THE SLAYING OF A MONSTER

By Tony Smith

My name is Parachatphonbamrum.Thai names are as long as freight trains so we are given nicknames, mine is Pizza shortened to Za.

“I’ll arrange for a donation.” Father said loftily.

“It is a sad human being who takes pride in becoming a doctor of philosophy as the result of a bribe.”

“To build an extension to the university library is not a bribe.”

“You know full well father, you can buy anything in Bangkok, a driving license, a degree, a judge - everything except honour.”

So I studied for a PhD. The subject of my thesis was the, ‘coup d’état’. My hypothesis was that specific social and economic conditions result in the eruption of a coup and those parameters could be distilled to predict future military interventions. By means of a computer neural network I constructed a mathematical model which I tested randomly. It gave a ninety percent accurate prediction rate. After four years of study I successfully defended my thesis and was proud to become, Dr Za.

The rich own the country, the poor own the debt. I wanted to end the subjugation of the poor by the hypocrisy of the deification of monarchy. The king and royal family were promoted with more vigour than a brand of washing detergent. The king adopted a stray dog, taught it to grovel on its belly and his PR machine recommended that the people should follow suit. One brave soul who satirized the dog was sentenced under lèse-majesté laws to twenty years in prison.

Democracy is a process by which rich and poor, weak and strong have equal voices - it does not sit well with ‘natural selection’ in which the strong prevail. A democratic vote puts milk-maids, and peasants, who plod behind buffaloes, in control of the country. The wealthy fear the kitchen staff put in charge of the mansion will sell the family silver. Democracy was intolerable to the wealthy; supported by the military they conspired to fund criminal bands of ‘agent provocateurs’ to riot. A military junta led by General Chang , put tanks on the streets of Bangkok and ‘reluctantly ‘and cynically brought back peace to the warring city.

I scowled at my reflection in the mirror, it was the face of a ‘pretty boy’. I had never liked my face it did not reflect the tough, strong-willed uncompromising bastard with rats gnawing at his belly. I wanted to take the world by the scruff of its neck and shake it - yet I looked like a ladyboy.

The junta led by General Chang imposed martial law. Government ministers were rounded-up, arrested, convicted and imprisoned. The General, a man with an orderly military mind, replaced the haphazard system of bribery by a national system of corruption whereby government contractors were required to pay ten percent of the contract value into his offshore bank account. He endowed temples, forging a business partnership with Lord Buddha and funneled funds through the main arteries of state institutions to feed the muscles which levered power. Smashing an iron fist into the face of democracy, the civilian population were required to follow military orders without question. Any deviation was met by compulsory visits to the Thought Police for ‘attitude correction’. Failure to coerce attitude was met by an escalating re-education programme: water-boarding, solitary confinement, genital’ electrolysis, and if all failed, a visit to the Nut Cracker Suite - any brave soul refusing to reform was tied-up and his head laid on a concrete block. An elephant, ridden by a trainer, was reared on its hind legs and a front leg brought crashing down on the victims head to split the skull like a nut cracker. There were an increasing numbers of empty places around family tables but in the terror induced silence few dared question their absence.

My plan to enter politics was thwarted by the coup - I became a political agnostic – a career in politics had similar prospects to that of a life insurance salesman in a cemetery. My only recourse was the army. Because of my family connections I enlisted in the Queen’s Guards. This elite corp is the source of recruitment for high ranking army officers and coup perpetrators.

General Chang favoured a white dress uniform, the tunic slashed with a broad yellow sash; gold-braided epaulets gave his narrow shoulders the width of a swagged-and-tailed window of a country mansion. A washing line of campaign medals with metal widgets was strung across his chest; he traveled in an army half-track escorted by goose-stepping troops dressed in bright blue busbies, like the chorus-line from a musical comedy. But soon the monarchy’s public relations’ machine got to work. By order of the king, General Chang was proclaimed prime minister and re-branded as the savior of the nation; dressed in a business suit, transported in a ministerial limousine and escorted by young army officers dressed in civilian clothes.

