An Interview with Mint Abawi
JUNE- 2491. THE SHARK HAS SUCH TEETH, DEAR.
New to the series? Catch up here.
#17 of the Bits & Bites series
28/06/2491
by Nicholas Abd al-Nur
I really didn't think he would say yes. About two months ago, I sent an invitation to a fellow Carraroan to get grinders at Benedict’s on Bank. There is no more hallowed local institution, except perhaps for this paper. I think both of those two hometown treasures played a role in the President of the Minervan Republics saying ‘yes’.
There is no man in the public sphere more derided than Mint Y. Abawi. Liar. Fraud. Huckster. Cheat. That's without even getting into his ideology. Certainly I'm no exception. Just look at my socials. I've chirped my fellow Carraroan enough times for one lifetime, and I'll let you find out today if I intend to stop. (I don't.) I think President Abawi decided to sit down with me, one of his thus far most viral critics, for a very calculated reason. All he had to do was be normal, and he would have the attention of a broad audience (as per usual) but with the institutional legitimacy of The Republican making him look good. I guess I was willing to gamble on that offchance.
I'm sure it will be hard for most of my regular readers to believe this, but at the start of this interview process I resolved to put all the Chirpsong beef behind me and start fresh. For one day, it would just be me and him, two kids from Carraroe, sons of Little Beirut and Bakersville standing side by side, yakking it up over some wicked good sandwiches. I did that. It was alright. But it didn't end there. The distrust I have for Mint Abawi is no longer just an academic pursuit, an inherited impression from newscasts and Chirpsong posts. It is a completely novel, personal, and warranted distaste— it is the difference from conceptually knowing soap tastes bad to having it shoved down your throat.
I don't want to color your impression of Mint right off the bat. That would be bad form, and would hardly be fair of me. So I won't do it any further. From here on out, he will (mostly) speak for himself— but there is more to this interview than just the conversation. Like all things Abawian, it lingered on my mind, unwilling to let its talons of ludicrous incredulity slip, anchoring him firmly in the currents of my thoughts. So I did what any good journalist does. I followed up.
I will be interweaving the story of my investigation with the interview. So here we go. I suggest you prepare for the story of some serious baloney.
It's no wonder that people liked this man so much when nobody knew anything about him. He is a fun conversationalist. He stands about 5’10”, a bit taller than me, and is reasonably athletic but not so much so that it makes you jealous— just enough to think that you could look like that, too, if only you ever bothered. He looks better on TV than in person, but you almost think it's not because of the makeup. It's just a factor of how wide he smiles. He greeted me with a handshake, firm and respectful, then with the jocular embrace of a hug. “Bring it in, you bastard,” he taps me on the back. “Long way from the Coopers’ High Gazette, huh, Nick?” He shakes his head with the gaze of an old friend. I've never met this man before in my life. I almost have to admire the boldness.
“You went to Coopers’ High?”
“I sat in the back.” He smiles. His eyes are a glassy green. You'd think you would remember a guy named Mint. Maybe that wasn't his name back then. “I'm glad to be back here. I haven't come home since I've been in office.”
“Well, welcome home.” I nodded. In person, he's a completely different man. Disarming. It's funny, you wouldn't take him for a con man— he’s never pushing anything on you except his own image. But perhaps that's why he's so good at it.
The wood paneled walls of Benedict's on Bank are stained with history, and probably more than a little olive oil. For those of you from Carraroe, I know this place needs no introduction. However, given the subject of the interview— I get the feeling that most of you won't be. Allow me to introduce you to an old friend. Benedict’s, or Benny’s, as we are more likely to call it, is a small hole in a smaller wall. It's in the older part of the city, down on Bank Avenue in the Nauset Bay district, where the old low-rise buildings still dominate the skyline. Benny’s is a place that feels bigger than it is. The walls are simply adorned with family photos from the family of Benedict Mazzulla, who founded the restaurant in 2329. This isn't the original location— that was destroyed in the War— but Benny Mazz and his family have been making grinders under this roof since 2344, so it might as well be. They make their own bread in a notoriously unreliable oven salvaged from the old location and kept functional by a community effort to fabricate replacement parts when the supply ran dry in 2410. Most customers pay in quid, but some pay with spare parts. They probably could have invested in a metalfab for themselves, but I think the Mazzullas like it better this way.
The grinders, by the way, are fantastic. They don't bother buying cheap, vat produced ingredients. Everything is local, natural, and fresh, because that's how it was back when Benny started the place. Meat from local farms, mostly local domesticated wildlife. It's a miracle we can eat the animals we found here, especially because some of them are extremely tasty sliced thin on a sandwich. It's not that unusual, sure, but it is certainly a rare find to get fresh bread, natural meat, and fresh olive oil all under one roof. Sure, many of you will remind me that vat meat really doesn't taste all that different. I would contend that if you've had enough of the natural stuff, synthmeat tastes too clean. It's the impurities in the meat, the inconsistent grain and consistency, that makes it feel real, and they're not killing you on the price, either. Sure, Benny has been gone since 2392. It doesn't feel like it. My mother always used to say that Joey’s running the place so well it just feels like Benny’s out in the back instead.
Today, Joey’s daughter Maria was at the counter. The speakers, hooked up to an old digital jukebox, was blasting Benny’s favorite oldies, from Elvis and the Beach Boys to ABBA and Taylor Swift. Right now, it was Jake Yong’s Troubled Ground, a slow, melodical 2240s hit. You can buy copies of the playlist on a novelty USB stick in the back. It's pretty good stuff. Benny always did have good taste.
