Alternative theater.

The Rasta war. Thousands lay dead. The world gone mad through bloodshed and famine. President Yomor is thinking about his next more as he looked down upon the map of the planet, his brow wrinkling. History will remember him as a tactful genius, a man of that could cause his men to stand tall, an inspiration to all.

The president of a small country of world Fedri sat back and thought hard. The knock came from no surprise and what entered the oblong office was the president’s wife.

She was not what many would call beautiful. Sure the tentacles that made up her jaw were growing dark green and were starting ooze, her violet skin was looking warn, and her figure was drooping, but she had stood by him through thick and thin.

When they had nothing she was there, when the Glorpos were invading the east coast she was there holding his hand. “My love.” Her voice showed worry, like her husband she had not slept since the invaders had taken Hoffman. “Get some sleep. You look ever so tiered.”

Words that filled the minds for generations to come echo from his orifice. He pounded the table with his suckered fist. “I will sleep when mot a single one of those monsters is out of our streets.”

The curtain lowered and the room exploded into claps.

Moving through the stage hands and other actors, Hydroxy landed into his chair, despite the applause he was nervous enough to vomit through his eyes. This was to be his big break, over the years of acting classes, falling interviews and that shameful time where he had to work as a male stripper to get rent money; he had finally got his big break. Playing the role of president Yomor.

For weeks he had studied the role, learning everything he could about the man. How he sipped his backnog, how he danced. All he could talk about when he was at his friend’s favorite bar was the hero of the Rasta war. It gotten to the point where he feared he learned more about the man, than the man himself.

Now, staring at himself while make up artists pondered his tentacles and changed his wardrobe, he felt ill. “How was I?” He needed reassurance that he was great, he needed to stop sweating off his make up, and more than ever; he needed a drink.

One of the make up artists tapped black, fake oozing blood on his shirt. “You’re doing fine. Don’t stop.” The intermission was an hour, but it was important to get makeup and dress early, while the audience was having a snack or stretching their legs, Hydroxy was getting prosthetics and fake blood added.

He turned his head to his leading lady, a veteran of the stage. She had played the part of the presidents wife a number of times in the past, it was the reason she was hired.

As time ticked down Hydroxy found himself with thirst, but he new better to drink too much, this close to his performance. He sipped his water carefully, he did not want his legacy to be an actor who pissed himself on stage.

“Twenty minutes.” One of the backstage cast yelled.

Wanting this done, Hydroxy stood and too in a huge breath. His role as president Yomor was only half way through.

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