree and applied for college. She is starting her first semester in nursing in a couple of weeks. Florence intends to stay in a classroom until she gets a masters degree in international cooperation. Her dream is to create and run her own NGO in Haiti. 

Candy survived an overdose. She spent six months in therapy in a detox center outside of town. Once done, she joined the team of addiction workers to help them deal with the most disobedient residents. Candy was skin and bones when she was brought by ambulance to the center. She barely spoke to anyone during the first few weeks of the program. She was also very agressive, unreasonable and hard to deal with. Candy is now fleshy, easy-going and down-to-earth. The doctor recently told her the Hepatitis C virus was no more detectable in her blood. She now wants to major in criminology and eventually work with troubled teenagers. The former members of the SSG Cell think Candy is dead. It's a good thing, because Candy has never felt so free and safe.  

When Big Moose and the crew showed up with Murder One Villacampa at the bungalow in Saint-Basile, searching for Chuck's money, the firemen were still battling the flames, officers were redirecting the circulation and looking for evidence and putting yellow police tape everywhere. Drive-by and Ricardo profited from the confusion to question bystanders and witnesses of the incident. The owner of the convenience store nearby told them that the house simply exploded while a police officer was attempting to force open a window from the first floor. Braving the heat and the raging fire, the lawmen entered the residence and quickly came out with an unconscious young woman. Paramedics and at least three firetrucks arrived on the scene in the following minutes. Paolo took the rest of the gang with him on a strategic joyride between McMasterville, Mont Saint-Hilaire and Ottenburn Park, thus giving time to the Forensic Services to finish their work and secure the crime scene. They came back two days later in the middle of the night and went into the wreckage of the burnt down house. The walls of Chuck's home recording studio being fireproof, they found the reclining chair they were looking for in good condition, but the absence of the cushion made them realize that someone who knew about its great value had come before them. 

***

Ulysses-Hercules Dondedieu Légitime now lives without any compromise within his legitimate family. The time he spent in prison had a beneficial effect on his health and emotional balance. He doesn't consider himself cured, but his obsessive-compulsive disorders have a lesser impact on his every day life and on his relationship with others. Ulysses-Hercules ended up in therapy while incarcerated, because it was the safest place for him at the Cook County jail. The Lethal Irish had a price put on his head and their disciples seemed to be in every sector of the institution, including the board of directors. 

Ulysses-Hercules joined the United States federal Witness Protection Program and changed his name to Bert E. Lambert after his release. He has very few contacts with his new neighbors and has no friends. The mother of his children first refused to follow him in that clandestine adventure, but it was before signing the prenuptial agreement guaranteeing her half of Bert E. Lambert's fortune in the event of a divorce. Bérénice answers to the name of Maxine nowadays. She runs a vacation resort targeting retired people and seniors in a desert area of the country. Her son, Clyde, lives in Southall, west of London, where he is studying to become an imam. He still goes by his birth name, but most of his friends call him brother El-Hadji. Clyde never got along with his absent dad, the fact that he is now an ex-convict living in hiding simplifies and justifies his choice to cut all ties with him. Armandine hesitated between Charizma, Treasure and Cherisha. She wanted a hip hop name, but her mother convinced her to chose sobriety and go with Kate. Kate regrets the loss of her circle of friends. On the other side, she embraces the fact that she will have the opportunity to attend the university of her choice and study medicine or whatever she wants. On his part, Tom-Tom didn't understand his parents explanations. As a precautionary measure, they sent him to a boarding school in Switzerland until he is old enough to grasp the importance of this identity change. 

The FBI told Ulysses-Hercules he had to cut all bridges with the Légitime family when they showed him his official death certificate. Despite the warnings, he still manages to see his younger brother, Achille-Hector, now a Jehovah's Witness, during congresses they hold in different parts of the world. He also meets on a regular basis with his former lawyer, Philbert Hans-Orville Grosbois Sr., in order to withdraw extra money from his share of the inheritance and get financial advice from the retired counselor. Ulysses-Hercules occasionally drops by his little sister's film production company, passing for a member of the crew. He even goes as far as spending some quality time with his old mother when she visits Doctor Stewart, mainly to renew her marijuana prescription. Finally, Ulysses-Hercules rubs elbows and shares a drink with uncle Amaury Quick every time the top executives at Aaronson Solidaire Autoparts, formerly Legitimus Automotives, meet.        

Edmondine Belhumeur hit the jackpot after divorcing Ulysses-Hercules. In addition to pocketing half of the family patrimony, her lawyers put her in command of a dozen businesses previously owned by her ex-husband. The IRS had no objection with the switch, Ulysses-Hercules having been declared dead by a recognized state coroner now running for a higher office. Edmondine's health remarkably improved following the separation. Her chronic depression is a thing of the past. She doesn't need to hide her relationship with her loyal Guillermo anymore. After a decade of humiliations under the authority of his insufferable boss, the patience of the Mexican butler finally paid. He will soon become an American citizen with a certification in teaching English as a second language. Edmondine Belhumeur moved heaven and earth so she could find Meredith O'Reilly, the innocent young secretary Ulysses-Hercules impregnated, feeling somehow linked to the destiny of that child she certainly hoped was her own. Edmondine Belhumeur was expecting the worse when she found Meredith O'Reilly. She even thought about involving the social services of the county in the issue, considering the age, the financial precarity of that young woman and her disreputable extended family. Edmondine is not worried anymore. Meredith opened her own private nursery school in Bridgeport, Connecticut. She makes more money alone then the average American household. Her father lives two blocks away. Keenan Quinn O'Reilly works as the janitor of her pre-school. The former Irish thug loves his grandkid so much that the school psychologist warned his mother about the adverse effects of parental over protection. 

Achille-Hector Donduciel Légitime's life has also changed tremendously. After a few sessions with his therapist, he finally recognized how much greed had contributed to his devastating drugs and alcohol relapses. What he did to Pedro Alvarez after stealing all his money destroyed a part of Achille-Hector's humanity. The former preacher worked very hard to find solid arguments in order to deny the existence of God and justify his return to radical Atheism. But he quickly felt a void. Achille-Hector missed the warmth of the Baptist congregation and his superstar status amongst the church members. That spiritual wandering lead him to Kant, metaphysics and rationalism. He even tried Buddhism and Shamanism. A former convict he helped find a stable situation and reintegrate society some years ago introduced Achille-Hector to Pan-Africanism and to the principles of the Nation of Islam organization, but the excessive activism and involvement of its members freaked him out because it seemed like too much work. Another acquaintance spoke of Moroni, John Smith and the Book of Mormons to Achille-Hector during a trip in the New York subway. The rebelled Baptist got really scared and wondered if that man was allowed to buy and own guns. One day, two young men wearing short sleeve shirts rang at Achille-Hector's doorbell and simply asked him if he knew the real name of God. Achille-Hector started a Bible study with them, ignoring his wife who was against. He was soon baptized as a Jehovah's Witness in a Tennessee stadium. Mildred is convinced her husband will be back to the Baptist Church when his new brothers and sisters learn more about his estate or when he begins to ask questions about the leaders of his new found faith. While waiting for the return of her lost sheep, Mildred is still part of the New Golgotha Baptist Church, now administered by Dudley and Brother Odelin, known in all Philadelphia and Camden as the Cadillac Preachers. 

Jeanne d'Arc-Victoria Légitime told Mildred to stop worrying. She believes her brother will be back to the Protestant Church when he'd had enough of the boring way of life and lifeless rituals of the Restorationists. Achille-Hector is a bon vivant who loved the atmosphère of festivity which prevailed on every Sunday at the Camden temple way too much not to return home. For her part, Victoria is still a moderate Catholic. She never finds time to go to mass, but knows who to call when she is frightened. Her association with Junior Grosbois nearly cost her seven years of involuntary restraint in a California state prison. A lot of specific prayers she learned as a kid suddenly came back to her memory when her lawyer told her about the long list of accusations she was facing. Her supplications were heard and a miracle occurred. Moïse Berri intervened and forced Junior Grosbois to take all the blame. Jeanne d'Arc-Victoria was told months later that Junior agreed to take the dive only to save his ass. A contract had been put over his head and Terminal Island had become the safest place on Earth for him to sleep and just be. 

Victoria is slowly recovering from the shock she experienced when she was informed about the return to life of her cousin, Evelyn, in the skin of an eccentric man. The idea of bringing the story of Evelyn Laure Légitime to the big screen is on the table. Jeanne-d'Arc-Victoria has already contacted Oprah, Tyler Perry and Ellen Degeneres for funding. Only Doctor Stewart knew about the transformation of Evelyn Laure Légitime. He is the one who recommended Rachel D. Eisner to her. Professional secrecy obliged him to stay silent about the sex reassignment process. The family reunion due next month in Mont-Tremblant will be an occasion for everyone to witness the resurrection of Evelyn Laure and also her baptism, because he plans to reveal his new chosen legal name. Déodas-Démosthène is the happiest and the proudest dad on the planet. Learning that Evelyn Laure had been his main invisible partner since the beginning of the adventure within the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation completely baffled him. The poor man had grown sour and could not look at himself in the mirror anymore, because of the shame he felt wangling in the shadows and behind close doors. Déodas-Démosthène was now aware that all the shady tricks that his despicable associate, the evasive Moïse Berri, had orchestrated, were only a way to maintain the predominance of good over evil in the affairs of his native land. 
     

*** 

According to the World Factbook, Mizérikod never really existed, but security guards from Academi, a private military company formerly known as Blackwater Worldwide, are blocking the exit of the Nationale #2, the road that leads to Capois-la-Mort Boulevard. The deafening noise made by the jackhammers, the use of dynamite, bulldozers and drilling rigs is masked by tracks of heavy metal music coming from giant speakers cleverly bolted to the trees. Nobody knows what is being being built or who is building it. 

Elzéar Michelet moved to Grand Saline in a stone house he received from the government as compensation. But that was not enough to buy his silence. Elzéar keeps telling whoever wants to listen about the events that lead to the forced evacuation of Mizérikod one week after Hurricane Sandy. Now that he is wearing a pair of pants, shoes that fit and prescription glasses, people take the old man more seriously. Elzéar Michelet maintains that the destruction of the city has been filmed and documented. Denying that major event is a way for the State of Haiti to erase it from the collective memory. 
''Why is it forbidden by the I.C.A.O to fly over the region?" Elzéar asks random people passing by. "Why can't freelance reporters like me take pictures of the workers, the heavy machinery and the enormous amount of equipment which comes and goes day and night on Nationale #2? You tell me. How come the locals are not welcomed behind the gates, while you see foreigners crossing them all the time with their special passes from the Ministry of Energy?"  Elzéar Michelet wants answers to his interrogations, but people walking by are either uninformed or scared of him and the situation. The psychiatrist who visits Elzéar every first Monday of the month thinks his questions are pertinent. The old man doesn't talk about his grandkids like if they were still alive and present anymore. Which is, according to the shrink, a huge health improvement. To help Elzéar get better and eventually reconnect completely with reality, Violette Lavache even found the ancient a part time job. Elzéar works as a teacher with the children of the new orphanage of Mr. Saint-Saëns and Mrs Larouche, located in an abandoned warehouse of Ça Ira, near Léôgane. Cyril Lavache drives him to work with his old Lincoln. Cyril, Violette, her son Uri and Rondall Jérémie also live together in Grand Saline, in a multi generational house they bought with the compensation money granted by the government. Nasty tongues argue that the former rice vendor and suspected rapist is not the husband of Violette, but a zombie programmed to serve her like a slave. They say that Rondall Jérémie never wear short sleeves because he must hide the small infusion pump plugged to his forearm. The device regularly injects in his cubital vein, the secret mixture that keeps him in a permanent semi-conscient state. 

Mrs. Consuelo used the indemnity she received from the city of Mizérikod, after proving the council's implication in the destruction of her popular diner during a politically controlled riot, to open a bed and breakfast in the nearby commune of Gressier. The menu of her new joint is broad and diverse, thanks to the talent of Pamphile Dutervil, aka Chef Doudou. The famous cook's wife, Mélissandre Présumé, manages the place and Pamphile's cousin, Vidal Gascon, is its custodian. Ludovic deals with the take-outs, the dishwasher and general maintenance. The kid goes back to his growing patty business when his shift is done. It is not rare to bump into Victor Gourdet at the Consuelo Inn, sipping a mango daiquiri at the VIP table and talking economics, politics, environment, current events or exchanging thoughts on various social topics with a person who thinks he is sane. Victor The Hexagone stopped publishing his newspaper and sometimes forget his own name, but he is still the main source of information in town. For instance, the regular clients of the Consuelo Inn learned from his mouth, just yesterday, that Amédée Fleurinor, the former mayor of Mizérikod, was the man behind the rigged intramural lottery held inside the Croix-des-Bouquets prison each Friday at sundown. His accomplice in crime, disgraced police chief, Yves-Arnold Malvenu, evaded justice after the cemetery scandal with the help of his daughter in law's money. Since his marriage to Amélie Lausanne, the heiress of the Mendes Y Calderon sugar plantation, Pyram Malvenu and his father have become untouchable citizens. The Departmental Council members pretend they don't exist as long as the brown bags and the checks keep coming; The Dominican Republic officials on the other side of the border and the American DEA believe both men joined the short-lived revolutionary army of Baudelaire Fleurant and were quickly executed for insubordination or died mysteriously of some unknown disease after losing their compass in the Sierra de Bahoruco National Park. 

Reverend Louis Éloïse and Gargarine recently came by the Consuelo Inn bed and breakfast also. The father and son team frequently travel between Saint-Marc and Queens. They're in the women's underwear and fake hair business, but they use their factories at night in both countries to preach the Word to any wandering sheep with a stable income. They told Victor that Judge Zilérion Campbell was now legally blind, living off welfare and making ends meet by operating a taxicab on Flatbush Avenue without a New York State driving licence. Gargarine and Reverend Louis Éloïse also claimed that Senator Fleurant was still alive, despite all the rumors, but unfortunately trapped in the complexities of the American judicial system; the United States Customs and Border Protection and the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agencies being unable to decide whether Fleurant is an illegal immigrant or a political refugee after three hearings in a Manhattan courtroom. 

The Baudouin-Lacroix twins dropped by the Consuelo Inn last week. They stayed in the luxury suite of the lodging establishment, facing the sea. Mrs. Consuelo and her personnel could not believe their eyes. With a decent haircut, shiny alligator shoes and a three piece suit, the two scoundrels looked like government employees in charge of serious stuff, respected members of society just like their parents. Yvon Baudouin said he was now a used car seller, while Yves Lacroix bragged about growing vegetables and other medicinal plants on their grandmother's land. They were lying. The truth came out of Djon Djon's mouth three days later during the celebration of the first anniversary of the Petit Goâve Life insurance company. According to Guito, the twins make their money by organizing motorcycle races in the mountains of  the Grande Anse. The hoax works perfectly: Yves begins the race while Yvon finishes it, depending on the bets. With the helmet, the sweat and the dust, it is virtually impossible to tell them apart. 

The Interior Ministry and the Department of Civil Protection are adamant and firm on the subject: Mizérikod is a complete myth. The commune was never listed on any electoral map. However, people who still live there know how to reach the town by the Darbonne Road even if it is constantly guarded by a bunch of foreign armed watchmen. The headquarters of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation is still located at the same address. Prospérine de Grâce coordinates the reconstruction work has the co-president of the institution. Both her brothers partially regained their sanity. Propérine used her influence to reinstate Lordy and Léopold in their former positions. Lordy de Grâce is back in service at the Ministry of National Education and Léopold at the head of the human resources department of the Foundation. The next meeting between Prospérine and Evelyne Laure Légitime is set for tomorrow at the Kompa Lakay nightclub. 

Evelyne Laure found a way to dupe Interpol by plotting and filming the accidental and extremely graphic violent death of Moïse Berri. The video went viral and created a widespread malaise in the media and on many social networking websites before it was condemned, removed and banned. DJ Evasion and Rico Mars directed the short film with a tiny budget with the help of MC Jones Brooklyn for the score and Chuck Three Brothers for the script. The two gangsters had no choice but to make peace after being threaten by a high ranking officer of the HNP hired by Moïse Berri. Georgelina Vériquin and Naomi Naud arrived in Haiti last night with a fake passport and new identity papers to help Chuck leave the country. Evelyne Laure was present when Georgelina and her brother met after three long years of separation. Evelyne Laure was overwhelmed by the complicity between the two siblings. 

Georgelina handed a box of Hondurian cigars to Chuck. 
“Saint-Basile?” he shouted. 
“Saint-Basile ”, echoed his sister. 

They then burst into laughter like nothing else in the world mattered. 

La Famille

22 

La Famille 

22 
La Famille 

Hilaire Vériquin sort de son isolement volontaire aujourd'hui, après plusieurs mois de réclusion dans sa propre maison. Les quatre jours qu'il a passé à faire la navette entre le palais de justice et la prison après son arrestation, constamment menotté, les pieds enchaînés, transporté comme du bétail dans un fourgon cellulaire, puis fouillé entre chaque déplacement, parfois même à nu, ont gravement ébranlé son équilibre mental. Heureusement pour Hilaire, Noémie s'est battue bec et ongles afin de le faire disculper, après avoir appris de Chuck Canada le simple rôle de marionnette qu'avait joué l'innocent chauffeur de taxi dans cette mésaventure entièrement planifiée à partir de l'étranger par Jones Brooklyn. Hilaire Vériquin restera à jamais traumatisé par son incarcération au centre de détention de Rivière-des-Prairies. Son premier coup de téléphone à Tatie Monique après deux jours d'emprisonnement donne une idée de ses préoccupations durant son bref séjour entre les murs de cet établissement. 

- Vend nos voitures, Mamone. Débarasse-nous des outils inutiles entassés dans la remise et prend une nouvelle hypothèque sur la maison. Fais tout ce qu'y faudra pour me dégoter un bon avocat. Choisis un homme, un vieux, un type bien habillé qui ne fume pas. Je veux pas de femme, ni d'immigrant avec un accent, et surtout pas une recrue qui vient de passer le barreau. Assure-toi que notre homme ait lui-même l'air d'un juge et ne soit pas haïtien ni un membre de notre famille élargie. 
- J'ai déjà contacté maître Bérubé-Castonguay. Il te représentera lors de ta prochaine comparution en cour jeudi. Quel stress pour toi, Lèlè. Il faut prier, oui, Lèlè, si tu veux survivre à cette mésaventure orchestrée par les complices de Lucifer. L'Éternel est mon Berger. 
- Une chance que j'ai du gras en réserve, Mamone, mon coeur. Je n'ai absolument rien bouffé depuis quarante-huit heures. Il te serve un déjeuner indigeste le matin, puis vers seize heures, deux tranches de pain blanc avec un morceau de fromage infect qui pourrait servir de colle à joints dans une salle de bain. Pour ce qui est de m'aventurer dans les douches. Les histoires sur ce qui risque de m'arriver la-dedans feraient frémir Louis-Jean Beaugé. Y m'ont placé dans une zone appelé, « la Protect », un secteur réservé aux délateurs, aux débiles légers et aux violeurs. Un de mes compagnons de cellule prétend qu'il purge du temps compté en double pour s'être introduit par effraction chez son ex-femme à bord de son camion remorque. 
- Je ne comprends pas. 
- Justement, Mamone, y a rien à comprendre, c'est exactement pour ça qu'y est enfermé. Ce type a utilisé un douze roues de 20 tonnes pour entrer dans le salon de son ancienne maison. Y voulait priver son ex-conjointe d'un toit pour recevoir son nouvel amant. Je préserve tes oreilles des salades que m'a racontées son confrère. Pour te donner une idée de sa condition mentale, l'homme commence chaque phrase par : « Tu vas penser que j'suis fou, mais… » 
- Es-tu en sécurité là-bas, Lélè, parviens-tu au moins à dormir la nuit ? 
- Y a deux lits superposés, mais on est trois. Je passe des nuits blanches sur un matelas mince comme une galette à même le plancher. Je dois raccrocher. La brute qui attend après moi pour utiliser le seul téléphone fonctionnel est la même bête qui décide du poste de télévision en tout temps. Je veux pas l'avoir sur mon dos ou provoquer un incident. 

