Gangsters and Manipulators Organization

ERIC VINCENT

GMO Gangsters and Manipulators Organization

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GMO

Web: http://ericvincent.no-ip.org/

© Eric Vincent 2007. All rights reserved. All resemblance with situations, of the existing characters or having existed, would be made frankly intentionally.

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In the general headquarters of the liberalism strengths, a new agitation reigned. HE had just announced his candidacy for the presidential election. And so what?! Nicolas was added to the cohort of the power-hungry, determined to gnaw his bone until marrow. The polls gave him winner for the first round and also for the second. Was it the just reward of a perfect strategy or the result of a diabolic scheme? Not sure. The French Republic, once leading intelligence, center of culture, country of peak research, was only the shade of itself. An economic ruin, exhausted by the American military tyranny associated to the commercial politico predominance and the disloyal Asian competitions, based on the exploitation of the working enslaved masses. Since decades, every election took the path of the fight, the playground for proud politicians having enucleated brains, with lots of small shabby sentences and spread baseness in place public, remote-controlled by the General Information Services submitted to the powerful leaders of the Republic. France, ship in perdition, stranded on the skiffs of pauperization and internationalization, agonized. The election campaign to come looked like the hollowest, the most inept and untrue of all the history of the fifth republic. No candidate had the spunk to appear the knife of hunt between the teeth and the game-bag of propositions written well in view. They had all learned prestidigitation to fill with smoke the population with unreal promises. The most beautiful example had been the signature (to the unanimity) of the ecological pact of one of the rare believable faces in the audiovisual landscape. No one would have missed the show room, the declarations of intention, the initials on the roll of honor and the small pastries of the fiesta. They were all there, from the left to the right while passing by the center. In some months, the happy elected, the king of France, of the work chief in peril, would throw his white signature in the dungeon and the emblematic defender of the Earth, the cantor of the Ushuaia planet, would have only his eyes to cry tears filled with mercury, toluene and lead. In Nicolas' HQ, the waltz of the Puppets adjusted itself in three times, following the rhythm of the press releases of French business college students recruited like trainees liable to the corvée and malleable to wish. Let's go therefore! Nicolas extolled a France of the work where each salaried employee would be able to work more and be remunerated to the height of his efforts. The new candidate, like the big punters of the industry, the services and the florets of the French enterprises, bribed pupils of the prestigious school while propelling them to high responsibility for sometimes less that the SMIC. Wonderful example… A guy, with a sinister face, showed white paw to an armada of gorillas clothed with inexpensive jackets distorted by their artillery. One of the watchdogs affixed his inch on a plate and also identified thanks to his retinal and vocal print. A reinforced door conjured itself in the defensive concrete wall. The man with a spy's pace infiltrated the science-fiction blockhouse.

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Gigantic plasma screens, peak data processing, sophisticated information means, multiple electronic scramblers, vocal, visual tape recorders covering every ounce of land, Nicolas' cave was surrealist. HE was there, the new candidate, the wolf with the sharp fangs, determined to cut up absolutely his enemies. It was this message and the picture he distilled through the media and the population, thanks to his communication armada. Nicolas turned the head toward the fighter with grey temples, short hair and squared jaw. Discovering his henchman's features, his trustworthy muscleman, he darkened. - What’s happening? - There is a new candidate. - Wonderful! The more small candidates want to be elected, the more sporadic voices will scatter themselves among this “shit-eaters”. Is he in a left party, at least? - I don’t know. - What? Does he belong to a left or right party? - He is left but against everybody. - Perfect! He doesn't have any luck therefore to get his five hundred signatures and even less to crystallize some voices. - Nothing is less sure. Nicolas lost his calmness as if a rabble asked him for a modest twenty squared meters studio for him, his wife and their five children in the heart of Neuilly: - What? But who is he, hell? He fustigated his valet with the look. As Nicolas was far from being completely mad (to be a minister is not a proof of intelligence), he shivered while guessing the unthinkable, the irrational: - Not him! Don't tell to me that it is this damned guy who wants to be candidate! - Yes, Sir. José wants to be candidate. - SHIT!!!! Nicolas entered in a black fury, mistreating tables, chairs, keyboard and all these baubles paid with the party members’ contributions. - Sincerely, Sir, he doesn't have the faintest luck to be elected. He cannot blow you the victory. - I’m buggered with the victory. The spy decomposed himself. His candidate, his idol, what I say, his Lord didn't worry to polish to win? But it was the upside-down world. He tried to question him to understand: - Finally, Sir, do you want to become President of Republic?