“What are you having?” I raise my eyebrow at the President. One of his Official Protection bodyguards stands behind us, eyes scanning up and down the menu. Apparently she’s hungry, too. They're all wearing plainclothes, but they must be custom tailored. I couldn’t even make out the holstered gun on her hip until she unzipped her sweatshirt for her wallet.
“Oh, my usual.” He approaches the window, and asks Maria for a footlong Italian with triple mayo and vinegar. That really made me raise an eyebrow. Triple mayo and vinegar? I suppose everyone has their preferences. She seemed about as surprised as me, but she duly punched the order into the register. The Italian is good here anyways. It's a classic for a reason. I just got an armu-ham grinder with oil and salt— classic. They didn't take long. We went over to my usual spot, a booth in the corner under a family photo from a waterpark in 2385.
As Troubled Ground wrapped up, the electric violin solo winding down to a held note, Bobby Darin’s Mack the Knife swung its way onto the speaker system. Mint smiled a toothy grin as he unwrapped his order. It wasn't even off the paper and it was already dripping from the edges, a viscous mix of vinegar and mayonnaise. The President sure has eccentric tastes.
“So, Mint, why—”
“Why triple mayo?” He chuckled. “That's what you were going to ask, right? Well,” he shrugged. “I like mayo.”
“I can see that.”
“And they never put enough of it on there.”
“Why the vinegar?”
“I like vinegar.”
That wasn't really the point of my question. I decided to let it slide. “So, Mr. President,” I glanced down at my notecards. “Why take this interview? You know as well as anybody what I’ve said about you. Hardly flattering.”
“Why’d you extend the invitation?” Mint smirked. “You wanted me here. There’s something there. If you hate me so much, I can’t imagine why you want to talk to me.”
“So… you took an interview with an avowed hater just because?”
“Your words, not mine. I took it because it would be interesting.” He hung on that last word, letting it simmer on his tongue as if to savor its flavor.
“I think it will be, too.” I nodded. “Should we start with softball, then?”
He rolled his eyes, taking another bite of an abysmally messy rag of a sandwich. “If you must.”
“What’s your favorite college story?”
He smiled. There’s that TV smile. Wide, toothy, enraptured by the moment, or perhaps lost in some hidden calculus trying to get two steps ahead of you.
“Oh. You’re good. You’re good at this.” He wagged a finger, laughing, hearty and full of energy, a laugh every sitcom producer this side of Tau Ceti wishes they had on their soundboard. “College. Oh, I loved it. I had a wonderful time in Fall River. I remember, there was this frat… oh, f— me— sorry, you don’t mind if I—”
“No, Mr. President, feel free.”
“I can’t remember the name. It was a Halloween party. I’d lost a bet and dressed up as a cop. The guy studying to be a defense attorney, right?” He leaned in, smiling like he’d let me in on an inside joke. “It must have been ‘65. I said to my buddy Addison that the Vipers were going to the playoffs. They had just gotten Michael Fenner. Oh, was I dead wrong. So I had this Fall River PD uniform. Everything gets out of hand and everyone’s out of control. Neighbors call the cops. They come in, two cars.” He grinned, eyes wide in exhilaration. “They come in and clear it up, everyone’s chasing down the side stairs, the hallways, hell, the fire escapes. I’m plastered, right?”
“Right.” I nod.
“So I see them coming in the building, and have a terrible idea. I walk to the end of the hall, calm, orderly. Grab a buddy, tell him to play along, ask him to punch me in the face real good. There’s a bruise on my cheek for weeks. I hear them coming up the staircase and tell them I’m with the other car and this guy gave me a swing, that he’s going to the drunk tank.”
I laugh. “Just walk out the front door.”
“Yup. Then I book it. It was a good time.”
Santa Maria Assunta University, a bilingual English-Spanish private Catholic research university in Fall River, Groton Republic, does not have fraternities or sororities. I was unaware of this fact while I was interviewing President Abawi. From my later investigation, it is unclear if the rest of this story happened at Abawi’s actual institution, Nazareth Polytechnic, or if it was a complete fabrication.
“So, President Abawi, I have to wonder,” I gesture to the surroundings, tapping a Mazzulla family photo hanging from the wall. “I’m trying to get to know the real you. Why don’t you tell me about your family?”
He nodded, a wide grin on his face, bobbing his head up and down with the music. “My family. Let’s see… pretty, uh, average, honestly.” He seemed to stumble over the word ‘average’. “My ma, my pa, my sister… a cat. And yours truly, of course.”
“You have a sister?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Yes. She doesn’t care much for politics.” He stares off into the distance. “Or at least. She didn’t.”
“Didn’t?”
“She was taken from us, tragically, some years ago. Boating accident. She sailed in a yacht race from Falk Beach to Portsmouth… I still remember the last I ever saw of her. I told her, Chloe, don’t. Don’t go. It’s dangerous. It’s open ocean… I mean, the storms alone, Chloe.” He stared down into his sopping mess of mayonnaise that was now standing in for a sandwich. “We never saw her again. Maybe she’s still out there. If you read Mr. Abd al-Nur’s interview, Chloe, I love you, and I miss you.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
I was naturally skeptical, so I spent some time digging. While I did find a disappearance report for a woman sailing out of Falk Beach in 2459, her name was not Chloe Abawi. However, an arrest warrant by the Milwaukee (USA) Police Department on Earth was issued in 2467 for multiple counts of credit card fraud perpetrated by one ‘Chloe G. Abawi’. It is possible this was an alias President Abawi used as part of a financial scam while traveling abroad in his mid twenties, briefly before beginning his career in defense consultancy.
