Once upon a time, in a far and distant land called Trusy, there lived an autocrat named Mała Głowa. As his name suggested, he was a small man. He was a very small man with a balding head, a perfectly waxed body that needed to be waxed every three days, and squinty, little eyes that gave his face a ferret-like appearance. Other than that, he was a rather bland-looking fellow.

Despite his blandness, or perhaps because of it, there was nothing he liked more than posing for photographs. He knew that the people of his country loved to see photographs of him. The sight of his image plastered on billboards, on the front page of newspapers and magazines, on the sides of government buildings, and on the little greeting cards that were sent out to everyone on the anniversary of his “election” to office…these gave to the citizens feelings of security and brought inspiration into their rather sad, pathetic and ordinary lives. After all, who couldn’t feel inspired and secure when they saw a real man, such as himself, willing to be their leader. He could easily imagine how the women of his land, young and old, beautiful and ugly, all swooned when they saw his photograph. Poor Trussian men, he would chuckle to himself. Never could they compete with their Supreme Leader. He was the epitome of manhood for his people.

Although he looked amazingly good in each of his pictures, there was one photograph that he was particularly proud of. His aides had convinced him that a powerful way to symbolize his manliness to his people was to have a photograph of him riding a horse bareback. It would give his people confidence that they were safe in his hands. However, as with all great ideas, there were a few problems. First, he couldn’t ride a real horse, otherwise he would appear to be too small. So, his aides had arranged for him to ride a Shetland pony, digitally altered to look like a larger horse breed. The second problem found Mała Głowa constantly sliding off the pony’s bare back. That, of course, would never do. He decided that, instead of the pony being bareback, he’d be bareback. So, while his aides found a saddle for the pony, Mała Głowa tossed aside his shirt. After that, a little airbrushing removed his wrinkles and his flab, and he had a photograph that was like a shot heard around the world.  Now, not only was he admired by the Trussian people, but his fanbase now extended to the people of the world.

It was a glorious world and he was a glorious man. He was a man made for the world and his people loved him.

And if anyone disagreed with him on this point, well… There had been one newspaper editor, Vladislav Popov, who had suggested that Mała Głowa looked like a miniature ferret. A day or so after Popov had printed his editorial, he had, according to the new editor of the paper, decided to take a holiday. Everyone assumed that he must be having a very good time, because he had now been on holiday for close to ten years.

The most incredible outcome of Popov’s vacation was that every newspaper throughout the land of Trusy talked glowingly of Mała Głowa. The Trussian people knew that there was probably no other country in the world that was lucky enough to have such a leader…one that journalists found flawless.

Despite his low stature, he was certain that he was a great man. All he had to do was to look at such luminaries as Napoleon Bonaparte and Julius Caesar. They both had been short men and Mała was shorter than either of them. They had both achieved godhood, at least in Mała’s opinion. Using syllogistic logic (Mała considered himself the master of syllogisms), he had reasoned that since Bonaparte and Caesar were short and they were gods, then he, Mała, being short, must also be a god.

But, despite being a god, a flawless one at that, Mała Głowa was lonely. After all, he lived in a world filled with mere mortals. Even worse, most of these mortals were weak and, if Mała was to be honest, which he couldn’t help being, nowhere near as clever as he himself was. His body might be short, but he was a giant among men.

But, he was a very, very bored and a very, very lonely giant.

What he needed was a friend. No, not just a friend, but a companion. One who he could turn to for brilliant conversations. One who held similar world views, and was likewise a giant among men, who exuded greatness in every graceful move. Someone who was just as good looking and as physically perfect as he was.  In short, someone he could look to as an equal. Or, given that that was highly unlikely, someone who closely approached his own stature.

But, where would he find such a person? As he pondered this question, he realized that he would need someone who could travel the world, scouring the planet for a man who could be his true companion.

But, who could he trust with such a mission? As soon as he had thought the question, he knew who. His friend, Beskharakternyy Chelovek, owed much to Mała Głowa. First, there was his immense wealth, from the lucrative development contracts Mała had directed his way. Of course, Beskharakternyy, being who he was, had made sure that Mała was financially reimbursed for his efforts. Second of all, Beskharakternyy had a beautiful wife and a beautiful mistress, both of whom had been given to him by Mała. Third, Mała had extended to his friend tremendous power. And finally, Mała had personally helped Beskharakternyy Chelovek’s son, Govno, reached the pinnacles of Trussian society as a much-adored pop star…despite, in Mała’s humble opinion, being a talentless twit. A decent enough looking fellow and a relatively nice voice, but nowhere worthy of all of the panties thrown at him by the Trussian women during his concerts.

Mała buzzed his secretary and told him to call Beskharakternyy. It was only seconds into the conversation before Beskharakternyy proudly accepted his Supreme Leader’s request.

Mała Głowa hung up the phone, smiling. For the first time in a very long while, Mała was filled with the excitement of anticipation.

Stay Tuned for Chapter 2

 

Pace è Bene