Vino The reporter

20a 

Reporters Without Borders 

The Church of Our Lady of Seven Sorrows is shaken by the catchy chants of a partisan crowd. The edifice is so packed, active monitors had to be installed on its porch to satisfy the large number of onlookers standing outside. People want to know what is going on with that oil and rare earth story. Is everyone really going to become an instant millionaire by the end of the day? From now on, the citizens of Mizérikod demand to be informed by the powers that be. Transparency and honesty are expected from the usurpators and all non-elected officials. The deals made behind closed doors will not be tolerated anymore. At the first glimpse of hypocrisy or duplicity, the population swears the new leaders will be burned along with their ideas and their lies. 

Victor Gourdet is wearing a paper sash with the word Majistra written on it. Thanks to the former newspaper editor, Mizérikod has witnessed a bloodless municipal coup with a little help from his friends. Rico Mars initially wanted to be named Chief Treasurer and Finance Manager of the commune, with DJ Evasion as his assistant. But Victor Gourdet chose wisely to appoint them Vice-Mayors, with no particular powers, to keep them far away from the city's safe. To show everyone they take their nomination seriously, Rico Mars and DJ Evasion demand from now on to be addressed by their birth names for the pride of their families, but people find this very suspicious. Some suspects it might be a way to escape Justice when something goes wrong. A wise observer even shouted to them: "In the movie, Young Guns, Pat Garrett was hunting Billy the Kid, not William Henry McCarty."  

Yussef Cohen-Abitbol wished he never pledged allegiance to the new municipal government. But Victor Gourdet practically imposed the burden of managing the public funds of the city to Yussef, by making him his first secretary and principal spokesman of City Hall with unlimited access to the money vault.  

The Mayor and his staff all seem drunk, but Yussef looks more relaxed then the other survivors of the shoot out that occurred in Jones Brookyn's military tent. A phone call from Tel-Aviv removed a big weight from the Morrocan's shoulders. All the members of his family are alive and well. A mysterious rabbi named Moshe Berryman came out of nowhere this morning to deliver certified checks amounting to three million euros to his wife and kids. His parents and even his dog got an apology for all the worries caused by Yussef's adventures in Haiti. His passport has been returned and his now in safe hands at the Canadian Embassy in Port-au-Prince. He is now free to leave the country and go enjoy his money with his loved ones. 

An outfit of wanted criminals and dangerous fugitives form a solid barrier between the self-proclaimed municipal council and a bunch of journalists from all over the globe. These thugs are the newly assigned bodyguards of the new administration. Father Romuald and Yussef Cohen-Abitbol supervise the questions and answers period that follows the drunken speech of Victor l'Hexagone. Priority is given to the major news channels with a big budget, but a spot is left for the local reporters. The new Mayor is many things, but certainly not a snob. 

