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Avalon, The First Republic of Láidir Abhainn
Presidential Palace - Office Chambers of President Thomas O'Callaghan
The flames of the massive fireplace bounced in shadows over the dark mahogany wood walls of President Thomas O'Callaghan's official office chambers. The clanking of whiskey of class rang in between bursts of laughter. It was late in the evening and the celebrations had been going on for hours. Through it all President O'Callaghan, Tommy as he preferred to be called, had mixed and mingled with his guests: the highest echelon of Láidir Abhainn's political, military and business industries. He had thrown back shots of Jameson, smashed bottles of beer against the bottles of others in various toasts. To an unobservant eye, he was as toasted as the rest of them. But, if someone had been paying attention, watching the leader of the "Emerald Republic," they would have seen a master at work.
He moved in between the various cliques seamlessly, always ready with a joke or comment to have his small audience holding their stomachs - and unable to offer him a drink; and when he sought to relax a different group he'd grab his beer and offer a toast and take a swig, however never much. In fact, he had been holding on to the same beer for almost an hour now. And if an observer saw the eyes of the President they would have saw eyes dancing with reckless abandon. They moved back and forth, scanning the crowd, reading the faces, emotions and body language of the men and women as they had began to fall into a drunken stupor. As the alcohol poured, so did their secrets and so did their honesty. They wouldn't be able to hide their feelings; their poor, inebriated brains wouldn't let them.
They had been summoned for a preliminary victory celebration as the end of another faux-election cycle came to a close. O'Callaghan's party would carry the day, as they always did. Crowd pleasing policies had been announced in the lead-up to the election, opponents had been built up and torn to pieces by his vast propaganda machine and his personal security forces would oversee the process. People would be free to vote as they pleased and his soldiers would enforce that principle vigorously but, once the doors closed and the votes were tallied... well that was a different matter. Ruling with impunity in the modern world had grown harder. O'Callaghan recognized this and that was why he ruled with a velvet glove over his iron fist. The democratic process of Láidir Abhainn was a grand charade, and O'Callaghan was its maestro. Now, with his hand firmly on the levers of power he would bring his charade on to the world stage.
O'Callaghan excused himself from one group of extremely drunk business tycoons and made his way to the center of the room. He grabbed one man by the shoulder and spoke over the commotion, his voice iron under a wide grin, "Gentleman, gentleman."
If this had been a movie, silence would have been his answer. Instead, the roar of the party quieted but, only barely. The man whose shoulders he held, seemed mortified that the President had been ignored. O'Callaghan gave his shoulder a squeeze, and a comforting wink, "Oh it's my fault for letting them get so damn pissed." With a natural, deep belly laugh he grabbed a glass and smacked it a few times with a nearby utensil. After a few seconds the crowd, recognizing that O'Callaghan wanted to say something, finally quieted.
"I know, I know. I promised no speeches. But, I'm a fuckin' politician - you expect me to keep my promises?" He flashed his pearly white teeth and the crowd roared in approval.
"Well, we did it boys. Another four years in power, another four years to serve the people of Láidir Abhainn... oh who am I kidding. It's another four years for Mikey over there to line his pockets with greenbacks to spend on some cheap ass prostitutes." The room exploded with laughter, Mikey, a senator from a Southern state laughing the hardest and nodding his head in vigorous agreement as he raised his glass in salute.
"In all seriousness boys and girls, we've had a good run so far. But, the challenge is gone. The thrill is gone. The people love us, the media works for us, and the soldiers get their checks from us," Knowing laughter blanketed the room, "The worst thing we could do is lose our edge. Comfort is the bitch in the night who will cut off your cock while you're fast asleep."
O'Callaghan surveyed the room, looking for any sort of reaction he did not expect or like. So far, there were none. "Láidir Abhainn is us and we are Láidir Abhainn. Your talents and services on behalf of your countrymen had been extraordinary and recognized. Now, though it's time to reach for new heights... a new stage."
Ferocious curiosity radiated off the men and women in the room, along with the stench of sweat and one to many spilled glasses of whiskey. I've got these sons' of bitches in the palm of my hand.
O'Callaghan jumped onto a nearby sofa and proceeded to whip the crowd into a frenzy, "Láidir Abhainn has never had the need, desire nor the capacity to play the grand games of power and empire that have been the province of other nations. But, things are about to change; we are changing. Tonight, we celebrate not just our coming victory in the elections but, the dawn of a new era and you shall be the vanguard. We'll do what we have always done. We will play by our own rules, cut deals where needed and take a bat to those who can't be bought." The nationalistic fever O'Callaghan's words had created erupted, and prevented him from speaking for a full minute over the din of clanking bottles, toasts and vigorous, drunken applause.
"Mark my words: within a month every goddamn European savage will know Láidir Abhainn. Boys and girls, my pop always told me 'son, now when you go out there and you play ball I don't want no pussy footin'. You leave it all out there on the field cause that's the only god damn way you're going to win' So I ask you now, what do you say: The world's awaitin' how about we make it our bitch?!"
Some of them won't remember in the morning what had just unfolded or recognize the significance of the moment. O'Callaghan had them all willingly by the balls. Their fearless, back-slapping leader who had never done them wrong was taking them on another crusade. Their loyalty, at least for now, would be unyielding and should it falter, O'Callaghan would pay it back to strength or pursue less benevolent means. He would need their support if Láidir Abhainn was going to start throwing its weight around on the world stage because one misstep, one screw-up and everything could crumble.
He had always been good at seeing the big picture, and understanding what needed to be done to advance his goals or what could end it all. It's how he had become the man, the power that he was today. Tommy O''Callaghan saw the big picture now and he knew deep down to his bones that if they didn't leave it all on the field and come out on top, there'd be no recovering from it.