Hilaire Vériquin a appris la bonne nouvelle hier matin, Burns Breton a finalement été extradé. Tant que ce sinistre individu demeurait au Canada, Hilaire craignait pour sa sécurité. Ce que Breton, connu dans le milieu sous le nom de Monsieur B., a fait subir aux employés de ce motel est l'oeuvre d'un esprit irrémédiablement dérangé. Georgelina attend son oncle dans le stationnement de la prison au volant de la Malibu de Minerva en compagnie de sa mère, d'Emerson Fournier et de Tatie Monique. Nous sommes dimanche, la journée des tams-tams au pied du Mont-Royal. Hilaire a grand besoin de soleil et de se défouler. Il faudra maintenant le convaincre de se laisser aller et de danser pour oublier. 
　
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Le SSG a officiellement mis un terme à toutes ses activités illicites. Le commandant Bilodeau avait promis à Tit Ronnie Costco de fermer les yeux sur les infractions mineures antérieures du clan en échange de noms et de renseignements pertinents sur des trafiquants plus importants. Cette promesse n'a pu être tenue pour des raisons déontologiques. Tit Ronnie Costco bénéficiait d'une libération conditionnelle accordée au tiers de sa dernière sentence. Cette mesure de réinsertion sociale a automatiquement été révoquée par un juge, dès que le procureur a informé celui-ci de la nature des nouveaux crimes reprochés à ce récidiviste invétéré. Le chef par intérim du SSG a donc été renvoyé au Centre de Détention de Montréal, communément appelé Bordeaux Beach par ses habitués, afin de terminer les deux tiers restant de sa peine. Son procès débutera dans trois mois. La Couronne accuse Tit Ronnie Costco, Wilmer Alderman Gascon de son vrai nom, de possession de drogue, de port d'arme dans un dessein dangereux, d'usage négligent d'une arme à feu, d'agression armée, de vandalisme, ainsi que d'un nombre impressionnant de charges pratiquement indéfendables, plusieurs de ces gestes ayant été filmés. 

Lorsque Gunja Spliff et Jedi sont arrivés à leur tour dans cette aile de l'Établissement de Détention de Montréal, un secteur de la prison entièrement contrôlé par leurs parrains du centre-ville de Montréal, ils ont été accueillis en véritables héros. La fête de bienvenue a duré trente heures. Gunja Spliff a admis, suite à deux épisodes hallucinatoires avec délire de persécution, que la qualité du cannabis à l'intérieur des murs dépassait de loin la merde contaminée aux produits chimiques qui se vendait à l'extérieur. De son côté, Jedi, a très mal pris son incarcération, lui qui venait selon ses dires de rencontrer l'âme sœur. Il est maintenant plongé dans une profonde déprime. Dès son arrivée en milieu carcéral, Jedi s'est isolé de ses camarades. Il a très vite commencé à consommer des amphétamines et a adopté un comportement auto-destructeur, allant parfois jusqu'à se priver de sommeil et de nourriture des jours durant. Un bon matin, les prières de sa mère à Saint-Jude ont été exaucées. Jedi a soudainement repris ses esprits quinze minutes après que Ace, un ancien membre du SSG, lui ait confié que Tit Ronnie Costco offrait désormais des fellations complètes dans l'aile voisine afin de subvenir à ses besoins insatiables en stupéfiants. Jedi a cessé de jouer avec sa santé au même moment, son cerveau figé sur l'adjectif complètes qu'il venait d'entendre. Jedi a ensuite entrepris de participer aux réunions et aux débats d'un groupe de détenus toujours soignés, respectueux, organisés et solidaires, tous croyants monothéistes et visités régulièrement par les membres de leur famille. Gunja Spliff a choisi une méthode moins spirituelle pour surmonter son désespoir. Il a demandé à Ace de lui fixer une audience avec le président du secteur. Le surlendemain, il poignardait un détenu en retard sur ses dettes pour le compte de son nouveau patron. Gunja Spliff gagna ainsi le respect de ses pairs et obtenu pour ses services assez de cigarettes et de marijuana pour démarrer sa propre petite entreprise. 

Les éléments du SSG demeurés fidèles à Chuck Trois-Frères ont choisi de s'assagir afin de conserver leur liberté. Ils ont pour l'instant échappé à la justice suite à la fusillade du Chemin Chambly, malgré la persévérance et la détermination des détectives responsables de cette affaire qui a fait les manchettes nationales. Préoccupés par de nouveaux dossiers et voyant le SSG devenir pratiquement inactif, ces enquêteurs ont fini par laisser respirer le gang tout en continuant d'amasser des preuves contre eux. Les gars ont compris que le temps était venu de se séparer. Big Moose travaille maintenant sous une fausse identité comme gardien de sécurité dans un centre d'achat de la Rive-Sud. La paye est bonne et personne ne chronomètre son heure de dîner. Quatre agents ont plus d'ancienneté que lui, mais le privilège réservé au doyen d'obtenir la garde du passe-partout est à portée de main. Le vieux Fernand Pas de Dents prend d'ailleurs sa retraite l'été prochain ; Roland du Lac Saint-Jean parle de s'acheter une ferme près de Saint-Lin ; Cassandra Ongles et Mascara veut à tout prix avoir un bébé ; enfin, depuis qu'il a ramoné Despina La Fine Fine dans les toilettes du premier, celle-ci se comporte et se considère tout comme sa fiancée, même si les relations intimes au sein de l'équipe de surveillance ne sont pas tolérées. Big Moose est extrêmement patient, vestige de son parcours d'enfant unique et de sa passion pour les mathématiques, les casses-têtes et le jeu d'échecs. Fernand Pas de Dents veut quitter le Québec pour un endroit plus sec comme l'Arizona ou Vegas ; Roland du lac Saint-Jean aspire à créer son propre fromage; Cassandra Ongles et Mascara travaille avec son gynéco, ses traitements hormonaux et son mec; enfin, Despina La Fine Fine lui promet tout le support nécessaire pour réussir son ambitieux projet de cambriolage à l'interne. La plus grande bijouterie du centre commercial vient de renouveler son inventaire et de confirmer la prolongation de son bail. Dès que la clé passe-partout est confiée à Despina La Fine Fine, Big Moose disparaîtra tout simplement avec le stock du magasin. 

Ricardo termine sa deuxième session en techniques administratives au Cégep de Rosemont, cela grâce aux encouragements de Miron, un ancien associé du SSG rentré d'un séjour en Haïti totalement transformé. Après ses études, Ricardo compte ouvrir une chaîne de fast-food créole spécialisée dans la pintade frite aux ananas, avec un budget publicitaire, des spéciaux du mardi, des rabais étudiants et tout le bataclan. Miron est maintenant marié et pasteur auxiliaire dans un petit temple adventiste de Montréal-Nord. Sa luxueuse Lexus est d'après lui une preuve flagrante que l'Éternel des Armées l'a sauvé et désire le voir rouler dans l'or. Miron a donné des nouvelles de Jeff Sprinter et de Jim Falafel à Ricardo. Les deux magouilleurs ont trouvé le moyen de revenir au Québec grâce à leurs contacts dans le Port de Montréal. Sprinter bosse comme assistant-gérant du casse-croûte de sa tante, Annabelle, dans le quartier Saint-Michel ; Falafel transporte des personnes âgées ou à mobilité réduites dans un autocar adapté. Ils sont aussi copropriétaires d'une serre hydroponique non enregistrée, installée dans le sous-sol d'un bungalow de Brossard sans l'accord de son propriétaire. 

Drive-by a lui aussi quitté la Rive-Sud pour s'installer dans l'ouest de la métropole. Il partage son temps entre un job de coiffeur le jour et la livraison de mets italiens le soir. Un client sur cinq qui commande de la pizza passé 22 heures lui achète de la mari ou lui demande de leur en trouver à tout prix. Depuis qu'il ne fait plus partie d'une association de malfaiteurs, les symptômes d'urticaire de Drive-by ont graduellement disparu. Il donne maintenant son vrai nom sans y être obligé et ne regarde plus constamment derrière lui lorsqu'il marche dans la rue la nuit. La santé de Paolo itou s'est grandement améliorée. Ses crises d'angoisse se font plus rares et il dort beaucoup mieux depuis qu'il travaille comme taxi pour le compte de son oncle Hilaire. Ce dernier lui fournit la voiture et le permis. Paolo croyait réellement pouvoir mener une vie honnête, comme ses personnages de téléromans préférés. C'était avant d'apprendre qu'il devait obligatoirement payer des taxes à deux ministres des finances à la fin de chaque année fiscale. Paolo utilise désormais son véhicule de travail pour voyager des escortes aux quatre coins de la ville contre un pourcentage de leur revenu. Sous le coup de minuit, Paolo devient fournisseur de vins et de spiritueux, d'abord à un prix élevé mais tout à fait négociable avant trois heures du matin ; puis à un prix carrément indécent, frisant l'absurdité, l'avarice maladive et tout bonnement une absence totale de simple bon sens, quand toutes les boîtes de nuits ferment leurs portes. 

Anaïs a elle aussi choisi de déménager de Longueuil et de s'installer à Roxboro, dans l'ouest de la ville. Elle danse maintenant nue dans un établissement ou les contacts sont permis et encouragés par le gérant. Quand Anaïs fréquentait Tit Ronnie Costco, ce dernier refusait de l'inscrire dans ce genre de cabaret à cause du danger d'être agressée ou kidnappée, prétendait-il, mais il lui prélevait tout de même une taxe dignes des temps féodaux contre une protection qu'elle n'avait aucunement besoin. Désormais maîtresse d'elle-même, l'argent d'Anaïs s'accumule à un rythme étourdissant. Un client régulier lui a payé une voiture hybride neuve, un étudiant étranger africain, fils de ministre, l'habille régulièrement dans les boutiques de la rue Sherbrooke Ouest ; plusieurs autres courtisans la couvrent de bijoux, de cadeaux ou d'offres pour une chirurgie de son choix. Ils obtiennent en échange le privilège de pouvoir fourrer leur nez comme bon leur semble entre ses gros lolos. Anaïs estime que dans cinq ans tout au plus, elle aura amassé assez de pognon pour ouvrir un salon de beauté ultramoderne en plein centre-ville, un rêve qu'elle a toujours choyé. Sa cousine Florence a opté pour un avenir plus cérébral et moins physique. Elle a d'abord terminé son secondaire 5, puis est entrée au Cégep. Elle vient d'être acceptée en soins infirmiers à Maisonneuve. Florence compte poursuivre des études universitaires et compléter une maîtrise en coopération internationale, cela afin de fonder sa propre ONG afin d'aller donner un coup de main sur le terrain à ses compatriotes haïtiens. 

Candy a survécu à une overdose. Elle vient de terminer une thérapie comportementale de six mois dans une maison de sevrage et de désintoxication basée dans les Laurentides. Aussitôt cet objectif atteint, Candy s'est jointe à l'équipe d'intervenants du centre pour leur donner son support afin de subvenir aux besoins des résidents indociles ou atteints de troubles psychiques. Candy ressemblait à un squelette à son arrivée par ambulance au centre. C'est à peine si elle a prononcé dix phrases complètes dans les premiers jours du programme. Candy était aussi très agressive et prompt à la contestation. Aujourd'hui bien en chair, elle marche la tête haute, toujours souriante et ouverte à la négociation. Le médecin vient de lui annoncer que le virus de l'hépatite C n'est plus détectable dans son sang. Ce tueur silencieux ne menace désormais plus ses plans. Candy ira donc de l'avant avec son désir d'étudier en toxicomanie à l'université dans le but de travailler un jour dans ce milieu où elle s'est découverte des forces et des qualités longtemps sous-estimées. Les anciens du SSG la croit morte. Candy voit en cela une bonne chose, car elle ne s'est jamais sentie aussi libre et en sécurité. Lorsque Big Moose et la bande se sont pointés avec Murder One Villacampa au bungalow de Saint-Basile-le-Grand, à la recherche de l'argent de Chuck qu'ils savaient maintenant enfouis dans le coussin d'un fauteuil La-Z-Boy, les pompiers combattaient toujours les flammes, la police en uniforme comme en civil bloquaient les rues, recherchaient des indices et installaient du ruban jaune un peu partout. Drive-by et Ricardo ont profité du désordre pour questionner des curieux et des témoins de l'incident. Le dépanneur du coin leur a raconté que la maison avait carrément explosé pendant qu'un policier tentait de forcer une fenêtre du premier. Bravant le feu et la chaleur infernale, l'agent est tout de même entré dans la résidence pour aller secourir une jeune femme inconsciente. Des ambulanciers et pas moins de trois camions de pompiers sont arrivés sur les lieux dans les minutes suivantes. Paolo a entraîné le reste de la bande dans une virée stratégique entre McMasterville, Mont Saint-Hilaire et Ottenburn Park, question de donner le temps à la police scientifique de terminer son travail et de sécuriser les lieux. Ils sont revenus en pleine nuit le surlendemain et ont investi les décombres de la maison incendiée. Les murs du studio de musique de Chuck Canada étant à l'épreuve du feu, ils ont trouvé le fauteuil inclinable qu'ils cherchaient en bonne condition, mais l'absence du coussin leur a fait réaliser qu'une personne au courant de sa grande valeur était passé avant eux. 
　
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Ulysse-Hercule Dondedieu Légitime vit maintenant sans compromis et sans vergogne au sein de sa véritable famille. Son incarcération a eu un effet bénéfique sur sa santé et son équilibre socio-affectif. Il ne se considère pas complètement guéri, mais ses troubles obsessionnels-compulsifs envahissent beaucoup moins son quotidien et ses relations interpersonnelles. C'est en voulant échapper aux pernicieux disciples des Lethal Irish de la prison de Cook County, déterminés à le trucider pour se bâtir une réputation de va-t-en-guerre auprès des puissants frères Carrigan, que Ulysse-Hercule s'est retrouvé en thérapie pour trouble du comportement et abus de médicaments d'ordonnance. Accepter de passer à travers ce cheminement difficile a eu pour conclusion de lui sauver la vie. Quoique fuir le groupe d'entraide lui est fréquemment passé par l'esprit au début. Notamment lorsque monsieur Topolánek, le moniteur en chef, lui a demandé de serrer Humphrey, dit le putois, dans ses bras, parce que ce dur à cuire, père de douze enfants en bas âge de trois mères différentes, pleurait à la fin de chacun de ses témoignages. Ulysse-Hercule a carrément déserté le local de réunion lors du test de la confiance ; exercice qui consistait en gros à se laisser tomber vers l'arrière, bras croisés, en comptant sur son partenaire pour être attrapé avant de heurter le sol. Les premiers signes d'amélioration sur la maîtrise de ses nombreuses manies se sont manifestées assez tôt dans le processus thérapeutique, notamment grâce aux ateliers de peinture à l'aquarelle. Ulysse-Hercule portait tout d'abord des gants en latex et un bandana en guise de masque avant de procéder à la transposition de ses inquiétudes sur le canevas. Avec le temps et les compliments répétés sur l'étendue de ses talents, les gants sont finalement tombés, ses doigts ont fini par accepter d'être souillés. Quelque temps plus tard, Ulysse-Hercule se surprenait en allant se coucher directement après le cours, sans passer par la douche et ses interminables séances de savonnage maladif. 

L'aîné de la famille Légitime répond désormais au nom de Benedict Bert Lambert. Depuis qu'il fait partie du Programme fédéral de protection des témoins des États-Unis, monsieur Lambert a très peu de contacts avec ses voisins et compte peu d'amis. La mère de ses enfants a d'abord refusé de le suivre dans cette nouvelle vie clandestine pavée de mensonges. C'était avant de signer des arrangements pré-nuptiaux exceptionnels lui garantissant la moitié des avoirs de Benedict Bert Lambert dans l'éventualité d'une séparation. Bérénice répond dorénavant au prénom de Maxine. Elle gère un centre de villégiature pour une clientèle de retraités aisés dans une région désertique qui affiche deux cent dix-neuf jours d'ensoleillement par année. Son fils Clyde habite maintenant le quartier de Southall, dans la banlieue ouest de Londres, où il suit une formation intensive afin de devenir imam. Il garde pour l'instant son nom de naissance, mais ses coreligionnaires le surnomment amicalement El-Hadji. Clyde en a toujours voulu à son père absent. Le fait qu'il soit maintenant un ex-taulard vivant dans le mensonge facilite et justifie son désir de le fuir indéfiniment. 

Armandine a longtemps hésité entre Charizma, Treasure, Peach et Cherisha. Sa mère l'a convaincue d'opter pour la sobriété de Kate. Kate regrette la perte de son cercle social, mais elle embrasse avec enthousiasme l'opportunité de pouvoir fréquenter l'université de son choix pour y étudier la médecine ou ce que bon lui semblera, sans plus jamais avoir à se faire du mauvais sang pour se taper des notes parfaites. Avec les moyens financiers de Benedict Bert Lambert, ce nouveau père à la mode qui trouve le temps de l'écouter et de partager ses émotions, même le doyen de Harvard devra lui faire des courbettes et cirer ses souliers au besoin. De son côté, Tom-Tom n'a rien compris des explications que lui ont donné ses parents. Par mesure de précaution, ceux-ci l'ont inscrit dans un pensionnat près de Neuchâtel en Suisse, en attendant qu'il mûrisse assez et saisisse l'importance de ce changement d'identité. 

En lui montrant son certificat de décès, le FBI a annoncé à Ulysse-Hercule qu'il devait couper tous les liens avec le clan Légitime. Malgré les risques, il s'arrange quand même pour revoir son frère Achille-Hector, devenu membre d'un mouvement restaurationniste, au cours de congrès organisés entre autres par les Témoins de Jéhovah aux quatre coins du globe. Il se rend aussi régulièrement au bureau du notaire Philbert Hans-Orville Grosbois Sr. pour retirer des sommes d'argent supplémentaire de sa part d'héritage et obtenir des conseils de l'homme de loi retraité. Ulysse-Hercule rencontre aussi sa petite sœur à l'occasion, en se faisant passer pour un machiniste ou un éclairagiste de la régie de sa boîte de production cinématographique. Il va jusqu'à passer un peu de temps avec sa vieille maman lors de ses visites chez le docteur Stewart ; rendez-vous au cours desquels Eudoxie ne manque jamais de faire renouveler sa prescription de chanvre récréatif. Enfin, Ulysse-Hercule coudoie et trinque avec Oncle Quick lors des réunions du conseil d'administration de Aaronson Autoparts, une filiale de la société Aaronson Solidaire Automotives, anciennement Legitimus Automotives, désormais la propriété d'Edmondine Belhumeur. 

L'ex-doyenne des brus de Sixte-Osmer Légitime a récolté le gros lot suite à son divorce d'Ulysse-Hercule. En plus de lui permettre d'empocher la moitié du patrimoine familial, ses avocats sont parvenus à la mettre aux commandes des nombreuses entreprises de son ex-conjoint, logiquement incapables de fonctionner sous les directives d'un PDG considéré par l'IRS comme décédé. Edmondine se porte à merveille depuis, sa dépression, ses migraines incapacitantes et ses douleurs musculaires chroniques étant choses du passé. Elle ne cache plus à personne sa relation amoureuse avec son fidèle Guillermo. Après une décennie de cache-cache et de vexations sous l'autorité de son insupportable patron, la patience du majordome mexicain sans papiers a fini par payer. Il sera bientôt naturalisé et recevra enfin son certificat en anglais langue seconde du collège communautaire Harold Washington de Chicago. 

Résolue dans son désir de réparer les pots cassés et de redresser les injustices commises par son ex-époux, Edmondine Belhumeur a remué ciel et terre afin de retrouver Meredith O'Reilly, la secrétaire engrossée par Ulysse-Hercule, se sentant en quelque sorte liée au destin de cet enfant qu'elle aurait voulu sienne. Edmondine s'attendait au pire en retraçant Meredith. L'idée d'impliquer les services sociaux du comté lui avait même effleuré l'esprit, compte tenu de l'âge, de la précarité financière de la jeune femme et de son entourage immédiat peu recommandable. Edmondine ne s'inquiète plus. Meredith a fondé une garderie éducative à Bridgeport, dans le Connecticut. Ses revenus dépassent de loin le revenu familial moyen de l'état. Son père habite à deux coins de rue. Il travaille comme concierge dans son établissement pré-scolaire. Keenan Quinn O'Reilly adore tellement son petit-fils que la psychologue a mis Meredith en garde contre les effets néfastes du dorlotage excessif et de la surprotection parentale. 

