THE
LAST
PRESIDENT
·
Original french title CORPS D'ÉTAT
On ChristopheMartinolli.fr
find the french official online bookstore, news, regular promotions and many bonuses!
Original cover
&
Illustration
·
Virginie Pourchoux
From the same author in self-publication
(Novels)
The Last President 1: The Fall - June 2016
The Last President 2: Under the Ashes - July 2017
The Last President 3: Revolution - December 2017
After the collapse: Last Departure - February 2019
After the Collapse: Magonia - October 2019
After the Collapse: End of Days - October 2019
With Thomas Martinetti at
Les Humanoïdes Associés-Humanoids Inc.
(Comics)
Sole Survivor 1: Atlanta-Miami - March 2016
Sole Survivor 2: Bossa Nova Club - September 2016
Sole Survivor 3: Rex Antarctica - March 2019
Sole Survivor: the T1 to T3 (box set) - April 2019
Christophe Martinolli
THE
LAST
PRESIDENT
I
The fall
To my parents
The king has two bodies: the first is mortal and natural, the second supernatural and immortal. Because he is naturally a mortal man, the king suffers, doubts, sometimes makes mistakes: he is neither infallible nor untouchable, and in no way the shadow of God on Earth as the sovereign can be in a theocratic regime. But in this mortal body of the king comes the immortal body of the kingdom that the king transmits to his successor.
Ernst Kantorowicz's "The King's Two Corps"
By Patrick Boucheron
published in L'Histoire n° 315 - 12/2006
Chapter 1
Sunday May 8th
The champagne glasses argue, clash, exchange in a ballet of good words. The white teeth are congratulating each other. In this incessant murmur, a delicately drawn female naked hand has just landed on a round belly. An instinctive and reassuring little circular caress sweeps over the rounded black evening dress. The flute of orange juice rises to the lips of the pretty mother-to-be. The red lip gloss smiles. Claire wants to stay sexy, thinks about the future and raises her head. Her gaze is fixed on the giant screen. The announcement of the next President of the Republic is imminent. The sets are overexcited.
Claire has long, dark hair. It waves and never shines as bright as it has since she got pregnant. A man's hand rests on her shoulder. It's as if this simple physical contact makes everything around her fade away. There's nothing but the warmth of this reassuringly warm hand.
She's entering her bubble, her evening interlude.
She can no longer hear anything, intoxicated by the alcohol she didn't drink, alone with her man who kisses her lovingly. When she finally reopens her eyes, she freezes for a moment. He is still as handsome as ever. Maybe even more so tonight. His elegant thin glasses, his fine brown beard, his studious look, the way he seems relaxed at any moment. Claire is so proud.
The hubbub of the room is coming back.
— Won't you sit down?
— Erwan, I'm not sick ...
She smiles at him, she devours him, she'd like to make love to him right away.
And she's never been happier...
Erwan stares at her for a moment and ends up being attracted by the flute she is holding in her hand.
— I hope it's just orange juice talking to me like that.
Claire slaps him in the face.
— Go to work, a parliamentary assistant's job can't wait! Besides, I'm in good company.
Pierre, MP, whose eyes are soft and round, mounted on a moustache of the Fourth Republic has just cordially kissed his hand. He is a respectable man, an old gentleman of politics, who has always managed to avoid the big national media. Maybe that's what saved him, in any case, that's what made him last. He always thought local. And was able to make himself forgotten in the Assembly of the 577, letting the rockets bark in his place. Going into politics is like going into the army. It takes sacrifice. Re-elected for years in his constituency of the Haute-Loire, his work is appreciated in high places. He nevertheless has the main characteristic of any politician: he attacks as soon as he feels he is in danger. He likes the earth, the mud, muddy boots. It's his sap, it's his blood, it's his family. He has respect for the brave men and women who brave the frost of dawn every day. Above all, we love his integrity, and Erwan has never told him openly, but he is proud to work for him.
Peter discreetly approaches his assistant and whispers in his ear:
— You're in charge of breaking the news to the President.
Chapter 2
Erwan is satisfied. He was dreaming about it. He was waiting for this moment. He hoped for it. He didn't hope for it so he wouldn't be disappointed. He bet with friends. Claire predicted it, he didn't believe her, he didn't want to believe it. She always had a lot of intuition. He's thinking about his future child. He's looking forward to the future, which he hopes will be more serene than the past five years. Yet what he doesn't know is that she is suddenly gripped by anxieties, the kind that run from her stomach to her temples.
— Stop blocking, hurry up, or I'll do it for you!
No, he doesn't know what to say, he smiles stupidly, takes the sealed envelope from the Ministry of the Interior.
Pierre laughs out loud. He knows his parliamentary assistant well. Very efficient, very hard-working, but able to freeze at any moment. Probably because his brain is parasitized by a lot of thoughts that have to be put away, classified, inventoried, sorted. Erwan is trained as a librarian, and feels safe and serene only in libraries. The books on the shelves soothe him. Erwan and his round glasses move away from Claire, sending her a complicit wink. Everything is suddenly slowed down, time seems to stretch.