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- Of course! If I win, if François wins, if Ségolène brings up on the throne, it won't change anything to the business. Even though the ogre of the National Front, sustained by his midget ogres, becomes President, the exit will be identical. My contract will be honored. The liberal politics of the United States will be applied, at hundred percent. - But… How to be sure? - I tell you a secret.GMO. - GMO? I don't understand. - Of course! I’m not surprised. I am the president of the biggest French party, the purse cords’ possessor, the never-ending police's strengths boss and also, a true Machiavellian genius submitted to the United States. The spy swallowed his pride and his saliva. He was accustomed to be put at his place: the subordinate doormat role. He had some illusions: when Nicolas will be elected, he would not have a Euro more per month and would work ten times more, if it was humanly feasible. With this boss, he had a foretaste of what was waiting him for his holidays at Mykonos. The chief explained: - The Americans succeeded in isolating the absolute liberalism gene, very close to the total stupidity gene. Some scientists had the luck to analyze a sample of Georges Bush’ DNA. The genetic sequence of liberalism has been registered in transgenic corn. The first experimental fields delivered their first quintals four years ago. The American population acted as guinea pig. Try to guess what followed… - Did you get some plantations? - Better: one of the Prime Minister’ cooking chiefs is an agent of Uncle Sam. He includes some modified corn in the menus according to my instructions. - Did Ségolène eat some? - Of course! As this hen adores pecking, she even made an overdose of absolute liberalism. Nicolas exploded of laugh and succeeded in placing between two starts: - She wants the teachers work thirty-five hours per week for no coin more! If it is not the overdose, that! - Ah ah! The muscleman laughed also not to hurt his boss. But… the other, if she is elected, they won't be necessarily contaminated or treated. - The other? Who? Dominique? Laurent? Jack? They eat greedily caviar with a ladle, these slobs! They are as socialist as the old François Mitterrand! They will follow their Ségolène in the decrease of enterprise taxes and the increase of the local taxes to suck the marrow of the French people. - Yes, hers team doesn't care of French people, ecology and education. - Like me! If my pals get their dividends at the end of year, the rest has no importance and I stamp my ass with it. He paused some seconds:

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- No, it is José who annoys me. The idealists always broke me the bollocks. This dunce would be done to drink the milk of his goats at the udder to be sure that no GMO slipped in the food chain. Impossible to contaminate him! He surely possesses a special gene rejecting the absolute liberalism. No… After all, what can I fear from him? - He just has to open his muzzle… - Yes, surely, it is his strength. - He is credited of six percent of vote intentions in the poll. - What? You fool around! It is impossible! It means that his election campaign expenses could be repaid. It risks giving him some wings… No, the best to do, it is to find some big pans to hang to his ass. He is facing several lawsuits; they must succeed as quickly as possible. - He swore to campaign since his cell if he is sent in jail. And worse… - What again? Nicolas was stretched as the steel rope of a crossbow. Uptight jaws, he grumbled, cursed against the ways of Providence that harassed his despot's destiny. - He has got his five hundred signatures. He took the care to get them secretly, long before to declare his candidacy. - The small bastard! He hid his game. I thought he only acted with his heart and his arms, in the name of people and hiss utopian principles, forgetting all monetarists reasoning. Hey well no… He also has some savvy. - Mr., some street noises let think he could write and publish a complete program in the coming days. The cantor of liberalism, the boss of the Gangsters and Manipulators Organization, fell on his Pullman armchair, with heaviness. A program! What a blow, what bad luck! He played it like in the old times, while projecting himself in the future, maybe a vision out of one, or even two decades. What an abomination! - A program… He is going to regroup all good ideas and to find financings. - How? - The subsidies of Europe are going to rain. - We could stop him, the muscleman suggested. - How? The servant jested: - He not immortal. A tractor carried away, a hunt accident, a pipe stuffed with heroine, a rabble from a concrete town who hates the country, a haystacks hangar that collapses. The means and the ideas don't miss. - Or some Penicillium Roqueforti adulterated to poison him. - What is it?