Achille-Hector Donduciel Légitime a lui aussi changé sa façon d'aborder la vie, sans toutefois troquer de nom. Après plusieurs séances chez un thérapeute New-Yorkais de l'école jungienne, il a finalement compris pourquoi et comment l'appât du gain avait contribué à provoquer sa rechute brutale dans l'alcool, les drogues et le nihilisme. Ce qu'il a fait subir à Pedro Alvarez dans le but ultime de lui subtiliser sa fortune a détruit une partie de son humanité, le rendant incapable de se tolérer lui-même. Achille-Hector a donc dû s'inventer une rhétorique solide pour nier l'existence de Dieu, infantiliser la religion et finalement justifier son retour vers l'athéisme radical. Il s'est par contre très vite ennuyé de la chaleur de la congrégation baptiste et de son statut de superstar auprès des fidèles de la New Baptist Golgotha Church. L'errance spirituelle a tout d'abord conduit Achille-Hector vers Kant, la métaphysique, le rationalisme et l'empirisme, puis ultimement vers le bouddhisme, le jaïnisme et le taoïsme, après un bref détour dans la philosophie indienne et une virée pleine de rebondissements et de surprises dans le monde des marabouts africains. 

Un ancien détenu qu'il avait jadis aidé dans sa réinsertion sociale a introduit Achille-Hector au panafricanisme et aux principes de l'organisation politique, Nation de l'Islam. Leur discipline, leur apparence élégante, leur volubilité et cette confiance en soi capable d'abattre un mur de béton armé lui a plu, mais le militantisme excessif de certains de ses membres a fortement contrarié Achille-Hector. Il lui semblaient aussi que ces nouveaux compagnons travaillaient trop fort pour très peu et se levaient très tôt pour trop peu. Une autre connaissance a parlé de Moroni, de John Smith et du Livre des Mormons à Achille-Hector, ce qui lui a carrément foutu la frousse, car ce type était aussi propriétaire d'une armurerie et d'une salle de quilles fréquentés par des vétérans de la U.S. Navy et des motards criminalisés. Puis un beau jour, deux jeunes hommes en chemises courtes ont sonné à la porte d'Achille-Hector et lui ont simplement demandé s'il connaissait le véritable nom de Dieu. Achille-Hector s'est mis à étudier la Bible avec eux contre la volonté de sa femme, puis un bon matin, il a décidé de se faire baptiser chez les Témoins de Jehovah. Mildred croit que son mari reviendra chez les Baptistes quand ses nouveaux frères et sœurs découvriront sa valeur en argent ou qu'il commencera à poser des questions sur les dirigeants du Collège Central et sur les éditeurs de la Tour de Garde. En attendant le retour de la brebis égaré, Mildred continue de fréquenter le temple de la New Golgotha Baptist Church, désormais dirigé par Dudley et frère Odelin, mieux connus dans tout Philadelphie et Camden sous le pseudonyme des Convertible Lincoln Preachers. 

Jeanne d'Arc-Victoria Légitime croit que Mildred s'en fait pour rien. D'après elle, son grand frère redeviendra protestant dès qu'il en aura soupé du rythme de vie ennuyant et des rituels monotones des Témoins. Achille-Hector est un bon vivant qui aime trop l'atmosphère festive des kermesses du dimanche au temple de Camden pour ne pas y revenir. De son côté, Jeanne d'Arc-Victoria demeure une catholique modérée. Elle ne trouve jamais le temps de se rendre à l'église, mais sait à qui s'adresser lorsqu'elle a peur. Son association avec Junior Grosbois a failli lui coûter sept ans de pénitencier. Victoria s'est donc subitement remémorée plusieurs prières apprises à l'école des Soeurs Franciscaines, quand son avocat lui a énuméré les chefs d'accusations retenus contre elle par la justice californienne. Ses supplications ont été entendues, un miracle s'est produit. Moïse Berri est intervenu pour forcer Junior Grosbois à prendre tout le blâme sur son dos. Jeanne d'Arc-Victoria a fini par apprendre, des mois plus tard, que Junior avait agi ainsi pour sauver son petit cul. Un contrat avait été mis sur sa tête par un gang de motards criminalisé et la prison fédérale de Terminal Island était devenu le seul endroit sécuritaire pour sa personne. 

Jeanne d'Arc-Victoria se remet tranquillement du choc qu'elle a subi en apprenant le retour à la vie de sa cousine Evelyne dans la peau d'un caucasien excentrique. L'idée de produire un film sur son parcours exceptionnel bat son chemin. Victoria a déjà contacté Tyler Perry, Ellen Degeneres et Oprah pour financer son projet. Le vieux docteur Stewart était seul au courant de la transformation d'Evelyne-Laure Légitime. C'est lui-même qui avait recommandé le docteur Rachel D. Eisner. Le secret professionnel lui imposait un bâillon qu'il avait accepté de respecter sans trop poser de questions à la chirurgienne responsable de ce processus de réattribution sexuelle. 

La réunion familiale prévu le mois prochain au Mont-Tremblant sera l'occasion pour tous d'assister à la résurrection d'Evelyne-Laure ainsi qu'à son baptême, car il profitera de l'événement pour dévoiler son nouveau prénom. 

Déodas-Démosthène Légitime n'a jamais semblé aussi heureux et fier, lui qui croyait depuis trop longtemps sa fille unique et son âme perdues. Découvrir qu'Evelyne-Laure avait toujours été son fameux complice invisible depuis le début de cette aventure au sein de la Fondation Zanmi d'Haïti l'a complètement renversé. Le pauvre homme était devenu amer et incapable de se regarder dans le mirroir, honteux de ses magouilles constantes opérées dans l'ombre et derrière les rideaux. Déodas comprenait désormais que toutes ses manigances louches orchestrées par son détestable associé, l'insaisissable Moïse Berri, visait en fait à maintenir la prépondérance du bien sur le mal dans les affaires de sa terre natale. 
　
*** 

Selon le World Factbook, Mizérikod n'a jamais réellement existé, mais des gardiens de sécurité de la société militaire privée Academi, postés aux abords de la route Nationale # 2, bloquent la sortie qui mène vers l'allée Capois-la-Mort. Le vacarme continuel provoqué par les marteaux-piqueurs, les dynamitages périodiques, les allées et venues des bulldozers et des foreuses est masqué par une musique bruyante crachée par des hauts-parleurs géants installés le long du chemin et à la cime des arbres. Elzéar Michelet habite désormais à Grand Saline dans une coquette petite maison de pierre reçue en guise de dédommagement par le gouvernement. Mais ceux qui croyaient acheter son silence se sont royalement trompés. Elzéar Michelet raconte à qui veut bien l'entendre le récit chronologique des événements qui ont contribué à l'évacuation forcée des citoyens de Mizérikod une semaine après le passage de l'ouragan Sandy. Maintenant qu'il porte des pantalons, des souliers à sa pointure et des lunettes de prescription, son public le prend beaucoup plus au sérieux. Elzéar Michelet maintient que la destruction de la commune a été filmée. La négation de ces faits majeurs marquants constitue une tromperie de l'état visant à éloigner les curieux et à maintenir la population dans l'ignorance. Pourquoi est-il interdit de survoler la région ou de photographier les équipements et les ouvriers qui vont et viennent dans ces innombrables camions ? demande Elzéar aux gens qui passent devant sa demeure. Comment se fait-il que des étrangers obtiennent l'autorisation de franchir les barrages qui isolent la soit-disante ville fantôme lorsqu'ils brandissent un sauf-conduit signé du Bureau des Mines et de l'Énergie d'Haïti ? Ce sont là des questions sans réponses que le toujours très alerte monsieur Michelet continuent de poser nuit et jour aux passants qui s'aventurent dans les environs du porche de son domicile. Le psychiatre qui lui rend visite le premier lundi de chaque mois trouvent les interrogations d'Elzéar très pertinentes. Le vieux paysan ne parlent plus de ses petits-enfants comme s'ils étaient encore présents, ce qui montre des signes d'amélioration de son état de santé. Pour aider à la cicatrisation de ses peines et l'aider à renouer avec la réalité, Violette Lavache lui a même trouvé un job de fin de semaine. Elzéar travaille comme enseignant auprès des mômes du nouvel orphelinat de monsieur Saint-Saëns et de madame Larouche érigé dans un entrepôt abandonné de la localité de Ça Ira. C'est Cyril Lavache, maintenant retraité de la police, qui s'occupe du transport d'Elzéar Michelet au volant de sa vieille Lincoln. Cyril Lavache, Violette, son petit-fils, Uri et son gendre, Rondall Jérémie, habitent eux aussi Grand Saline dans une maison multigénérationnelle achetée avec la compensation en argent comptant obtenu du gouvernement. Les mauvaises langues allèguent que l'ancien vendeur de riz n'est pas vraiment le mari de Violette, mais bien un zombi condamné à la servir pour une période indéfini. On dit que Rondall Jérémie ne porte jamais de chemise à manches courtes afin de cacher la pompe à perfusion installé dans la veine cubitale de son avant-bras. Ce dispositif faciliterait les injections régulières de la mixtion secrète qui permet de le garder en permanence dans cet état de semi-conscience. 

Madame Consuelo a utilisé son indemnisation financière pour ouvrir un restaurant doublé d'une auberge touristique dans la paisible commune de Gressier. Le menu de l'établissement a un caractère international grâce au talent de son chef-cuisinier, Pamphile Dutervil, dit Doudou Kordonblé. La femme de ce dernier, Melissandre Présumé, administre l'établissement et régit l'équipe de maintenance dirigée par Vidal Gascon. Ludovic s'occupe des livraisons et de la vaisselle tout en s'occupant de son entreprise de pâtés qui emploie dorénavant trois cyclistes, dont un motorisé. Il n'est pas rare d'apercevoir Victor Gourdet à la table VIP du restaurant, en train de discuter politique ou de révolution sociale avec une personne qui ignore tout de son ''accident''. L'Hexagone n'édite plus son journal et oublie parfois son propre nom de famille, mais il demeure la principale source d'information orale disponible en ville. Ainsi, les clients réguliers du Consuelo Inn ont récemment appris de sa bouche que Amédée Fleurinor, l'ancien maire de Mizérikod, organisait une loterie intra-murale hebdomadaire hautement truquée au sein de la prison de Croix-des-Bouquets. Son complice, le commissaire Yves-Arnold Malvenu, aurait quant à lui échappé à la justice après le scandale des cercueils remplis de came grâce à la fortune de sa belle-fille, Amélie Lausanne, héritière de la sucrerie Mendes y Calderón depuis la disparition soudaine d'Arcadio Enrique Jesus Mendes. Paraît-t-il que Pyram Malvenu et son père en mèneraient large en République-Dominicaine. Ils seraient les principaux stratèges de l'armée révolutionnaire de Baudelaire Fleurant et figureraient au sommet de la liste des indésirables de la DEA. 
Le pasteur Louis Éloïse et Gargarine ont récemment séjourné dans le petit hôtel de madame Consuelo. Père et fils font la navette entre Saint-Marc et Queens. Ils font de l'import-export de sous-vêtements féminins et de rallonges de cheveux synthétiques à partir d'un local qu'ils utilisent aussi comme temple pour prêcher la Bonne Parole à tous les agneaux intéressés qui ont un revenu stable. Ils ont rapporté à l'Hexagone que le juge Campbell conduisait un taxi sans permis sur Flatbush Avenue, dans Brooklyn, et que le sénateur Fleurant serait toujours vivant, pris dans les dédales du système légal américain, toujours incapable de trancher entre son statut d'immigrant illégal ou de réfugié politique. 

Les jumeaux Baudouin-Lacroix sont passés rendre visite la semaine dernière. Ils ont réservé la suite de luxe avec vue sur la mer. Madame Consuelo et son personnel n'en croyait pas leurs yeux. Avec les cheveux courts, des souliers fraîchement cirés et des complets bien ajustés, ces deux chenapans ressemblaient désormais à des cadres respectés du gouvernement, des membres honorables et vénérables de la société comme leurs parents et aïeux. Yvon Baudouin a soutenu qu'ils s'étaient recyclés en concessionnaires d'automobiles usagées, mais Yves Lacroix a aussi confié à Ludovic qu'ils exploitaient, sur le côté, le potentiel agricole des terres de leur grand-maman adorée. La vérité est sortie de la bouche de Djon Djon trois jours plus tard durant la célébration du premier anniversaire de la Petit-Goâve Life, leur firme d'assurance générale et de gestion de portefeuille. Selon Guito, les jumeaux font leur argent en organisant des rallyes à motos dans les régions montagneuses de la Grande Anse. L'arnaque marche comme sur des roulettes : Yves commence la course et laisse Yvon la terminer selon les paris. Avec le casque, la sueur et la poussière, il est pratiquement impossible de les différencier au fil d'arrivée. 

Le ministère de l'intérieur et la Direction de la Protection Civile soutiennent que Mizérikod est un mythe, et que cette prétendue commune chargée de pétrole et de terres rares n'a jamais figuré sur la carte électorale du département de l'Ouest. Pourtant, ceux qui résident toujours dans cette cité mystérieuse supposément issue d'une fable racontée au hasard par un ivrogne en plein délire savent comment y accéder par bateau ou par la route de Darbonne, chemin constamment surveillé par des vigiles armés jusqu'aux dents et dotés à la limite d'un permis de tuer. 
Le siège social de la Fondation Zanmi d'Haïti se trouve toujours à la même adresse. Prospérine de Grâce coordonne les travaux de reconstruction en tant que co-présidente de l'institution. Ses deux frères ayant retrouvés leurs esprits, elle a utilisé de son influence pour les réintégrer dans leurs fonctions : Lordy, auprès du ministère de l'éducation nationale, Léopold, à la direction des ressources humaines de la Fondation. La prochaine réunion entre Prospérine et Evelyne-Laure Légitime aura lieu demain soir au club Kompa Lakay. Evelyne-Laure a trouvé le moyen d'échapper à la police internationale en scénarisant puis en diffusant la mort en direct de Moïse Berri sur le site officiel de la Fondation Zanmi d'Haïti. La vidéo a créé un malaise dans les médias et sur bon nombre de réseaux sociaux avant d'être retiré. DJ Évasion et Rico Mars ont réalisé cet excellent court-métrage de fiction avec très peu de moyens, sinon l'appui de Jones Brooklyn pour la trame sonore et de Chuck Trois-Frères pour le texte. Les deux gangsters n'ont eu d'autre choix que de se réconcilier après avoir été menacé par un haut gradé de la police nationale engagé par Moïse Berri. 

Georgelina Vériquin et Noémie Naud sont entrés en Haïti hier soir avec un faux passeport et de nouveaux papiers au nom de Charlemagne Hadrien Christobal afin de permettre à Chuck de quitter le pays et de rentrer chez lui au Québec. Evelyne-Laure était présent quand Georgelina et son grand frère se sont retrouvés pour la première fois depuis trois longues années. Evelyne-Laure a ressenti un pincement au coeur en assistant à la beauté de ce moment de complicité. Georgelina Vériquin a offert un cadeau à Chuck ; une boîte en acajou contenant une douzaine de cigares honduriens. Chuck a crié : « Saint-Basile ? » Sa sœur 
lui a renvoyé sur un ton faussement fâché: « Saint-Basile ». Puis tous deux ont éclaté d'un fou rire devant le regard médusé de Noémie Naud. 

Century Facts

21a 

The intervention 

Mr. Nji Mbonjo is not keen to the idea of using his martial arts expertise to overpower a woman; one cold and vindictive look usually suffice to petrify anyone standing before him, whether male or female. That's why the robust right hand man finds himself utterly dumbfounded for a brief moment, after being involuntarily flipped and thrown away like a bag of sand to the other end of the room by the frail looking doctor. Back on his feet, but still dizzy and confused, Mr. Nji Mbonjo does a couple of Okinawan kempo style katas to scare and keep his opponent at a certain distance, the time to regain his balance. The Cameroonese escort doesn't really want to break such a lovely nose or cause excruciating pain to that woman by hitting her chest or throat. He visualizes the perfect offensive attack to neutralize the doctor without killing or putting her into a deep coma. Mr. Nji Mbonjo dashes towards the health specialist and feigns a reversed roundhouse kick. He bends down at the last second and throws a right hand hook in the direction of the physician's diaphragm, hoping to cut her breath and put an end to the fight. The small lady avoids the impact, seizes the big man's wrist and breaks it by using her own weight and a simple counter clockwise twist. She then makes the massive individual spin on himself and sends him seven feet further, face first to the ground. Doctor Steiner then makes a front somersault and lands with the side of her foot directly on the African giant's jugular. She proceeds to pull him all the way down to the phone in that very uncomfortable position. Rachel D. Steiner must release her grip to dial 911. Mr. Nji Mbonjo instantly goes for her left ankle. He crushes it with his good hand and displaces the doctor's left kneecap, using his thumb to push her popliteal fossa forward. The medical practitioner immediately loses her poise. The Cameroonese bodyguard grabs Doctor Rachel D. Steiner by the neck, pushes her away and quickly hits the medical expert's chin with a spinning back-fist that knocks her out instantaneously. 

The jiu-jitsu trophy on the radio-oncologist's filing cabinet is not a decoration or some junk she got from a garage sale. Mr. Nji Mbonjo goes to the window and waves at Grosbois Sr. and Amaury Quick, urging them to get out of the taxi and come up to meet with him as fast as they can. 

The Davengard medical complex hosts a radiology and radio-oncology clinic in the basement, a dental clinic on the ground floor, seven doctors offices on the second floor and a cosmetic surgery clinic on the top floor. 

"What is that baby monster doing in the basement?"  Amaury Quick asks himself as he steps out of the cab. 

The banker pays the driver and gives him an advance, so he can come back to pick him up in fifteen minutes after a spin around the block. Philbert Hans Orville Grosbois Sr. finds a logical explanation to the mistake of his normally infallible protector, when he takes a look at the list of professionals appearing on a black board in the lobby of the building. Suleyman told them to find Rachel Delilah Eisner, the plastic surgeon, but Mr. Nji Mbonjo went after Rachel Deborah Steiner, the oncologist. 

The two seniors wait for the elevator. One is whistling a jazz melody written by the Duke, the other hums the baseline with his throat. A television is set on an all news channel at the abandoned reception. Obama and Romney are neck and neck. New York City is still struggling with a major power outage. The State of New Jersey, victim of Sandy, steals the front page to Haiti. Israel and Iran are threatening each other. The Mayor of Montreal is nowhere to be found. The Mayor of Laval has no comments regarding the corruption allegations. The Charbonneau Commission is pursuing it's endeavour, the two largest cities of the Province of Quebec seem to be partly controlled by criminal organizations. Lucian Bute wins by a narrow margin. Vote Klitscko. Bruce Springsteen and Stevie Wonder help turn the tide in favor of Obama. The doors of the elevator open. Mr. Nji Mbonjo is holding thirteen people at gunpoint with his modified umbrella. The Cameroonese orders them to get out in the Duala language. His left eye his practically closed, his right forearm dangling and his mouth bleeding. The doors of the elevator close. 