In the subdued light, political activists and sympathizers are glued to the giant screen to watch and listen to journalists commenting on the evening. They comment on the comments. Everything that is said there has already been said dozens of times. The journalists have become set hosts for fast food TV. They digress to the point of nausea over details that they inflate with helium to burst into the high atmosphere of emptiness, before moving on to another detail. So-and-so doesn't have a tie, another didn't know his cards...
The outgoing president, Laurent Terrier, like the other candidate is waiting for the official results in his HQ on the first floor. Erwan looks at his watch, it's not yet 8 o'clock. Abstention still beats records, it is at its highest level for twenty years. The last poll indicated a popularity rate of 13%, and his former Prime Minister 12%. He is making his way through the compact crowd that is gathering. On the walls, huge posters with the effigy of the Party, the one he defended like a bear for weeks, for whom he gave everything. The social networks are going crazy. The load he is holding in his hands is so heavy that it feels like the envelope weighs ten kilos. There he is leaded near the large hexagonal spiral staircase, guarded by Homeland Security agents. He shows them his badge and climbs up the steps four by four with the impression that he is carrying the Olympic flame for the last few metres.
France is in debt, democracy is broken, the link is broken. If he's elected, he'll be badly elected. But what does it matter if he has been in search of legitimacy for five years, exercising a mandate that less than one Frenchman in ten will really have wanted. His challenger, a personality from civil society and a former television presenter, is neck and ne
ck. He promised to change the institutions, to introduce the drawing of lots in the Senate, the single mandate for elected representatives and the rewriting of the Constitution. He has been classified as a populist, a smooth talker, an empty shell, he has had his private jet trips, his mansion in Normandy and his shares in various CAC40 companies that are anchored in tax havens thrown in his face.
Laurent has learnt the lessons of his five year tenure: he has promised nothing, he has played his part in a campaign without champagne, without filter, raw, calling for reason and not emotion. All this was of course orchestrated, skilfully thought out by his spin-doctor friends, advisers, who like meticulous film scriptwriters chose even the colour of the jacket and the brand of watch he wore during the rallies. Everything had to appear truer, closer, more tangible: people needed a solid, earthy man, and they had to be given one. He changed his glasses, bought French and showed it as much as he could, posed in factories that he intended to close.
Opposite him, the television man had youth, ardour, beauty, verve, and new but destructive ideas of his world, his very small world. He, the land man, against the sailor, only wanted the pursuit of painful and controversial reforms, even booed by increasingly revolted demonstrators. But at what price? Because outside, far from the sulky ballot boxes, or vandalized by the most radicals, the insurrection can arise from anywhere. He knows that. Laurent Terrier, this good-looking man, with a scathing sense of humour, would be nothing but an impostor. Under the pretext of a state of emergency, he has had the homes of radical ecologists ransacked, he has used all the science of fluids to speak only of violence in demonstrations. Dangerous but profitable calculation: the hardest laws were passed with forceps, delivered in pain and 49.3 presidential act. The rest on the prescription of a poisoning doctor, custodian of the cure for the disease he has just injected into the weakened body of democracy.
But who is he really? Only he knows. He who says he defends the Republic and social rights with one velvet hand, and with the other, tears the skins and bodies of the demonstrators bruised by the iron baton held by his Prime Minister, the dark Mathieu Tordoli. Mathieu is a good soldier, diagnosed as a narcissistic pervert. The head of government's grandfather was an Italian immigrant who made his fortune in steel. His grandfather twisted metal, twisted his mind. He treats himself with cocaine. Sometimes he takes too much sometimes and sweats like a rutting animal.
In spite of everything, Laurent cannot do without him: he has all the characteristics of a great Prime Minister. Manipulative, charming, he is devoid of empathy, ready to do anything to conquer power, and to please his King. He only has emotion for himself, and never questions himself. Laurent advised him not to run again in primary school, but he did not listen to him. He was disavowed once again. Once again, he was not a candidate.
But he got a taste of the intoxication of power, the hardest drug on the market. Take any healthy, sane guy, lock him in a room with no lights and drug him with heroin. He'll come sucking up to you for his fix, and he'll be ready for anything. That's what power feels like.
Seen from above, the large Art Deco-style hall takes on its full dimension and makes the young parliamentary assistant dizzy. Erwan does not pay attention to the crowd below. Claire, at the centre of the cyclone, has not let her eyes go despite the presence of Pierre at her side. The crackling parquet floor gives way to felted carpet, the noises on the ground floor fade away.
Suddenly, everything's quiet.
The heavy and luxurious white moulded door opens to let it pass. The tables arranged in a square look at him imperturbably. Erwan places the sealed fold of the Ministry of the Interior in front of the Secretary General of the Elysée Palace, who politely steps aside to give him the honour of bringing it to the President himself.
The centre of executive power of the fifth world power is there, embodied by these men, and rare women, in a tiny soulless room with a tired blue carpet.
— Thank you Erwan, I hope it's good news, the President says, with a disconcertingly relaxed attitude.
