Ax to grind PATR IC K N. B ILLO J A N
September 26, 1989 His mind is not keeping up with his eyes’ demands. It’s 11:42 pm. He doesn’t know if this is the result of his being ill or if his musings are getting the better of himself. It’s been three years since his good friend caught an arrow on his back. Three years since everyone—even his compadres—turned their backs on him. He can still recall torrents of gold advancing together. Dismayed faces caromed through the surface and cleaved through his plate. His face flashed on every screen—plastered with illusory headlines. Dubbed as a self-centered tyrant, he was someone who encouraged injustice and violence—a King who infused the blood of his subjects within the foundations of his golden pillars. Twenty one years. That’s how long he suffered countless shells of chastise from his own brethren, but little did they know— everything that he had done was all for them.
I did not cast the blood spell alone. I asked the Legislative, sought advice from the Judiciary, the Supreme Court justices, and the members of the private sector. All of them told me, ‘There is only one man who can proclaim this path—you.’ The thrust came faster than 4 o’clock when he heeded their calls. As the head of this vast land, his prime ambition was to pursue progress for his citizens. As anarchy continuously bloomed in this colossal domain, one thing came to his mind— the need for peace, order, and stability. He had zero options, for if this rebellion loomed on, he couldn’t help but picture flying daggers piercing the rears of FICTION
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