"I blocked the access to the emergency exits and confiscated their cellular phones. I haven't paid a visit to the dentists yet," Mr. Nji Mbonjo says. "There is no one left upstairs. All the secretaries and support workers are down here with me. The crazy woman who pummeled me is sleeping downstairs. That tiny lady is trained for military combat and probably an aikido expert. That is not normal. This smells like a trap. We need to hurry. Doctor Steiner is hiding among those people. Give me a minute to empty the dental facility. I'll then find doctor Steiner, even if it means torturing the entire staff one by one." 
"We're looking for Doctor Eisner, Mr. Nji Mbonjo, not Steiner," Amaury Quick reminds the African giant. "And I think I've found her," he adds," pointing towards a fifty year old woman dressed and combed like a teen pop star. 
"I am indeed Doctor Eisner," says the woman, "but that brute kept screaming Steiner. We don't keep any money in here. Can you give us a reason for all that aggressiveness?" 
Rogatien Gingras," Philbert Hans Orville Grosbois Sr. simply answers. 
"If you work for the Tecumseh Tribune, Sir, you should know I left Windsor and followed all the recommendations and orders from the Ontario Court of Justice. The money I sent to Rogatien's widow was a gesture from the heart, not an admission of guilt.'' 
''His widow?" 
"I have clients among the people your uncivilized friend menaced with his weapon. Could we finish that conversation in private?" 
"That won't be necessary," says Amaury Quick.  
"Gingras, a deceased man?" Grosbois repeats for himself. 
"You get my point now for hiring that exterminator, Phil? Permission to execute the impostor we sent in Mizérikod to watch over our interests?" Amaury Quick adds while texting the order in a highly coded message to Redmond Murphy Carrigan. 
"Permission is granted, Gustave, but that does not bring us anywhere near the truth." 
"Doctor Eisner, when exactly did Rogatien Gingras pass away?" Amaury Quick inquires. 
"Five or six years. And all the experts called to the bar by the defence attorney agreed it was the cocktail of drugs Rogatien took before the operation that caused his unfortunate death. I had never lost a patient before." 
"The taxi is back at the front," Mr. Nji Mbonjo announces from the dentist's office. 
"Take it and go back to Ottawa as fast as you can," Grosbois Sr. tells the bodyguard. It will be harder for them to find us if we all go our different ways." 

The doors of the elevator open. Doctor Steiner jumps out of it, armed with a jodo stick. She tells Grosbois Sr. and Gustave Amaury Quick to freeze or get their skulls crushed. She warns them police is on their way. Quick doesn't believe the radio-oncologist is inherently violent. He searches for his stun gun in the pockets of his trench coat. Amaury Quick is about to strike Doctor Steiner, when a familiar voice grabs his attention and diverts it towards the television set at the reception desk. A recent mug shot of Burns Breton is up on the screen. Quick and Grosbois Sr. are astounded. The Montreal Police Department is investigating what seems to be a very strange settle of accounts. The officers found a severely mutilated man inside a hotel suite of the Fairmount Queen Elizabeth. The right hand of the individual was severed by a portable circular saw. The man is known to police. He goes by the name of Burns Breton, and is the owner of that same funeral home in Rosemont-La-Petite-Patrie that made the newspaper headlines on Saturday, after the raid that put to light a weapons traffic network linked to the recent shoot outs that occurred in and round the city. The SPVM spokesperson refuses to comment any further on that subject, but reveals the Service is currently looking for two octogenarians driving a Black Lincoln with an Illinois licence plate. They might be important witnesses or even persons of interest wanted for questioning. 

"Do you still fear prison, Gus?" 
"We are two American millionaires, kidnapped by a patriotic African who mistook us for a pair of fugitive war criminals from his native country," Amaury Quick answers. "We both suffer from dementia and short-term memory loss. If we get caught, we yell what, who, why or say that again to every question we're asked. That should be enough if we keep singing the same refrain." 
"My mind will be at peace when Moïse Berri rests six feet underground and our letter of attorney is cancelled.''  
''You saw me send the order of execution, Phil. There's no other way out for him. Let us focus now on looking like two impatient and senile American gentlemen." 

21b 
The Indisposed 

The employees of the Dajabón Provincial hospital are completely unaware of the seriousness of the situation. They all agreed on the fact that none of them has ever seen the administrators of the establishment in such a state of panic and distress. A military platoon took control of the traffic on Presidente Henriquez Avenue, a second encircled the edifice; a third one is escorting a dozen officials and a pack of army officers in uniform to the heavily guarded rooms where the wounded foreigners are kept. 

The Legal Affairs representative of the Haitian Embassy in the Dominican Republic walks into the unit where Pyram Malvenu is being treated. The man looks very upset. He enters the sergeant's private room, followed by a lawyer, a surgeon, a high-ranking officer and two heavily armed soldiers. Pyram is not in top shape, but he's face is beaming with joy. His legs are attached with two wide cotton straps coming from under his bed. The equipment left in the chamber indicates the sergeant was recently put on a respirator and received a blood transfusion. A thoracic drain is still pumping a brick coloured liquid from his chest. 

"It took you a lot of time," Pyram Malvenu whispers, using all his strength, but still smiling. 
"Were you expecting our visit?" asks the embassy's representative. 
"I spoke to my dad in a dream. The bullet that will stop me has not been made yet." 
"Is that the patient, Doctor de la Fuentes?" 
"Te dije que estaba loco." 
"I understand spanish, lizzard face," says Pyram, who starts coughing severely. "You're the one who is nuts. I heard the chopper landing on the roof. Who should I thank for this, President Martelly or Ambassador Cinéas?" 
"Allow me to introduce myself, Sergeant: Rosaire André Dode, Legal Affairs Representative of the Haitian Embassy in the Dominican Republic. The helicopter is not here to get you out of this place. Do you understand what is happening or the reason for our presence in your hospital room?" 
"Are you insinuating that I am somehow retarded?" 
"Please explain the situation to him, Mr. Martinez.''  
''My name is Gervasio Juan Eduardo Martinez," says the lawyer. "I'll be representing you against the Gobernador de la Provincia de Dajabón. I strongly recommend you keep your mouth shut or stick all the way to the end with that insanity bullshit, like you've been doing so wisely since you woke up. Everyone in the operating bloc concur you're as flaky as hell. And good for you, they never put you under arrest. No one could read you your rights while you were unconscious or delirious. That's a big plus for you." 
"What are you talking about and why am I strapped to this bed?" 
"You spent seven hours on the operating table, Sergeant. You don't remember a thing right now, but it's going to come back to you when the morphine runs out of your system. A military supply truck literally crushed your lower limbs during or after the confrontación. Doctor de la Fuentes failed to removed a bullet fragment from your spine, but you still owe him your life. Commandante Ramirez, right here, has the power to grant you immunity against the Gobernador, who, by the way, has not been informed of the events yet. He won't be able to protect you against the Interior Minister, though, if the latter decides to put his nose in this dramatic incident in order to gain some political capital. If I was in your shoes, I would only accept to speak up in exchange of a great amount of money and a signed guarantee of being extradited or keep playing the fool and tell them absolutely nothing." 
"I was only doing my job." 
"Consisting of what, Sergeant?" Commandant Ramirez asks Pyram point-blank. 
"You don't have to answer that question," warns Martinez. 
"Is it my dad who hired you to defend me, comrade?'' 
"The Office of the Ambassador, Sergeant." 
"I didn't know I was that precious." 
"It's quite the opposite, Sergeant. You're as important as an aggressive cancer in the eyes of the Haitian Senate and at the Chamber of Deputies," clarifies Mr. Dode, the Embassy's representative. "President Martelly and Prime Minister Lamothe are working on over a million more urgent matters right now. Hurricane Sandy is long gone, but not the damages she has caused. The President must also shop for new furniture to fit in his temporary office and plan the carnival of the century to cheer up the population. His Excellence and the Prime Minister surely don't need another rock in their sandals. Let's act responsibly, Commandante Ramirez. The Sergeant answers your questions under the umbrella of total impunity, I personally take care of his legal and hospital fees. And when I say personally, Mr. Martinez knows exactly what I mean. Do we have a deal?" 
"You forgot about me," says Doctor de la Fuentes. "I have two families to feed and a concubina that is constantly talking about separación." 
"Don't worry, Doc, you are on my pay list. The Ambassador's Office only wants the Sergeant back in Haitian territory, today if it's possible. It would be a disaster, if journalists jumped on the story and created a diplomatic scandal with it. The biochemical analysis of an obscured but renowned professor, named Elzéar Michelet, revealed the presence of an oil field in the region were Sergeant Malvenu is from. It's really not the right time to make a big fuss with a small border incident. That could make the investors who only knows Haiti through the media back off. Let's remember that no one died during the shoot out. So let me repeat myself, do we have an agreement?" 
"If the Sergeant doesn't take me for a donkey and accepts giving a thought to my questions, It's fine with me, says Commandante Ramirez." 
"Show me three months of pay in American dollars on that table and I stop counseling my client right now," says the lawyer Martinez. 
"How much is that," asks Dode, the Embassy's representative. 
"With the travel fees, the salary adjustment relating to the notwithstanding clause, the arbitration clause and the derogatory clause; the ten per cent penalty and the severance bonus… I would say more or less seven thousand dollars. But I will gladly settle with six thousand by solidarity for the immigrants and the moral support for the refugees." 
"Everything you've just said is complete nonsense, you twisted abuser!" Rosaire André Dode strongly protests. "I am also a jurist, Martinez. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" 
"No." 
"That's exactly the amount I told you I had in my possession earlier. Do these soldiers understand a word of what we are saying?" 
"I doubt it." 
"You disgust me, Martinez." 
"That feeling belongs to you." 
"I cannot afford spending one more penny for you today, Doctor de la Fuentes; thanks to that vulture," continues Dode. "However, I can communicate directly with the Minister of Finances or put a good word for you at the Ministry of Health in Santo Domingo de Guzmán." 
"That's not enough!" the surgeon rages. "This crow gets some diñero en efectivo because he is immoral, and I only get some vague promises? I don't want to take the seat of the Ministro de Salud, but I need much more para mantener mi silencio."  
"Who is running that hospital?" 
"Diaz, and he is not even a real doctor." 
"Diaz is not a doctor? Okay, then, everything is set. He is out, you're in. We'll find a hole in the budget and blame him for it." 
"Perfecto, I never saw el sargento Malvenu. 
''Commandante?" 
"Three things," says the officer, stepping closer to Pyram's bed. ''Primero, who gave you the weapons, especially those explosives even the army has trouble getting access to? Secundo, what are you links with Colonel Baudelaire-Aristote Fleurant? Finalmente, where can I find that Señor Moïse Berri, the man who seems to know more about my private life than mi esposa and my accountant for the last five years?" 

A couple of doors further on the same floor, Robin Monarque is talking to Adrian Fuchs, the Assistant-Secretary of the Canadian Vice-Consul of Punta Cana, and Geraldo Manuel Pariente, a forensic ballistic expert sent by the Defense Ministry of the Dominican Republic. Adrian Fuchs is eating melon squares from a basket of fresh fruits. Pariente is sipping on a lemon soda pop and fighting the heat with a wet handkerchief. The Manitoba policeman is only wearing a shoulder sling, but still looks terrified, like if the exchange of fire near the border had just occurred. While giving a detailed description of the incident, he keeps looking behind his interlocutors, like if he was expecting to see someone enter the room with an automatic rifle at any given time to terminate him. 

"The Dominican customs officers spoke in Spanish. They ordered Sergeant Malvenu and Ferjuste to put their weapons down with all due respect. But Malvenu reacted like a deaf sociopath. He grabbed my future wife and used her as a human shield. He got closer to the law enforcement agents and threw a strange phallic shaped device at them. I first thought it was a thermos or an air freshener canister. Lucky for those guys, they ran away from the object without a backward glance. They would have been disintegrated by the power of the explosion. The sergeant had something more up his sleeve: smoke grenades for instance. Can you believe that? Pyram used them to cover our escape until we found a cave to hide in. Before the border soldiers showed up with their dogs, I tried to convince the sergeant to surrender, but that hard headed nitwit didn't bother listening to my arguments. He kept saying that being taught by a White man was not part of his agenda. Whatever that means. Like if the colour of the skin had something to do with common sense. When Sergeant Malvenu started shooting at the Dominicans, with no prior warnings, not even a freeze call!… Sniff! Wooh! Booh! sorry for the tears… Do you have another soda? To put it bluntly, Pyram Malvenu had only one thing up his mind, and that was killing all those men indiscriminately. That's it. I saw him pull out three or four of firearms from his sports bag. The things looked like plastic toys; machines you see in science-fiction flicks, but they were real working pieces weighing two kilos top. A beverage would be welcomed. You might want to write all of this down, Mr. Fuchs, I did not fire a single shot. Make sure it's part of my deposition, Mr. Ambassador." 
"Assistant-Secretary to the Vice-Consul," corrects Adrian Fuchs. 
"I feel sorry for the families of those men, but Sergeant Malvenu is the only one to blame for their deaths. Remember that when they call you to the witness stand." 
"No deaths were recorded, Lieutenant." 
"Really? But that's practically impossible. Bullets were flying in every directions. I was there. It was hell, with the smoke, the screams and the smell. If no one died, we're talking about a miracle." 
"I see that you are a Christian like most of these brave men." 
"Not at all, Sir, I am a hardcore Atheist, but one must give to God what belongs to God. The shootout lasted a couple of intense minutes. For me, it was pretty clear my time had come. It doesn't make me religious, it's just that every time I close my eyes, the question that comes back to me is… Why? Waaah! Booh! Here it goes again with the tears. I'm sorry. But you know, deep down inside, I don't feel that sad, It's more a feeling of… I don't know what, that makes me... Sniff! Sniff! Wooh! Get me the fuck out of here, mister Vice-Consul. I can't take it anymore! The mosquitoes, the heat, the total anarchy, the constant impression I won't make through the night. My family is rich, we own a lot of land near Dauphin Lake.''  
''Don't worry about that matter, Lieutenant. We're going to send you back home by mail if we have to. You are a decorated Canadian police officer and the only true victim in that case. Proving that Sergeant Malvenu was holding a grudge against you will be an easy task. An upstanding agent in his right mind would never have crossed the border of a sovereign state illegally to apply his own justice." 
"Now that I think about it. That psychopath wanted me dead for a while. I didn't want to admit it, but all the signs were there. Last Friday, I stopped by the police station to pack some personal stuff before heading to the Canadian Embassy in Port-au-Prince. I was mad at myself because I had just been tricked once more by two hustlers near Quai Dessalines, betting fifty bucks on the ace of spades and one hundred on the dice in the cup. I made a hole in a wall of the police station with a punch, enraged at myself for gambling and losing again. It made a mess, a huge gap in the locker room. I saw a black USB cable coming out of the wooden studs. So I just pulled it. It lead to a camera that was directly pointed at the filing cabinet of Chief Police Malvenu, a piece of furniture he always kept locked. When I spoke about my strange discovery to the other cops, they laughed at me, making fun of my name, telling stupid jokes about my girlfriend's butt and my Canadian accent. When I came back from the capital, around supper time, I stopped by the police station to recuperate my gun. You know? just in case. Guess what? The wall was already repaired and the camera was gone. Chief Malvenu summoned me immediately in his office to explain myself about a complaint concerning racists comments that I supposedly uttered in front of my Haitian colleagues during a binge. A complete fabrication, I tell you. I decided to keep that surveillance camera story to myself, when I understood that Malvenu was trying to put some dirt on me by bringing up my past. The bastard pulled out an old high school picture of me chilling out with accointances. I was just fifteen, hanging out with the tough guys of the village just for show. I had no idea what the letters, SS, sewn on my jacket, really meant. That wolf of a man had to dig deep to find such a weird skeleton in my closet. That's not all. Commissioner Malvenu suspended me without pay until he shed some light on an alleged vandalism and sabotage spree done on police vehicles of the commune the night before. I had absolutely no clue what he was referring to. So, in the middle of the night, as soon as the riots began, I chose to get the fuck out of town with my fiancée. I went down by Consuelo's restaurant and stole the car keys of a cook who owed me money for some Viagra pills I sold him the month before. Guess What? I saw Chief Police Malvenu in the backyard of the joint, way past closing time, chairing a meeting with Willy Bossal and the biggest cocaine traffickers of the region. I made sure not to be seen and buzzed off with the old clunker of the cook. Before I split, I noted the presence of Senator Fleurant, Judge Zilérion Campbell, Mayor Amédée Fleurinor and enough hoodlums and lowlifes attending that reunion to put up an entire football team. Now, was my assassination on the agenda at that said meeting? I don't know. But I am pretty certain I told no one, besides Marguerite, about running away to Fort-Liberté. So how did the demented Sergeant Malvenu found out where I was? When did he decide to come here and try to kill me?" 
"You'll be back home soon, Lieutenant," says the representative of the Dominican Ministry of Defense. "But before you go back to your little cocoon and all the comfort of your Canadian castle," Geraldo Manuel Pariente adds on a suddenly very crisply tone, "allow me to ask for your help to clarify some conflicting points in your statement. You told us Sergeant Malvenu attempted to your life while you were chasing the abductors of that Mr. Moïse Berri, Friday morning before dawn. So tell us who is that same Mr. Berri who ratted on you to the Defense Chief of Staff today? Is it the same individual who is accusing all those honorable Ministers of my beloved country of collusion and conspiracy to commit murder without the slightest piece of evidence? Are you trying to tell us that Moïse Berri's kidnappers gave him a break to make all these personal phone calls because they have a big heart? And while we're at it, Lieutenant, I want to know everything you know about that so called Senator Fleurant, who does not seem to exist on our list of Haitian officials, put to our disposition. We have a serious problem with his younger brother, Baudelaire, on that side of the border. Our informants maintain, Baudelaire Fleurant is building up an army division in our own backyard and probably planning to invade Haiti and put the island upside down once again. Our tourism industry cannot afford that. The economy is fragile and the visitors are scarce. We are not equipped or prepared to keep a lunatic of that caliber inside our borders." 

Owen McShane, a public relations strategist from the Canadian Foreign Affairs Office and Horacio Cristobal Ortega, an executive from the board of directors at Petroecuador, do not give a damn about Evans Ferjuste's condition. All their questions are about the oil they heard was trapped in astronomical quantity under the commune of Mizérikod. Did Hugo Chavez send a Citgo representative or an agent of Raoul Castro to assess the potential benefits? Are we talking about thousands or millions of barrels a day? And what about that Elzéar Michelet character, the self-proclaimed Duke of Tabarre, is he working with or against the central government? Was the prerogative to distribute propriety rights really given to him after a unanimous vote from the Haitian Senate? Mr. McShane promised Evans Ferjuste he would negotiate his transfer to a Cuban hospital in the shortest time possible, so he can get a decent treatment for his third-degree burns in a hyperbaric chamber. No charges will be brought against Evans, McShane confirms, because all the eye witnesses identified Sergeant Malvenu as the maniac who tried to tear them apart with C4 blocks. Even if he is considered a person of interest, the collaboration of the Beauce police officer with the Dominican government would be greatly appreciated by the Ministries of Natural Ressources of both Quebec and Canada. Port-au-Prince has always been a good friend and a unconditional ally of Santo Domingo, McShane reminds to the sergeant. If Evans Ferjuste could help the CSIS, the Haitian Secret Services and the CIA to identify and contribute to the arrest of that modern day Robin Hood known as Moïse Berri, the governments of the three states would owe him big time. Nothing looks better on a policeman's chest than a medal of honor. The multiple threats made by this terrorist, of provoking a general paralysis of the Caribbean network, are taken very seriously by the Oil giants, the local banks and the State Departments of all the concerned countries. It is no laughing matters for the investors. His definitive elimination would be warmly acclaimed and applauded.

Even with the bandages covering her eyes, a consequence of the surgical intervention which was performed to remove rock fragments from her eyelids and gravel from her cheekbones, Marguerite has been very helpful to the progress of the inquiry. Police Inspectors Ortiz and Rivera-Gonzales pilled up five pages of relevant and substantial information on all the individuals figuring on their cork bulletin board. A pyramid sketched around the pictures with a blue marker defines the hierarchy within the shady organization. According to Marguerite's statement, Moïse Berri was sitting at the top of that structure like a pharaoh. Right below him, holding formal powers similar to a grand vizir and high priest, were Louis Edmond Fleurant and judge Zilérion Campbell. William Anne Dumortier acted sort of like Berri's treasurer and chief commander of his army of thugs. Commissioner Malvenu served as his watchdog and his personal spy, while Mayor Fleurinor was running the city like a temple on Berri's behalf, serving also as his henchman and money launderer. On their part, the Diabbakas worked as elite soldiers, racketters and debt collectors. An unspecified number of sympathizers offered their services to Moïse Berri as drivers, mules, messengers, lookouts or would just do anything in exchange of a regular paycheck or an occasional gift. Companies based in Canada, the United States and in Haiti took care of transporting the illicit merchandises across the borders and cleaning the dirty cash. The weapons generally arrived in unsealed caskets, the drugs in cellular telephone boxes or inside modified Lincoln vehicles shipped in commercial containers. The illegally gained currencies traveled by plane along with the luggage of passengers above all suspicion or on board of various cruise ships and merchant vessels. The Legitimus Automotive society of Joliet, the Passage Legitime funeral home in Montreal, the Mullet Dot Org electronic boutique of Mizérikod, The Mendes y Calderón sugar refinery of Dajabón and the Quick Holdings Corporation of Boston were the principal distribution and operation centers of the Berri empire. 