"Deidre Anke Gifford-Thompson, CNN International," a newshound with thick glasses presents herself. She is dressed and combed like an audacious schoolgirl trapped in a grown-up body cast in a porno movie. "What are your priorities concerning the expected oil windfalls, Mr. Mayor, do you intend to join OPEC or wish to keep your autonomy until you adjust your local economy to the rules and the fluctuations of the aggressive energy market?" 
"Before we take any crucial decisions," the new Mayor answers, "my office wants to put some order in the management of the oil bonds issued by citizen Elzéar Michelet in the name of the people. We must also reach and agreement with the central government. President Martelly and the people's representatives in Port-au-Prince have to understand that if they stick their nose in our business, the residents of Mizérikod will vote for immediate secession and irreversible separation from the Republic of Haiti on the upcoming referendum due next week end. We will create a tiny state similar to the Vatican, Monaco, Liecheinstein, San Marino or Barhein, but it will be a powerful nation, with its own army, a revolutionary space program targeting a landing on Mars before the Americans, Olympics and a FIFA World Cup every two years, and finally, a twenty-eight day Carnival every February." 
"Have you been seen by a certified psychiatrist since the earthquake of 2010, Mr. Mayor?" 
"Mayor Gourdet will not respond to that insulting question," Yussef Cohen-Abitbol intervenes. "Do you believe licensed psychiatrists are fighting to get a job around here because of the competition? We're not in Vienna, ma'am. Next!" 
"Carole-Anne Brabant, Reuters. Our sources reveal the imminent arrival of a Canadian auditor general and financial comptroller in the region. People say that man is commisioned to carry an appropriate inquisition regarding the Moïse Berri scandal. Will the Court of Cassation give to that executive the power to charge the suspects?" 
"Why don't you talk about things I might know?" Victor Gourdet complains. "I was told this auditor general story was classified has an urban legend. However, if that financial controller does exist, elsewhere than in your head, that motherfucker is welcomed. I've got no problem with that. Each to his own job. But I would be very surprised if Moïse Berri and his accomplices were still around awaiting to be nailed." 
"Next!" Yussef screams with joy. 
"What is that big bump on your forehead, Mr. Mayor, were you attacked or did you fall?" a concerned citizen asks. 
"It's none of your goddamn business," the first magistrate shouts. "You have a repulsive furuncle on you chin, do I bother you with that?" 
"The left side of your body seems paralyzed, Mr. Mayor,"  an independent journalist who didn't wait for the permission to speak ventures, "Is it a way to communicate to your enemies that your magic of West African origin is superior to their Las Vegas HBO Special bullshit?" 
"Don't even bother answering, Victor," Yussef advises. 
"You!" Father Romuald points, eyeballing a young woman wearing a mini skirt and a swimsuit top, but still sweating profusely. "What station are you representing?" 
"Megan Morales, Washington Post correspondent." 
"I can't believe trees still die, so that crap can be printed. Are your bosses aware that news from every corner of the planet is completely free on the Internet nowadays? Go ahead with your question, but just one though. Then I want you out of here, out of my sight. Go put some clothes on." 
"You just asked President Obama to put his presidential campaign on the side, thirty-three hours before the polls close, so he could come and meet you to sign a free trade agreement. We know Michaëlle Jean, the former Governor General of Canada and Special Envoy to the UNESCO, a native of Haiti, will soon visit the country. Is that sudden rapprochement with Washington a political way to send a clear message of your impending energy independence to the Canadian Prime Minister, Stephen Harper?" 
"Not at all, darling, I just wanted to meet Michelle. I'm in love with the First Lady of the United States. There, I've said it. Let's change the topic. And the priest is right, miss Morales, your bosoms are extremely troubling. You should go get dressed. There's a lot of predators roaming free in the surroundings. Most of them really think no means more. Now, for those of you who are interested," Mayor Gourdet continues, "the support of President Obama is not enough, I also need back up from the international community. I want all the leaders of the G20 to be informed of our situation. This is to avoid a planned Haitian genocide by unregistered soldiers from the United Nations. They want to reiterate the carnage of Rwanda 1994 to avenge the final defeat of Rochambeau. If the cameras keep rolling, these wolves will not show their teeth in public. The oil and the rare earths are ours to keep. We want to maintain our sovereignty and be capable of deciding where and when to dig, who and how much can be pumped, and at what price we should sell." 
"Long live the Mayor!" Father Romuald screams. 
"Hexagon, Mayor for life!" the assembly yells back. 
"Victor Gourdet for president!" 
"You, with the hat, the priest signals." 
"That's not a hat," the clearly offended reporter corrects. Bilal Saqr, for Al Jazeera. Mayor Gourdet, you claim that the former municipal council was deeply corrupted. What changes do you plan to implement in your administration to ensure a better management of the public funds? And how do you plan to keep a high level of transparency in your relationship with the elite, the multinational companies and the local population?"  
"Let it be known that I have absolutely no experience in administering anything. My newspaper was always in the red and accumulating deficits. I'm lucky my wife knew how to make a budget. Since she dumped me, I survive because of my good credit record. What do you want? I have zero sense of organization. But do I really need to know what I'm doing, running this city, when I have Jesus guiding me and a municipal adviser like Father Romuald, a future Cardinal, standing right here with me? The answer to that question is limpid. As for transparency, do you know any institution who can compete with the Catholic Church? In conclusion, Mizérikod has never been in better hands. The crooks who used to sit at City Hall escaped to Africa, according to the rumors. The servants and associates they left behind will soon be arrested, judged and executed for their crimes."  
"Imprisoned," Rico Mars rectifies, "Mayor Gourdet met imprisoned, not executed." 
"Law and order will be respected," DJ Evasion adds with firmness. 
"You! the blonde with the sunglasses and the hairdo that defies gravity," Yussef Cohen-Abitbol indicates. 
"Bridget De Vries, La Libre Belgique. Let's go straight to the point, Mister Mayor, where is the paedophile? Are you trying to protect that beast for personal reasons?" 
"Listen, ma'am," Yussef Cohen-Abitbol answers for the Mayor, "we've told you the same thing ten times and counting. That paedophile story was created from scratch. It is simply untrue.  You look pretty sweet with your ballerina stance, your high heel shoes, the natural stones bracelets and the Gucci purse, but you are starting to step on our delicate and very irritated balls. The whole idea was mine, a way to attract the attention of the international press on the fate of the citizens of this small commune. Like we were explaining to the Jerusalem Post correspondent a minute ago, while you were snoring, I presume; three actors played the character role of Moïse Berri this year alone: a guy from Quebec, a French from Lyon who left the boat before we arrived and a Morroccan Jew, me. I do my best to hide it, but I am so traumatized by my experience as a political prisoner, that I feel obliged to participate actively to that social upheaval, even if I believe it is bound to fail. As soon as I stop and think I should stop my involvement, I have the impression my heart is going to stop beating and that my head is going to explode. For now, I must stay busy. I don't renounce to Judaism and to Israel anymore, put that between two giant quoting marks. Everything is fixed back home, my wife won the jackpot and Victor gave me a history lesson, so long live the Knesset. You see, I don't know the Quebecer. I only met him once, but I swear he was not the head of a paedophile ring. That poor dude suffered even more than me. He would have needed a lot of free time to feed his vices. He did not have that kind of luxury. The man lived like a trapped animal, secluded and with no access to technology. Now, you got the answer to your question, Mrs. De Vries. If you continue to harass us with your constant insinuations, we will throw you out of the church just like we did with Mrs. Big Boobs Morales. Is that understood?"  
