Chapter 0

The Mad Feast of False Idols

I

It was truly a gathering of the worst of the worst. His hall was packed with politicians, diplomats, special envoys, dictators, tycoons, and all other kinds of "leaders" the world has to offer. Between these men three quarters of the global economy turned the Earth and laid foundation (or waste) to countries spanning all continents. Here decisions would be made that could bring nations to war, nations to peace, save thousands of lives, or snuff out millions. All by the men gathered tonight by his power. These were the men who ruled the World, and now Sheridan was amongst them.

Everything started on the fateful day when the Twin Towers fell. Though over an ocean away, effects were felt even on the bridge that connects Eastern and Western Europe. The sudden dive of the American Stock Marker impacted the whole globe, and a wave of uncertainty created tensions that bid deep within even the smallest worker. Their own country was hit with a downturn in the economy (it's arguable, however, if this had anything to do with 911 at all), and the citizens started to panic. A normally conservative, small government was being questioned and the public opinion turned. This instability gave rise to opportunity. In an instant the political environment shifted and those who sought to increase the role of government made a giant push with promises of security and progress. Sheridan just so happened to be running for President at that time.

What Hugo Sheridan sometimes forgot (and it definitely wasn't on his mind tonight) was that he didn't win alone. Foreign powers saw the countries instability and saw great opportunity to expand their influence. Contributions to the Sheridan Campaign came from across the globe, all from those who wished to exploit the nation's new direction. These people who made decisions that saved or cost millions of lives, their sights now set on his mother soil. Though any patriotic citizen might have realize their goals and ambitions, Sheridan was tempted by their promises of money and power and then blinded on their deliverance. Not only had Sheridan won the Presidency, but his party also took a stranglehold on two of the branches of government.

He wasn't a corrupt politician, at least not yet. Sheridan generally loved his country and was as patriotic as any other. It would have been impossible to even run for President otherwise. Like any great man of power he had a vision. His was an image of growth, progress, and a greater role dictating the direction the country should turn. A headstrong (bullheaded might be a more correct term) idealist he wished for the soil of his birth to rise against the European powers and event rival the American and Asian markets. It would never occur during his lifetime, if at all, but the legislation he would pass during his term in office would pave the way for incrementally larger rights of the government and less for the lobbyists and corporations that invade from beyond their boarder. This was for the good of the people.

It always is.

Just 15 hours ago nominee Braskgo conceded and Sheridan was declared President Elect. Moments before he was sitting alone in his campaign office with his feet on his desk, leaning back, and his palms behind his head. In a dark room he watched on a muted TV the talking heads (now they were just heads) as they tallied the votes from the reporting precincts and informed the nation as to who their next President would be. For the past hour Sheridan watched his already substantial lead only grow larger and larger. Twenty minutes prior to the call he'd already opened the champagne and sipped silently by himself while all his supporters rallied around the television on the main floor. Five minutes prior he'd just about told his campaign manager to begin preparations for the victory celebration, but figured he'd wait until Braskgo gave him a ring. It was bad manners otherwise. Sure enough it came and Hugo Sheridan was announced the winner.

It was a lie to say Sheridan knew his victory was assured, but with how much he'd raised and the amount spent on his campaign, well, he was very confident. So this outcome came as no surprise, but it did come as a relief. Those who supported him, however, and even those darker figures who supported the supporters, knew his victory was in place. In truth this man who would be President was just a small cog in an even greater machine. Already plans had been made not only for the central figurehead, but all the scattered senators, congressmen, and judges. A giant push was being made in his country and like it or not Sheridan was a part of it. Only he has yet to realized how deep the rabbit hole fell.

For now he celebrated.

Sheridan heard the rumors about his financial backers, but until seeing them in person had he even considered a word of it true. They arrived in limos, expensive sports cars, imports, Royals Royce, and even a helicopter. President Elect's personal residence was the site of the dinner celebration.

About two and a half centuries back the Sheridan began as traveling merchants. From one town to the next they bartered their wares in an endless pursuit of profit. After decades of gains and losses they saved enough to open their own shop. As ownership passed from father to son their business grew and they purchased land. As the son aged and had children of is own, their market expanded and they traded across borders and nations. As their capital amassed they eventually became lords and people served underneath them. For but a brief time the Sheridan were royalty, but one costly oversight led to revolt and the family lost much of what it gained. During the first and second world wars the Sheridan fled the battlefields and once again bought and sold. The family saw their second comings during the postwar reconstruction period. By the 1980s they once again owned a significant amount of land, and once more the titles passed from father to son. However, Hugo was a first for the Sheridan. He saw history not as a tradition but as a right. This boy saw his family as one-time rulers, and by God he would see it again. Turning his back on his economic roots he instead entered politics. Hugo's sole goal throughout his entire political career was to once again return the family to a ruler status, and by being elected President he'd done exactly that. Now what was left was to make such an impact on the country that the Sheridan name would be remembered throughout history.