In spite of the pertinence and the correctness of the information brought by Marguerite, the Dominican investigators hesitated for a long time before signing and approving her deposition. They started doubting the veracity and exactitude of the nurse's indications. How could she know the details on so many ploys if she wasn't herself part of the organization's core? Ortiz and Rivera-Gonzales took a step back to review their notes taken during the interrogation. In conclusion, Marguerite knew enough to convince a jury to send a flock of hardened criminals to prison for years. They however demanded a second evaluation of Marguerite's mental health, when she declared being aware of all that stuff because she was legally married to Rogatien Gingras, a Canadian with no control on his tongue once drunk. But after consulting with the Canadian Civil Status Office to verify her words, the Inspectors learned that Rogatien Gingras, a humanitarian pioneer who maintained closed ties and friendship with the Dominican State, was officially dead and buried for quite a while. Now, Marguerite is being treated for a nervous shock in the psychiatric ward of the Provincial Hospital. The investigators are asking themselves what they should do with all the precise and staggering revelations Marguerite keeps revealing with an amazing lucidity. 

"It was an arranged marriage," Marguerite explains. "Rogatien and I were just friends, but I played the game of love in public to obtain my visa and get the hell out of my devastated country." 
"That man looked much older than you, people in your entourage must have found that union a little bit awkward. says Ortiz." 
"What are you talking about, I am fifteen months older than Gingras? And why do you speak of him in the past tense?" 
"Which one of your eyes is the most seriously injured?" cuts Rivera-Gonzales, pulling out a portrait from a brown envelope. 
"Both are pretty bad. The right one is completely closed, due to the swelling, but I can see your silhouettes with the left." 
"Please take a look at that picture. Do you recognize this man?" 

Marguerite slowly pulls down her blindfold. The well dressed sexagenarian Inspector Rivera-Gonzales is showing to her does not ring a bell. But her face lits up with a glowing smile when she sees a familiar visage on the police cork board. 

"The joker's right there," she says, pointing at the head of the pyramid on the bulletin board. "Gingras and I are not that old, we're still very efficient in our respected fields. The citizens of Mizérikod have been counting on his arrival since Saturday. They're hoping he can get them out of that mess, with the oil and all."  
"Do you swear this man's name is Rogatien Gingras and that he is your husband?" Ortiz asks, completely dumbfounded. 
"Only on paper, I am not emotionally dependent or the kind of woman who cheats on his man."  
"And you say that he is supposed to be in Mizérikod," Inspector Rivera-Gonzales inquires. "The man you identify as the former manager of the River of Hope NGO is the same man we put at the top of our criminal organization chart. That syndicate has been the nightmare of every police forces of the Caribbean, Mexico and Central America for years. That man is none other than the uncatchable Moïse Berri, a wanted felon on five continents." 
"You must be kidding. Moïse Berri is a White guy and, according to the latest news, he was doing time at the municipal jail of Mizérikod under the surveillance of a sadistic prison guard."  
"That man on the snapshot is also White, what is your point?"  
"Rogatien Gingras is a real mystery, I admit it. He has a French Canadian name, but he is in fact a very light-skinned Haitian, born in Léôgane. The camera flash makes him look like an albino, but he is much darker in real life, especially after a couple of days off playing volley-ball on the beach. I have a cousin in Virginia, a direct descendant of President Thomas Jefferson. Well, she is White like a Swede. They stop her everey time at the airport to double check her passport. It's not that different over here in the Dominican Republic. A bunch of you guys pretend to be White for social reasons. People tend to forget that there were Indigenous Nations and Europeans way before there were any Africans on the Island of Ayiti. Rape was common, abortion very complicated and interracial fornication virtually uncontrollable on the plantations during slavery. Not to mention that the Napoleon wars and commerce in general brought a lot of Slavs, Italians and even Syrians to Haiti. The color of the skin of an Haitian is secondary. As long as you speak Creole and that you like Rara and Compa music, you're one of us. Nobody cares about your ancestors or your genetic heritage."  
"We hear you, but what is bothering us, is that Rogatien Gingras, the real one, actually existed. That man wearing a tuxedo on that picture, standing right in front of the Canadian Parlement, was a municipal councelor living near Lake Sainte-Claire, Ontario. We don't know if this is a unique case of stolen identity, done to perpetrate a well defined action, or just another way for Moïse Berri to send us on the wrong track once again."  
"So, you're telling me I don't even know the real name of my fake husband?" Marguerite sighs. 
"You don't seem very upset."  
"Listen, Inspector, twenty hours ago, I was trapped in the middle of a shootout involving forty-three gunmen yelling insanities and pleading for blood in four distinct languages. While I was lying face down on the ground, Death spoke to me. It told me not to worry about anything else for the rest of my life if I survived this nightmare. Let's say that the next thing that will surprise me better have antennas on its head, four eyes, drive a flying saucer and have a lot of intergalactic anecdotes to entertain me with."  

21d The Plantation 

Meanwhile on the banks of the Massacre River, Amédée Fleurinor and Yves Arnold Malvenu are having a little taste of hell, as it is described by Dante Alighieri in the Divine Comedy. Unsurprisngly, Banban White Powder, always true to himself, royaly conned and sold them like ready to slaughter livestock to Señor Arcadio Enrique Jesus Mendes, a Dominican national born in Mexico, wanted for murder and drug smuggling in Texas, Arizona, New mexico and in the Federal entity of Chihuahua. Mendes is now a sugar producer who pays his taxes on time and copiously bribes the Dominican authorities. The Governor of Dajabón closes his eyes on his shady past, even if Amesty International accuses Mendes of running a labor camp and keeping the employees of his batey in a state of involontary servitude. 

The mayor and the police commissioner had just crossed the border, hidden among a group of Haitian farm workers, when a pack of fake soldiers with zero manners jumped on them. After a brief procedure that looked and sounded like a commercial arbitration, Mayor Fleurinor and Chief Malvenu were separated from the cultivators and put in the box of an old pickup truck along with three drunken migrant workers. Before realizing that they were in fact being abducted, Fleurinor and Malvenu were on their way to the Mendes y Calderón sugar plantation, north-ouest of Dajabón.

During his stay in the arms of Morpheus last night, Amédee Fleurinor had an exceptional oniric experience. He was riding on a prestigious Andalusian horse, dressed like Don Quixote of La Mancha, as the swaggering supreme guide of a pleiad of valiant knights and fearless infantry men. A batallion of archers riding elephants, supported by a company of crossbowmen, were following them closely, conceited and proud, their heads covered with turbans and their faces painted with clay. A unit of drummer boys perched on giant llamas and a section of squires came right after, escorted by a squadron of dwarfs carrying the heavy equipment and the weapons. War machines, like iron battering rams, ballistae, catapults and trebuchets, moving on their own, closed that remarkable military parade. Amédée was waving to his delirious subjects: the serfs and peasants mingling with the elite and the bourgeois, the aristocrats joining the proletariat to show some love to their king. 

On the way to his castle, Amédée was throwing gold coins and gemstones at the crowd, stopping once in a while to kiss the forehead of a toddler or to hug a grandmother. The absolute monarch of this fanstasmagoric kingdom finally dismounted from his horse to review his personal guard, posted in a dignified manner on each side of the wooded path leading to his marble palace. After crossing the drawbridge, Amédée entered a vast courtyard garnished with water fountains coated with precious stones, abreuvoirs carved in ivory and a bottomless well. A team of eunuch security guards armed with bilboquets were patrolling the enclosed area, watching closely on Amédée's harem, his steambaths, the racing track and the high horsepower cars, his fighter aircrafts, his battleships and his armoured fighting vehicles, the supersonic jet, part of the Munich Egyptian Museum, a space shuttle, a pink barquentine, numerous medieval body armours, paintings of Dali and Degas and also a collection of precolombian and Abyssinian artefacts. Lifted in the air and transported by a sudden tornado, Amédée was then thrown past the walls of his palace and put at the command post of a talkative and animated anthropomorphic locomotive. Vignoles rails appeared as the engine progressed forward, creating in its wake an ultra modern railway network connecting all the villages of the land Amédée was crossing. An explosion on his left and a tunnel was automatically dugged through the Black Mountains, another deflagration on the right, and Pic la Selle was cut wide open; the echo of a jackhammer and the roads grew larger, smoothier and cleaner. An olympic torch was brought to life after the impact of lightning on a bed of orchids, defying the wind and the thunderstorm, illuminating Amédée's imperial crown. 

Finally, seven trumpets, three oboes and a cornemuse were used to announce the holding of a sumptuous banquet. A feast to honor the kingdom's triumphant athletes, many of them coming down from suspended podiums floating above the clouds. In the end, Amédée took a seat at the head table, which was bending under the weight of the abundant food, and surrounded himself with intellectuals, inventors, philosophers, political revolutionnaries, rebel artists and beauty queens, some of them dead for a long time, some still alive and ready to make some noise. 

Amédée Fleurinor's return to the real world gives a fatal blow to his out of proportion ego and his ability to dream in color. He was the night before the proud owner of a piece of land worth billions because of the suspected oil reserve sleeping underneath it; all that he now possess is a pair of won out pants and a cotton undershirt, the rest of his luggage having been used to pay for his protection between the moment of his abduction, his transfer to a roofless rotten barrack and his assignation to silo number eight at the Mendes y Calderon sugar plant. Who is going to notice my absence? the former mayor asks himself. Unable to find a name, besides Kennedy, his only son, who he outrageously betrayed, Amédée Fleurinor plunges into a deeply lethargic state. 

Not too far from there in silo number twenty, Yves Arnold Malvenu is adapting to his new social status. Modern slavers are holding him against his will; he must therefore find a way to escape or accept the loss of his freedom and mental equilibrium. The commissioner's Spanish is mediocre, but good enough to understand that his new job consists of picking up the sugar cane that falls behind the sugarcane harvester and putting them on a cart pulled by two men who seemed to have forgotten everything about the concept of free will and liberty. 

Malvenu knows for a fact this completely inhuman chore will kill him way before his time. Even worse, it will first deform his spine, burn his epidermis and atrophy the muscles and articulations of his upper limbs. Malvenu also smells the clammy smell of torture, suffering and mindlessness, when he hears the wheezing and asthmatic cough of the foreman named Ramón. That disciple of Pinhead is recognizable by the pallor of his skin, his perfidious glare and the Hellraiser movie crew jacket he wears all the time. Ramón is possessed by the same evil spirit that controls Oscar Perceval, the sadistic Mizérikod jailer. Chief Police Malvenu guessed it right while observing Ramón's behaviour toward animals. Malvenu believes this spiteful individual is mentally unstable and extremely violent. The kind of man who feeds himself on the fear he engenders in his prays. The type of person who gets aroused when terror and dismay rule. Malvenu is not a fool. He understands his life is technically over. If he wants to see his son and start dreaming again, he must find a way out of that squalid estate or find the means to alert his associates so they can come and rescue him. 

The rational side of Malvenu shifts into analysis mode. 

''I am not chained,'' he reasons. ''Many loyal braceros of the establishment are carrying a machete, a knife or a sharp hatchet. The guards horses  look robust and perfectly healthy. The truck drivers transporting the sugar out of the plantation are all packing heat. The laughter of happy children playing near the main house of the property indicates the possibility to provoke a favourable hostage taking situation.'' 

The sharp crack of a whip near his hear lobe brings Malvenu back to his precarious condition. 

''What are you thinking about, you slobbering fleabag?'' Ramón asks him in Creole. 

Commissioner Malvenu slowly turns on himself. The foreman is nervously stroking the mane of his young buckskin Criollo. Ramón avoids to make eye contact with Malvenu. 

''I beg your pardon?''  
''At the first attempt to escape, I use a joiner's mallet to make some oat groats out of your bones,'' coldly warns Ramón on a vitriolic tone. ''I then cut the back of your knee with a broken bottle as a reminder. That's the way it works out here under my command. A problem is submitted to me, I jump at its throat and strangles it... slowly. Only one of these primates tried me twice since I've been nominated chief of security. He thought he was better than me, because he had a driver's licence from Arizona. Do you want to know what I did to the scrotum of that wildfowl?''  
''I don't know what you are talking about, Boss. I have been in this country for only three hours. I don't want any trouble.''  
''You think you're smarter than me, because I'm from the countryside? Where you planning to escape from the camp, just like Pedro Alvarez?''  
''What? Please, Sir, I don't know any Pedro or any Alvarez. I was just counting the sugar canes in my head to kill time. If it's money you're after, I hid my Rolex Oyster between my buttocks. You take it, I keep quiet. Just choose another puppet to hit on.''  
''That sounds like an order,'' the foreman named Ramón grumbles. ''So, for you... if I understand your non-verbal language accurately; I am nothing more than a thief, a pig and a liar with no education? Pull your pants down and bend over, my lucky little bunny. I've got a big surprise for you,'' adds the overseer as he dismounts his horse, looking at Malvenu with desire and lust in his sparkling eyes. 

''Ramón!'' intervenes a young woman riding an enormous auburn draft horse, her hair all messed-up and still wearing her nightdress. 

The lady aims at the concupiscent taskmaster's crotch with a Winchester rifle. The child sitting right in front of her uses his fingers to imitate the shape of a firearm and makes gunshots  onomatopoeia with his mouth to scare off Ramón. Yves Arnold Malvenu briefly stops breathing. The almond shaped cinnamon eyes of the kid belongs to Pyram's mother, the commissioner's ex-wife. Believing that human clonage was done despite international laws and general condemnation would not be exaggerated. Amélie Lausanne orders Ramón to get out of her sight. The memories of the unforgivable actions done by Malvenu to Amélie come back to haunt him. 

When Malvenu learned, a couple of years ago, from Vidal Gascon and the guys from housekeeping at the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation, that his son Pyram got an underprivileged young woman pregnant, the commissioner took the matter in his own hands to save the honor of the Malvenu family. With the malice of a Shakespearean character, he immediately planned a cruel way to destroy that unacceptable relationship. When Yves-Arnold Malvenu threw the money in Jim Falafel's hat, Jeff Sprinter spat on the ground in disgust and cursed the commissioner's mother. A stern warning would have been enough to force Amélie Lausane out of town, Falafel maintained, extremely uncomfortable with the wickedness of Chief Police Malvenu. The commissioner however insisted that the sympathetic and delicate Amélie should be sold into bondage to a sugar producer on the other side of the border. 

''Amélie?''  
''Here we are face to face once again,'' says the woman with contempt. ''But this time, I'm the one holding your insignificant existence in the palm of my hand.''  
''I... I, that little boy?'' 
''You leave Junior out of this, you foul-smelling ogre. It's the first and the last time you lay your eyes on him, anyway. I'm going to drop my son at the sugar mill's nursery, then I'll come back here to give you a detailed description of the tortures you're going to experience on this premise. You'll soon be begging for a quick death. We heard about your presence in Ouanaminthe fifteen minutes after you registered at the hotel. What were you thinking? Banban Lordovcoca works for my husband, Señor Mendes. Banban has been on his payroll for months; same deal with Colonel Baudelaire Fleurant. The trap closed around you like on a hungry sewer rat, Commissioner. From now on, consider yourself damned and erased from the Book of Life.'' 

21d 
The Exiled 

Zilérion Campbell and Louis Edmond Fleurant are dangerously drifting towards Navassa aboard a cracked hull cruiser sail boat. The tiny island of Navassa is located at about twenty nautical miles from the Haitian west coast commune of Dame-Marie. Port-au-Prince has been claiming that inhabited coral reef since 1856, but Washington has been turning a deaf ear since the Guano Islands Act was passed by Congress. The tenacity of the Haitian people is written in article 8 of the country's constitution, but well armed Americans with a thirst for bird excrements maintain that they discovered Navassa before the Taínos and Columbus. That unexplored and uninhabited island is exploited only or its guano reserves. Its population will rise to three souls, if the swell of the Jamaican Channel draws the pleasure craft of those Haitian expatriates closer to its littoral, made of steep and sharp cliffs. 

The evasion plan of Judge Campbell and Senator Fleurant seemed at first infallible, promising a better future for both exiles. They where supposed to fly from Montego bay to Chicago, take a transatlantic flight from O'Hare to Heathrow, drive to the Harrow Disctrict of London to get some new forged Ivorian identity papers from a Lithuanian counterfieting ring, take a train to Paris, fly Orly-Dakar in a 747, then Dakar-Abidjan in a ATR, and finally reach Bangui on the Ubangui River on their own with their fake Tchadian diplomatic passports. The only problem with the plan was the missing link between Montego Bay and their starting point in Haiti. 

Louis Edmond Fleurant bitterly regrets abandoning his homeland. Had he known before fleeing that his brother Baudelaire was still alive, Fleurant would have stayed and participated in the armed revolution under his command. Not to mention the senator held some compromising information on people who could grant him protection from the justice system if the coup against Martelly failed. 

Instructed by an oficial document stolen by Moïse Berri, most probably from the CIA, he learned all the details about the involvement of Ricardo Pedro Pintado, of the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, in the human trafficking business accross the Dominican Republic border. Professor Pintado had control over a team of foreign agents and a ring of spies and smugglers in Haiti. His eldest son, José Camillo, a captain in the UNPOL, worked on the ground as the operation director; his nephew, the son of Margarita Maria Lourdes Santiago, a prominent Montevideo banker, took care of purchasing strategic land along the Haitian border on behalf of a secretive Uruguyan society; the ultimate goal of such acquisitions being the establishement of a safe corridor to facilitate the systematic exportation of young females destined to be sold for prostitution. 

Senator Fleurant wished he had met Moïse Berri in person at least once before fleeing his fatherland. He was fascinated by that enigmatic character and fairly impressed by his ingeniosity, his imprevisibility, his polyvalence and his ability to control his environnement from afar. That same man really got on his nerves, however, when Fleurant was confronted to his inaccessibility and total lack of transparence. That excessively discreet indivual clearly avoided any closed or prolonged contact with his associates. His instructions were always communicated by electronic mail, by phone or through a carefully selected intermediary. To Fleurant's knowledge, no one, besides Judge Campbell, has ever been near Moïse Berri enough to touch him or feel his breath. 

Senator Fleurant once concluded after much thought that this exceptional and extraordinary schemer only existed on paper. He believed Moise Berri was in fact a very advanced and complex computer program or a made-up person guided by a powerful alter ego in flesh and blood, probably a member of a secret supra-governemental organisation. But a particular incident, involving Judge Campbell, that occured in the back of Moïse Berri's Lincoln, invalidated all these paradoxical suppositions. A spector, an hologram or a software could not, in any way, simulate a bleeding from the nasal cavities of a human being. Therefore, two witnesses could someday testify in a court of law about the undeniable existence of Moïse Berri: Archibald, the main chauffeur at the villa, and Judge Campbell, who was sitting in the backseat of the limousine at the time of the accident. 

Zilérion Campbell is in the meantime on the toilet seat of the pleasure boat, deep into his thoughts. The judge now realizes that he should have fled from Haiti a long time ago. He could have found work as a taxi driver in New York or in Montreal, opened a snack in Boston or improvised himself a barber or a mechanic in Little Haiti, Florida. He chose to stay because of the love for his country, ignoring the danger. However, the last death threats he received really affected his moral. When the menace came from some unjustly condemned prisoner, chained behind bars, the judge had no trouble sleeping and his appetite was not altered in any way. But the intimidation coming from the families of acquitted criminals, were much more scary, because they knew where and when they could put their hands on him. So he complained about the situation. Judge Zilérion finally got an unexpected meeting with the elusive Moïse Berri. 