Presidential Palace - Office Chambers of President Thomas O'Callaghan
The flames of the massive fireplace bounced in shadows over the dark mahogany wood walls of President Thomas O'Callaghan's official office chambers. The clanking of whiskey of class rang in between bursts of laughter. It was late in the evening and the celebrations had been going on for hours. Through it all President O'Callaghan, Tommy as he preferred to be called, had mixed and mingled with his guests: the highest echelon of Láidir Abhainn's political, military and business industries. He had thrown back shots of Jameson, smashed bottles of beer against the bottles of others in various toasts. To an unobservant eye, he was as toasted as the rest of them. But, if someone had been paying attention, watching the leader of the "Emerald Republic," they would have seen a master at work.
He moved in between the various cliques seamlessly, always ready with a joke or comment to have his small audience holding their stomachs - and unable to offer him a drink; and when he sought to relax a different group he'd grab his beer and offer a toast and take a swig, however never much. In fact, he had been holding on to the same beer for almost an hour now. And if an observer saw the eyes of the President they would have saw eyes dancing with reckless abandon. They moved back and forth, scanning the crowd, reading the faces, emotions and body language of the men and women as they had began to fall into a drunken stupor. As the alcohol poured, so did their secrets and so did their honesty. They wouldn't be able to hide their feelings; their poor, inebriated brains wouldn't let them.
They had been summoned for a preliminary victory celebration as the end of another faux-election cycle came to a close. O'Callaghan's party would carry the day, as they always did. Crowd pleasing policies had been announced in the lead-up to the election, opponents had been built up and torn to pieces by his vast propaganda machine and his personal security forces would oversee the process. People would be free to vote as they pleased and his soldiers would enforce that principle vigorously but, once the doors closed and the votes were tallied... well that was a different matter. Ruling with impunity in the modern world had grown harder. O'Callaghan recognized this and that was why he ruled with a velvet glove over his iron fist. The democratic process of Láidir Abhainn was a grand charade, and O'Callaghan was its maestro. Now, with his hand firmly on the levers of power he would bring his charade on to the world stage.
O'Callaghan excused himself from one group of extremely drunk business tycoons and made his way to the center of the room. He grabbed one man by the shoulder and spoke over the commotion, his voice iron under a wide grin, "Gentleman, gentleman."
If this had been a movie, silence would have been his answer. Instead, the roar of the party quieted but, only barely. The man whose shoulders he held, seemed mortified that the President had been ignored. O'Callaghan gave his shoulder a squeeze, and a comforting wink, "Oh it's my fault for letting them get so damn pissed." With a natural, deep belly laugh he grabbed a glass and smacked it a few times with a nearby utensil. After a few seconds the crowd, recognizing that O'Callaghan wanted to say something, finally quieted.
"I know, I know. I promised no speeches. But, I'm a fuckin' politician - you expect me to keep my promises?" He flashed his pearly white teeth and the crowd roared in approval.
"Well, we did it boys. Another four years in power, another four years to serve the people of Láidir Abhainn... oh who am I kidding. It's another four years for Mikey over there to line his pockets with greenbacks to spend on some cheap ass prostitutes." The room exploded with laughter, Mikey, a senator from a Southern state laughing the hardest and nodding his head in vigorous agreement as he raised his glass in salute.
"In all seriousness boys and girls, we've had a good run so far. But, the challenge is gone. The thrill is gone. The people love us, the media works for us, and the soldiers get their checks from us," Knowing laughter blanketed the room, "The worst thing we could do is lose our edge. Comfort is the bitch in the night who will cut off your cock while you're fast asleep."
O'Callaghan surveyed the room, looking for any sort of reaction he did not expect or like. So far, there were none. "Láidir Abhainn is us and we are Láidir Abhainn. Your talents and services on behalf of your countrymen had been extraordinary and recognized. Now, though it's time to reach for new heights... a new stage."
Ferocious curiosity radiated off the men and women in the room, along with the stench of sweat and one to many spilled glasses of whiskey. I've got these sons' of bitches in the palm of my hand.
O'Callaghan jumped onto a nearby sofa and proceeded to whip the crowd into a frenzy, "Láidir Abhainn has never had the need, desire nor the capacity to play the grand games of power and empire that have been the province of other nations. But, things are about to change; we are changing. Tonight, we celebrate not just our coming victory in the elections but, the dawn of a new era and you shall be the vanguard. We'll do what we have always done. We will play by our own rules, cut deals where needed and take a bat to those who can't be bought." The nationalistic fever O'Callaghan's words had created erupted, and prevented him from speaking for a full minute over the din of clanking bottles, toasts and vigorous, drunken applause.
"Mark my words: within a month every goddamn European savage will know Láidir Abhainn. Boys and girls, my pop always told me 'son, now when you go out there and you play ball I don't want no pussy footin'. You leave it all out there on the field cause that's the only god damn way you're going to win' So I ask you now, what do you say: The world's awaitin' how about we make it our bitch?!"
Some of them won't remember in the morning what had just unfolded or recognize the significance of the moment. O'Callaghan had them all willingly by the balls. Their fearless, back-slapping leader who had never done them wrong was taking them on another crusade. Their loyalty, at least for now, would be unyielding and should it falter, O'Callaghan would pay it back to strength or pursue less benevolent means. He would need their support if Láidir Abhainn was going to start throwing its weight around on the world stage because one misstep, one screw-up and everything could crumble.
He had always been good at seeing the big picture, and understanding what needed to be done to advance his goals or what could end it all. It's how he had become the man, the power that he was today. Tommy O''Callaghan saw the big picture now and he knew deep down to his bones that if they didn't leave it all on the field and come out on top, there'd be no recovering from it.