"Censorship begins; opening the door to dictatorship." 
"Okay, that's it, you were warned, Blondie. Be gentle with her, guys, but kick the bitch out of our sight. What is this? Too much wax in her stupid ears or was she created in a lab only to piss us off? All right, order, please, order. You, with the hippie shirt, are you local or American?"  
"Jean Denis Trigant, Haïti Libre."  
"Be careful what you ask for, Son" Mayor Gourdet warns. "Liberty of expression stops exactly when you begin to get on our nerves." 
"My question has nothing to do with your schemes or this whole circus, Mr. Mayor. I only care about the bells of the belltowers of the church we're standing in."  
"What the... excuse me?"  
"I know. It sounds weird. Where do I even start? Well here it is. I invested all my money in the metal foundry of my cousin, Virgile Jean-Pierre. You might know him by the name of Grimsud. His close friends call him Grimaud. So I made that insane investment a year ago, only to find out six months later that his shop was just a creation of his disturbed mind. Now, I was recently told by an acquaintance who doesn't want to be identified that the bells had finally been cast, thanks to the determination and great piety of a small circle of honest parishioners. But my bells were unfortunately delivered to the wrong address. I am one hell of a Christian, Mr. Mayor, I'm loaded with some good Jesus and I have a lot Holy Spirit stuff going on inside of me. I love to give, but those bells are not free. They've cost me a brand new tractor and a milking cow I treated like a daughter. Can the new administration guarantee I will be fully reimbursed, and maybe get some kind of compensation for emotional prejudice?"   
"This is so unreal. Tell me that this fool is pulling a prank on me. You expect a compensation, hey? Why don't you come back and ask me the same question when the cameras and all our guests are gone, Mr. Trigant. You deserved a striking and brutal answer to your interrogations," Mayor Victor Gourmet adds with an ounce of anger in his voice. "Like if we had nothing more important to fix right now. What do you think this is, a reunion for people who wish to make dawdling a national sport? I'll remember your name, Jean Denis Trigant. There, I've warned you, you thoughtless imbecile."  
"You shouldn't speak like that to a future voter, Mr. Mayor." 
"Are you sure you're not a spy sent by Senator Fleurant, Mr. Trigant? DJ Evasion inquires, staring at the journalist. 
"He fits the description," Rico Mars says on a hostile tone. 
"What description?" Yussef Cohen-Abitbol asks, lost. 
"I don't know. The shape of his cranium tells me something his not right with that fucker. Is Trigant your real name? We'll need to see some proof of identity, Sir."  
"Let me out of here!" the Haiti Libre reporter suddenly screams. "Get out of my way! Help!"  
"What's wrong with him?" Rico Mars asks DJ Evasion. "I was going to give his papers back to him, not throw them in a shredder."  
"George Doubleyou scared the hell out of him. I saw him stick out his tongue, blacken with liquorice, in his direction. That journalist is from the same small town where George was accused of desecration of a corpse."  
"Wait a minute, DJ, George William Osmond-Ferraille is here and he's free? Lord have mercy on us. That's not safe for anyone." 
"There's worse. He is not alone. Right next to him, between the Saint-Joseph statue and the Holy Water recipient, it's Jason, the chainsaw bank robber from Port-de-Paix. Victor failed to get the police forces on our side, so he recruited whatever was available to ensure our safety, the worst scums in the area."  
"Do you think it's wise?"  
"No, but as you can see, no one dare to push us around. I like that."  
"All right, people, Mayor Gourdet is tired," Yussef Cohen-Abitbol decides. "That's his first day in office, you understand? So, two more questions, then we'll close the shop. You, with the hat that says TVA, you should stay in the shade before you burn alive. Your skin is not fit to survive under the sun. You're on cable in Ottawa, am I right? Okay, the TVA lady and we'll end the session with TV5 Guadeloupe, to reach all our French neighbors in the nearby islands."  
"Can I ask one more little question about the man from Rimouski?"  
"Go ahead, but be very brief."  
"I'd like an answer from the spokesman of the Mayor's office. My name is Ariane Guerrier, for TVA News and Magazine 7 Jours. Before his life crumbled, Réal Couture was an unknown comedian in the province of Quebec. His Facebook account must now be managed by a team put up by his agent. That man had completely vanished from the public space and was listed as missing by the RCMP up until Friday. His agent is now talking about a book and a film project on the adventures of his protege, with Roy Dupuis in the title role and Marc-André Grondin to play him in his youth. Do you plan to work with Réal Couture on his new projects?"  
"Are you people on a mushroom diet, or is everyone on LSD in here? I never worked with that individual, ma'am. All I did during that period of tribulation was sleep, hope and survive. I don't think you seize where we are coming from. There was nothing normal in our daily life. When I say that they hired us to act, it was to do and say what they ordered us or be executed."  
"Our sources mention a very gifted man that we would surely like to see in Quebec again, and..."  
"There was no gift, you skinny bonehead skank! Open your full of scales reddish ears. Our contract simply said: be Moïse Berri in three, two, one, action... or die. Such menace was part of our everyday life. We spent six months asking ourselves every night if we'd see the sun the next day, and now you tell me they are unscrupulous vultures out there trying to make a dollar with our ordeal? You go and tell your editor and your readers they make me sick. Let's end this circus. The TV5 Guadeloupe guy and that's it for me," Yussef adds. "Make an effort, young man, ask something intelligent, make us look good."  
"Can we talk about the high technology weapons that are circulating freely in the commune?" the reporter from Guadeloupe tries. "According to one of your bodyguards, who prefers not to be named, these firearms are in the wrong hands. Children have been seen in the middle of the streets dismantling a shoulder-launched missile. How do you plan to regain control of the situation before it turn against you?"  
"To avoid any security problems, obviously, our action plan in that matter must be kept secret," Mayor Gourdet says. 
"Can you elaborate on the drug trafficking and the counterfeit money that can be found everywhere in town?" 
"Who the heck are you?" DJ Evasion bursts. "That cousin knows a lot of stuff, don't you think, Victor? Much more than us, I would say. Where can we find these banknotes you're talking about, my good friend?"  
"He must be a spy sent by Senator Fleurant, Rico Mars supposes. 
"He definetly fits the description," DJ Evasion says. 
"What description?" Yussef Cohen-Abitbol asks 
"What will Mayor Gourdet do, get me arrested by his gang of escaped prisoners or make his illiterate goons beat me up in public? You were talking about change a minute ago, Mr. Mayor, does that mean a shift towards totalitarianism?"  
"Are you searching for a job, young man?" Victor Gourdet asks. 
"I am well please with my current situation."  
"I double your salary. Your diction is out of this world. You remind me of Sir Ian Murray McKellen in Apt Pupil. You are my new public relations officer. Welcome on board, Son. What's your name?"  
"Telesphore Magny, Mr. Mayor, but I am not for sale. Giving me a job won't make me less critical of..." 
"I triple your pay and you join my team right this moment. You can ask your well articulated questions to my political adversaries from now on. Beware, they will come numerous and they will try to go for your neck. Are you ready for the big leagues?"  
"I'll have to speak with my wife back in La Desirade."  
"Just tell her the oil is here beneath our feet, lots of it, and she will come running. Women have a great smell for good deals."  