The encounter took place in the limousine of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation's president. The stretched vehicle was double parked in front of the Mizérikod Scotia Bank. Moïse Berri granted five minutes to Zilérion Campbell, but he stayed impassive the whole time, looking at his watch, playing with his dark sunglasses and barely listening, visibly annoyed by the judge's presence and grievances. At the end of that peculiar one way discussion, Moïse Berri ordered Campbell out of the Lincoln, clearly displeased and disappointed about losing his valuable time with the incoherent old man. 

The electric locking system of the door on the judge's side was defective, so Campbell tried using Berri's door. To avoid any contact with the judge, like if the magistrate was carrying a highly contagious skin disease, Moïse Berri bent himself like a contorsionnist to let him pass. Berri quickly lost his balance and slipped. His nose hit the headrest of the front seat and immediately started bleeding. Zilérion Campbell offered him his hankerchief. The judge also told Berri to think as hard as he could about Rogatien Gingras, the former director of the River of Hope NGO. People in the area often mentionned that concentrating on a mental image of that man could stop the nastiest hemorragy. Now, in this era of space exploration and advanced computer programming, a moderately educated person should not believe in such crap, mockingly observed Moïse Berri, smiling for the first time. 

The atmosphere in the car instantly eased. Campbell profited of that exceptionnal moment in the company of Moise Berri, that highly elusive master swindler, to reveal the plan of his newest stratagem. It consisted grossly of using the names of sick children from Mr. Saint-Saëns's orphanage, and other patronyms found in the graveyard, to claim insurance payments for medical treatments from the Prudential subsidiary that just opened in Jeremie. 

Moïse Berri lost his good humor in a matter of a second and became extremely angry, trembling and foaming at the mouth with rage. The Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation's president started shouting at Judge Campbell, calling him a soulless bloodsucker and a child killer. Berri told him that a pile of manure of his caliber should be condemn to the gallows for life. And after spitting in the judge's face, Berri slapped the old man with the back of the hand. Zilérion Campbell took exactly two seconds to think about the dire consequences of a physical assault on the respected and feared project manager. He thought for a moment about all the suffering such an action would cause and decided to do the right thing by leaving the car, his fists clenched and his teeth grinding. 

Two hours later, still fuming and feeling insulted, Campbell realized his handkerchief contained biological informations on the identity of the man that just struck and humiliated him, a wanted individual chased by both Interpol and the underworld. Judge Campbell got in touch with William Anne Dumortier, aka Willy Bossal, in order to achieve vengeance. That blood could be used as a fetish by an experienced sorcerer to put a curse on Berri or serve as evidence to prove his presence on a prearranged crime scene. So on that same night, a piece of that hankie was sent for testing in a secret Cuban laboratory. According to Willy Bossal, knowing parts of Moïse Berri's genetic code could be a very useful defense weapon against his attacks and a wonderful way to extort money from him when the right time would come. 

Zilérion Campbell however understood the amplitude of Moïse Berri's power, when he learned on Saturday, way before the uprising, that Berri had succeeded into switching the fragment of silk fabric with another one or made sure a third person had contaminated it enough to falsify the hematologic results. The blood sample sent for analysis to the Holguín facility in Cuba was saturated with THC, the psychoactive constituent of cannabis, and tainted with oestrogens, a female hormone.

The idea of stealing the Bayliner 266 Discovery, belonging to Joe Jean Adam, the man in charge of shipping, receiving, storage and transport at the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation, to get out of the country was brought on the table by Louis Edmond Fleurant. 

"We'll make him work as our captain and cook. Adam has no choice but to leave with us. When the people of Mizérikod discover what he has done, he will be either killed or forced to exile,'' adds the old man, hitting on his glass eye with the tip of his pipe. 
''I don't think it's safe to travel with a potential witness,'' said the Judge. 

Zilérion Campbell gets out of the washroom in a hurry, worried about the level of the water in the cabin, reaching above his ankles, and the echoes of an altercation between the commander of the ship and Senator Fleurant. 

''What is going on? What is all that noise?''  
''Ask Mr. Shitface,'' answers Louis Edmond Fleurant, kicking the unconscious captain in the groin. 
''What have you done, Louis? You and I are doomed if you've killed that man?''  
''I was trying to disassemble the radio, just to see what was wrong with that piece of Fareastern crap, when that asshole jumped at my throat. The thing fell in the water by his fault. That pig ain't dead, Zilérion, look at his beer belly and hairy chest moving up and down.''  
''We must wake him up, Ed. The bridge of the boat is fissured and the cabin is rapidly filling up with water.''  
''Don't worry, my old friend, Jamaica is right there in front of us and we both speak English. Bumbaclot!''  
''That's not Jamaica, you poor idiot. That's Navassa! If the US Navy shows up, I'm handing my American papers to them and swearing on the Bible you abducted me.''  
''There is no reason to panic, you spineless coward.''  
"Really? The fins we've been seeing in and out of the ocean since morning are not those of dolphins." 
"That sucks. It means no soup tonight."  
"You are just too dumb to be real, Lou. As soon as we reach Africa, we're done, you and me. We're history."  
"You sound like a depressed housewife begging for a divorce and a credit card. We're not married, you know?"  
"We're more united than you think, Louis. Let's just hope Rogatien Gingras has been assassinated and Réal Couture has repatriated or buried. You and I are much too old for the penitenciary."  
"In the worst-case scenario, my status as a Haitian Senator and your position as a judge will protect us from any serious criminal charges. That's the way things work in the civilized world."  
"How many times will I have to tell you that my judge title was handed to me by the Mayor in exchange of a pile of cash. I was not appointed by the High Judiciary Council. And you, Louis, even if everyone in town has been calling you Senator for the last twenty years, you were never elected. Judge and Senator are not jobs you can buy like general, minister, mayor or deputy."  
"Will you stop shaking, Zilérion ? Every little thing is going to be all right." 
"Isn't that a fucking song? I have Parkinson's disease, you one eye birdbrain. I told you a thousand time about my condition."  
"Let's calm down, now, Campbell. Remember what Moïse Berri promised us when we were his buddies?"  
"Please revive my memory, my good friend."  
"Berri said we'd retire like glorious Titans if we followed all of his instructions." 
"It was a warning. I thought you understood what he meant. In the Greek mythology, the Titans were sent to hell by the Gods. Moïse Berri surely thinks he is one of them."  
"I read the Divine Comedy. I always thought Zeus ended up sending the Titans to the Elysian Fields."  
"You've listened to a little too much of Joe Dassin, Louis. Come on, bring a bucket with you. If the water level keeps raising, we're going to serve as supper for the sharks and the sea."  

21e 
The Corrupted 

Meanwile, in a usually closed room of the Mizérikod Police Station, Captain José Camillo Pintado and Lieutenant Salvatore Paco Menendez were trying to manage a situation which could easily slip from their grasp. The two officers went to the station with the intention to seize and destroy some compromising documents, and also to burn some embarrassing memos bearing their signatures. Many pictures of them were sent by Moïse Berri to Commissioner Malvenu to incriminate the Uruguayan officers, proving their implication in kidnappings, human trafficking, real estate fraud and falsification of financial states on behalf of various numbered corporation and offshore societies. These elements of proof clearly denounced the corrupt practices of Pintado and Menendez. They also shed light on their direct involvement in the economic and social mess poisoning the commune for some time. The Uruguayan policemen found nothing serious besides two ugly dolls, placed in the refrigerator of the lunchroom, with their names stapled on their chest and locks of their own hair taped to their tiny skulls. They decided to set the building on fire, motivated by a mix of fear, logical reasoning and irrational superstition. 

Pintado and Menendez were spraying turpentine on the furniture they piled up, packed with paper and various flammable material, when a female Estonian police officer came to announce a group of unexpected visitors. Three foreign investigators accompanied by a dozen local policemen wanted to meet with them to discuss the pedophilia scandal affecting the reputation of Quebec, the Republic of Haiti and many European monarchies. 

Captain Pintado and Lieutenant Memendez suddenly became extremely worried. Were those lawmen real? they asked themselves. And even if they showed badges and identity cards, they still might be corrupted or on Moïse Berri's payroll. What if it was a trap, a way to record them on tape and use their words against them later in court? Pintado and Menendez chose to use their jeep to welcome each investigator separately and discover the true reason behind their visit to Mizérikod. Captain Pintado sat in the driver's seat behind the steering wheel, Lieutenant Menendez positioned himself in the backseat, his loaded gun ready to fire at the first sign of duplicity or flimflam. 

The first law officer they proceeded to interrogate looked like a Santa Claus for hire, with his chubby pink cheeks and his mischievous smile. 

''So how is Princess Astrid doing, Inspector Saintenoy?'' Pintado asks the Belgian detective, who is a bit disconcert by the bizarre practices and methods of the Uruguayan policemen. 
''Astrid?''  
''He pretends to be from Charleroi, but doesn't know the name of the King's daughter?'' bursts Lieutenant Menendez from the backseat. ''Astrid of Saxe-Cobourg, you nosy rodent! He either works with Moïse Berri or he is uneducated and completely disconnected, José.''  
''Voor wie werk je voor?'' Pintado mumbles with a lot of assurance. 
''I am Walloon, Captain, I don't speak a word of Flemish. What's going on, here, are you questioning my rank in the Belgium Rijkswacht because of my white beard?''  
''Sorry for all the precautions, Inspector, a lot of weird stuff have been happening around here in the last few weeks. We don't know who's on our side and who's sleeping with the enemy.''  
''I work for the children, Captain; for their protection by any means. Your superiors told me you could lead me to the ring leader of the pedophile network plaguing the country. Belgium cannot afford to fail in catching these monsters. My mandate is simple: I must locate Réal Couture, read him his rights and put him under arrest. Between you and I, I'll make sure he drops down the stairs a couple of times, than I'll fold him in two and put him in a box to be shipped to Antwerp. Investigation terminated; case closed. I'll go into retirement convinced that I really contributed to the salvation of humanity.''  
''Réal Couture… Couture, isn't that the French speaking White dude who escaped from the municipal jail, Captain?'' Menendez reflects. 
''Say that again?'' Saintenoy reacts. 
''Don't you worry about that, Inspector, Couture has been erased from our list of suspects. In fact, it seems that he has been more sort of like a victim of the entire plot.''  
''I appreciated the fact that you want to solve a case I have been working on day and night for the last six years, but Angelot is a worldwide operation. I seriously doubt you are qualified enough to understand the ramifications of the global organisation Couture is running. He escapes from jail and you automatically call him an innocent man? I don't get it. You are used to chasing livestock thieves. The people we're dealing with are computer experts and infiltration specialists. We're on a island, the police and the army are all around, you can certainly show me which way to go to put my hand on my main suspect. I would really appreciate your help.''  
''You'll find Réal Couture near Place Charlemagne-Péralte if you hurry up,'' says Lieutenant Menendez, trying hard not to burst in laughter. ''He is awaiting trial in a street tribunal run by a bunch of ex convicts. Good luck dealing with their newly appointed bailiff.''  
''And just what does that mean, Lieutenant?''  
''Don't give me that look, Inspector Saintenoy. We've told you before that everything has recently become extremely unusual in this country.''  

The second sleuth who comes inside the Jeep is obviously hiding something and getting ready for psychological combat to reach his goal. The GISS agent from Rotterdam refuses to show his badge and immediately starts threatening Pintado and Menendez. The Dutch agent holds a lot of information on both men, thanks to the FBI and the Mexican Federal Police. Every financial transaction made by Margarita Maria Lourdes Santiago, Lieutenant Menendez's mom, in relation to the massive land acquisitions in Haiti, within the last six months, have been filed and labeled illegal by the economic crimes unit of the FBI. The presence of Ricardo Pedro Pintado, father of the Captain, in a Pétionville hotel and under a fake name, is bothering Leon Panetta and the DIA to the highest point. The Dutch secret agent suddenly loses is calm and becomes very hostile and impolite. 

''This is not a deal or an exchange of favors,'' he warns the officers. ''All the cards of the game are in the hands of my powerful employers. Influential lobbyist in Washington will turn their heads away from your illicit activities if you successfully perform a political assassination for them on behalf of a multinational agrifood corporation based in Atlanta. It's a national security matter. Heavyweights at the NSA who are closely collaborating with Robert Swan Mueller III, want that murder blamed on Bandy-Bandy, an assassin brought to Mizérikod to execute a contract for Redmond Murphy Carrigan, a Boston mobster the Department of Defense wants to corner and arrest since 2006. All of this might seem quite complicated,'' the Dutch agent continues, ''but we are fully aware of your intellectual limits. Nobody is asking you to understand what we're expecting from you. Just remember that you must eliminate Arcadio Enrique Jesus Mendes. That's all you need to understand. We'll take care of the rest. Mendes dead, the society that hires me will be more than happy; the Defense Department will finally sleep; Bandy-Bandy will be neutralized once and for all; and finally, Carrigan will be locked down for life at ADX in Florence, Colorado.''  
''Well... that was a lot of info right there. We're definitely not that good at listening. What happens to us when we're done with that Mendes target?''  
''You? Well, I grant you total immunity.''  
''And who gives you the power to exonerate us, like if it was a small bonus given to some seasonal workers?'' asks Pintado. 
''The Captain is right,'' says Mendez. ''I don't see king, pope or president of anything tattooed on your forehead.''  
''Do you have any other questions?''  
''Are you going to answer them?''  
''It depends if their relevant. My time is precious.''  
''Once Mendes has been whacked and his ashes scattered,'' asks Menendez, ''will we be allowed to buy the rest of the land on his side of the border legally, without angering his heirs or bringing the wrath of the Dominican sugar associations on us?''  
''That conversation never took place, Gentlemen. After you've killed Mendes, you do whatever you please. You have until sundown to deliver his body.''  
''That mister Bandy, you want to put the murder on,'' inquires the captain, ''how do we find and convince him to follow us into the Dominican Republic?''  
''Just cross the border and shoot Mendes in the head. Bandy-Bandy has many other fishes to fry. He came here to assassinate a man named Moïse Berri, a humanitarian aid worker with over the top impossible dreams. We sure would like to avoid the death of that innocent fellow, but we have no information on the whereabouts and the looks of Bandy-Bandy. I must leave you now. Read my lips: one word of our conversation goes public and your children will not make it home after class today back in Montevideo. Angela Maria is a student at Colegio Y Liceo Mariano, on Millán avenue; Osvaldo and Oscar Jasper are graduating from Academia Wolf and Durán next year. I have a list of all the schools and places where I can find your other relatives on my phone, the adresses of their chauffeurs and nannies also. If you miss Mendes or get arrested before the killing his done, your young ones will suffer tremendously and your parents will be sent to New York in a rat infested container with no food, no clothes and no water. As for you, my men have already erased every detail of your career. It's like you've never existed. By taking these preventive measures, your names will never end up by mistake at the Palais National, in the Oval Office or anywhere near the Minister-President of my beloved Holland.''  

Before meeting the third investigator, Pintado and Menendez take a long pause to evaluate the phenomenal scale of their new problems. Disappearing professionally sounds more like a reward then a sanction for both corrupted cops, but knowing that their families will be exposed to constant danger until Mendes is officially dead is intolerable. On top of having to commit a premeditated murder, Pintado and Menendez must shoot a man named Jesus. The two former Catholic choirboys still do the cross sign every time they pass in front of a church, so the idea of hurting any man named Jesus is very frightening to them. The Uruguayan officers however agree that there are no safe exits from their unpleasant situation. They finally decide to go along with that assassination project for the future of their kids and the honor of their parents. 

José Camillo Pintado and Salvatore Paco Menendez welcome the Private Investigator known only as Kauffmann in their Jeep. The latter is a badly shaved man wearing dirty worn out clothes. He has damaged teeth, bad breath and his nails are darkened by engine oil. The man shows nothing but his civilian passport to prove his identity. After a rapid quiz on the subject of Henri, the Grand Duke of Luxembourg, a test that Kauffmann royally fails, Pintado and Menendez conclude they're dealing with a not to brillant impostor. 

''Are you one of the puppet soldiers Moïse Berri's sent to get rid of us, Compañero?''  
''I work for nobody else but me, Lieutenant.''  
''Keep your hands where we can see them,'' warns Menendez, as he places the canon of his revolver against the temple of the agitated man. 
''My name is Mathias Kauffmann, I am an honest mechanic, the best in Pétange. I am not a real police, but all the rest is true. I need to catch Couture or I'll just lose it. My mental health is at stake. Do you have children, Lieutenant?''  
''Many.''  
''What about you, Captain?'' 
''Spill the beans, Kauffmann, what are you trying to say?''  
''My son was only six!'' the Luxembourger explodes. ''Boooh! Woooh! My wife is dead... She is alive, but dead in the inside, walking around aimlessly... the look in her eyes... woooh! Those monsters made us believe they were searching for new talented kids to shoot a television ad. We had no clue we were in fact sending our boy to hell.''  
''Santa Maria, Madre de Dios! Don't add a single word, Kauffmann. We understand your pain. Lower your gun and hand him your handkerchief, Salvatore. We are deeply sorry for you and your family, Kauffmann.''  
''Don't tell us they killed your kid!'' Menendez groans. ''Not a six year old lad. That's the age of my Osvaldo.''  
''Waléran got out of this ordeal really messed up but alive. He just celebrated his tenth birthday on Friday. He juggles with arithmetics and chemistry like he invented both. A genius, I tell you. The shrink says he is doing all right, that he forgot most of the incident, but I sometimes feel he is still traumatized by his abduction. He is definitely not the same since.''  
''You are a witness of human perdition, Kauffmann. As we speak of immorality and corruption, Salvatore, can you read my thoughts?'' Captain Pintado asks, smiling mischievously. 
''Him?'' simply answers Menendez, when he grasps Pintado's weird and twisted intentions.  
''Is vengeance a respectable form of justice in your eyes?'' José Camillo Pintado asks Kauffmann in one breath. 
''I didn't cross the Atlantic for nothing,'' the man answers with pride. ''The monsters who abused my boy are under constant police protection back in my country. I thought my chance were much better if I came here and took matters in my own hands. I started consulting a therapist to back up my insanity plead in case I get caught.'' 
''That is a very clever move, Kauffmann, you are one amazing compadre. At first sight, you give the impression of being weak and afraid of your own shadow. But now that I am getting to know you better, I can feel sheer courage coming out through the pores of your skin. You must have many knights in your ancestry with an attitude like yours. I want to share something with you, Kauffmann, but you must keep it to yourself.''  
''I can keep a secret, what is it?''  
''Réal Couture abused our kids also,'' lies Captain Pintado. 
''Say it isn't so?''  
''That brute does not deserve to live, Kauffmann. I joined the United Nations police forces only so I could catch that ignoble evildoer,'' Pintado continues. ''I did'nt know back then there were so many rules and protocoles to follow. And don't get me started on the paperwork. Listen to me carefully, Kauffmann. If I provide you with an unregistered weapon, a gun with no past, will you shoot down this snake called Couture to regain some dignity for the sake of our beloved kids?''  
''Are you serious? You want me to walk up to him and gun him down just like that? I never saw a firearm from up close before, even less used one.''  
''If you don't love your son anymore because of what this barbarian did to him, you can tell us, Kauffmann, we're not here to judge. We understand human nature.''  
''What are you talking about? Waléran is my life. I adore him. If he  happens to cough more then twice during his sleep, I become insomniac, worried sick. I've been planning to hurt the rotten swine who broke him every single night since the incident, but with my own fists and maybe a baseball bat, not with a lethal weapon. I was middleweight champion for three years in the Royal Netherlands Navy. You leave me thirty seconds with Réal Couture and he'll never walk straight or be able to sing Peter Piper again.''  
''Have you seen Couture on television?'' Menendez asks Kauffman. 
''Yes I did.''  
''Would you describe him as White or Black?''  
''To be politically correct, I would use the term Caucasian.''  
''Réal Couture is a light skin Black Hispanic, Kauffmann. It's very common in the Western hemisphere.''  
''You don't say?''  
''It gets worse. That hoaxer legally changed his name and recycled himself in the sugar business. But that's just another way he found to enslave more innocent souls. Couture uses his title as a legitimate employer to abuse every children who falls in his web. If we drive you all the way up to him near the border, Kaufmann, can we count on you to do what we should have done a while ago if we were not just two insensitive cowards?''  
''My poor wife needs me, Captain, I cannot risk getting arrested, the consequences would be too much for her to bear.''  
''When the coroner will sign the death certificate of Arcadio Mendes, there will be two respected witnesses, Salvatore and me, right here, swearing on the Bible you were thirty miles away at the moment of the shooting.''  
''Arcadio Mendes, hey?''  
''Arcadio Enrique Jesus Mendes,'' adds Pintado. ''It's the name that devil of a man chose to pursue his demolition work among us poor humans of flesh and blood.''  
''Couture picked the name of Our Lord Jesus to make us forget how bad he is inside,'' says Menendez. 
''This feels very strange,'' Kauffmann admits. ''For the first time ever, I have the impression of taking a major decision all by myself. I don't feel like when I bought my house or when I was getting ready for my wedding day. Killing that animal would probably bring me close to enlightenment, a form of closure. Maybe it'll make me feel like those athletes when they cross the finish line and have a taste of what it feels to accomplish something without the help of anyone. I'm not saying you're insignificant. It's just that for once, I would be the ultimate deal, the final trigger.'' 
''We hear you, Kauffmann. We hear you loud and clear.'' 

