Hospital, cemtery or jail, woo--oo---oy!" Junior Reid
They say the truth is stranger than fiction. But sometimes, the fiction is truer than the facts.
Let me tell you a totally fictitious story.
|Don Noreiga de la Mavericko|
Once upon a time there was guy who changed everything. He was a cop who became a lawyer, but the whole way thru, he was what we shall call a facilitator. He made things happen. When he was around vibes was running.
It was good times. Even at university, while others feasted in Ramen and powdered juice, his house always had Hennessey. And when he returned from studying, while others were busy paying student loans, he was acquiring real estate.
His rise to wealth and fame was remarkable. His name was on everyone’s lips. But where others in his position would try to keep their head down, he decided to make hay from his fame. As a cop he had seen lawyers use knowledge of the law to break the rules and thwart justice. As a lawyer he saw that politicians were the ones who really made the rules. He decided to be Prime Minister. (And now you would see tings run.)
Everybody knows the story of the boy who tried to fly too high. Everybody but him.
|Where's my money, Rico? |
He was audacious. To say the least. Perhaps this is what endeared him to the hearts of many who were weary of the bullshit of politics as usual. Whatever it was, audacity led to Parliament, which led to Cabinet, where he was only a couple of steps away from his goal.
As often happens when men succeed in a dramatic and public fashion, he attracted some heat. People wanted to know how it was possible to rise so fast. There was no other answer for it except to say that his yeast was on steroids.
“People like to say these kinds of things,” he said once, to a future blogger. “The truth is that these other lawyers didn’t know how to bill the South Americans when they got in trouble. Peter Foster would bill for EC$50,000 when he got one of those clients. I billed US$400,000. For people like that, there’s no difference between fifty grand EC and four hundred grand US. It’s all chump change to them.”
|The boy who tried to fly too high|
And the building in town that was a Syrian-St Lucian property and suddenly fell into his hands while others who went to school with him were still battling their student loans?
“Won it gambling.”
Likely stories. True too. Except not the whole truth.
Foreign and international law enforcement agencies started getting worried. This name that was now ‘Honorable’ was on their lists. Lists of suspects, that is.
When the American Embassy is spreading rumours about you, you know you’re in some kaka.
But when you’ve gone so far and bet so much on your course of action, you have to commit. There is no turning back. He committed. He stuck to his guns and paid for everyone’s ammunition. We all should live our lives like that.
But we don’t. Unlike him and men like him, we are afraid of our true selves and are willing to be mere shadows of what we really are. We are more than awesome. We are awful. Among the greatest of us we count genocidal maniacs, rapists, perverts, incestuors, pederasts and pedophiles. And that’s just the kings, the presidents and the popes.
|How it ends - Que lastima...|
Men who never had power are like men who never could read. They don’t know the difference. They don’t even know what their options are. They don’t want to know. They are satisfied to work and eat and learn. But for men who have tasted power and appreciate its savour, there is no turning back. On ever, backward never, as George used to say.
That’s why Gaddaffi and Mubarak didn’t just take their billions and leave. That’s why Mugabe has that stupid fucking Hitler moustache. That’s why Cheney still insists that the Iraq invasion was a great idea. That’s why Dudus was still in Jamaica when they came looking for him.
That’s what lesser men don’t understand.
That’s what lesser men don’t understand.
There is no turning back. There is no redemption.
|How it ends, part dos...|
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