20b 

The Convict 

Meanwhile on Place Charlemagne-Péralte, the People's Tribunal is functioning at full capacity since nine o'clock this morning. Barricades, put up and protected by the insurgents, prevent the authorities from interrupting the ongoing procedures. Folks in the crowd complain the scaffold they've built has not yet been used properly to end any criminal history. "Was all this just a judicial masquerade?"  they asked themselves. 

The Chief Justice, Castor Fridelin, a man wanted in the village of Fonfrède, near Cayes, for stealing the goat and the content of an old lady's hen house, tells the crowd the upcoming defendants on his list are the worst of the worst. They are heavyweight crooks with corruption written in their DNA, vultures who deserve to be hanged without hesitation. But there will be a live hanging, only if the jury, composed of three Diabbakas affiliates and five close associates of Vernon Benoît Badellin, aka Six Speed, upgrade their level of severeness when revealing their verdicts. Up until now, the condemnations and punishments have been largely physical, but within the limits of the average angry mob ethics. Most of the convicted felons have been sentenced to receiving multiple blows to their genitals, using a telescopic baton, or condemned to getting their knees reoriented with a Louisville baseball bat. Some bankers, businessmen and executives of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation got lucky. They were only forced to eat a plate of earthworms with a glass of warm unidentified urine. Two police officers were cleared of all charges because of their family ties to the prosecutor, Kennethson Cerisier, aka Mandela. Finally, the trial of the power plant's director was aborted, due to a lack of evidence and a flagrant conflict of interest with the inexperienced judge, to whom he had given his gold watch, minutes before the opening of the audience, in front of many star witnesses. 

Oscar Perceval is brought up with his hands tied with duct tape in the box of the accused, to satisfy the impatient assembly who gathered to see their first classic lynching ever. Oscar Perceval being the guiltiest living human being known to all. The former municipal prison jailer smells like poop. Oscar recently experienced a lot of anxiety. That level of anguish can easily be smelled and is very hard to hide. The list of infractions to which he must answer in front of the court is read only in part by the clerk, a fraudster from Tiburon, the jury having reached its decision to execute Oscar way before hearing the details of his indictment. Judge Castor Fridelin forbade the right to speak to Oscar's lawyer, out of respect for the families of his victims. So the verdict came swiftly. 

Before he is hanged high and short by the mob, Judge Castor Fridelin gives Oscar Perceval a minute, timed with his new watch, so he can express his last wishes. Fridelin declared that any person sentenced to death, inhuman or saint, in the absence of a notary, a piece of paper or a pencil, keeps his constitutional right to at least leave an oral testament to his relatives. However, instead of hurrying up to name the legatees of his belongings to be understood by all in Creole, Oscar Perceval starts to speak in French versees like Cyrano de Bergerac, using ten letter dictionary words with a pronounced Provençal accent. The illiterate hangman is happy to grapple Oscar like a bag of potatoes before the Judge orders it, partly because he feels diminished, being unable to understand zilch from the gaoler's gibberish. 

When the rope begins to cut the circulation to his brain, Oscar Perceval literally explodes. He starts insulting everyone and decides it is time to reveal many of the community's long time kept secrets. Who is sleeping with who? Who stole what and from whom? Who lied? Who voted for Martelly? Who's friend with Aristide? Where Preval is hiding the gold? Who's paying a mortgage in Miami with the money missing in the municipal treasure? Who needs to consume human flesh every full moon in order to survive and keep their human shape? Who regularly deflects the bullets shot at Jean-Claude since he came back? Who lives off fraud? Who pretends to pray only one God? Which civil servant spends other people's money like the Sun King every fifth of the month? Oscar Perceval denounce the secret organization preparing the reinstatement of Aristide as a monarch. He gives away the names and addresses of the group that wants total immunity for Duvalier. A lot of atheists act in public like believers, Catholics, Animists or Protestants, only to keep clients they don't want to offend, adds Oscar. Numerous are the charlatans who pretend to be hougan or healers for the right amount of money. 

People who have not been targeted yet by Oscar Dirty Mouth become somehow nervous. Those who have a lot of things to hide remind their neighbor that Oscar is a compulsive liar who should get his tongue immediately cut off. They ask the hangman to speed up the procedure if he is not indeed Oscar's boyfriend or one of his accomplices like it's been said by so and so. Ultimately, Oscar begs Réal Couture, the next offender on the list, to remember him in the hereafter. The former jailer declares to the audience that Réal Couture is a sinless man, the one and only Moïse Berri, the benefactor of Mizérikod. Whoever pulls one hair of that unemployment fighter and defender of the needy will burn forever in hell.

Five warning shots draws the attention of the crowd away from the Court. A soldier squad and a dozen policemen just climbed over a poorly guarded gate. A handful of reporters with their cameramen are standing behind them. The People's Tribunal is officially declared illegal and utterly unconstitutional. The Scandinavian officer in charge implores the jury to overturn its crazy decision and put a stop to the execution. The whole planet is looking at Mizérikod through those camera lenses, the officer warns. "Do you wish to be seen like a bunch of Berserk warriors under the spell of Loki, or show that Haitians are rational, intelligent and law abiding people?" Murmurs and whispers are heard amidst the crowd. No one knows a sorcerer named Loki in the area, but the Commandant makes a good point. All of this would surely look better if the judge and the members of the jury were not themselves criminals or if the hearings were being held between four walls instead of a small park used as a bed & breakfast, a dumping ground and a public restroom. Judge Castor Fridelin is obliged to respect the voice of the majority. He orders the liberation of the condemned. The hangman promptly removes the tape holding Oscar's hands together, but he must fight a sudden nausea caused by Oscar's unsupportable body odor. The hangman takes a step back to catch his breath back, but slips on what seems to be fresh piss. His right foot hits the wood lock that controls the opening of the trap door of the scaffold. Oscar Perceval falls in the empty space, the rope still wrapped around his neck. Everybody hears: Clac! then a very long, Oouggh! Everyone's mouth is either open or shaped like the letter O. A butterfly flapping its wings can be perceived in that dead silence. It is obviously an unfortunate accident, but no one seems to realize the urgency to cut the rope. People are impressed. They don't get to see a blue human tongue and eyeballs the size of golf balls very often. 

