Since My Acquisition of the United States (eBook)

CHAPTER ONE

A SECRET COMMEMORATION

The clear night sky seemed to glitter a certain elegant dalliance in the twilight between light and dark: the brilliant appearance of the stars seeming all too propitiously fitting for the events taking place beneath them. The Kingdom family’s annual St. Andrew’s Day celebration was just beginning. The guests, while trying to remain dignified, were quickly—yet fashionably—dashing to the entrance to get out of the biting cold of the November air. The air cut the skin with an unusual sting (as if literally jealous of the night’s dealings that were to come).

The Kingdom family over the years had become the financial power behind the union of countries known as the New United Kingdom (NUK). This family (because of its monetary influence and ruthless history over Europe) gave this union of countries its last name and, let us say, its full voice. Despite the speculation surrounding the Kingdom family’s 19th-century sizable indulgence in the slave trade and country-conquering, the powerful and elite of Europe had always looked forward every year to receiving their invitation to this historical celebration hosted at the Kingdom Estate. It was—without question—the most elegant and anticipated affair of the year. The Kingdom Estate was a STUNNING 250,000-square-foot castle and terrestrial situated in the rugged highland region of Scotland’s mountainous terrain. Known for its intricate stonemasonry that surrounded it, rivaled that of any Royal estate in Scotland or the United Kingdom. The grounds boasted a custom water fountain bearing the Kingdom name, manicured lawns, and tall trees trimmed to perfection, which surrounded the perimeter, adding yet another layer of sumptuous opacity. The lights that lined the cobblestone driveway created a vision of radiance even in the light fog. The mountain-sized steel double doors resembled those of an 18th-century European castle. The diamond-encrusted chandelier that welcomed all into the foyer brought a sense of worldliness to the entrance. Tigerwood and mink-tapestry-woven throw rugs combed the inside floors of the main hall, while the recessed lighting gave a charming, but bitter romance to the rooms, lined with the works of Gaugin, Cezanne, and Picasso.       

As the arriving attendees were announced, two special guests who asked that their names be removed from the invitation list, were upstairs fidgeting, their respective skins growing moist as the two sat chatting on a small reddish velvet couch in a lounge area. These two gentlemen, unyielding to the celebration below, were now exactly one hour away from participating in a SECRET COMMEMORATION of acquirement that would change the face of the world, almost literally. The first gentleman, Ali Papa Kahn, the oldest of the two, was a 77-year-old Austrian native, the leader of an army of secret assassins employed by the British. (The Red Sea Army.) Papa Kahn was one of the most feared men in the world. Although he had never seen the inside of a prison cell, authorities believed he was responsible for numerous diplomatic murders or “extinguishments” all over the world on behalf of the British. Papa Kahn and his army single-handedly helped the British conquer most of the countries across the globe. It was even rumored that many of those murders Papa Kahn handled personally in fastidious care as if evaporating them in a single breath; and it only took one such breath for any foe to be named and marked for death. If Kahn were to say your name, the story goes, you only had to wonder what meticulous measures he may take to destroy you, leaving the question of how many days or hours you had left to survive.

Papa Khan was flicking and toggling a switchblade in his hand, cutting himself and licking the blood from his palm—a ritual he had performed over the years for almost every meeting he attended with the British. He then pulled a revolver from his waistband, took a bullet resting from under his tongue, placed it in the revolver, spun the barrel, stuck the gun to his head, smiled, and pulled the trigger; the gun barrel rotated, but didn’t discharge.

Papa Kahn frowned, shook his head, and placed the gun back in his waistband. During Papa Kahn’s ritual death wish, servants from the kitchen carrying trays of food and drinks were greatly impressed by his aura. The servers began to pay reverence to him by walking over, bowing, and kissing his hand. Each patron exhibited a stoic yet ostensible tremble as they grasped his hand and kissed his pinky ring: a mixed fire opal conspicuously stained with the blood of Khan’s enemies. The second gentleman, Holy-lander Sir, was a 53-year-old Austrian native, Papa Kahn’s adopted son. Sir was a mass murderer, and the general of Papa’s Red Sea Army. Under Sir’s superintendence, the Red Sea Army has managed to kill well over 16,000 people for the British.