As God as his witness it would happen.

And he wasn't wrong.

Hugo graced the audience with his entrance as two former Miss Universe contestants were held beneath his arms. He flaunted his prizes (and they were his not more than 10 hours ago, and again 3 hours before now) for the world to see (but no media, he was especially clear on that). Hugo was married with two children, but between the husband and wife there was an understanding that a bachelor couldn't make it very far in the public eye. His wife Tina was also an elected official. Both agreed to be wed under the pretenses that their careers wouldn't last unless they had a ceremonial ring on their fingers'. To be wed in name only, it was the prefect arrangement. Their's was a marriage of convenience true to those of the middle ages. There wasn't a shred of love between them and affairs were not only ignored but expected. Surely Tina had her share of men as well, but he doubt her's stood atop the World's stage. For that alone a grin would never escape his lips that night.

For the first couple of hours he greeted his guests with the two women never more then arm's reach away. They stuck with him all night and sat at his table for dinner. The good little girls that they were they did exactly as they were told. Never did they falter in smile and never did they speak out of turn. They were well-trained and well-educated and more beautiful then anything most normal people would ever lay eyes upon, and already Hugo became bored with them. These women might have gained worldwide recognition in their own respective ways, but they were not the same as Sheridan. Both failed to be breed from proper stock. One rose from poverty through academics, and the other immigrated when she was a prepubescent. In short they were fun for awhile, but they weren't good enough for him. While they remained close he'd pay them no more mind then he would his own coattails.

The night continued to drag on and he was becoming increasingly bored. After rubbing elbows with the MVPs of the VIPs he'd journey from table to table just trying to remember as many people names as possible. Not after long he realized that there were more people here he didn't know than whom he did. After the faces stopped becoming familiar he became a stranger in his own house. Sure all these people knew and supported him, but they felt as foreign as people walking past him on the sidewalk, and when was the last time he walked anywhere? This hall was becoming stuffy and he turned to seek fresh air. Only now did it occur to him that he might be feeling pressure from actually winning the election. He always thought he was better than this and he was a bit disgusted with himself, but he was also a bit relieved. Hugo wasn't sure exactly why, but he felt that if he didn't experience that tense hold of responsibility he might lose the part of himself that mattered the most. A silly notion, but he smiled to himself regardless.

A shock, almost like static electricity, struck him by. Not sure what occurred he turned to his side and gazed back at the woman who'd just passed. Of what he first took notice was her dark skin. Initially he thought her to be black, of African decent, but upon inspecting the slightly reddish tint to her pigmentation and her fine course hair, he concluded her to be Middle-Eastern. Indian? Muslim? From the backside he wasn't completely sure. Scratch that, she couldn't have been Muslim. With her hair tied in a bun and the low cut of her sleeveless white dress, much of her slender, toned back was visible for everyone to see. If she were a Muslim and revealed that much skin, she'd be stoned to death as a whore within the hour. Personally, Hugo hated the religion. Any set of beliefs that denigrated women to a pet-like state he would no sooner see burn. And if any were to make that woman cover herself he'd personally throw them out of his house.

Almost mystically that woman caught his eye and his attention. Hugo thought he noticed everyone while making his speech at the banquet, but this was the first he'd spotted her. Was she always here? Was she a late arrival? How come I didn't see her before? These question sputtered through his brain like rounds from a semi-automatic. He wanted to speak with her, as well as see her face, but the nausea from before returned. Turning quickly he fled outside before any embarrassing scenes could take place.

The night's air is cool. Sheridan's not sure what time it is nor if it's still night or early morn, but the open air splashes his face and neck like a sink filled with ice-water. Not only his body but his soul's refreshed and he instinctively closes his eyes. A deep breath he takes through his nostrils. That fresh chill fills his lungs. Blood turns cold and energizes his body. He's reminded of his days on the track team back in secondary school. Those cold mornings right before a run always felt the best. For a short time he took up smoking, but quit on his own volition a couple years later. A drag could never feel this good. Hugo exhaled and opened his eyes to see the vapor escape from his lips.