There was pain in his eyes, real pain. I'll never know how he did that.
“Well, Carraroe. There's really no other city like it. I mean, you know. It's your damn job to show people just how great this place is. And it's not just the food. I mean, who turns out for their city like us? Nobody on Minerva! Not anywhere else, either.” He stared up at one of the few pieces of decor that wasn't a family picture, a framed, signed Jacques Jefferson Red Shirts jersey from his MVP season in 2474. “I mean, look at this sh—stuff. Jacques Jefferson. He's not from here. But once he got drafted here, did he ever go anywhere else? Nope. They offered him trades, coaching jobs. Nothing. He’d rather be around Carraroe than around basketball, and he loved basketball. People still run into him at bars. Nobody around here will ever forget Number 18. Bet he doesn't have to buy his drinks.”
“Yeah, they'll be talking about Jeff for a long time.” I smiled. “Good days for the town.”
“I believe in this town,” he nodded. “I went to bat for the people of this town. Cut my teeth doing criminal defense. You know how many people are wrongfully charged out there? I mean, they're not coming after Joe Schmoe like they're coming after me, now, but the system’s flawed. Everybody knows it.” This is more the rhetoric of his campaign. Criminal justice reform. Fairness. Only now, it's tinged by a self-inflicted martyr complex. It's also something he hasn't actually done anything about. “And you know that over in Hanover… You get a criminal conviction, you can't vote, you can't run! It’s ridiculous. It’s horrible. What about all the people who change? Who grow?”
“I didn't think we'd be talking about politics today.” I sighed. Of course he took up those talking points again. It's funny. I voted for him, to be completely honest. It must be strange to read that, unless you too were hoodwinked by Mint. I believed he wanted to make things better for other people. That he actually believed in these things for their own sake. Shows what I know about politics. I am a food journalist. Why is it that so many of us have such a hard time believing in forgiveness until we ourselves need it?
Alright, I decided, let's get this back on track. “Growing up here in Carraroe, in Bakersville specifically, did you come here often?” I gesture to the sandwich unwrapped at my place. “I mean, you and I both know how important this damn sandwich is to this town.”
“No kidding. I mean, I never really came here. I know it's the mecca, but, there was this smaller place in Bakersville that my dad loved. Closed now. João’s. Amazing little shop, even smaller than this!” He sighed. “Oh, my sister and I would go down there every time we wanted hoagies…”
Hoagies?
He trailed on. I blinked in confusion.
“…was so crisp, great lamb, and they'd have just the best, juiciest tomatoes you've ever seen. He grew them on the roof. Oh, it was magnificent, magnificent.” I'd never seen that look in somebody’s eyes before. It looked as if somebody had stepped away from the window to his soul, if but for a moment. He was back in but a blink. “They closed down in ‘69. I miss that place dearly.”
For those of you who aren't from here, or perhaps are normal and care only a normal amount about sandwiches, the local English name for a sub sandwich is a “grinder”. This name comes to Carraroe through New England, a region of northeast America who many descendants of which wound up being one of the main groups settling Carraroe and the rest of Korangal Republic. They brought several things with them— a pervasive and all-consuming regional identity, a boisterous, proud, and passionate sports culture (though unfortunately not the same level of success), and a weird dialect and accent people love to make fun of. We get very defensive of it.
There is another city that's like us, as much as we would hate to admit it, a little bit down the coast. Perhaps you've heard of Memphis, Hanover Republic, and perhaps you've heard and made fun of their accent too. I know I have. They call them hoagies over there. There also may not be two cities on Minerva that are at each other's throats more.
And now I had a suspicion.
There were a few more questions to ask, but I’m only going to bother printing one more. I asked him, “You know how I feel about you. Now that we’re face to face, what do you have to say to the haters?”
“I can swear, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck ‘em.” He laughed, deadly seriousness in his eyes and mayonnaise on his chin.
My search for answers started at Nazareth Polytechnic, one of the most prestigious public STEM universities on Minerva and Mint Abawi’s true alma mater (his time at Santa Maria Assunta, where he allegedly attended undergraduate and law school, has been revealed to be a very publicly documented hoax). I spoke with the registrar to try and confirm his hometown. It was a hunch. Plenty of people use different regions’ slang because they heard it on TV or something. Something still didn't sit right with me. I was very kindly informed that under the Privacy Act of 2351, they weren't allowed to disclose that information. So I took a different tack.
It was some time ago revealed that our friend Mint was in fact a mathematics major, rather than a prelaw student as claimed. So I went to the mathematics department. I interviewed several professors, but it has been thirty years. I wasn't sure what I would find, but I stumbled into Professor Oleksandr Ryang. A tall but hunched over man entering his 90s, Ryang is at the point in his life where one starts to see the signposts that tell a man he is no longer middle aged. That has not stopped him, he tells me, from exercising daily. He recently ran the campus’ annual half marathon, and is the advisor to the club gridiron team. A playbook sits next to a textbook on his desk. He says he would like to run a veer and shoot offense but that the club team just lost their quarterback who could do it. After exchanging pleasantries and getting to know each other a little, I dove into the meat of the question. I asked him what he knew about Mint Abawi.
“The President? That Mint?” He chuckled. “I was his advisor, and I had him in class both his freshman and senior year. I taught every class of mathematicians for four decades, and never once did I meet one quite as talented as that Mint Abawi.” He stared down at his desk, a pile of printouts rising next to a bulky laptop with fans that sounded like a jet engine. “Of course, I didn't know him as that. He went by another name back then. I can hardly recall... I think Mint may be his middle name, or perhaps a nickname. Maybe he changed it. We weren't close.”