“Son, if your parents were alive today, they would be very proud of what you’re about to accomplish.”

Papa Kahn’s words brought unrestrained, immediate tears to Sir’s eyes as he began to think about his past and growing up with and without his parents.

THE PAST

Sir’s father, Assure, was dressed in a military uniform and busy working in the backyard. Peering through the window of their house, young Sir realized Assure was setting up a bullseye for the lad to shoot. Sir walked curiously into the yard to his father, who stood in front of a table with an assault rifle and bow and arrow in plain view. Sir picked up the assault rifle, shot at the bullseye, but missed the target. Sir’s father smacked him swiftly on the cheek, causing blood to dribble from Sir’s bottom lip. Assure then placed a handgun that was seated on his hip holster to Sir’s head. He spun the barrel and pulled the trigger. Sir did not flinch as the gun’s barrel rotated but did not discharge. The two moved on to hand-to-hand combat, and Sir and his father battled until Sir was completely bloody, winded, and crestfallen, which disturbed his father greatly.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER

The father and son sat down to discuss the day’s training. 

“Son, in war you must fight to the death, you understand?” Sir’s father sternly demanded rather than questioned.

Sir nodded his head in agreement as he listened intently to his father’s words. 

One hour later

Sir’s father was driving through the humongous gates of the Red Sea military base; whose words canvased the gates like an enormous billboard. Sir’s father got out of his truck, walked over with a measured, metronomic saunter to a platoon of soldiers, and saluted them as they prepared for their mission. He then walked into an office to talk logistics with his commander and best friend a young Ali Papa Kahn. Sir’s father saluted Papa Kahn and a few other soldiers inside the room, who were looking over maps and strategizing.

“Commander Kahn, if we send troops north and south of this peninsula, we can ambush them on both sides. They won’t know what hit them, said Assure.”

“Let’s do it. Kill everyone! I’m tired of this war. It’s not worth the fucking pennies the British are paying us!” 

TWO DAYS LATER

Sir’s father and a few soldiers were sitting in a bunker. Sir’s father, binoculars resting on his thick, war-hardened, surgically repaired C1 vertebrae, watched enemy soldiers load weapons on a truck. Just then, a monstrous BLAAM reverberated from the bunker, killing everyone inside.

HOURS LATER

Ali Papa Kahn was knocking at Sir’s door with a priest and two soldiers. Sir and his mother—both with tears welling and conspicuously resting inside their bottom inner eyelashes—answered the door.

“Maria, I’m sorry to visit under these circumstances, but your husband—my best friend and general—was killed in the line of duty.” A gray clay seemed to envelope Papa Khan’s face.

After receiving the news, Sir’s mother wept and walked away from Papa Kahn, who was still at the door. Sir, with tears welling up in his eyes, gave Papa Kahn a blank stare as he continued to stand in a stoic, cool silence.

The next day

Sir’s mother sat in her bedroom, a deep, yet colorless, zombie-like pallor washed over her face. She reached in one of her drawers for her small, purse-sized, black handgun. She glanced at it, as visions of her husband dead on the battlefield blew through her in the wildest of chills she ever felt. The tears pulled themselves out of her eyes in what was a slow, defiant, fuck-you, feeling. Her hands, feet, and finally her chest went completely numb. Sir’s mother placed the pistol to her head and pulled the trigger. The one gunshot to her head left brain fragments all over her lifeless body as she fell back on the bed. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head, while blood slowly eased out of her mouth. She was dead.

Sir, who was playing in the living room, heard the gunshot and ran into his mother’s bedroom to find her lifeless body lying on the bed. He screamed.

“Mom! No! Please! Don’t leave me!” Sir cried out to his mother’s now expired body.

Sir cleaved and hugged his mother’s lifeless body. He then let go of her, and removed the gun from her hand, placed it to his head. And pulled the trigger. The barrel of the gun rotated but did not discharge.

A few days later

Sir was dressed in a suit sitting between two coffins at a funeral parlor that had his...