Oscar Perceval learns, while he is asphyxiating, that he has very few friends in this world. Precious vital minutes are lost. Everyone is aware the former jailer's brain will suffer irreversible damages if the oxygen doesn't go through with the blood up to his head fast enough, but no one lifts a finger. The Scandinavian officer looks down and up, closes his eyes and crosses his fingers, hoping the rope will just snap. He would certainly like to send his men to the rescue, but that would put them in a dangerous situation with that unpredictable horde. The members of the jury are waiting for a divine intervention. However, they all believe deep down inside that this regrettable incident is part of destiny, that the sequence of events correspond perfectly with what everyone would expect with Oscar perceval's deviant karma. Thanks to a sudden rush of adrenaline, Réal Couture liberates his tied hands and runs up the scaffold to save Oscar, who is suffocating and bleeding from the nose. The actor from Rimouski stands just below the former jailer and puts Oscar's dangling feet to rest on his shoulders. The hangman is very disappointed and he shows it, using a small plastic box cutter to sever the thick rope. When Oscar Perceval is finally saved, he breathes with difficulty, his eyes are wild and he is dribbling and convulsing frenetically. One does not need a degree in neurological science to understand that the jailer will from now on take much more time to complete his beloved Rubik's Cubes. 

20c 
The Identity Crisis 

On January 13, 2010, Kennedy Fleurinor was pulled out from the wreckage of a hotel in Port-au-prince by a Chinese rescue team. They told him in Mandarin to lie still and wait for his vital signs to be checked, but Kennedy insisted on walking all the way up to the ambulance. He wanted to reactivate the circulation to his lower limbs, unaware that he was near a state of cardiogenic shock. Kennedy fainted after twelve small steps, totally dehydrated. Amidst the chaos that was reigning then, some zealous volunteers, who were helping to carry corpses out of the city to avoid an epidemic, put the new survivor on their stretcher. They did however forgot rule number one, which was to press on their client's carotid artery to verify the presence of a pulse. They went their way to dump the already traumatized man in a mass grave. 

Kennedy Fleurinor woke up hours later, covered with blood, putrid cadavers and human remains, his legs partly paralysed. He cried for help, but those who heard him were superstitious and cautious enough to run away. Kennedy found his way out of this pile of putrefying bodies after twenty-six long hours of intense struggle. The son of the Mayor started to speak again after three months of therapy in a specialized clinic of Basel on the Rhine. Kennedy Fleurinor became profoundly claustrophobic following that disagreable experience. He could no longer tolerate being confined to a small space like an elevator or a Smart car. The thirty one hours and sixteen minutes he spent in the basement of Burns Breton's funeral home, locked in a freshly varnished coffin, shook him to the point of no return. 

The former financial chief executive and accountant of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation has been staring at the horizon from the window of his private hospital room for much too long to think he might be admiring the landscape. Kennedy Fleurinor bursts in laughter once in a while for no apparent reasons and applauds the performance of a multitude of imaginary friends who seem to run a virtual circus in a corner of his brain. He then slips into a state of profound apathy, his body adopting a position that looks terribly uncomfortable for the observer. Both his forearms are in a cast and the tip of all his ten fingers are mutilated. Many of his teeth are missing and his lips are cracked open. 

Kennedy's nurse is a known loudmouth, always watching her television shows at the psychiatric ward's reception. She told everyone her patient stool contained wild cherry wood chips, some polyester and loads of cotton fibres. Kennedy Fleurinor undoubtly tried everything to get out of that box, even eating his way out. The police did not succeed into getting Kennedy to talk or make a deposition. Gustave Amaury Quick and Philbert Hans Orville Grosbois Sr. understand they won't do any better. They must therefore develop a strategic plan B. to pursue their complicated investigation. 

Kennedy Fleurinor's boss, the highly discreet, Déodas Démosthène Légitime, being held by the judicial system because of his links to Burns Breton, the New York lawyer, the Boston financier and the Cameroonese mercenary go hunting for his attorney. Grosbois Sr. and Amaury Quick regained total control over their finances and bank accounts since morning, like it was promised by Rogatien Gingras. They suppose Déodas-Démosthène Légitime's legal representative didn't get paid for his services because of the temporary freezing of the bank account of his main client. By pretending to be important clients looking for advice, Quick and Grosbois Sr. mingled with a group of attorneys near the Montreal Courthouse until they found their man in an Old Montreal restaurant. 

Philbert Hans-Orville Grosbois Sr. and Amaury Quick easily convince Mr. Bérubé-Castonguay to follow them outside when they tell him they were sent by Déodas Démosthèene Légitime and here to pay him in cash. In the meantime, Mr. Nji Bonjo went hiding near a construction site nearby. Sitting in the Lincoln with the Illinois licence plate, Bérubé-Castonguay stays circumspect and concise. Confidentiality is very important topic in is line of work. The lawyer quickly loses his professional rigour and forget everything about deontology when he hears the word bonus and is shown a roll of hundred dollar bills by Philbert Grosbois Sr. 

"It's that evildoer named, Breton"s fault. That scumbag locked my respectable client in a coffin after tricking him to sign a letter of attorney that made him the sole administrator of his estate and all his businesses in Haitian territory. I don't believe Mr. Légitime was aware at the time he was in fact giving everything he owns to that crook. Mr. Légitime pleaded not guilty to the accusations of arms trafficking from the nursery of the Rivières-des-Prairies prison. They said he had a severe bladder infection. We have to show up in Court Thursday if his condition improves." 
"I had an appointment with Burns Breton, Saturday, Grosbois Sr. says, but he never showed up. Do you know where we can find him?" 
"You don't need Burns Breton anymore. According to my honorable client, you better get your hands on the Légitime Matrix." 
"I'm sorry?"  
"That's the name of the computer Burns breton stole from Kennedy Fleurinor, Mr. Légitime's personal secretary, the chief accountant and financial controller of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation. Whoever controls that powerful machine controls every other computer linked to it. Unfortunately, I don't know anything else. Now, give me the money you promised me or I'll stop the politeness stuff. It's been a pleasure meeting you, but I've got a lot of work and some shrimps awaiting." 