“Weren’t close?” I thought that was strange. One would think his advisor would at least know him, even if he didn't come to class.
“Well, he rarely spoke to me. Never came to class, always had his work in on time. I think he had it set up to hit submit exactly six minutes before the deadline, every time. And it was always correct... Only occasionally in office hours, too. I remember more of his handwriting than his face. Well, until recently, anyways. Though, he had a moustache back then. It was in fashion.”
“What do you remember about him, Professor?”
He snapped into his answer. “He had an almost singleminded devotion to proving the Riemann Hypothesis.”
“The Riemann Hypothesis?”
“One of the most important unsolved problems in all of mathematics. If it could be proven, there is an entire stack of modern mathematics built on assuming it is correct that would now have a firmer foundation than quicksand. And whoever solved it, well, they would go down in history. Immortality with Pythagoras and al-Khwarizmi and Newton. In my approximation, he got damn close… he was onto something marvelous I spent years chasing down to no avail, but could articulate it in a way that made perfect sense.”
That didn't sound like the Mint I knew. I mean, we all knew he was at least a little smart when we found out he was a math guy from Nazareth Poly. But hidden supergenius was not what I was expecting, especially after I met him in person. Brilliant, slippery political operator? Mostly. Real-life supervillain? That has, admittedly, blindsided me. Maybe he was lying about the math, too.
“Interesting. I can't say I've met that Mint.”
“Well, neither did I. I barely knew him outside of one of his enraptured rants. I didn't even think our dear President was him at first. I'm a fairly apolitical man, after all, I wasn't paying attention. When I heard the name Abawi… it's not an uncommon last name in some parts. When I tuned into the debate and saw his face, I wondered if maybe the Abawi I knew had a brother. When I heard him speak... Well, I figured he must have taken his talents to another field. Which, I suppose, he did.”
“Do you remember anything else, Professor?”
He paused for a second. “He, ah, seemed to be getting even more distant at the end. I thought he was sliding into a funk after banging his head against that particular problem for so long. Now, I suspect, he was getting bored with mathematics as a whole. He always chafed against the rigors of writing proofs for things he thought were obvious, and had little patience with me.”
“One last question, Professor.” I paused. I didn't think this was going to go anywhere, and it still felt like a crazy hunch. “Did he ever talk about his personal life? Home life? Family?”
“Oh, gee, I really don't remember.” He shook his head, sighing. “I wish I could be more… well, actually. Now that I think of it. He would occasionally talk to me about basketball. I don't really care for it, I much prefer the football codes, but… he always would wear a Pharaohs cap— I think, the team with the Egyptian branding— and he was extremely particular about not letting it get too wet in the rain.”
“Thank you, Professor.” That was seismic. The Memphis Pharaohs, a team whose title hopes are as dead as their mascot, and whose fans have been perpetually stuck in the limbo of the rebuild, are by no means a team popular in Carraroe. Growing up we would always joke you could get stabbed for wearing a Memphis hat around some blocks, and every once in a while it would happen.
My stupid hunch had just become a real suspicion.
The next part of my investigation took place hunched over my laptop at my desk at home, after hours, and took so long I had people close to me questioning my sanity. I told them it was for a story. I don't think I managed to convince anyone.
On my wall next to my desk is a framed photo print of the Meijing Valley, the stone pillar mountains rising over the fog in a vista that's just what the name says on the tin. A beautiful view. Yet I've been obscuring that view for the last couple days. My wife says I really need to stop. I disagree. I need answers. The cliffside overlook has been overtaken by pictures of varying city recreational league water polo trophies from the Carraroe and Memphis areas, split meticulously into three categories— Untested Carraroe, Untested Memphis, and Wrong. In the center of it all is a picture clipped from a video released at the start of Mint’s term in office— a smiling Abawi hoisting his rec league water polo trophy allegedly from a city league here in Carraroe while giving a tour of the Office at the End of the Hall.
“Nick, this is a little ridiculous,” my lovely wife, Isabel, was concerned for my mental health. Too bad. She was about to make a great point. “He’s old enough that they might have changed the trophy since he won it.”
On her recommendation, I expanded my search to look for trophies from leagues over the last fifty years. My search was fairly exhaustive and involved the assistance of numerous volunteers I found on Chirpsong. They argued a lot and found nothing, so I had to go somewhere else. Somewhere worse. Thank you especially to @swimpasstreadshoot and @POLOMANIACXX69 for your efforts, even if they were for naught.
Ashamedly, I had to turn to the image board wePost for help. For those of you unfamiliar with the cesspool that is wePost, imagine a site where you can say anything with a consequence of nothing. No names, no reputations, just pictures and messages, with no moderation. It's an awful experience. That said, they are incredible detectives. Recently, the wePost hivemind located the apartment of Admiral Rachel Ambrose about twenty minutes after she showed up to a forum in which she gave a speech calling for Mr. Abawi to resign following the revelation of his first round of petty lies, and sent her through Republics Mail about six hundred and twenty letters full of fake anthrax. You may think it foolish of me, then, to seek their help in exposing Abawi for lying once more. Unfortunately for Mint, this crowd is incredibly mercurial and changes their opinion on a whim, and apparently Mr. Abawi is not their particular brand of deranged anymore. Not entirely, anyways.
I started by uploading a picture of the trophy. I’ll let the conversation speak for itself.
Okay, on second thought, there are too many slurs.
Even censored, I can’t run that. So I have found some of the less offensive snippets of the conversation:
Eventually, some posters came out who felt more strongly about Mr. Abawi.