The room laughs softly, but the looks are tight, serious. You can just hear the sound of the kraft wrap tearing. The President, who already knows what's in the fold, savours this moment, as if he wants to make it last as long as possible. Everyone is hanging on his lips, looking for the smile, the grin. There is a monarchical air in this attitude where the world is suspended at the Prince's whim. Is "The President at Work" going to be crowned again? No one's talking, there's extreme tension. Suddenly, it's confirmation, relief: the result is indisputable: 50.5% for Laurent, 49.5% for the ecological challenger.
Laurent Terrier does not have a single glance for his small assembly. He puts his royal blue tie back in its place and leaves the meeting room, without saying anything, without ever showing his emotion, which burns him. He positions himself as close as possible, at the top of the white marble steps. His team in a tight line comes out in turn, their smiles betraying victory, the supporters are on the verge of an explosion of joy. Erwan makes his way as close as possible to his hero. Everyone is hanging on his lips. He replays the partition of the meeting room. Laurent Terrier looks at his watch, he says nothing, the whole room downstairs holds his breath, his face raised towards his leader.
Pressure's rising. He's got a flair for showmanship.
He's waiting for 8:00 pm, one minute to go on his watch. His face is impassive. He likes it.
His whole body is filled with powerful energies.
During the little flutter of waiting, on the plateau of the Gauss curve of emotions, the president looks around and falls on Erwan's badge. He discreetly calls out to him and thanks him for bringing good news to HQ. Suddenly, he moves closer to him, the others move away. Like a drop of vinegar in a pool of oil. Erwan is impressed, but contains his surprise. The president tells him a personal anecdote.
— The first time I brought results to Mr. Chirac, I was so stressed that I spilled all my coffee on the leaves. He didn't mind too much, he laughed and said it was "a nervous campaign.
A set of pixels makes the face of the president-elect on the giant screen. It is the face of Laurent Terrier that is displayed, he is officially re-elected. The whole room exclaims and unleashes a thunderous applause. Rutting crowds have orgasms. It is this organic link that transcends a campaign, in what is unwritten, but which is lived intensely. The best sexual partners will be rewarded after the Republican rite with positions of responsibility.
Power and sex are one and the same.
The cameras film the event live, in a pornographic debauchery of close-ups of people sweating and dizzy with joy. His first words are for his lifelong friends, the faithful, the close guard. They're all here. Clamour and joy climb to the highest level of the mansion. Laurent Terrier comes down the steps like a Roy, his step slow and reassured, assured, stretched to the rope. He knows that he will not be allowed a single misstep. The opposition of the historic right, laminated from the first round, was forced to make an alliance with the television environmental tycoon. It's gathering its troops and it's not going to miss him. But he managed the feat of getting himself re-elected for a second term stolen from the margin. He has nudged the opposition by siphoning off his base with ultra-liberal projections and promised the legalization of cannabis to undermine the undecideds of the revolted left that still votes. He laughed with all his heart when he saw the historic results of the white vote, that "toilet paper" of false hopes: "to change democracy". That they do not count on him to count it as a vote cast, even though he promised them the opposite, of course.
Men from his close security and selected politicians with shiny white teeth are invited to go out to win the Concorde: the presidential motorcade is waiting for them outside. In the hall, flashes crackle and blind Erwan, who in turn descends the marble steps. His gaze sees the President taking advantage of his victory in his black sedan. A familiar hand suddenly rises from the crowd.
It's Claire waving to him.
He joins her immediately.
<
br /> Chapter 3
During a moment of media synchronicity, what is transmitted on television, takes place live under the eyes of Erwan and Claire, always commented on by overexcited journalists. The whole of France is watching, it's a historic day. Outside, in the night, the motorbikes and scooters, heated to white, are ready to start. The President takes notes, pretends to be working, the black motorcade starts. Already, the first blame, disappointed, sympathizers who were expecting a longer speech...
— What is it, Erwan? I have a feeling that something is wrong, are you worried? Ask him Claire.
She insists.
— You don't even look at me.
— I don't know, I wonder if there isn't something wrong.
— It's the weight of responsibility, a second term barely snatched from you, it's far too many people who disagree with you.
— This time it's my gut talking.
— So trust your instincts and protect yourself, she says dryly.
Claire doesn't want to add to her own anguish. She blames it on her pregnancy, brainwashing hormones. Erwan immediately grabs her smartphone. He tries to reach his friend Ambre, a parliamentary assistant like him.
But she's not answering.
Amber's phone vibrates at the bottom of a large red leather Vuitton bag, placed on a desk in a dark room.
Amber attaches her smooth, red hair with a quick, sure movement and falls to her knees. Her hand caresses the hard sex of a man under her total control. She looks him in the eyes to better gauge his abandonment and takes him by the mouth. This handsome talker says nothing more than moaning, trying to keep the juice he will offer her for a long time. Amber holds the power. She masters time and stops the pace. He would have liked to finish. She suddenly gets up and overtakes him by a head, pushing the unbalanced man in the dark on the solid oak meeting table. His hardened penis protrudes from his pants... Holding him at her total mercy, Ambre slides her panties down to his pumps and climbs on top of him by placing her cock in his with a supple and precise gesture. Ambre undulates her pelvis. The blue pill that she slipped into her partner's champagne glass assures her to have his gain.
The Last President- The Complete Trilogy Page 1