Philbert Hans Orville Grosbois Sr. pays Bérubé-Castonguay. The latter promptly leaves the Lincoln to get back inside the restaurant to finish his meal. Mr. Nji Mbonjo arrives soon after and take the wheels of the limousine. He shows Grosbois Sr. the money he just recuperated by use of intimidation from Bérubé-Castonguay. The Cameroonese tells his passengers how he knocked down the terrified lawman and covered him with a waterproof industrial plastic tarpaulin. The trio engages in the Ville-Marie tunnel and take the Guy exit. They want to check out the offices of Replica Entertainment, where they hope to find clues for the investigation and understand the link between Moïse Berri and that casting agency of Westmount. Amaury Quick phones Suleyman Abdel Aziz in Boston to obtain more information on the top managers of that enterprise, and also to find out why it's not listed on the Web. 

"Forget about Replica, boss. Go straight to the cosmetic surgery clinic of doctor Rachel D. Eisner in Outremont," the computer scientist recommends. "She knows the real identity of Moïse Berri."  
"I can't hear you well, Suleyman, the background noise is unbearable." 
"I repeat, Rachel, D. like in David, Eisner. We're in the twenty-first century, Mr. Quick, why do we need to go through that senile lady just to have a chat?" 
"Rogatien Gingras insisted we only use the Australian calling cards he gave us to avoid being spied on or hacked. What's going on, what's for us at that clinic?"  
"Stay far away from Gingras," Suleyman warns. "That man is part of Berri's gang. He might even be its brain. Alistair Stetson was just a decoy. Stetson is a Chicago lawyer who was spending his family vacations in the Cayman Islands at his dad's flat. Alistair Stetson's father, Ashley, is a London banker with a criminal past who is constantly under the watch of the United Kingdom's integrated market enforcement teams. Moïse berri took advantage of the presence of Stetson in the Islands to send the investigators and ourselves on a wrong track. The phone conversation you had with Alistair stetson on Saturday was a local call from Montreal, probably done by Rogatien Gingras himself. Stetson was released an hour ago by the Georgetown police. He was thoroughly interrogated by two inspectors from the Department of economic and social affairs of the United Nations. I traced the IP address of the computer that gave you back all access to your wallets this morning. It's the same PC that is draining the funds out of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation and putting it in a private account of the Royal Bank of Georgetown since the beginning. It's also the same machine that is currently transferring the assets of the Heritage Légitime Funds to Rimouski; the same computer spreading chaos all over the globe since Thursday. According to the geographic coordinates of that computer's GPS, which I reactivated by following the path of the electronic receipts from its last transactions, that device is presently in the vicinity of Mizérikod, most likely in the hands of Rogatien Gingras. Do you get it, Mr. Quick? This is no coincidence. That Gingras character has no past; like if he had been created, just like that, by a criminal genius, then completely erased to cut all links with his maker. I found no birth certificate or social insurance number bearing the name of Rogatien Gingras, no traffic tickets, no school reports or medical files. I broke in the server of both the Canadian Border Services Agency and the Us Customs and Border protection; Rogatien Gingras never crossed the frontiers of any given countries on this side of the Atlantic. That is simply incompatible with his job which requires frequent travels. The route Gingras took to reach Haiti clearly says that we are dealing with a man who lives in conditions of total clandestinity. After leaving Montreal on Saturday, his GPS places Gingras right in the middle of the Saint-Lawrence River, inside Akwasasne. He was probably on a speedboat, ready to lose the Coast Guards. He reappears a couple of hours later in the Buffalo region, then resurfaces near the 95 South at the pace of a passenger train between Philadelphia and Jacksonville. He then moves at the speed of a Bus between Jacksonville and West Palm Beach. I lost his radio signal for  three hours, then bang! Here is Rogatien Gingras in Montego Bay, probably sipping martinis at the Coyaba Beach resort. Sixty minutes later, our man was near the Antoine-Simon Airport in Cayes, on the road to Aquin, Miragoâne, and finally Mizérikod; this time travelling slower, maybe on the back of a donkey or a very lazy horse." 
"It's hard to grasp. Rogatien Gingras managed at least three NGOs in Haiti in the last four years. The authorities of the country knows him well. He devellopped closed ties with the local population."  
"Bring your investigation to the cosmetic surgery clinic of doctor Rachel D. Eisner, Mr. Quick. I've got reason to believe that Rogatien Gingras and Moïse Berri are part of the same team or maybe the same person. One cannot exist without the other. It seems he even went for a facial plastic surgery, but kept or created those two identities to mislead everybody and allow him to be in two different places at the same time, thus always having an alibi."  
"Communication failure," a robotic voice on the phone line utters. 
"What was that?"  
"Gingras handed you those calling cards, Mr. Quick. He is probably listening and recording our conversation. Did he give you anything else?"  
"We're driving around in his Lincoln, for Christ's sake!"  
"Unlock the doors immediately and get rid of that car as soon as possible. Setting that vehicle on fire would not be excessive. Be careful, Mr. Quick, Berri knows your destination. Don't show your faces at the clinic if you're unarmed."  
"Don't worry, Suleyman, we're not alone." 
"We are sorry," the robotic voice adds, "the party you have reached is currently unavailable, please try again. Thank you for calling."  

20d 
The Leader 

Chief Police Yves Arnold Malvenu checks out the door lock of his hotel room for the twentieth time. His iris touches the metal doorknob. The position of the deadbolt confirms it is shut. Malvenu hugs the walls until he reaches the window. He makes sure the curtains are still closed and the mosquito net undamaged. He crouches down to avoid being seen by the moving shadows he fears are spying on him, then crawls on his stomach until he reaches the bathroom faucet he left dripping a while ago. Malvenu hears footsteps coming from the corridor, maybe dance steps, or someone singing in Xhosa. Is it real or just another auditory hallucination? Either way, a traitor told the Ouanaminthe police about his presence in the city. Cops have been going up and down Saint-Pierre Street for nearly two hours. These agents know the commissioner is renting a room at Hotel Paradis; they just don't know under what name he checked in. Malvenu is well aware that when the cops eventually get access to the client's list and see the signature of Jean Hubert Champignon, also known as Banban White Dust, Powderman Champ and many other false or made-up names, they will get rid of their white gloves and knock off that door without a warrant. 