But all it took was one cooperative poster in a sea of ethnic grudges and bigotries I didn’t even know existed.
I looked through his proof and it makes a lot of sense. It took the board one day to do what I'd failed to do for months.
I had a field trip to make.
I do not like Memphis. It is a city pretty similar, in all honesty, to Carraroe. An old Colonial era core ringed by areas of varying urbanization, busy traffic on foot, train, or car, and sandwich shops that all think they have the best in the worlds, and are all wrong, because they're not Benedict’s on Bank. I like to normally wear a Red Shirts hat, but here I knew that was a bad idea. I don't even watch them, but my dad was a huge fan. Between us and Memphis, I think there's enough hooliganism in this area of Minerva to topple most national governments. They're almost our dark mirror.
The building for the Memphis Athletic Club, however, is quite nice. It's a mid-rise next to Besette Park, with a stone and glass facade that gives the gyms a great view of the lake, kites streaking across the grass. The inside of the lobby has a marbled floor and intricately inlaid concrete pillars with murals of athletes engaging in various sports. It's wonderfully airy inside. There's a big desk in the middle in front of the elevators, painted in a dizzying array of colors as abstracted figures swam, dribbled, ran, skated, and shot their way across the room. A receptionist sat behind the counter, a real person instead of a VI. Quite the luxury. I walked up to him, and put into motion my half-baked plan.
“Hi,” I said, trying my best to mask any hint of a Carraroan accent. “Do you think you can help me?”
“Well, certainly.” He nodded, looking up from his computer. “Do you have your membership card?”
“Uh, no,”
“Well, you need a membership to enter. The Community Leagues don't have anything running today.”
“I just moved into town and I was wondering if I could tour before I joined.”
“My apologies, sir, you'll have to take our brochure. It has a virtual tour on the back, just scan it—”
Okay. Plan B.
“Uhhh I didn't really want to talk about this. It's still a little raw. My brother used to be a member here. He passed just a few months ago.”
“Oh, I'm… I’m sorry for your loss.”
“He, uh, he played water polo here. I miss him a lot. We were pretty close, I'd take a trip into the city to visit him. He'd always take me to the Pharaohs games… anyway, uh, I just wanted to take a tour so I could go find the picture of the year he won the championship and send a little something back to his wife. I'd like to join… I've never played water polo, but it meant a lot to him.”
“What was his name?”
“Bobby. Bobby Lim… cancer got him. I miss him tons.”
“Aw, jeez. I'm sorry. C’mon, I'll show you in. Tim, by the way.”
“Nick.”
I shook his hand. Tim is not his real name, I changed it for this article. He is a very nice person, and I could not in good conscience inform you of the following if his real name was attached to it. His handshake was uncomfortably limp, and reminded me of raw chicken. I'm sorry. It just really stuck with me.
The elevator was very nice, mirrorbacked and jakarta-wood paneled, and we rode down two floors to the pool. The hallways stank of chlorine. “When did he win, about?”
“Oh, back in the ‘60s. He wouldn't shut up about it.”
“Okay, so we're gonna take a left at the end of this hall, and the water polo championship records should be on the right. You’re not really supposed to have your phone out, club etiquette, but I guess for this I’ll make an exception.”
I walked down the halls, looking for the right year. ‘61 didn't have him. ‘62 didn't have him. ‘63 didn't…
…But ‘64, well, 2464 was another story.
There he was, in the picture. I would recognize that face anywhere. Younger, but the eyes, the smile… all the same.
I pulled out my phone and took a picture. Sure as you know it:
MEMPHIS ATHLETIC CLUB
2464 WATER POLO COMMUNITY LEAGUE CHAMPIONS
From Left: Abawi, Bancroft, Daci, Belanger, Giraud, Oubre, Maxwell, Nacif, DiMaggio, Xavier, Sato, Kim.
“Oh, cool. Which one’s your brother?”
My arm, and mouth, moved before my brain. “That one,” I blurted, pointing to somebody very clearly marked DIMAGGIO.
“I thought you said his name was Bobby Lim.”
“I, uh,” I paused. I didn't know what to do. Double down? No, this guy was a good kid, and I was an asshole for lying to him. “I did, didn't I.”
“Yeah. You did.”
“I'm… I'm real sorry, man.”
“Wait, so you're just like. Lying, then? So what are you actually doing here? Do you even live here?”
“Nah, I’m a journalist…” I wanted to puke.
“Man, if you had just, just said that, I would have like, let you in. What's all this… lying about a dead brother and shit? You know, you're a bad person, you know, for that. Next time somebody comes in asking to see family mementoes, I might just say, you're fuckin lying to me, bro, and throw some guy out with like a dead dad, or something.”
“Wait, does that happen a lot?”
“No, but, like. Man, fuck you. I’m throwing you out.”
He did, in fact, throw me out. I felt bad, so I didn't try to run away or anything. It was just a really awkward elevator ride. He called over security, told them I'd lied to get in and was snooping around near the water polo stuff for seemingly no reason. As I was being walked to the door, one of them pulled up their phone to take a picture of me and called somebody up. They told me I was banned for life.
Fair, I guess.
Author’s Note: You'll have to forgive me. I wrote this portion of the article substantially later than I should have, and I don't have notes to reference for everything that happened. I do, however, have audio recordings for much but not all of it, and I've used these extensively to reconstruct events as they occured. All other events are as best I can remember.