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The chief didn’t explain this cheese point. The Roquefort noble mildew, manufactured by the muse of the Farmer Confederation, could be diverted and could be modified to be fatal for José. The herald of the good taste, of the soil, of the ancestral methods, poisoned by his own products, what irony! The concept seduced him… He had not even called his army of consultants to elaborate such a stratagem! He was delighted some internally. His orders gushed like a nuclear torpedo of the “Redoutable” submarine: - Call me the chemist! - Don't I call you anymore "Boss", Sir? - Dunce! Convene the chemist; I have a special mission of the highest importance for him. - Yes, Sir. The henchman seized a telephone plugged on a numbered, inviolable, privileged line: sum up, the kind of channel that nobody, as powerful as possible, even with long arms as those of an octopus, didn't benefit. He got his correspondent and exposed him the express demand of his direct superior. The other had interest to come back quickly if he didn't want to be under an adjustment of tax of one thousand percent, in the best of the cases or to get a fresh place deep in the Seine, with the heavy files of Johnny and Florent, famous song stars under the spotlights of IRS, in manner of fixed ballasts to the feet. *** The Garrett turbojets of the Falcon 900 hissed and pushed the jet on the runway. The party chief had appointment with Jean-Claude, a legendary face of the Phocaea city. The exMassilia, historic place of the right extremists, could not escape a combing in rule of the most natural liberal after his Lord, the president of the United States. He had to unpack his ineptitudes, to accept all propositions, even oddest. More important, he should tighten a maximum of hands without leaving his artificial epidermis preserving him from kamikazes carriers of deadly chemical agents by simple carnal contact. He girthed himself on his seat and lowered the shelf coping him. The last model of Alienware, mark of upscale computer, was encrusted in the front seat back. Touch screen, high resolution, power of dream, optimal connectivity, Nicolas displayed the last indications of the main poll institutes. His carnivorous smile, consequence logical of his leadership, crumbled. In less than two unhappy weeks, José had doubled his score. According to the organisms, he was credited from ten to twelve percent. Not the disaster but the alert of level One was appropriate. François was the main victim of this increase but all others protagonists of the race to the Elysée were nibbled by the leader of the Peasants. It was urgent to act. The chemist had received his instructions, his garnished envelope - a simple deposit - and was there, on the Larzac plateau. In some days, an unprecedented media event would shake the presidential campaign. An unhappy poisoning, a tragic excess of mildew…

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Nicolas toppled his backward seat. This last gave out a crunch similar to the bursting of a bootjack or a small firecracker. In the following second fraction, six watchdogs as brawny as pillars of the French rugby team, had produced their approved prunes spits. - Oh! Oh! Calm down with your syringes, boys! My seat is only cracking… The decerebrated men garaged their syringes and took their positions. Their boss could finally open the different files elaborated by his communication consultants on each future interlocutors, with the industrious thoroughness of docile ants. It was all baked, he only had to regurgitate the foul intellectual mush, to promise wonders in the elected premises, to the Bouches du Rhône’s local councilors and to pretext a temporary but handicapping deafness if a tanned man tried to question him. Thanks to an exceptional memory, he learned all by heart during the ninety minutes of flight. Then, he destroyed the files and ran the perfected cleaning programs like his computer adviser had indicated. *** The news had exploded well beyond the borders. The planet was appalled, stunned. José had been poisoned by some too moldy Roquefort. When most people of Earth were dived in the sadness, the Americans hastened to put the accent on the manifest dangers of raw milk cheeses. They enacted a general embargo on the French products, a new economic barrier which France, ghost of its past glory, didn't need. Nicolas exulted in his QH, safe from the indiscreet ears. The alter-world picture offside, the path of cross toward the total smoking out of the French people turned to an American two times five ways freeway. He was increasing his place in the polls and, cherry on the cake, the ogre of extreme right had just passed before Ségolène. It was the guarantee of a victory because he would benefit from the same republican reflex that had propelled the present President at the Elysée. François remained at a good distance of Ségolène and the other usual protagonists - Arlette, Olivier, Marie-Georges, Philippe, Dominique - didn't exceed the five percent fateful and would run therefore to the financial bankruptcy. Thibaut, the muscleman, entered in the blockhouse after having accomplished all security formalities. Usually able of self-control, he was as tensed as a Prime minister with a triple goiter, engulfing himself for the first time of his life in the Parisian subway. Nicolas took his most condescending and friendly tone to get the news: - What? What is there again? Has the Chemist been paid as it should done? Does he want more money, this jerk? If he wants to guzzle, lard him with indigestible prunes. - No worry with the Chemist. He has even been paid dearly for the job he accomplished. - Why? - I investigated in the hospital of Millau, just to see if the country physicians had suspected something. - And? - They didn't have the least suspicion but… 8