21f 
The Assassination Attempt 

Not too far from the Mizérikod police station, near Place Charlemagne-Péralte, Rogatien Gingras has taken control of the people's open air tribunal. The brigands left in a hurry after being informed by Vidal gascon of the reopening of the banks. Gingras picks up the microphone and announces to a confuse and undecided audience, the official candidature of Prospérine de Grâce to the post of Mayor of the commune. 

''It is early, Brothers and Sisters,'' the new chief audit executive of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation admits, ''but it is also urgent we send a clear message to Victor Gourdet and his incompetent posse. The population of Mizérikod will not tolerate any shady political maneuver likely to transform any usurper into a permanent municipal dictator. We've had enough of the constant collusion and institutional corruption floating around our heads. We're all fed up with the ridiculous hunger for power which renders the elected, just like the authors of the average coup d'état, completely irrational, sophistic and senseless. An agglomeration like Mizérikod, a city which, by the way, holds more oil and rare earth then Venezuela and China combined, should not be administered by a wannabe mayor who is showing evident signs of brain damage and anterograde amnesia, a man who keeps talking in tongues for no apparent reason, a man who is clearly not a Christian or even pious in any form. Listen to me, good and law-abiding people of Mizérikod, I am not qualified to give a medical opinion on the seriousness of Victor Gourdet's head injuries, but one thing is certain: the fact he can quote Césaire and Baudelaire by heart does not mean he is doing well inside and currently self-managing his grey matter. You saw it with your own eyes, good people of Mizérikod, the head of the man is visibly twice the normal size of an Homo Sapiens because of the accumulation of fluids and bad ideas flowing inside his cranium. And let's not forget that Victor Gourdet is backed in his crazy project to be crowned king by an unscrupulous fraudster. Yes, my friends, Gourdet is standing in the same corner as that no good man named, Moïse Berri, a pathological liar who now pretends to be a Jew, an African and a father of two. But all that crap is only to dupe you. That's not all, my Brother and Sisters. Victor Gourdet's counselor in chief is known to be a polygamous catholic priest with seven digits in his bank account, gold teeth and a three door garage in a tropical house with a retractable roof. And to make things worse, Victor l'Hexagone said he planned to run the budget of the commune with the help of an indebted midget with a drug addiction problem and anger issues caused by an unidentified STD he never got treated, and a nightclub owner who adds water to his homemade tafia before selling it twice the price to the uninformed customers. Is that really the kind of thieves you want around to administer your new found wealth and riches?'' 

Prospérine de Grâce does not welcome her unexpected designation as a mayoral candidate with joy. She expresses her discontent, against that completely improvised initiative from the comptroller general, by frowning and sighing heavily. Rogatien Gingras winks at her repeatedly to make her understand he is simply trying to buy some time. The auditor general doesn't show it, but he is completely terrified. Twenty-seven police officers present in the assistance are pondering the best way to grab him without having to face his devoted supporters scattered in the crowd. Rogatien Gingras was recently told a professional hit man was roaming around him for a while, waiting to kill him at the proper moment. Gingras also knows for sure that many businessmen, he denounced to the authorities in the past few years, are crossing their fingers in the hope to witness his brutal arrest, or better yet, watch him die live, so they can sleep on both theirs ears later. 

Rogatien Gingras is eagerly hoping for the quick return of his two appointed bodyguards. Picot promised he'd come back with a bulletproof vest and a military helmet to protect him from the assassin hiding in the crowd; and Gingras is counting on Albin to set his office on fire, destroy his Getac computer and break every USB flash drive, SD cards and compact disks he can find. On a positive note, all the financial transactions the controller general wanted to make have been completed with success. The names of all the crooks he wished to see incriminated for embezzlement, breach of trust and commercial fraud, are from now on in the hands of the Ministry of Justice, with enough audio-visual and digital proofs to corroborate the allegations. Things didn't go as well with the auditor's technological material. The lithium battery of his high-performance computer crashed while downloading the picture of the elusive and camera shy, Bandy-Bandy, the contract killer paid to eliminate him. Fortunately, before this technical malfunction occurred, Rogatien Gingras had already collected some information and a number of clues in order to identify this redoubtable hit man without a judicial snapshot at his disposal. 

Gingras remembers four things in particular: one, Bandy-Bandy is from Queensland, Australia; two, the renowned assassin will turn thirty-five next on Wednesday; three, this professional murderer spent twenty-six months for armed robbery in 2001 at the Bandyup's Prison, in a suburb of Perth, Western-Australia; and fourth, a venomous snake from the Elapidae family, also known by the name of Vermicella annulata, bears the same pseudonym this cold-blooded executioner chose for himself. That's when the security officers at Scotland Yard woke up and blocked the Trojan horse Rogatien Gingras had introduced into their network, making it impossible to open the JPEG picture editor at the bottom of the biography page of the famous slayer. 

By applying a simple process of elimination, few people in the crowd fit the image of the merciless triggerman the auditor keeps seeing in his mind. That is to say a White man who can stand the heat, who is tough looking, muscular, tanned and tattooed. The White people dispersed in the mostly Black audience are composed of a bunch of French businessmen, a flock of Canadian policemen, some employees from different South-American NGOs and a group of female American journalists. They fit the definition of Caucasian, but none of them looks like an international hired gun in disguise. Rogatien Gingras hopes for a moment the FBI, Interpol and Scotland Yard made a mistake and that he should not worry for his life and well-being. He makes a promises to himself. 

''If I am still alive by the end of the day, finding a way to evade the police and getting out of Haiti will be my one and only priority. When things calm down, I'll come back to Mizérikod under another alias, but this time, I will avoid politics like the plague and stop acting like a vigilante.'' 

The crowd begins to show signs of exasperation. One minute and fifteen seconds have passed since Gingras presented Prospérine de Grâce as a potential successor to Amédée Fleurinor at the head of the municipal council instead of Victor Gourdet. The silence becomes overwhelming. Everybody seems to be holding their breath. People who are hungry for justice start wondering how come no one is being hanged in public like it was initially planned. 

''Is it because the carpenters are too clumsy to build a decent pillory?'' asks a fisherman after spitting on the ground and stepping on it with rage. 
''The fat posteriors of those white collar criminals should be exposed, so they can be whipped at will by the victims they have spoliated.'' a general store owner suggests. 
''Maybe it's the only way the dishonest officials and the corrupt bureaucrats found to make us understand the time for change had been postponed indefinitely, and that the status quo has prevailed once again.'' throws a teacher who hasn't taught for a while. 
''They're basically saying the exploited will forever be condemned to lay on the floor while the oppressor steps on his throat and demands more tears and more sweat from his children,'' explains a small coffee producer armed with two steak knives. 

A group of employees from the housekeeping department of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation, lead by a certain Vidal Gascon, begin to invite passive and non-violent people to consider the use of force to resist the imperialist agenda. According to Vidal Gascon, Haiti was created during a noisy uproar. That persistent tranquility is an insult to the country's Founding Fathers. It is during those quiet times that genocides, humanitarian crisis and financial meltdowns transpire. Remaining mute is tantamount to approving the constant abuse of the poor and the feeble by the rich and the powerful. Rogatien Gingras tells Prospérine to hurry up and say something in the microphone before Vidal Gascon succeeds in his plan to rise an army of misinformed rioters. 

"Trust me, Prosperine, it will be total chaos if Vidal Gascon convinces them to employ his aggressive methods of negotiations in order to deal with the so-called fallen angels controlling the world's governement from their hideout in Davos." 

The chief executive officer is expecting Picot and Albin anytime now to shelter him from that agitated crowd or get him out of there ASAP. In the meantime, Gingras warns Prospérine to be careful with that microphone and avoid talking about money, politics or religion. He recommends discoursing endlessly about daily life matters or giving a history lesson on the exploits of Haiti's war heroes. If she feels inspired, he adds, she can elaborate freely on any given utopia or simply talk about her grandkids or whatever they like to eat, listen or watch before bed time.

Prospérine de Grâce finally addresses the assembly. The gathering has grown in size because of the new gossips running around on the extremely dubious curriculum and inglorious past of Rogatien Gingras. As an economist with a masters in accounting, Prospérine doesn't have the eloquence of a politician or a chaplain. Charm an audience like a demagogue is not her forte. The drama class she took at the University of Virginia was a big flop. Being too pragmatic to speak of abstract things and much too wary to talk about her private life in public, Prospérine chooses to invite the citizens to open up a dialogue with her on the democratic and social future of Mizérikod. 

Many of them were waiting for that occasion to express their opinions and ideas, so buying some precious time like Gingras had planned becomes child's play. No one seems surprised to see Vidal Gascon and his turbulent friends rush to the front row, where the microphone is standing. 

"Victor Gourdet promised us three paychecks a month in american currency,'' Vidal says with a lot of arrogance. ''Our Great Leader also talked about a food program which would guarantee us 2400 calories everyday, bottled water and free toilet paper for everyone. Legitimate Mayor Gourdet maintains that if we support his bid to be crowned king, we'll never have to worry about medication or any health problems anymore. Obamacare will be surpassed. Cancer will be eradicated. According to Victor's financial analysts, the unemployment rate should also drop under two per cent. New infrastructures will be built under his reign. Every subject of his kingdom will automatically become a privileged shareholder of the People's Oil Company, the P.O.C. Victor Gourdet says that education on every level will be free and a job for all graduates assured for life. The new providential pension plan will be accessible even to those who never worked, children included. Now, we understand the electoral process, auntie Prospérine, we are not that dumb. We do recognize your constitutional right to run against Victor Gourdet, but for your own security and the protection of your brand new car, which we know is parked near Quai Dessalines, we strongly recommend that you consent to give us more than Victor dreamed for us.''  
''That is so well said, Vidal, you bring tears to my eyes,'' loudly applauds Balthazar, the one-legged mop specialist who recently tried to decapitate the chief executive auditor with his only good shoe. ''I think I peed my pants.'' 
''Power to the people!'' yells Agenor, the cleaning products manager who recently made a direct connection between  Rogatien Gingras and the Beast described by John in the Book of the Apocalypse. 
''Vidal! Vidal! Vidal!'' Prospérine de Grâce whines like a dog, trying very hard not to burst in laughter. ''I know you are an intelligent man, Vidal,'' she continues. ''I know you understand that Victor Gourdet as two hours of campaigning experience ahead of me. That is one huge step in political measurements. But whatever Gourdet promised you, guys, my team will gladly double it.''  
''Victor said he would make me secretary of something major in his cabinet, with an assistant, a chauffeur, a personal chef and all that crap.''  
''There you go, Vidal. I'll make you secretary of two important something. You'll work seventy hours a week instead of thirty-five and your overtime will be paid in triple during the week and in quadruple on weekends.''  
''All right, all right... and what about my vacation and sick days?'' 
''When you like your job, young man, you're on a constant holiday.''  
''Uh?''  
''What about my leg?'' shouts Balthazar, suddenly looking very alarmed for no apparent reason. ''How come nobody cares about me? How come no one gives a damn about my handicap?''  
''Did Victor promised you North Korean stem cells, a US Army prosthesis or a leg generator?''  
''I demand a bionic limb, just like Jaco Pastorius.''  
''Oscar Pistorius, you idiot!'' haughtily corrects Agénor. ''And the legs of the African are not bionic, Balthazar.''  
''Who asked for your opinion, Agénor? What do you know, besides a couple of verses from the Bible, which you've learned by heart, and all the lines read by Arsenio Hall in Coming to America? Even the doctor said he was not qualified to treat you because you're too much of a looney.''  
''The Chinese is not a doctor, you stupid punk, he is an electrician from Vietnam.''  
''Okay then, besides Reggie Gladu, name me one electrician in your entourage who can remove a bullet from a grown man's butt using zero anesthetics?'' 
''Will there be any other questions coming from mentally balanced people?'' Prospérine screams out. 
''Look who's talking about kooky people? Sounding all judgmental and all?'' Vidal Gascon says. ''Oooh! Prospérine? Tell me I'm not hearing what I'm hearing. I'm talking to you, Auntie. You can look me in the eyes. Which one of us has a brother running around naked on every major streets in town since Saturday, leading a Marxist-Leninist army of thugs?''  
''She also has a younger brother who is afraid of being murdered by a dead man,'' adds Balthazar. ''You can clearly read in his eyes there was a short-circuit in the brain of poor Lordy de Grâce. What do you want? What can we do? Madness is hereditary. Their mom is probably their older sister or something. I read an article on the subject in a cooking magazine.'' 
'' We categorically refuse to be governed by a genetically crazy woman,'' yells the representative of the carpenter and woodworker's union.   
''I told you we should have brought the gasoline and the used tires from Elzéar's scrapyard,'' says Agénor. ''Some problems need fire to be resolved.'' 
''All right, guys, that's enough, you better calm down or we'll get you arrested for public disturbance,'' Rogatien Gingras threatens. 
''Who do you think you are, White boy?'' Agénor replies. ''I don't see a sheriff's badge on your chest, Mister Pat Garrett. I know something is wrong with you're wig, Missionnaire. I went through many exorcism before. I know for sure that, chemically or biblically speaking, you're not a man. I know that for a fact and for a long time. There's something fishy with your disguise. I never forget a face, buddy, and yours is the one of Ba'al, you fucking demon.''  
''Lord help us all!'' prays Prospérine. ''Why do you always have to invite Satan or a friend of his in every debate, Agenor? You, over there, with the bright eyes. Will you please bring some sense to this discussion?'' Prospérine begs, pointing at a young female journalist who looks completely shocked. 
''I sure would like to, but our we safe?'' asks Megan Morales, the lightly dressed Washington Post correspondent. ''That man with the lazy eye said something about using tires and gasoline. I wasn't born yesterday. I saw many reports starring Haitians over the years. They never seemed to end well.''  
''Take a look around you, darling, the police and the army are everywhere. Not a single foreigner will be a victim of violence while they're watching.''  
''Okay, then... my questions are mostly about the oil, though.''  
''Go ahead, don't be scared.''  
''Many powerful lobbies in Washington are wondering if Mizérikod will soon secede from the rest of the country. By affirming the commune's independence, the negotiations with the oil giants and the drilling process would be more efficient and accelerated.''  
''That's not a question. It sounds more like political interference. Are you really a reporter, Miss...? Remind me of your name.''  
''Megan Morales,'' answers an Argentin soldier from the top of a roof. ''She's a vampire sent by Petroecuador to suck the Haitian newly discovered black gold.''  
''We are infested with these cockroaches,'' complains an Haitian officer, standing on the hood of his car. ''The other bitch with the thick glasses and the black lipstick also work for them. My boss made a phone call to the CNN headquarters in Atlanta. They never heard of a journalist named Gifford-Thompson in the building. The Berbere dude following them everywhere like a loyal dog is in fact a senior petrochemist at Shell Oil. He is the son of some rich Sheik from the Middle East.''  
''Wait a minute. Is there at least one real reporter among you?'' asks a nearly desperate Prospérine. 
''Arianne Guerrier, TVA News, for Magazine 7 Jours,'' a young lady with a severe insolation problem presents herself. ''You can call my employer to check me out. I'm a real freelancer. People are a little bit concerned about the security of Réal Couture back in Quebec. His family is worried sick and Replica Entertainment refuses to return our calls.''  
''I'd like to help you, Miss Guerrier, but who the hell is Réal Couture?''  
''The man you accuse of running a pedophile ring. The man you blame for producing and distributing juvenile pornography.''  
''What are you talking about, young lady, did you smoke dope or lick the back of a frog nesting near the river?'' 
''Bridget de Vries, La Libre Belgique,'' cuts another female reporter, a blonde with a glamorous look, her hair shaped like a tower bridge, supported by two decorative sticks. ''Arianne is right, you are definetely hiding something from us. If that is not the case, why are you so silent about that maniac and the pictures the European vice squad seized? We know everything about the crimes of Réal Couture. Protecting that monster might turn against you sooner than you expect. You're trying to save the image of your country, but the truth will prevail.''  
''Get out of here, rookie! Pedophilia is a made up disease you only find in rich societies where people buy stuff they don't need,'' protests Vidal Gascon. ''The commercialisation of debauchery and fornication cannot succeed or subsist in a poor country like ours.''  
''Vidal is right,'' says Balthazar. ''The Americans brought us AIDS and the Nepalese introduced us to cholera. And now, that fancy-looking minx wants to contaminate us with her pedophilia. When is it going to stop?''  
''No need to be rude, Sir, just think twice before you speak,'' politely replies Bridget de Vries. 
''Ha! ha! ha! well, eat this, Shoshana,'' Balthazar chuckles, pointing at his genitals. 
''I'm sorry?''  
''I believe he told you to eat this,'' confirms Agénor by doing the same insulting gesture. 
''Your mothers are going to thank me for this,'' rages Bridget de Vries as she gets rid of her shoes. The reporter then remove her hearings, her watch, her bracelets and her natural stone necklace, but keeps her rings. She then stretches a couple of times and makes some of her joints crack. ''It's not too late to apologize,'' she finally tells the guys on a very menacing tone.  
''Grrr…! ha! Tigress! hey!'' mocks Vidal. ''The blonde chick with breasts pointing towards the magnetic pole is angry now, watch out. I bet five bucks she takes off her dress and ten bucks she is not the underwear type.'' 

The punches and the back kicks come at the speed of lightening and hit their targets with the power of thunder. Many observers spontaneously rub their eyes, completely stunned, convinced that they've just witnessed a paranormal phenomenon. No one can describe what just happened without the help of a recording device played in slow motion, but the devastating consequences of Bridget de Vries's brief fit of fury are now visible to everyone. Agénor is protecting his throat with the right hand. He seems to be asking with the index of the left hand, that someone gives him a minute to understand why his nose is bleeding and his two front teeth missing; Balthazar is holding his nuts and moaning in pain, his mouth wide open and hopping on his good leg; Vidal Gascon is pressing on his eyes, bellowing with rage that the White sorceress made him blind and swearing by the Holy Cross that the Libre Belgique newspaper will be facing bankruptcy, when his lawyers are done with the countless lawsuits he intends to file. 

The people with a strong survival instinct and who are blessed with common sense do not like the direction that situation is taking. They slowly start to evacuate Place Charlemagne-Péralte, just like they would slowly get away from a volcano that starts spitting fragments of glowing rocks up in the air. A major scuffle seems inevitable. Many bystanders leaving the park believe that being beaten while participating in a democratic demonstration is a luxury strictly reserved to citizens of the G7 member states. Most of the cops are on a empty stomach since morning, so they really hope those three buffoons will not try to respond physically to the beating they just received. The experienced vandals on their part are weighing the advantages and disadvantages of using that spark to legitimate the launching of the operation they named: Absolute Chaos. They make a rapid evaluation of the police forces on the spot and calculate their chances of winning an eventual confrontation or at least avoid being arrested if things get out of hand. 