My flight home was uneventful, but what followed was not. I was carrying on my phone— and had sent to Isabel— the crucial piece of evidence that proved that I was not a total nutcase. She would be pleased to know that my Quixotic quest had ended with a windmill slain at my feet, no doubt. I sauntered through the terminal checking my phone repeatedly, passing grinder shops, gyro counters, and pizza joints as I made my way through the Terminal B food court at Nayaka Regional Airport. I felt a buzz on my hip. yay!! does that mean I can get that mess off our wall? I love her. She completes me.
I sighed, and let her know the good news. I was about to be sane and normal again. It felt great, honestly. When you've been grasping at straws for so long, accidentally grabbing hold of a rope feels incredible.
I left the concourse and waved to the soldier at the door. He took a hand off his carbine and waved back. It was good to be home in Carraroe.
I walked out towards the train station, snaking my bag across the concrete of the Arrivals bus lane sidewalk. Almost immediately, a blacked out van swerved out of traffic, wheels nearly smacking the curb. The door swung open, and a towering synth in a well-fitting suit and a large, broad-shouldered organic in full tactical rig stepped out into the sidewalk, blocking my path.
“Mr. Abd al-Nur? You should really come with us.” I was shocked. I blinked a little, as if the figures ahead of me were some unpleasant sleep crust that would become dislodged if I tried hard enough. “What.” was the only word I could think to say. The ganic’s vest read OPB OFFICIAL PROTECTION BUREAU in large print font, like something out of at least eighteen Waikikiwood action movies nobody watched. So these guys were Mint’s goons. I had come to the conclusion I was being kidnapped, and immediately started my audio recorder.
“Am I being detained?” I asked. He began to answer, but a man behind him cut him off.
“Sir, you can't park here.” A short, stocky guy, tapped the dark-suited synth on the shoulder. He wore the characteristic hi-viz vest and Carraroe Area Rapid Transit ballcap of a bus terminal operator. “This is the bus lane.”
“We're OPB,” the synth said, pulling a badge off his belt. “Official business.”
“You're in the pickup spot.” He held up his lanyard, a CART badge glistening in the stark lights of the bus terminal. “It's marked.”
“This is official business. We'll be out of your hair—”
“I have a schedule to keep. You can do official business somewhere else. You're not kidnapping this guy, by the way, are you? ‘Cause if you are, I’m gonna have to go get security.” A growing crowd was gathering, phones recording, fingers pointing. Shouts of “What are you doing to that guy?” and “That's the bus lane ya fahkin tool!” rang out.
“To answer your question,” the armed, armored man leaned in towards me. “No, you're not being detained. You should really get in the van though.” He gestured inside. Two more armed, black-vested tactical officers sat in the back, staring at me with blank expressions and annoyed eyes.
“Look, we're not kidnapping him.” The synth in the suit nodded. “Please stop filming.”
“I feel like I'm being kidnapped. Do you guys have a warrant?” I raised an eyebrow. I heard a bus pull in behind us. “Am I actually being detained?”
“We are not kidnapping you. For Pete’s sake, we're not kidnapping you. You can just go. You can just go! I guess.”
“You've got a black bag on the seat!”
One of the armored officers in the back swiped the head-sized bag off the leather seat with a sigh. “Oh, well, that does look quite bad now, doesn't it?” He pulled a sandwich from the bag, setting it down by his foot, and yanked his balaclava down to take a bite.
“You know,” the suit-clad synth sighed. “You're gonna leave the President hanging.”
I raised an eyebrow. “The President wants to talk to me?”
“Nooo, they just sent OPB for no reason.”
“Why are you guys here by the way? Aren't you guys bodyguards?”
“Look, this is new and just as frustrating for us, honestly. We don't exactly pick people off the side of the road often.”
The crowd parted, and the transit operator was back. The soldier from the exit followed in tow. “I got a bus here.” The bus was stuck midway through its turn, repeatedly attempting to gain even a centimeter of purchase, the driver VI displaying a frowning face on the windshield status screen on the verge of tears. “You're making the bus cry. Do you know how hard it is to make a bus cry?” The soldier laid a hand on his carbine’s barrel. “You can't park here.”
“For the millionth fucking time, we're OPB—”
“AND I'M FAHKIN LATE FOR DINNAH!” A voice from the crowd shouted.
I sighed. “Well, fuck, man, if the President wants to see me, I guess I'll go. Can I text my wife first?”
The soldier tapped his carbine. “Quickly.”
“Oh, look at it. The bus is crying. You know this is a direct representation of how many people are late now? Because of you? Because you can't read a parking spot?”
The guy in the suit put a hand on my shoulder. “Just get in the van. Text her on the way.”
I hopped in, the armed man scooping up my bag and tossing it in the back. The bus dried its tears as we pulled away.
We didn't go far. Annoyingly, they just kind of turned around and we drove into the vehicle access gates. I wondered why they bothered with the van in the first place. I asked them why, actually. Dagger-sharp glares were shot across the front cab as both the men who'd jumped out at me blamed each other.
“Brett’s idea.”
“Oh, fuck off, Fernando.”
I paused, glancing around the back of the van.
“You guys must not do this often.”
“Does nobody friggin listen to me? I said we were new to this earlier. Last President wasn't like this.” Brett, the guy in the suit, white-knuckled the steering wheel. “Never asked us to grab someone off the street before. He had to have known what that looked like, right?”
“Wait, he specified to kidnap me?”
“No, he just told us to pick you up and to try and be… vague about it. I wasn't supposed to tell you. Now I'm gonna get in trouble with the President.”
“I think he wanted him to think he was getting kidnapped.” One of the other agents in the back tugged on their vest with a sigh. “Jagoff.”