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- But what? - José's body disappeared. - Disappeared? How? Did the family already take the body? At the end of some hours? - Probably… Which is incomprehensible! Nicolas stood back to analyze the situation. The disappearance of the number one public enemy's body, the scarecrow of the polls, intrigued him. Credited of fourteen percent of vote intentions, José had become a believable possible President. His friends of the Confederation had subtracted him, it was obvious. To conduct real toxicological analyses? To raise him to the rank of herald of the primary anti-liberalism? To make to explode the truth at one week of the election and to splash the power in place, with unavoidable consequences on his own candidacy? Not impossible. - Go back to Millau, move sky and earth but I must know what he became! - Yes, boss. The hulk was close to choke while swallowing his gum amiss. The investigations were not his cup of tea; he rather loved intimidation, the broken phalanxes and the compromising photos, everything that made bend the witnesses bothersome of the political courses he had framed. He cogitated as much as his low intellectual capacities allowed him. He should back to the hospital of Millau: to begin at the source. *** Nicolas threaded his slippers and got settled in front of the television with a frugal meal. His fingers danced around the remote control. He was close to midnight, the hour of the night last news. This edition condensed news unpacked at 20 o’clock. Its briefness made it a television by-product, without interest. However… The journalist started the summary by sensational news: the publication of José’s program for the Presidential campaign. The booklet was available in paper, in Braille and in numeric format. It gathered around two hundred detailed reform propositions and their financing mode. Big firms, societies and their plenipotentiary shareholders had to worry themselves sick. José's friends didn't want to remain the dangling arms. Nicolas couldn’t repress a set of onomatopoeias: - But… but… bah… How did these earthy asses display some pretensions without candidate? They didn't conceal any leader as charismatic as the man getting the most famous mustaches. Was it for a longtime anticipated press release, long before the "tragedy" orchestrated by the General Information and the chemist's technical support? Why did they maintain it? To sow some trouble in the French’ minds? To incite them to report their votes on candidates such as Olivier, Arlette, just to con the tenors of liberalism? Or on the contrary, to plunge the voters 9

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in the puzzlement and to move them away from the urns, with voting ballots as hollow as Marennes Oléron’ oysters? Nicolas seized his pocket-size phone and woke up in whirlwind his favorite thinking head, the person responsible of his communication pole. The news had not escaped the vigilance of the young wife, forbidden of rest, of holidays but not of laziness. The boss wanted to know her precious opinion. - Sir, to publish a program, they need a candidate. They have one, it’s obvious. - But who? - Coluche or l’abbé Pierre would have made the business but they joined the paradise. - Keep your schoolgirl's jokes for your promotion ex-friends. I want sure things, not suppositions. Mathilde took her seriousness and proposed: - The protocol of presidential campaign imposes to declare a new candidate and to hunt again for the five hundred support signatures. José had opted for the inverse gait: to collect the supports and to declare these once gotten. They don't have the choice, they must canvass a new time initially the elected convinced. It is only at the end of this strict procedure that they will have the right to present their program to the press. The logical conclusion is easy: either two candidates have been foreseen since the departure, like during the American elections, with a substitute who received the assent of the elected premises, either… - Yes? - Either José is always alive. - It is impossible. - It is a strong man, a man of the Earth, accustomed to uncouthness, with a robust health. - But his certificate of death has been signed by the medical expert! Another voice encrusted to the conversation: - The medical expert in question is José's cousin, to the 3rd degree by alliance. Thibaut had just made a theatrical entry. - What do you say? - This practitioner signed a dummy paper. I had difficulty making spit him the truth but he ended up confessing facing the scarification of his genital device. - Save me the details! Where is José? - He doesn’t know. But José was well alive when Attac commandos subtracted him from the hospital. - Contact the General Information Services, the police headquarters, the Department of Surveillance of the Territory. They must search in the least hospitable establishment, the least clinic and they must end him with promptness. - Yes, Sir. 10