A minute passes, nothing happens, besides the slow alleviation of the pain experienced by the three loud housekeeping employees of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation. The three dubious journalists find a quiet corner to unwind. Megan Morales lits up a menthol cigarette, Arianne Guerrier takes a candy pause, Bridget de Vries puts back her shoes and her natural stone jewelry. Bridget de Vries does not smoke, but she borrows Arianne Guerrier's lighter and walks away. She then pulls a paper bag from her lamb leather purse and grabs four colorful firecrackers from it. There is a smiling clown on that store bag and also an inscription that reads: le Palais des Cotillons, jokes and hoaxes, 66, Lombard Street, Brussels. 

The question and answer session proposed by Prospérine de Grâce, the new mayoral candidate, continues, despite the agitation. 

''May I ask a theoretical question,'' throws a teenager wearing a New Jersey Devil's hoodie, who is clearly trying to keep his identity secret. 
''You don't need to hide, Gargarine,'' gently says Prospérine de Grâce, very pleased that the shy youngster finally came forward. ''What's bothering you? You're safe here with us. There's a bunch of soldiers and policemen all around regaining the control of the city. You don't have to worry about your safety.''  
''I ain't worried, Ma'am. My question is indirectly related to the financing of your electoral campaign.''  
''Since when are you interested in politics, young man?''  
''Let me finish. Let's say you know someone without a bank account, but that someone knows a donor, a person who'd like to make a contribution to your political party. In short, that someone wants to cash a check in the name of his bedridden uncle. With a portion of the money, he would open his own account, and with the rest, he would back up his favourite candidate.''  
''I'm not calling you a liar, Gargarine, but there's something weird about your question. What are you carrying in that briefcase?''  
''Homeworks, Ma'am, nothing serious.''  
''I see. So Mr Saint-Saëns and Mrs Larouche are lying when they swear you haven't been in class since Labor Day?''  
''I found a school for adults.''  
''You're a minor, Gargarine. I learned Reverend Louis Eloïse finally admitted he was your father. You fall under his responsibility now, and...'' 
''Cut the crap, Lady, I never asked for a dad. I am my own man.''  
''Here's that little fucker!'' a man yells in the background, his finger pointing at Gargarine. 
''Oh, Lord of Israel, they're all naked like Adam,'' wails an old woman who fakes fainting. 
''Get out of the way!'' Gargarine screams as he pulls out a semi-automatic pistol from his waist.  
''So that must be the Gargarine everyone was talking about,''  surmises a police officer who recognized the lost Beretta of Sergeant Pyram Malvenu. 
''And they must be the gang of undressed Communist lunatics led by Leopold de Grâce,'' says another cop. 
''Should we book the youngster for illegal possession of a weapon and the nude dudes for gross indecency?''  
''I guess so, but it is a bit risky to approach the teen while he is in that state of panic and waving that piece. What if it's loaded? As for the disciples of the older brother of the woman who is going to sign our paychecks starting tomorrow, maybe it would be wise to wait and see.''  
''That satchel is packed with cash!'' yells a member of the political naturists crew. ''Catch that little maggot! This suitcase belongs to the revolution leader. Stop the thief!''  
''Shit! I think I got hit!'' shouts Balthazar, rubbing his torso. 
''Chill out, you wimp, he hasn't shot a single bullet yet,'' Agénor reassures him with a croaky voice, before focusing on the adolescent. ''Gargarine! Gargarine! We can use my account to cash in your check. Gargarine! My godfather is a financial adviser.''  
''Leave my brother alone, blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh'' implores Vidal Gascon. ''His firearm is not a toy. I'll take care of him, people, just back off and let family matters be dealt between close relatives!'' 

Four quasi-simultaneous explosions shake the already extremely nervous crowd. The deafening detonations seem to come from the four cardinal points, like if they had been staged by a pyrotechnician. Heads turn in every direction, trying to figure out which way to run in order to avoid an unfortunate stampede and being crushed or torn to pieces. The average citizen and people in general with plans for the near future, dive head first in a coordinated movement. The naturally rebellious townsmen, the ones who need an adrenaline rush once in a while to feel alive, stand up to analyse the situation and assess the emergency level. The cowards have already left the surroundings. A suicidal fellow standing in the middle of a dozen terrified folks lying flat on their stomachs is trying to figure out where the explosions came from. The police officers and the military men who consider their task as a means to feed their family run for cover. A Peruvian soldier who occasionally dreams of bringing back home a medal of honor find the debris of two harmless firecrackers. The private attempts to communicate his bizarre findings to the mass, despite the noise, using signs, but the incoherence of that fearful crowd prevents it from understanding what he is attempting to explain. 

Picot and Albin arrive in the opposite direction taken by the people running away from the hidden menace. They rush through the melee with no hesitation. Picot is carrying a bullet-proof vest and a combat helmet; Albin holds a capital information. 

''Bandyup is an institution for women prisoners!''  Albin shouts to Prospérine, who found shelter underneath a pile of broken rattan chairs. 
''And what the hell is that supposed to mean' Is it some kind of coded message?''  
''The comptroller is in great danger! Bandy-Bandy is a woman! Bandy-Bandy is a freaking stone butch!'' 

Rogatien Gingras is way too far to hear Albin's voice, but he can read on his lips from his refuge, hunched between two solid wood tables. Bridget de Vries is already in strike mode, her back slightly arched like a vicious cobra preparing an attack. She storms towards Gingras, crawling like a reptile. The chief executive auditor understands that the sticks she uses to hold up her hair are in fact two painted surgical steel lancets. Gingras gets it. Bandy-Bandy is going to puncture all his vital organs before anyone realize what is going on. He also thinks that with her Coco Chanel look, her manicure and her pretty face, even the best detective could let Bridget go without questioning after his body is found, lifeless. Rogatien Gingras tries to cry for help. It's just like in that recurring nightmare that troubled part of his childhood: the monster is approaching and he is petrified with fear, but no sound comes out of his mouth. The deformed face of the Australian assassin resembles a blood-thirsty animated gargoyle. There is a tattoo of a cold-blooded animal on her left breast, a black and white snake. Rogatien Gingras closes both eyes and starts reciting Lord's Prayer, hoping to finish it before he expires. A fifth detonation makes him open one eye. 

''Gargarine!'' yells Prospérine de Grâce. 
''Put down your weapon and back off!'' orders an undercover cop to the adolescent. 
''You promised that no foreigner would get hurt,'' wails Megan Morales. 
''The slaughtering of the press has begun!'' screams an alarmist. 
''They've killed a White woman from White America!'' adds a fisherman. 
''Run for your lives!'' voices a carpenter. 
''They've got tires and turpentine!'' warns a house painter. 
''What's going on?'' asks Vidal Gascon, still unable to see anything. ''Who is shooting at us?''  
''Little Gargarine just killed the bitch who made you blind,''  Balthazar tells Vidal. 
''Good for her,'' says Agénor. ''Give me five! That will teach her never to mess with initiated freemasons like us.''  
''What have you done to your soul, Gargarine?'' Prospérine de Grâce sighs. 
''She is still breathing,'' Rogatien Gingras observes, visibly in a state of shock.  
''Remove her shirt and her bra,'' recommends Vidal Gascon, I know CPR. 
''You don't see shit, Vidal. Why would you need her bra off?'' says Balthazar. 
''The pervert only wants to rub her breasts,'' Agénor opines. 
''That is necrophilia, you disturb motherfucker.'' 
''Somnophilia, Balthazar... she is still alive,'' corrects Agénor. 

21g

The Reunion 

A couple of blocks away from the tumult, the employees of the Baptist Mission carry on with their work despite the disturbance, with the same iron discipline Immaculée Lamisère inculcated to them. Police forces from five continents have surrounded and investigated the establishment. No one is allowed to enter or leave the edifice without the authorization of a high ranking MINUSTAH officer, the Departmental Delegate himself or a decision taker from President Martelly's cabinet. The newest rumor in town says that the authorities have finally put their hands on the elusive Moïse Berri. The commotion is at its peak in every corner of the building. The excitement of the staff is obvious. Everyone is on edge. 

Marvel Saint-Hilien is standing by the fire escape door, looking very anxious. The security chief of the NGO is convinced someone ratted on him about the land he bought under his wife's name, using the counterfeit American bonds he got from Moïse Berri. Marvel's gun is loaded and he keeps repeating to himself that getting arrested is not a viable or acceptable option. 

Miss Mangrove is usually a very self-possessed person, but she took two sleeping pills to hide her nervousness. The senior employee of the secretarial staff recently transferred the memory of the main computer on a USB flash drive that she then swallowed. She agreed to do this in exchange of her Canadian work visa. As she promised, the complete blood count and the dental x-rays of Rogatien Gingras will remain in the darkness, and so will her knowledge of Moïse Berri's identity. 

Magdalène Richard is pacing back and forth between the lobby and the washrooms. She's waiting for a signed authorization that will give her the permission to leave the premises. The exhausted head nurse has not slept for two days. The sole evidence which can prove her implication in that illegal sanguine fluids and cadavers trafficking scheme is in the hands of Moïse Berri. Will he betray her? Rogatien Gingras told her not to worry about that anymore in the email he sent to her minutes ago. All the blood samples she smuggled into the Dominican Republic in the last few months were in fact a homemade mix of corn syrup and red food dye. All the coffins she illegally shipped to Uruguay were carrying shop mannequins filled with sand. No dead bodies ever went missing from the morgue to be used as containers for drug transportation. 

Hiding behind the cases of powdered milk and saline solution bags, Christine Fauteux believes she has nothing to reproach herself. The past cannot be changed or erased, she keeps telling herself. The dietitian and director of the kitchen at the NGO did solid time for her crime and obtained a record suspension from the Canadian government years ago. Her way of life and her sexual preferences are personal choices. That famous video showing her in action in the midst of a BDSM private party never left the prosecutor's office. Moïse Berri was lying all along about being in possession of these compromising pictures. She doesn't fear him or anyone anymore. If those cops push her to the limit, they will each get a piece of her special meat pie without the antidote to digest it. 

Gabriel Nuscrite and Joe Jean Adam are both drowsy and smiling like two mischievous kids. The pharmacist and the chief-accountant of the NGO are walking along the walls, completely stoned on various opiates. Nuscrite stopped trying to understand the complicated situation a while ago. He was just informed by phone that all the narcotics he illegally transferred to the United States last year were essentially shipments of toys destined to ill children of a San Diego hospital. His name has been suggested to the producers of the next CNN Heroes of the year. Joe Jean Adam is also lost. The accountant thought he was guilty of criminal negligence and failure to assist a person in danger until he opened that forgotten designer coffin in the warehouse with a crowbar. It's now clear that Moïse Berri never meant to harm him. That prankster was only playing with Joe's head. 

Immaculée Lamisère locked herself in the laundry room with a guest she didn't introduce to anyone. Reggie Gladu and Doctor Lola Sauvergarde are running the mission and meeting with the authorities in her name. Immaculée and Reggie both appear tranquil, at ease and in peace with themselves. They freshly got the confirmation from Moïse Berri that their past mistakes would never resurface again. They are meeting with Saintenoy, a Belgian inspector with a Santa Claus beard, escorted by a squad from the local police. Saintenoy is insisting they hand over the Canadian named Réal Couture immediately to him.  

''Couture is in the intensive care unit. The people from the Canadian embassy are by his side,'' Reggie Gladu tells the European investigator. ''But rest assured, Inspector Saintenoy, he is not the one who's hurt. His friend was nearly killed by a lynch mob. We're talking five minutes without oxygen, a rope around his neck. Add to that the damage done to his spine after the fall and the emotion brought out by a near death experience. You don't need a picture to understand he's fucked up real bad.'' 
''Fât' bon saing! Canadian embassy staffers? What do they want with my prisoner?''  
''They want to bring him back home. Couture just learned from his agent that he is now rich as Croesus. The Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation deposited a great amount of money in his bank account back in Quebec. Calling him Millionnaire from now on will be more adequate and accurate.''  
''I am not following you, Doc. The man I am looking for is Réal Couture, the international pedophile.''  
''I'm also talking about Couture, Inspector Saintenoy. I knew about his philanthropic activities, but I had no idea about him being a sexual predator. He is on the third floor, bed four. Unless the people of the Canadian embassy have already evacuated him, that's where you'll find your man. Let me find an orderly to guide you.''  
''Why would the Canadians get involved in this without telling me?'' the inspector asks himself. 
''National secret; that's what we heard,'' Lola Sauvegarde says. ''And from what we understood, the Canadian Foreign Minister in person will meet Couture in Miami and fly with him to Ottawa before he is sent home to Rimouski.''  

Cyril Lavache is also haunting the newly renovated intensive care unit of the Baptist Mission's polyclinic. The daughter of the town's cobbler is doing better. Violette is lying in bed two. Her vital signs are stable. Her little girl will survive. Born six weeks too early, the infant will soon be transferred to a neonatal intensive care unit in Cuba with the help of the Canadian Global Affairs Department. Cyril removes his chirurgical mask, so that Rondall Jérémie, tied up in bed three, can recognize him. The Mizérikod's suspected serial rapist is lying on his stomach, unable to move or defend himself. The job Cyril intends to do on the rice vendor in the absence of witnesses or any surveillance cameras will be a mix of traumatic surgery and black magic. Cyril Lavache has zero experience with sorcery and ignores the effects of the various smelly potions he bought from Pantaléon Michelet. Therefore, he will need the collaboration of Rondall Jérémie to carry out his zombification process correctly. 

Three feet away on bed number one, Pamphile Dutervil, aka Doudou the Cook, is sleeping peacefully on a chair next to his wife. Being caught in bed with a stranger by her legally deceased husband provoked a sudden increase in Mélissandre Présumés blood pressure, causing the stroke that put her in that semi-comatose state. The last bed of the reanimation unit is vacant, but the staff is expecting a new patient, a foreign reporter with a bullet in the spleen. According to the word on the streets of Mizérikod, Bridget de Vries was a victim of an attack perpetrated by a group of mutineers of the NHP. A shady association which is demanding a more generous portion then what was previously negotiated, regarding the profits the future oil windfalls will bring to the country. The employees of the cafeteria and the guys from housekeeping maintain that the firearm used to wound the poor lady belongs to a police officer named Pyram Malvenu. They also pretend that the cartridge they've picked on the crime scene was of the same caliber as the one found near the bridge on Friday morning after the assassination attempt on Rondall Jérémie, the rice vendor. Pyram Malvenu and his father being nowhere to be found, probably erased from the Book of Life or trying to vanish from the country, the political aspect of that offense against the law becomes significantly clearer to everyone, including the investigators charged with putting some lights on that puzzling case. 

Two floors down, in the janitor's storage cabinet, the head of the Mission Baptiste du Calvaire NGO is in a near state of shock. Immaculée Lamisère was digging in the archives files of the organization, looking for lost and forgotten data on Moïse Berri, when she bumped into her father she thought 1500 miles away in Jersey. The emotional reaction of his daughter worried Reverend Lamisère to the point that he insisted his daughter took a sedative before hearing the information he had in his possession. Immaculée refused, finding the idea rather ridiculous. She reminded her dad that she lived and worked under intense stress in Mizérikod twenty-four seven, that half the city was technically burning since Saturday, and that all of this did not shortened or bothered her regular six hour sleep regime. 

''Let's start with this,'' Reverend Lamisère says, handing a business card from Line Eve Enterprises to his daughter. 
''Nice card, made from recycled plastic… there is an electronic chip,'' Immaculée observes. 
''Made in Australia. It's an anagram. Live Eve, made in Australia. MIA.''  
''I need more help then that, dad. I'm dealing with a big crisis, there's an insurrection going on in town. The police forces are chasing a bunch of dangerous fugitives. And… Good Lord! I am Eve Line. I am Evelyne.'' 
''Evelyne Laure Légitime is alive, my darling.''  
''I knew that for quite a while, daddy. Is that why you wanted me to swallow a Valium tablet?'' 
''There is more. What do you think of Rogatien Gingras, the owner of that building, the former director of River Hope?''  
''He makes me puke, but you knew about that.''  
''What about his voice?''  
''Nasal, false, slightly effeminate and totally insufferable.''  
''Evelyn is Rogatien Gingras, darling. She had hormonal therapy and got her breasts removed in a Montreal clinic. Evelyne Laure has finally decided to go all the way by becoming the man she always felt she was in the inside since childhood.''  
''Stop this!''  
''Her family had cut all ties with her since the wedding of her idiot cousin. The fact that she went away was not a surprise to them. Nobody freaked out or made a big fuss when she disappeared completely from the map. When her uncle, Sixte Osmer, passed away, she felt obliged to take matters in her own hands to prevent Dondedieu and Donduciel Légitime from wasting the family's  fortune instead of realizing the dream of their father. Evelyne Laure stole the identity of a dead Canadian man named Rogatien Gingras and came down here in Haïti to spy on the reconstruction process. She was named the sole executioner of Sixte Osmer's testament with the help of her dad, who was planning to pump out all the cash from the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation and redirect it to his private account in Switzerland. But Evelyne had another project in her head.''  
''I can't believe this. I voted yes to put a contract on this Gingras pig. I was going to have my best friend and little soul sister killed. I thank God those cutthroats are useless an inexperienced.''  
''There is more. That Moïse Berri character who's been protecting you like a guardian angel for the last five years, the president of the Foundation you've never really met… You might want to take a seat.''  
''Nooooo! Get out!''  
''That's right. Evelyne is Rogatien Gingras, and Rogatien Gingras is Moïse Berri. Do you need a glass of water before you hear the rest?''  
''Throw it at me while I am still conscious.''  
''Three years ago, Achille Hector Légitime committed an unimaginably cruel crime. He stole the money of a fellow Christian from Arizona, a vertiginous amount of cash the poor man had won at the state lottery. Worse, in addition to ruining this man, he organized the kidnapping and the expulsion of this unfortunate Joe from the United States. Overnight, Pedro Francisco Maria Alvarez went from multimillionaire in Phoenix, to homeless and sick in a small village of the Dominican Republic.''  
''This sounds more like something his brother Ulysses Hercules would do. It seems to me that he is the one that inherited the evil gene.''  
''Achille Hector was my right hand man; righteous, honest, spreading love all around him like a real apostle and giving away his time to the point of forgetting about himself. That Powerball story broke out and it's like if Achille had lost his mind. The FBI and a joint task force of Mexican and Dominican agents just freed Mr. Alvarez from a labor camp, a sugar plant near Dajabón. I was of some help in his rescue, but it is Evelyne that orchestrated everything.''  
''What was your role in all this, dad, you sound like a secret agent from a John Le Carré novel?''  
''I began to clean money I took from the Camden Congregation Fund in the casinos of Atlantic City. I established a couple of contacts in the field, closely guided by Evelyne. I also accepted to participate in a fake drug smuggling operation under the watch of the DEA so they could catch a wanted drug baron named, Arcadio Enrique Jesus Mendes. Moïse Berri… I mean, Evelyne Laure, was managing everything from her hideout somewhere at the other end of the planet. Things did not go exactly as planned, though. A lot of Mendes associates escaped after wounding seventeen Federal Agents in the port of Nassau. Mendes is number twenty-seven on the FBI's most wanted list. Ironically, Moïse Berri is number twenty-five... even if he doesn't technically exist."  
"What happened to the money of that Alvarez guy?"  
"We are officially responsible of what is left of it. Achille Hector already blew at least half of it, transferring thousands of dollars in his account every week over a long period of time."  
"Did you just say, we?"  
"Evelyne, you, the Mission, the Foundation and me. I have two bottled water in my bag. You look pale and shaken."  
"I'll be okay, but wow! And what kind of money where talking about, do you have a number?"  
"Sixty-seven million American dollars, my dear."  
"The bottled water would be welcomed now. But if you tell me that the oil story is real and sitting exactly under grandma's house, I swear I'll… 
"I don't believe in that oil frenzy. We won't need it anyway. With Evelyne's help, we have become the official managers of Sixte Osmer Légitime's estate. We'll talk about the amount of money it represents when you come back to earth."