The other nodded. “Yeah, thanks, Mr. President. Now we're going to have to explain to the public that the OPB isn’t the bloody Stasi, kidnapping people off the street ‘n shit.”
“You think John Q. Public knows what the Stasi is?” Fernando raised an eyebrow. “Ancient freakin’ history.”
“They know the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Hmph.”
I certainly didn't expect this kind of banter from people who had just voluntarily kidnapped me. I've changed all their names so they hopefully don't wind up in too much trouble. If you're reading this, I had a good time, and would love to be kidnapped again. Or perhaps to save us all some time you could start a podcast.
They had a Roohawk waiting for us on the tarmac. The plane was cool. The ride was awful.
We landed at 1 Keystone, the castle of the Executive Residence looming from beyond the helipad and the palatial yard. The home of both the President and the First Representative, formerly Fontbona Palace when New Ruacnoc was a Commonwealth-American colony, was built to fit the extravagant tastes of a First Expansion trillionaire, the polar opposite of Minervan architecture in every way except one: scale. I’d been here once on a class trip when I was younger. I’d never seen it without the rope barriers and display plaques. I have to hand it to the Fontbonas. It’s a pretty house. Far too large for only two families, but very, very pretty.
When the Revolution took the Palace in 2339 it was a bloodbath. A symbolic one, sure, but a bloodbath nonetheless. No one was living here at the time— the stone outer walls of the estate simply were very convenient protection from small arms fire, and the large building’s office complex proved a convenient place to headquarter a UN garrison. There were still the faded outlines of where the more restrained reconstruction of the building met the original grandeur, inside and out. Now the decor that once celebrated the Fontbona family’s wealth and industry now celebrated the industry and justice of the Minervan people— Deco Revival portraits of triumphant Minervan everymen taming the High Frontier, feeding the hungry, and housing the needy— all things that had been achieved not by the power of the sword but by the pen. I’m sure there’s plenty of friezes lionizing our success in combat, as well, but this was the hallway the diplomats went down. The office complex was a floor up, but Brett and company had decided to give me the scenic route. I appreciated it. It wasn’t every day you get a view like this.
I knew Mint was a scumbag when he decided to work from the Palace. There’s no law that says he can’t, but he’s supposed to go to work at the Consensus Building in the Hallway Office. They have a whole subway line just to bring the President and the First Representative back and forth from the Consensus Building. The least he could do with my tax money is use the damn thing. He brought me into his office— the same office, in fact, Colonel Gonçalves planned the siege of Shepard’s Peak in all those centuries ago. He rose from behind the the Martyrs’ Desk, that so dearly beloved slab of rough concrete and Seongnam trinitite. It should never have been here. I grimaced, and immediately became disgusted with the opulence of my surroundings. It didn’t belong here, among this gold-lacquered vomit. The Martyrs’ Desk is more than just a piece of concrete. The trinitite pressed into the front panel is impure— vitrified around the ashes of dead Minervans. They deserve respect. I saw the folding chair set up in front of the Desk, and looking around to see many perfectly serviceable chairs that could be moved in this room alone, wondered if Mint was even capable of it.
“Take a seat, bud. Let’s talk.” Mint nodded, shooing his OPB bodyguards away after Brett frisked me for recording devices. “Leave us be.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”
I stared down at the folding chair, a Moondance City Party Rentals sticker slapped across the top of the backrest. “I appreciate you going through the trouble. Out of pocket?”
“For you, my friend, anything.” Mint laughed. “You know, I was really glad when you sent out a request to interview me. You know I run all my socials myself?”
“I thought you had a team.”
“I do. I don’t listen to them often. They’re all too concerned about the metrics. But how can you really measure these things? You need a human touch. That’s why I called you here, actually.”
I gulped. I had no idea what that meant. I only knew it was probably bad for me.
“Nicky my friend, you are in a lot of trouble. I just mean, an absolute walloping, heading your way. See, you’re trying to bring me down. I thought we were friends. Just two Carraroe boys, after all.”
Oh, thank God, he doesn’t know, I thought.
“And here you are, about to tell everyone— I’m from Memphis? Me?” He laughed. “Come on, Nicky-boy. That’s ridiculous. Bury the story.” His grin faded to nothing as soon as it had appeared.
“What?” Shit, he knows!
“You heard me. Be a good, whatever it is you are. Are you really a journalist if all you ever do is write about the food in some shithole little city? I mean, c’mon, the only other thing you do is argue on Chirpsong with— who, at-mintymania? at-batterwarrior417? I mean, come on, these aren’t… people. It’s kind of pathetic, honestly. So you’re going to bury the story, and I’m not going to use the power of my office to ruin your life.”
“Is that a threat?”
He laughed. It was chilling.
“Buddy. Come on. I can’t just let you slander me like this… you know that felons in Hanover Republic can’t run for office? Republic or Federal. Are you trying to kill my political career with a… sandwich interview? Certainly creative. Bravo. I’ve lived in Carraroe all my life, far longer than the ten years it takes to get long term residency status. But you’re accusing me of defrauding the elections office— a felony— and not even being a resident of Korangal Republic at all in some bogus expose, and I just can’t let you drag my good name through the mud. Do you know what people think when they hear the name Mint?”
“The wannabe king of Fontbona Palace.” I shook my head.
“You don’t think I’m smart enough to run this country like a king?” There was a fire behind his eyes, briefly fading as he spat the words through his teeth. “I was going to say ice cream. Close!” He chuckled. “See, you and that little shithole city of gluehuffing hooligans— you just don’t understand my vision. For this country. For humanity. I just… I just don’t get it. We could easily— why has nobody just… done it?”