Commisioner Malvoisin's anxiety is in part chemically induced, but also the results of an excessive amount of stress. The high level of cocaine in his blood is not entirely responsible of his state of anguish. Malvenu understands he is in deep trouble. Not only does he have all these police officers chasing him, he will also have to give answers and accountability to Willy Bossal, the drug lord he was doing business with. When Moïse Berri revealed Malvenu's stratagem and hiding place to the Haitian authorities, he consequently condemned him to certain death. Traitors are not tolerated or allowed to breathe in Haiti's unforgiving underworld. Chief Malvenu will have a hard time trying to clear his name, because he was the only one to know these informations. Moïse Berri must have followed and filmed his every moves, unbeknownst to him, when he visited the Malvenu's family vault down the cemetery. The Departmental Delegate, the Deputy Minister of Justice and a high ranking Uruguyan official of the United Nations, who landed yesterday, were all present when the caskets of his ancestors, packed with weapons and drugs, were opened using axes and crowbars. 

Yves Arnold Malvenu's revolver rests on the nightstand, between a dusty King James Bible and a flower pot. The commissioner opens the Holy Book and randomly lands on Samuel 17. A boy named David strikes Goliath, an experienced warrior. Malvenu is touched by what he reads. He is himself in Ouanaminthe for a noble cause. He came here to save his only son. Filiation is a recurrent subject in the Book. That must be a sign. There are no coincidences when you believe like Yves Arnold Malvenu in the predestination doctrine. That's what the commisioner reminds himself while loading the cylinder of his revolver; humming Whatever Will Be, Will Be. 

When Chief Malvenu heard about Jean Hubert Champignon's arrest during a scuffle with the Police at Place des Présidents on Saturday evening, he rushed to the station so he could finally meet that elusive drug smuggler; a recurrent character in all his nightmares for the last three years. There was a ten thousand dollar contract put by Willy Bossal on Champignon's head, with a two thousand dollar bonus for his right hand, guilty of stealing from him, and a three hundred dollar extra promised to anyone who would just break a couple of Champignon's bones and spit in his face in Willy's name. 

Now, the commisioner was in great need of American currency. So Malvenu offered two Chivas Regal bottles and a box of contraband Cuban cigars to the police officers on site and sent them outside to have a good time and breath some fresh air. When Champignon, aka Banban El Coca, known as Nèg Tit-Buzz Lan in Carrefour, Border Crosser in Ouanaminthe and El Comerciante Haitiano in Dajabón, saw Chief Police Malvenu coming towards his cell with a set of keys, he started to chatter and indulge in small-talk, acting cool like if everything was all right. 

While Jean Hubert Champignon kept jabbering with himself and his imaginary friend, Malvenu walked to the police station's changing room and stopped in front of a rusted locker with an unusually big padlock. The commisioner took out of it a rubber head mallet, two Blue billiard balls and a five kilogram sledgehammer entirely covered with insulating adhesive tape. He then started whistling Heart of Stone with a sadistic spark in his eyes. 

Commissioner Malvenu only needed three hundred dollars and Mortimer Nordin, Willy Bossal's main hit man, was in town to report the upcoming beating to his boss. Chief Police Malvenu removed his hat and jacket, did some cervical rotations to warm up, pulled up his sleeves and took one shoe off. Champignon became silent and suddenly lost his calm, when the commissioner introduced the first billiard ball into a sock. Malvenu told Champignon he was gently going to work on his articulations and long bones first, before crushing all his ribs one by one. The head was to be touched and remolded only after he'd pass out. Chief Police Malvenu did not know then, that his son Pyram was seriously wounded and lying unconscious in a Dajabón hospital in the Dominican Republic. 

"What are you talking about, dickhead? You're dealing drugs on Willy Bossal's territory without his consent and racketeering honest people in my backyard without me getting a decent cut. Now that I am ready to extract the bile from your guts, you decide it's time to fabricate information to slow me down? Don't you have a honor code to follow in whatever brotherhood you're in? My son, Pyram, went hunting for a suspect all the way up north near Fort-Liberté." 
"I know, Pyram and the Haitian-Canadian rookie were after Robin Monarque, the funny speaking cop from Manitoba. You see, a friend of mine, he goes by the name of Paul Row; the guy journalists in Cap Haïtien call Jason. Well, Paul told me the White dude completely lost it when he heard Pyram came all the way to Fort-Liberté to arrest him. Robin Monarque stole the car of a Red Cross employee and hit the 6 South to Ouanaminthe with his girlfriend. Your son and his partner went after him. When they arrived in Ouanaminthe, the local police told Pyram they failed to catch the Canadian and his darling. The couple was now on Dominican soil, somewhere in the Cordillera Central. Pyram did not give up. He hunt them down on the other side of the border and caught them soon after. On their way back home, some unofficial border patrol agents, probably local farmers, took them for smugglers. Things turned ugly, shots were fired. I don't think the Govenor of Dajabón will let Pyram and his partner leave without a trial. The firepower deployed by your son and his buddy raises a lot of unanswered questions. Normal police officers rarely have plastic type explosives in their possession. To make it short, Pyram is in a Dajabón hospital, but I have no idea in what condition. I know men who fear nothing, not even the Devil, and that part of the country like the back of my hand. I'm useless in here, Chief. Beside the blood-thirsty bonkers occupying Malcolm X. Boulevard, there are no magistrates and no jury to judge me. I could help you get your son out before he is brought in front of a racist and partial justice system. You and I were not born in 1937, when those fuckers initiated the Haitian genocide, under President Trujillo, but you're bloody well aware that we are not liked, valued or even considered entirely human in the eastern part of Hispaniola."  
"We would need an army. They have a military budget on they other side. How would I pay these men you are talking about; there's not a penny available in town?"  
"I don't want to be paid in banknotes. I'll give you four men for every kilo; one extra kilo for me, twelve men, one squad; you come up with the weapons."  
"Kilos of what, sugar?" Chief Police Malvenu panics. 
"Don't play the offended innocent virgin with me, Commissioner. People don't call you Cali Medellin behind your back for nothing. I have seen plenty of incriminating pictures of you doing your thing, they're everywhere in town. They might be staged or altered photos, but it still looks pretty bad. They could become ammunition in the hands of the jealous people who wants your fall." 
 "Where can I find those disgraceful pictures?" the very worried Chief Police asks. 
"Every soul living in this commune and walking around with a cell phone bought from Mullet Dot Org received the same email, with an attached file containing a ton of images of you dealing what seems to be cocaine with Latinos wearing military uniforms and Gringos in suit and tie."  