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Nicolas feared the worse, the snag, the fish bone in the bottom of the presidential palate. There was snake in the grass, a sardine who plugged the anguish port. José, alive, entrenched, able to have taken the scrub to control by radio better his surgical striking on the desert programs of his enemies. The hypothesis, the most unexpected turn, the total anguish! That night, he stayed up, unable to close the eyes, kneaded of dark presentiments. *** An early phone call pulled Nicolas from his uncomfortable sleep. The television purred. Its screen decorated itself of dry ice, vestige of the blessed era where the winters looked like winters, with hoarfrost and sleet. He took the communication: - Sir? - Thibaut? Do you know what time is it? - Yes, Sir. Four o’clock a.m. And since fifteen minutes, a video circulates on the Web. - What does it show? - José. In perfect health! - The beautiful business! An operation plotted by his supporters to honor his memory. - No, Sir. He describes his program there in detail and announces to have taken the scrub until the first round of the elections. He released some formal elements like a daily newspaper to authenticate the video. He appeared weakened. - Where is he hidden? - I ignore it. According to the General Information Services, the video passed in transit by so many servers on the Earth, that an army of Microsoft would not be sufficient to find him. He is going to campaign from afar. He is going to play the effect Viktor Iouchtchenko, the president of Ukraine, victim of a murder tentative. - Shit! - The institutes of poll review their strategy. - I don’t give a damn! You must hunt out him from his lair and fill him greedily with GMO by all holes! Demolish the whole Larzac with bulldozers if it is necessary but find this trouble-maker! The Boss exploded his mobile against the wall of the lounge. The remnants scattered themselves on the soil, in a strange manner. He moved away to see the whole. He shivered. A cross! Not any cross. A cross of Lorraine! Did the old Charles, the General, disapprove from the Paradise, or did he encourage him to pursue his aim? To transform France in the hireling of the Bush family had not been certainly the taste of the author of the June 18, 1940 call. *** The speech, a call to the revolt citizen of the French people, inlaid in the official program, had overcome the skinny strengths of the leader of the Farmer Confederation. José, 11

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sustained by three Good Samaritan and Saving friends - understand: GMO corn plantations destroyers -, had been eradicated from the television studio built in a blind piece. He had joined a rolling armchair pushed by a blond blue-eyed male nurse, carved in an iceberg. José nearly sank immediately in the unconsciousness. His poisoning could have overcome him if it had not been of rough constitution farmer, raised by a hard way. He had owed his salute to a physician friend, mayor of a neighboring village, who came to add his signature symbolically to the long list detained by José. One instant between life and death, he had been declared dead despite the sadness of the defenders of the Earth, the taste and traditions. The Attac organization had subtracted him in the event the rumor of his survival gave the desire to the backers to act again. José had been conducted in a clinic refitted to lavish him the best cares and he tempted to recover skinny strengths. Untiring fighter for the well-being and defender of the human condition, he required that a devoted assistant and friend reads him for an umpteenth time the different articles of the two hundred major propositions of his electoral program. He was anxious to refine each idea so that it adheres to his ideals, that it is economically feasible and viable and especially, that it brings the French to become aware that he acted for the a lot of humanity and in total respect of the environment. The young woman was interrupted by Lars, a strong man with clear skin and redhead mop of hair. Lars spoke with hesitant French but did everything for his idol, José. - José, we have just had a first return about the impact of your broadcast. The French people are very touched and are ready to accept numerous propositions you made. Better, some improvements charge down in mass on our internet server. - And what about the rotten who tried to kill me? - We don’t know anything except a code: GMO. - GMO? They wanted to kill the only man who fights them! - Not sure. I search on internet and discovered an American secret project aiming to manipulate the minds thanks to genetically modified organisms. A gene would change the behavior economic of the men. José shivered and collapsed on his bed. The animal and plant experimentation was not enough anymore: these stupid scientists of Bush team wanted to turn to sorcerer's apprentice and dictator. With a little bad luck, they already exported their shit in France. The deaf anger that brought up some him, gave him back the energy to fight. For eradicate these dirty Genetically Modified Organisms, José and his buddies had the habit to root out the plants and to destroy them by the most radical but non polluting means. But how to deal with contaminated humans? How to act? How to restore them their original DNA sequence? And what part of their humanity had been updated? - Lars, carries on your research, it is vital. If they experiment on the human kind, nobody is protected.