“What the hell are you on about?”
“Nevermind. You wouldn’t understand. You’re a— food guy. I won’t bore you with astropolitics.”
“So, let’s assume I do publish this—” I tried to get a word in edgewise.
“Why bother? Do you want Isabel to be without her husband? You know her. She’s lovely, but she’s such a practical woman. I don’t know if she’d stick with you in prison, let alone the deep, dark one you’d be rotting in. You see, I know my OPB doesn’t do kidnappings. But I know some people who do.”
I went pale.
“Oh, give me that face all you want. Somebody’s got to do it, even if you don’t like it. Well, if you’re going to keep pouting, I have real work to do. FRMI has a tantalizing prospect for me, a real barn-burner of an operation.” He mentioned a man’s name I don’t remember, tacking on a hasty “oh, forget you heard that.” He rose from his desk. I was frozen in my chair.
“What are you staring at me for? You can open your own door.” He shooed me away with the top of his hand. “Run along, little hoagie boy.”
I walked over to the collossal door, shaking, trying to hide it as best I could. I wrapped my hand around the golden handle, feeling something suspiciously plasticky on the backside. Had the Fontbonas cheaped out?
No, I realized. I peeled back the tape edges creeping around the sides. There was a box cutter taped to the back of the door handle, and now it had my fingerprints all over it.
“Oh, that?” He laughed. “In case you have any second thoughts, don’t forget you tried to kill me.” A shark’s grin crept across his mouth, beaming at the sight of his handiwork.
I reached down to put it in my pocket. If I couldn’t publish the story, at least I could deny him his leverage. “Oh, nuh uh uh!” He threw his hands up. “You don’t get to take souvenirs. Mind you, Brett out there has a gun and you have a knife. Now shoo.”
I dropped it, and slammed the door shut.
I thought about this for a long, long time. Running this story… I mean, he has a knife with my fingerprints on it, and I know I have no proof of that conversation, but it really is real.
The President of the Minervan Republics made a threat on my freedom, and I think I'm going to take him up on it. I already thought he was bad beforehand. But I've met Mint now. He's a threat to our country. If you're from the UN reading this to get a look at the other side, he's clearly a threat to your country too. If he's not comprehensively stopped from running for office again, he will do irreparable damage to this country. We have a split executive for a reason, but he has insisted on overstepping the power of the Presidency, trying to centralize the power of the Executive Branch into his person. His decisions as Commander-in-Chief have been mercurial and threatened to shatter the fragile peace we've only just managed to forge— he's somehow found a way to take credit for the Landigal Summits, an effort that predates his administration— and that he quietly opposed— while also taking credit for expanding arms manufacturing. At some point in his Presidency he seems to have supported every policy from those as mainstream as expanding the housing program to such radical proposals as privatizing the state armories, and somehow people haven't figured it out yet.
He doesn't believe in any of this crap. This is at worst a game to him and at best an interesting challenge. He does not view the objective of his presidency as the betterment of the Minervan country by guiding her foreign policy with prudence. He views it as a personal test— to prove that he really is smarter than everyone else in the galaxy. That he can lie to anyone, manipulate anyone, rule over anyone. And after finally getting to meet the real Mint? I think he wants to rule everyone.
I never tried to kill him. I will say that unequivocally and plainly. He’s threatened to black-bag kidnap me and throw me in a military prison, on a made-up charge of attempted assassination, because I nearly exposed him to consequences. He can’t conceive of his actions having real consequences. The way he sees it? Consequences are for stupid people. So he’s decided to turn the intelligence apparatus— I assume that’s who does kidnappings, anyway— into a secret police. That’s not how we do things here. It’s never how we did things here. Havelock’s tyranny rounded dissidents up, and we made laws and systems so that would never happen here. I am a Minervan citizen, and I am entitled to my natural rights, recognized by the Writ of Union and the Keystone Charter, but inherent to my existence. There’s nothing he can do to change that— even if he chooses to ignore it.
So I’ve made my peace with it. I’ve sent the manuscript of this article to the Carraroe Republican and the New York Times, with a deal that if one doesn’t publish it, the other will. The Minervan people need to know who their President is— a delusional psychopath with absolutely no boundaries.
I’ve said my goodbyes, I’ve talked to my bosses and my lawyers, I’ve prayed for my family. I'm ready. If you’re gonna come at me?
Send everything you’ve got.
And since I’m a food journalist, by the way, what you did to that grinder was a crime.
Goodnight, Minerva. I hope you’ll hear from me again.
Nicholas Abd al-Nur is a Bancroft Award-winning food journalist for the Carraroe Republican. A local, Abd al-Nur is a graduate of Falharbor University, where he studied English writing and culinary history. He lives in the Bakersville neighborhood of Carraroe with his wife, Isabel, and his dog, Scruffins.
Mr. Abd al-Nur has asked that this story be published in its submitted, unedited form, and as a professional courtesy to a dear friend, we have respected his wishes and provided the use of the Republican’s legal department. You can donate to his supplemental legal fund here.
We will continue to cover the Abawi administration’s crimes and will not be intimidated.
DIED 20?? - BORN 2443
WELCOME BACK MR. SANTOS
This Abawi personality—so I'll use for this story—is a kind of likable liar here, flipflopping form dislike to like (specifically at the Prof's interview) to outright reviled to me again
I'm infatuated with future socmed, how the chaotics don't appear to change centuries from now, lol, at least from this 21st-c human being's flawed perspective.
The surprising dark tone at the last quarter is also pulsepounding and shows our underdog journalist's humor and calm posture. Looking forward to what happens next!