The moon is clear and in full view. This moment, right now, Hugo feels more alive and excited than the confirmation of his presidential victory. The stars in the sky are shinning just for him. As a child, his mother once told him that every person alive has a star that's just for them. When they grow older and bigger so does the star, and when they do and achieve great things it shines brighter and brighter. Though she told him such tales as a kid, she never did mention which one was his. He always wondered if a star blacked out the night she died from cancer. Also, now he wonders if his stars shines any brighter than before. For as great as he felt, and what he had accomplished last night, his' must be the brightest star in the sky tonight.

Such a simple thing as enjoying a midnight stroll. He wonders if it might have had something to do with the woman. That woman. Maybe. Maybe not. But he still wants to talk with her. Not to much time has passed. She couldn't have gotten far.

When turning to head back inside, Hugo's faced with the two super-models from before. At some point they lost him. If he were paying them they'd be fired. Still, he didn't want to make a scene and he didn't want them around when he talked to that woman. It's time they were dismissed.

"Thank you," there was a slight but unnoticeable pause when he realized he forgot these two's names, "ladies. I'm sure you must be tired as it's so late. I'll have one of my people drive you home."

One realized what was happening and took it gracefully. The other didn't get that message.

"What? It's over? I thought we were going to spend the night."

Hugo wanted to slap her for the back talk, but his self control was fully in effect. "You," pause for emphasis, "don't honestly expect your new President Elect to spend the night with a woman other then his wife on the night after his win? Do you?"

The other had already backed away and disappeared.

"Come-oooonnnn," it's clear she's had too much to drink, "I thought you said your wife's cool with it. You were with us last...what's that?"

It seemed she was reaching for his left ear, but she stumbles and falls forward. Despite Hugo's intention to let her take a tumble, the woman grabs her President Elect by the shoulder and saves herself. The way she tries to steady herself almost makes her look like she's climbing a ladder.

"It's clear this is the end of the night for you. I'll make sure you get home."

"Noooo! There's something on your," a jittery hand touches his neck and he instinctively jerks himself away.

Suddenly her bumbling and trembling stops in an instant. It was as if something shocked her sober. Like an injection. Something is smeared on her fingers. In only the moonlight she can't identify what she's found (though on a subconscious level she realized immediately). Walking back inside into the light she halts at what she finds. Unamused Sheridan stomps in behind her and irritatingly asks,

"What is it?"

Slowly the woman turns around. Her face is pale and her shoulders tense.

"Blood."

A woman screams, and not the one with the blood on her fingers. That one is stone-faced and unmoving. Men rush the President Elect and shout. Still unsure of the commotion, Hugo places a hand just below his left ear and shines it in the light. She's right. It's blood. Suddenly his body becomes very heavy and his feet buckling. As if he were the one who was drunk, he stumbles to a large cabinet and mirror that was nearby and takes a look at himself. What he sees is a man he can barely recognize. All color is lost from his face save only for the heavy red streak running down his neck. His already dark suit is dyed an even bleaker hue from the thriving river streaming down his side. It wasn't just his sleeve or his shoulder, but all the way down to his waist and leg. Only now did he hear the tap-tap-tap of his blood raining from the edges of his sleeves and pattering on the carpet below. Ghostly he turns back outside and sees an exact path trailing to the spot he was standing, the exact spot where he was gazing at the stars. A trail of bread crumbs.

The men are only ten feet away when Hugo Sheridan realizes what's happened. I've been stabbed, echoes only once before it happens. His heart rockets from energized to full-blown panic. Perhaps the closest comparison is to that of a dam. At first there was a small crack and a trickle of water escaped. Over time that crack grew larger and the water streamed forth. Though not without warning, at a certain point a threshold is breached and the entire system breaks down. The structure is toppled and the rampaging river engulfs what little remains like a violent juggernaut trampling downhill. At the precise moment Hugo Sheridan began to panic, the severed artery could hold no more. Blood burst from the side of his neck in a horrifying spray. As if it propels him he dances to his right. His feet find him outside, back underneath the stars. The movie-like geyser of blood last only seconds as his well quickly drains dry. Subsiding, the spray reflects his energy and already glass legs. Anyone could imagine Sheridan's fall to the ground as a car engine dying when the fuel gauge finally quits after situating below "E." In the seconds that remains before he bleeds to death, Hugo gazes at the dark heavens and has one final coherent thought.

What about my star?