The abacus on the Superior's desk in the abbey, as he gazed out the window at the hill, inspired only thoughts of humiliating those beneath him. He didn't want to attack his enemies, as that would mean lowering the position he had pompously maintained for 25 years. But after the shooting, everyone could point the finger at him, and it would be foolish to get caught up in trivial matters. Even so, he had to avoid digging his own grave.

​

The Ensign arrived with his report, proving that he had been abandoned during the incident and bringing news of multiple defections. The war was beginning to be lost. He couldn't betray his protectors; he was cornered, and the doors were closing. He looked at Louis XV's study, took out a fan, and began fanning himself frantically. For the first time, he would be accused, at least of negligence, perhaps of disloyalty.

​

Then he began a slow return to his childhood, when he ran away from home to wander the hills. Life had other values, and now everything had become cheap. Mores crumbled along with the revolution he thought he had controlled. It was time to ask himself why, having amassed so much power, he failed to distinguish between friend and foe. Perhaps that was why he was on the verge of impotence and even losing his life.

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The supply problems for troops and administrative staff persisted, and even if a replacement were found, they would continue to depend on him. It was then that he conceived a plan that, in his selfish reflection, would save him. Just then, a call from the supply office confirmed that the era of abundance had been an illusion: provisions were limited. This worsened his despondency. He considered resigning immediately, without waiting for charges or a trial, but he had never been one to shirk his responsibilities.

​

Then his abdominal pains began, stabbing pains that forced him to unbutton his pants and sit down heavily. "It's stress," he thought, "nerves go straight to the gut, damn it!" After receiving the Second Lieutenant's papers, he reflected on how he had fallen into that hornet's nest and how to get out without being branded a scoundrel. He remembered how his superiors had convinced him to pervert himself to maintain his status in more manageable times. He always considered himself honest, but he did what was necessary to remain among the privileged and sustain the system.

​

He saw himself then all dressed up, strutting among the masses, seeking to appear superior. Meditation was no longer useful, but it was sweet to remember how he had skirted the abyss and survived. He would have to do it again. He couldn't relent. He would make a trip to the house by the cliff, seek out his original allies, his followers. If necessary, he would make a pact with the devil in search of a washbasin that would cleanse him.

​

He took stock of his most devoted servants and called on Basilio, "the Bumblebee," to form a personal guard capable of gathering intelligence and eliminating political and military rivals. Men willing to shoot anyone, even if it meant suppressing the old hierarchies. The Bumblebee was efficient, and soon formed an elite group capable of abominable acts without shedding a tear. Panic reigned, and any dissent was eliminated. This was his first step, as he would later confess to one of his wives during a truce.

​

The sky clouded over, and the Humus served as a base for the silent movement of troops. The surrounding sea facilitated the advance of ships, and soon, the hatred of both sides surfaced, staining rivers and seas with the blood of millions of innocent people. Dying of envy, waving flags, defeated and constrained by the reality of fighting for others to retain their privileges.

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The sky arched over the battlefields, blood spattering coves, bays, streets, and structures. It fractured buildings, tore families apart, and engulfed poor souls seeking only water and shelter in boiling lava. Death revealed itself as the great savior.

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Meanwhile, the Superior made his way through the brambles of his life, imposing himself with absolutism. He no longer had to submit to others or allow judgments about his abilities. Thanks to the Bumblebee, his enemies were part of the cemetery inventory. It was time to unleash himself, if only a little: losing power was no longer an option. He could impose his whims as reasons of state and his desires as fashion. He could appear dull or brilliant, astute and perceptive, but he could not deny the dictatorship he imposed.

​

In this nascent nation, there was no longer any refuge. The 1,500 private armies were in disarray. There was no safe place: those who weren't retired were in hiding. Every corner was searched by the Superior's henchmen. No garage was left unchecked, no hideout uninspected. The directive to cut them off at the roots allowed the armed forces to decide the fate of women, children, and the elderly like the gods of Olympus.

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He read with concern the international news accusing him of despotism, dogmatism, and voluntarism. Even so, he continued to accumulate power and thought he could get away with it, ignoring the signs of the times. New pressures forced him to break his promise of abstinence. He didn't want to deprive himself of any rights, convinced that he had to rid society of "political insects." He preached moderation but promoted division. He considered himself abstract, but was alienated by his egocentrism. He made jokes, persecuted the apathetic, was exaggerated, boring in private, abusive, indulged in vile acts, and indulged in prostitution, bringing objects of pleasure to a room built for his amusement.

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He came into this half-finished world to help bring about its end. He delivered the final blow one hot afternoon, feeling sick and unwell because those who had hoped to exalt his figure had failed him. After a lavish lunch, he lay down on his favorite sofa and dreamed he was a gigantic mummy trudging clumsily across a graveyard filled with coffins. He woke up frightened and took a while to calm down.

​

Meanwhile, events unfolded across the nation that heralded his demise. But the executions continued. Every morning, he reviewed his personal list and ordered with a demonic smile: "Those on this list die today." Then he called the Gnatcatcher and gave him his orders for the day.