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- I am going to make my maximum, José. While waiting, rest you and doesn't show to you. You are one thousand miles of the place where they look for you but your face is not far from being as known as our regretted commander Cousteau. An indiscretion, a journalist and the killers would smell a new track. - I am not going to campaign since my hiding place! - Remember General de Gaulle. He organized the resistance and forged his legend from London. Today, we have Internet to react at the light speed, the television to relieve. However, you are not in state to travel on the whole French territory. They decreased you, they forced you to change strategy. The essential is that you regained your strengths in the evening of the first round. José scowled behind his legendary mustaches. But he knew that his helper, friend Lars was right on the whole line. Hidden in the Icelandic country, in a small anonymous clinic, he was safe from the madmen who had wanted to eradicate the threat he made weigh on the urns. He leaned with pain against his huddled up pillow and seized a French satiric newspaper. A little reading, before sinking in an unavoidable sleep. The ideas were clear but poison had attacked the organism with severity. *** Nicolas exploded suddenly the keyboard of his laptop computer with his fist. He crawled to twenty-five percent; Ségolène peaked to twenty, the ogre to sixteen but José, the ghost, the hard to cook, the wondered, pointed to seventeen percent two months before the first round. It was inconceivable, hallucinating, a real meaningless. How could so many French dunces not slip his name in the urns? What aberration! Tight fists close to explode his phalanxes, he didn't reason anymore, he fulminated against the fate. José was invisible and was classified at three points under Ségolène. The second round stretched him the arms and he was hiding himself in his lousy country. What would happen if this lunatic, this big muzzle, this big heart with precise ideas and with steel mind was opposed to him during the second round? All polls gave the Nicolas winner facing the ogre (because of republican reflex) and facing Ségolène (thanks to the chauvinist and misogynistic reflex of the French people). None of the poll tenors had imagined this unthinkable top billing. Nicolas dreaded it. Thibault, the muscleman, wasn’t proud. His talents confined him to the pressures, to the threats and to the sinewy unique sense negotiations. He was not a dangerous investigator. He had failed. His gait of gorilla and his aggressive, repetitive questions had attracted the attention of some journalists. To become persona non grata, there was only a step to cross. - Where is he, this damned country bumpkin! - I don't know, boss. I don't manage to put the hand on the least track. He vanished. And there is a snag: I am marked! Scandals press glues my buttocks. - You’ve got three weeks in holidays in Corsica. Do your luggage. - Well… boss, I don't have the means to pay for such holidays!

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- And the money of the party adherents? Is it made for what, chap of fathead? Go to the accounting service and stay out of my view. The apprentice gangster cleared the place. Before going to the accounting service, the servant verified his personal artillery. Corsica was, by definition, filled of Nicolas enemies: they would be some people who would associate his face to the one of his employer. Suddenly, Nicolas had genius's feature. He hissed a dozen of female assistants with short shirts and gave his orders: - Go to the A.N.I. and watch all my interviews, declarations, broadcasts. Collect everything that can look like closely or from afar to an idea, to a proposition of reform, of law. Even the most insane things. - What do we do with it, boss? The craftiest but not the less pretty girl among all quizzed. - A program that we will publish! The women were in ecstasies: - Yeah! Nicolas had just found the parade to stop the erosion: to be the second candidate who proposes a program. It would be demagogic, unrealistic, found on utopian growth, licking the boots of the United States and based on the total exploitation of poor people. As for financing, he would apply the good old recipe: he would dig the deficits while giving a finger to Europe and to the banks. He would break the moneyboxes of the modest incomes households. Suddenly, he felt perked up. On the sly, a brunette asked a blond girl: - What is the A.N.I? - The Audiovisual National Institute, of course! Pfff…. The blond girl answered. At least some justice for the too much gibed blond women! *** The so much dreaded poll had just fallen. In the case of a José-Nicolas confrontation during the second round, the Farmer Confederation leader would be beaten of a very short head. The leader of the ultra liberal right didn't parade. On the contrary! To win with fifty comma thirty percent, it was playing in a pocket-size handkerchief. Not enough margin of maneuver. He didn't have choice: he had to lick the ogre's slapping boots and had to hunt for the center supporters. He had to invite them by turns while promising some places in a hypothetical national union government and to cram them of GMO. He only had three weeks to act. He gave his orders: “all azimuths charming operation”! The important target was Ségolène. It was necessary to turn her to an ultra liberal frantic. The caviar should leave her the holes of 14