The wardroom captain, Jum, ordered me to get kitted out. I chose a dark suit, white shirt and yellow tie of the king’s colour. “The General is going to love you,” Jum said, patting my arse suggestively. “Don’t do that,” I demurred but my voice was as soft as a girl’s. He patted it again, “It’s a lovely arse,” he persisted. Anger boiled in me. “Do that again and I’ll rearrange your face.” He did it again. I put up my fists. A couple of exploratory jabs and he caught me with a swinging hook. I buried my left fist in his stomach and my right met an advancing chin. He staggered back and collapsed. Androgynous good looks had accustomed me to defend my manhood. If insults are ignored it became an unendurable defense of lewd bottom stroking comments. And yet such mindless fury is contrary to the teaching of Buddha and quickly my anger faded and replaced by feelings of shame and guilt. I apologized to Jum and in the ensuing weeks, thrown together, Jum as bag carrier to the General, and me as official door-opener, became firm friends. Sometimes the General brushed against me, I never knew whether it was deliberate or accidental.

It was one Friday evening, in the guard room, the night that the General, a morose and curmudgeonly man, delivered his homily, billed as ‘Bringing Happiness to the Nation’. The hour long speech was broadcast on every channel. Lights brightened in a spurt of power as television sets were turned off. It was no use changing channels, General Chang commandeered every television station. He spoke from behind a lectern banked with flowers and flanked by the patriotic flags of his trade. These young men had joined the army to become officers for reasons of pride and love of adventure, not to be nursemaid to a psychotic monster feared and loathed by the people. They turned away to chat, play computer games, or gamble.

But Jum and I liked to watch, we liked to compare the glowing words of accomplishment written by the PR scriptwriters with the reality of a failing economy shunned by the West and a terrified populous.

At the end of his address, lights dimmed as televisions were turned back on. A sergeant entered and announced that Captain Za was, “To report to the General’s quarters immediately”. This was greeted by catcalls, whistles and lip-smacking kisses, but I was popular and now able to take the ragging in good part.

The General’s private quarters were adjacent to the broadcasting studio, and I entered with some trepidation. The General was lolling in a rocking chair in a salmon-pink dressing gown, studio-makeup still pan-caked on his face. He looked an old tart. I saluted him, expecting to be told to attend to household duties, but no, he asked me quite casually what I thought of his speech.

With some hesitation, I replied, “You were excellent, sir.”

“Liar! I suffer sycophants around me who lie all the time. They are practiced in the art - you are a poor liar. Tell me the truth.”

I searched for a mild criticism. “Perhaps a little bit stiff in delivery, sir.“

“I like intelligent young men. What did you study for your doctorate?”

I was surprised that he knew of my PhD, but replied, “Coup d’états and how to predict them, sir.”

With a sardonic twist to his lips, the General asked grandly. “And when do you predict the next coup, young man?”

I suppose my reply was not very diplomatic but I was in thrall to my mathematical algorithm, “Quite soon, sir.”

“Soon! It can’t be soon. I am to announce democratic elections - to be held next year - there can’t be a coup.”

“A counter coup, sir.” I replied diffidently.

The General gulped like a gaffed fish. He was in a carpet-chewing rage. “I can have you executed,” and then he seemed to calm a little. He displayed mercurial changes of emotions “You said I was ‘stiff’. Now give me a face massage. You can do that? All Thais can do that,” he insisted, with his eyes bulging worryingly.

What the General said was true, Thais do massage for close friends and family, but I felt uneasy at this intimacy with the despotic General Chang. “I will have to remove your greasepaint first,” I said; anxious for any means of delay and looked round for something to wipe his face.

“Tissues are on there,” he said, pointing to an adjacent drinks cabinet.

He leaned forward in the rocking chair as I wiped the General’s face clean of make-up. As I bent to massage the temple his dressing gown gaped open to reveal yellow silk underpants with a red rose emblazoned on the rising hillock of the crotch. I averted my eyes and concentrated on massage.

“You are a ladyboy aren’t you?”

“No, sir. I am not.”

“You are a pretty boy, you may not know it but you are a gay queen.”