Chief Police Yves Arnold Malvenu and Champignon popped in Ouanaminthe on Sunday evening. Banban Fine Talc insisted on testing the merchandise as soon as they stepped in their shared hotel room. Banban also needed a sample or two to facilitate the recruitment of his mercenaries. The quality insurance test and demonstration quickly degenerated into an all you can sniff buffet. Banban left the hotel in the middle of the night with part of his wages in powder, promising to return with the required personnel to accomplish Pyram's liberation mission on Monday afternoon. The commissioner knows damn well he should not have put his trust in Champignon, but he was strongly intoxicated when he took the decision to do so. Malvenu is unfortunately not capable of going back in time to fix that error of judgment in this matter. 

Amédée Fleurinor also spent the night in Ouanaminthe, crashing at the l'Idéal, an establishment located not too far from Hotel Paradis. The former Mayor of Mizérikod ran away from the city on Sunday morning, when he learned Captain José Pintado was looking for him to discuss the propriety rights Fleurinor had in his possession. Two men in the commune knew about the existence of such documents: prison jailer Oscar Perceval and himself. Burns Breton had no interest in betraying him, because he owned ten per cent of the shares. Breton also confirmed on Friday that he received the blessings of Déodas Démosthène Légitime in the presence of the Mayor's son, Kennedy Fleurinor, as a witness. The fact that Moïse Berri got his hands on a copy of these official papers in such a short time and denounced him to the MINUSTAH is a complete mistery. Amédée Fleurinor was determined to keep his dream of becoming an oil tycoon alive, so he came to Ouanaminthe, planning to cross the border on Monday to reach the city of Dajabón. There, he will meet with Beaudelaire Aristote Fleurant, a retired colonel and brother of Senator Fleurant, stripped of his rank in 1996 when Haiti's army was dissolved. The goal of Amédée Fleurinor was reminiscent to the aspirations of Alexander the Great or Genghis Khan: raising a violent rebel army and walk on Port-au-Prince to overthrow the Martelly governement. Once the master of the country, Fleurinor plans to take it slowly to avoid alarming the OAS. He will name himself President of a provisory military comity, then President of a governmental military council. Afterward, he will get himself elected President of the Republic by universal suffrage against two or three candidates he'll choose judiciously among his secretaries. The next day, he will abrogate the Constitution and appoint himself President for life. A native of Cap Haïtien, home of the magnificent Sans-Soucy Palace, Fleurinor will crown himself king of Haiti under the name of Amédée the First without creating too much noise. After expelling all the paternalist foreign powers and their embassies, making emigration illegal and reinstating the death penalty to muzzle his detractors, Amédée the First will upgrade to the imperial title like Solouque and Dessalines did in the nineteenth century. 

It was around three in the morning when the former Mayor of Mizérikod saw Banban Coca Boy Champignon on Espagnole Street, negotiating the cost of a fellatio with an indiscreet shoeless whore. Amédée Fleurinor ran to meet him. An extremely agitated and garrulous Jean Hubert Champignon told him about the whereabouts of Chief Police Malvenu and his secret plans to overtake power and reinstate the Haitan Kingdom. Champignon also informed Fleurinor he was sought by the HNP to answer to a list of accusations, notably money laundering, corruption and high treason. Crossing the border without his help was like playing Rusian roulette with five bullets. By revealing the strict minimum on his future as Head of State, the former Mayor got Banban Champignon to join the forces of his military comittee as his main  aide-de-Camp.
             
Somebody knocks at the hotel room door of Yves Arnold Malvenu with insistence. The Commissioner hides behind the bed, ready to fire. 

"Que es?" he asks in Spanish. 
"El Comerciante," Champignon answers. 

Malvenu opens the door, his .38 Special pointing at the cerebral cortex of Jean Hubert Champignon. Amédée Fleurinor is standing next to him, smiling like a man who just hit the jackpot. 

"You came here to arrest me, Fleurinor?"  
"I'm here to help you, Malvenu. I was also tricked and played by Moïse Berri. I have an entire military division waiting for my orders inside Dajabón. The new supreme leader of the country is standing right in front of you. Lower you weapon or aim on something else. It is very unpleasant and impolite."  
"The hotel is surrounded, you just ruined my plans."  
"Champignon and his men have created a diversion on the Massacre River to dupe the Ouanaminthe Police and Willy Bossal's butchers chasing you. The way is clear. It's market day; the border post is left almost unattended and citizens from both countries can cross at will until four PM." 
"Don't forget my men's wages,"  Champignon says. 
"Now, wait a minute. What about my son in all this? Chief Police Malvenu asks. You megalomaniac plan sounds wonderful, Fleurinor, but my little Pyro is still first on my list of priorities."  
"Trust me, Mr. Prime Minister."  
"What do you mean, Prime Minister?"  
"That's just the beginning. When you graduate, people will acclaim you all over the Third Empire as the Duke of Léogâne and Grand Marshal of Haiti. Malvenu is dead. Long live Malvenu!"