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nose, she should speculate like a crazy girl, take some parts in high tech societies and intend to tax all and everybody. It was absolutely necessary she pushes her husband to speak in public to demoralize the strengths of the left. He had to concoct them a lunch where the dose of GMO would be maximal. Naturally, he would convene the press on the stairway of the Beauvau place and there, he would let the feminine muse of the left, flanked of her awkward bear, fall in trap questions of journalists hoping small sentences and to swing some very resounding Bushismeses that would make them move back in the general arrangement. To discredit the candidate would prevent a certain plotting of voice at the second round on José, the ultimate rampart against the liberals. This submarine strategy had made its proofs a thousand times in the past. He sent his invitations after having composed the menu with the accomplice chief. The false leftists, fond of good and free grub, would not resist sitting down at table. *** He was around twenty o’clock. José, back from hiss Icelandic retirement, safe from the possible attempts fomented by the protectors of the shareholders guzzling with dividends, had joined his ecological house. He was re-established. A hedge of honor of tractors, of reapers threshers, of grape-pickers and other agricultural contraptions had welcomed him like a hero. It also formed an impassable security cord around the property of the seriousness pretender to the presidential race. The hunters of scoops were held in respect by hunters whose old blunderbusses had been charged with cartridges filled of Guérande cooking salt (So much that to weight the rump of paparazzi, as much to accustom them to the quality!). José crossed the fingers. His odds to reach the second step were not science-fiction. The explanation held in a first name: Ségolène. Once besides, she had expressed herself in public and as to her habit, it had turned to the Berezina. The newspapers, broadcast, scandals press, Internet had made their hot mouthfuls of it. All occurred at the end of the meal organized by Nicolas. Ségolène, followed like her shade by her cumbersome husband, the arms charged with bags full of gifts, could not have gone without from some declarations to the punch facing the pack of reporters in ambush. When some crafty and prudent interviewers questioned her about the measures of her hypothetical program, she asserted she would make the maximum to provoke the growth. By all means! In fact, some asked for the precisions. Igniting a cigarette owing the assembly and emptying her ashtray of car on the ground of the Beauvau place, she said she would abrogate the Evin law, trading of smoke interdiction, indicated that the manufacturers of cigarettes would have the right to install some automatic tellers in the surrounding walls of college, high school, faculties and even in primary schools. Concerning the school reform, she wanted to replace the canteens and other self-services by Mac Donald' fast foods, to institute a prison system for the most refractory pupils, animated by policemen who would act as teachers, judges and executors. The professors were not enough made rentable for her; she intended to force them to work in three times eight hours per day to maximize the ingestion of knowledge in the brains of the little shits doing the bazaar in the class rooms. 15

GMO

In the set of the announcements with a guaranteed effect, she wanted to unite the environment, the industry and the energy in one ministry. But she would confide the management of this wallet to the president of the biggest French oil group, monopolizing the hypothetical development of the renewable energies thus. Her future government drew itself besides like a representative sample of the high French and even American bosses. And because there are not any small profits, she would reopen the whore houses! Facing a floor of journalists, journalists and other characters keys of information, she completed the picture thanks to her ineffable and cumbersome mate. One of the plastic bags concealing the numerous gifts given by Nicolas, in pledge of kindliness, gave up under the weight of the merchandise. A two kilograms caviar box rolled until the electronic eyes of the cameras that didn't fail to immortalize the picture. To the eyes of the popular France, the candidate, who always spoke of Léon Blum and Jean Jaurès spirit, was out. As for the villains, the usurpers, who affirmed with a peremptory tone to perpetuate the General de Gaulle's mind, they didn't trick anybody more for ages. Nineteen o’clock fifty-nine! Suspense was to its height. The journalist star took the floor, did the ritual of the final countdown and announced the result: Nicolas was first with close to twenty-five percent the suffrages. José was second with nineteen percent. The ogre of the extreme right reached eighteen percent. Ségolène dove to fifteen percent, what constituted a hammering never reached in the history of the most powerful left from the left. The other results came very quickly. François achieved a middle score and all right factions accumulated didn't give the insurance of Nicolas' victory during the second round. In the HQ, in the bunker, the chief of the ultra liberalism raised the mask of the bad days in spite of a triumphant jubilation of his headquarters. He had not dug the discounted gap. Despite the successive GMO treatments, her natural blunders, her mate's cannonball, Ségolène had crystallized votes of left blinds. Still too much! The most lucid had thrown their claim on José, the resistant, the survivor. Nicolas counted again and again; he should fish in the extreme right stinking swamps. These voters were very fickle, unforeseeable. Even though he enjoyed the extreme theories, he didn't ignore that every tentative of closeness would not escape the thunderbolts of the journalists and would chip his brand image. But another diabolic idea germinated in his rascally mind. In the Larzac, it was the feast. José was the happiest of men. For the first time of his life, he felt between his hands to materialize the levers that would allow him tomorrow, maybe, finally, to return to the Earth a little of its dignity. Even though he had to throw the only France in the fight for the earth, for the authenticity, for the autonomy, for the preservation of its skinny mining resources, for the retraining, he would raise the challenge and would apply to the letter his program. And hopeless poison would not come to prevent him to do it. ***