The General grasped my bottom, a cheek in each hand, and pulled me closer. I had no intention of allowing this old harridan to roger me. I tried to pull away but he had an iron grip on my buttocks. He was pulling down my pants and I felt a finger slide up my arse. This was rape and uncontrolled anger took over. It was instinct. My fists spoke for me. A right to the chin and his head hit the back of the chair. Breathing heavily I looked down on General Chang. He lay white of face and still as a stone. Blind rage was replaced by blind terror. I shook him. Put my head to his chest. Not a breath. Not a heart flutter. I lifted him down from the chair. He was heavy and fell to the floor as lifeless as a sack of rice. Rhythmically I thumped his chest. I paused. Nothing. I steeled myself to do mouth-to-mouth - pausing to look down on him many times. Finally, exhausted, I gave up. There was no life in him - the bastard was dead. I felt no shame, he was an evil bastard who had stolen the country and terrorised a nation, and yet I felt fear - I would be executed. That thought concentrated my mind. It was an accident - he slipped and fell. I looked around. On top of the drinks’ cabinet were glass decanters. I lifted the lid from one and sniffed, it was brandy. Then I remembered finger prints. I wiped the glass clean and wrapped tissues round my fingers. I poured brandy into his open mouth and watched bubbles rise to the surface. The level of the brandy went down. I refilled the mouth and let a little overflow onto his chest. Then I dropped the decanter and watched brandy spread in a puddle by his side. I remembered his head had hit the back of the rocking chair. I maneuvered the chair so one of the rockers was under the head. Breathing heavily, I surveyed the scene. Did it look convincing? Had I forgotten anything which would incriminate me? The silk underpants with the red rose were exposed. For some reason it offended me and I pulled the dressing gown closed. Now what do I do? Scream in simulated panic? I took out my mobile - someone had to be called. I called my friend, Jum. “Something terrible has happened,” I said. He came running. I told him, the General had slipped and fell.

Jum listened to his chest: then stirred the body with a boot in his stomach. “He’s dead. You thumped the bastard, didn’t you?“ He said with awe. There was no grief, no sadness only wonder, even admiration.

“Do we tell the police? The Junta?”

After a thoughtful pause, Jum replied, “I know you are not an admirer of the monarchy but It’s the king who decides who governs the country. We must go to the palace. The king is the only one we can trust.”

The palace was protected by the same elite corp from the Queen’s Guard and we had no problem being allowed through. We were met by the Chancellor of the Household Bureau. We told him that there had been a terrible accident and insisted that our news was for the king’s ears.

The king arrived in a wheel-chair pushed by a nurse in a stiff starched uniform which rustled as she walked. He was wearing a suit of embroidered gold, like a knight of old - a walking stick lay across his knees. He had one sharp perceptive eye, the other wandered sightlessly. I wasn’t prepared to crawl on my belly in front of the king but we showed our respect by falling on our knees and greeting him with our hands together in a traditional Thai wey . The Chancellor waved away the nurse and in convoluted courtier-speak started to explain that we had important news. The king waved the walking stick in a sign of impatience and pointed it at me.

“Your Majesty,” I said. “General Chang has met with an accident.”

“Speak up,” demanded the king.

“General Chang is dead!”

The Chancellor whispered in the king’s ear that he must appoint a prime minister from the remaining Junta.

“One is the air force marshal and the other a naval admiral. He must be from the Queen’s Regiment. I never liked that bastard Chang. He had no education and I’ll not appoint one of his cronies. In my seventy year reign as king I have seen many coups. What about you?” he pointed at me with his walking stick. Queen’s Regiment?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“University?”

“Yes, sir. Doctorate.”

“Have you read Miguel Cervantes?”

I was puzzled at this oblique turn of the conversation. I had killed the prime minister and the weight of responsibility weighed like a rock in my stomach but replied: “Don Quixote? Yes sir.”

The Chancellor was looking increasingly agitated - this was a constitutional crisis. I guess he thought this was not a time to discuss seventeenth century Spanish literature. “I think it’s time for your rest, majesty,” he said with some firmness.

Irritated, the king waved his walking stick at the Chancellor. “Fetch these two gentlemen chairs. We are having an important discussion.”

The Chancellor scuttled off without good grace. I guess he was used to making decision for the sick monarch and disconcerted by the king’s unusual strength of will.

The king continued in a pensive frame of mind. “Thai people are a strange mix of Don Quixote’s chivalry and Sancho Panza’s peasant realism. They learn chivalry from Buddhist monks, yet retain the pragmatism of tillers of the soil.” He aimed his stick at me. “What is your view, young man?”

“The military represent the wealthy and democracy represents the peasants but bribery turns politics, the law and all our institutions into a farce – lies are auctioned to the highest bidder.”

“Do you think you could do an honest job, young man?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“I am old, and little time is left for me. In my long reign I have never succeeded in achieving a stable government. We need a man of integrity who can combine chivalry with pragmatism.” He pointed to me. ”You are Don Quixote and your friend here is Sancho Panza. Now get those tanks on the streets. But I want an election within the year.” He turned to the Chancellor. “Announce the Royal seal of approval.” He shouted for his nurses. “It’s time for my medicine.”

THE END