By Chris Floyd - The Moscow Times May 1, 2003.
A man appeared in the doorway of the Oval Office. He wasn't noticed at first, in the bustle around the desk of the president, where George W. Bush was preparing to announce to the world that the "decapitation raid" he had launched on Baghdad a few hours before was in fact the beginning of his long-planned, much-anticipated invasion of Iraq.
"The rule of law is
dead." With confidence, calmness and steady hand, he
pressed the barrel to the girl's head and pulled the
trigger
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A woman fussed with the
president's hair, which had been freshly cut for the televised
appearance. A make-up artist dabbed delicate touches of rouge on the
president's cheeks. Another attendant fluttered in briefly to adjust
the president's tie, which, like the $6,000 suit the president was
wearing, had arrived that morning from a Chicago couturier. As for
the president's $900 designer shoes -- which, as a recent news story
had pointed out playfully, were not only made by the same Italian
craftsman who supplied Saddam Hussein with footwear, but were also
the same size and make as those ordered by the Iraqi dictator --
they had been carefully polished earlier by yet another aide, even
though they would of course be out of sight during the broadcast.
In addition to all of this
activity, the president's political advisers and speechwriters were
also making last-minute adjustments to the brief speech, while
giving the president pointers about his delivery: "Keep your gaze
and your voice steady. Project firmness of purpose. Confidence,
calmness, character. And short phrases, lightly punched. Don't
worry, the breaks and stresses will be marked on the teleprompter."
It's little wonder that no one
saw the man as he advanced slowly to the center of the room. He
stood there silently, until the sense of his presence crept up on
the others. One by one, they turned to look at him, this
unauthorized figure, this living breach of protocol. He was, in
almost every sense, nondescript. He wore a plain suit of
indeterminate color; his features and his skin betrayed no
particular race. He had no badge, no papers; how had he come to be
here, where nothing is allowed that is not licensed by power?
Then, more astonishing, they
saw his companion: a 2-year-old girl standing by his side. A mass of
tousled hair framed her face, a plain red dress covered her thin
body. She too was silent, but not as still as the man. Instead, she
turned her head this way and that, her eyes wide with curiosity,
drawn especially by the bright television lights that shone on the
president.
A Marine guard reached for his
holster, but the man raised his hand, gently, and the guard's
movement was arrested. The aides and attendants stepped back then
stood rooted, as if stupefied, their ranks forming a path from the
man at the room's center to the president's desk. The president,
brilliant in the light, alone retained the freedom to move and
speak. "Who are you?" he asked, rising from his chair. "What do you
want?"
The man put his hand tenderly
on the back of the girl's head and came forward with her. "I have a
question for you, and an opportunity," the man replied. "I've heard
it said that you are righteous and wish to do good for the world."
"I am," said the president. "I
wish only to do God's will, as he in his wisdom reveals it to me. In
his will is the whole good of the world. What is your question, what
is your opportunity? Be quick; I have mighty business at hand."
The man nodded. "If tonight you
could guarantee the good of the world -- peace and freedom,
democracy and prosperity, now and forever; if tonight, you could
relieve the suffering of all those who labor under tyranny and
persecution, all those who groan in poverty and disease; if tonight,
you could redeem the anguish of creation, past and future, now and
forever; if tonight, you could guarantee this universal
reconciliation, by the simple expedient of taking this" -- here the
man suddenly produced a black pistol and held it out to the
president -- "and putting a bullet through the brain of this little
one here, just her, no one else: would you do it? That is my
question, this is your opportunity."
With firmness of purpose, the
president grasped the pistol and walked around the desk. With
confidence, calmness and steady hand, he pressed the barrel to the
girl's head and pulled the trigger. Her eyes, which had grown even
wider with her smile at the approach of the nicely dressed man and
his rosy cheeks, went black with blood in the instant shattering of
her skull. Her body spun round -- once, twice, three times in all --
from the force of the shot, then fell, with the remnant of her
mutilated head flailing wildly, in a heap on the floor of the Oval
Office.
At that moment, the man faded,
like a dream, into nothingness. The aides and attendants, unfrozen,
stepped back into their tasks. The room was again a whirl of
activity, like a hive. The president -- the dematerialized gun no
longer in his hand -- strode confidently back to his chair. He
winked at a nearby aide and pumped his fist: "Feel good!" he
exulted.
The speech went off without a
hitch. The hair was perfect, the voice was steady, the phrases short
and lightly punched. No one saw the blood and bits of brain that
clung to the president's $900 designer shoes; they were, of course,
out of sight during the broadcast.
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