16

Gangsters and Manipulators Organization

Between the two rounds of the Presidential election, it was like at the beginning of World War II. A funny war where, in theory, the hostilities were open, the declaration clearly decreed by the belligerents but where nothing happened. The camps in presence observed themselves, looking for the faille, the blunder to exploit. Nicolas negotiated the ogre's certain kindliness, looked for the compromise without the base action, difficult exercise of tightrope walker on a tense rope above a precipice. Four days before the fateful Sunday, it was the sudden turn of events. Ségolène called the voters who had slipped her name in the urn, to report their voices on the unique candidate able to defend the French economy: Nicolas! This last didn't believe some his ears! Such a godsend, manna of fallen voices from the sky! He didn’t need to court the ogre and to unveil his real nature. The GMO had transformed the socialist muse in a Margaret Thatcher clone! The success was announced thanks to the American inventions. José was thunderstruck. Every Ségolène's speech had seemed to be strokes of dagger in the social politics of which he dreamed. The last polls of the institutes predicted a flop, a dark future. The exit was demonstrated mathematically by the biggest statisticians! The E-evening finally came. Nicolas, facing the cameras, mailed in his chic suburb, displayed a carnivorous smile. José, among his goats, seated on a simple stool, smoothed his famous mustache with a non hidden jumpiness. One video spotlight broadcasted the T.V. News on a wall whitened with lime. Two pairs of speakers distilled the rates of abstention. As much they had been unprecedented during the first round, as much the French had mobilized themselves in mass this Sunday. What did this republican start mean? A kaleidoscope formed with the two pretenders’ faces drew itself on the screens. The parcels of the puzzle danced until the final deduction. The features of the new president drew themselves: chiseled forehead, marked crow’s-foot and prominent mustache. A clamor went up on the Larzac’s plateau and intensified in all Causses, in the Aveyron. The whole France rose to greet a miracle. The people of the without ranks, of the disappointed, of the without hope, was mobilized to push a man's project, an iron will man, a humanity defender, a crusader battling against the drifts of the scientific madness, a believer in securities once main. The flashes crackled, the bundles of immaculate light focused on the eyes blush of José, under the influence of the emotion. *** Nicolas jumped in his elm bed, built on order. He uttered such a scream of fury that his bodyguards, outside of the room, believed in an attempt. They unloaded hand-held guns in the room, on the alert. Their boss reassured them. He was soaked of sweat, agitated. His throat was dry. A nightmare, he had made a dirty nightmare. José president! What heresy! France was not ready to get to the green power, to the lasting development, to the ecology, to the equitable sharing. He would swear it.

17

GMO

He stood up and spun right toward the kitchen. He was thirsty. This flipping nightmare! He had swallowed, in dream, tons of Roquefort produced by the Farmer Confederation leader. He would have drunk the sea and its small fishes to quench! He took a glass and filled it with water from the faucet. He drank all. It had an unpleasant, curious taste. Disconcerted, he opened the fridge and took Florida pure orange juice. The freshness of the drink calmed somewhat his inside fire. The texture was unaccustomed, pasty. He controlled the expiration date; no worry about it. The taste… Curious, like the water! He crunched a branch of celery, chewed it for a long time to impregnate his palate with its flavor. He shivered. Indefinable impression of already swallowed! GMO… and if all was true? ***

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