WARNING: DATA NOT FOUND

Welcome to El Salvador.

The light floods into the the once luxurious office of El Salvador's former president Mauricio Funes through the gaping hole in the south wall. Missing along with 75% of most of that side of the building, an unfortunate victim of tank fire; the perpetrating vehicle still parked in front of the mass of rubble. Objective number one after this meeting will be to patch these things up and restore the office to its former glory, for the new president of this wonderful, fledgling, ultimately unimportant on the grand scheme of things country: El Salvador in case you already forgot.

What about the former president, you may ask. What about him? Funes was nothing more than a communist, who more than likely rigged the election that won him the office all the way back in 2009. He was on the fast track to becoming another dictator and with the Soviets long gone, we as Americans can't afford another country going red on us. We aren't about to sit back and let another Cuba happen on our watch.

At least, that's what the official story will be if it ever gets to the point where it "needs" to drop. That's the last resort. If all goes well, you'll never see Anderson Cooper talking about it on CNN. Fox News will never have to go on a mostly false rant about how many cues Funes took from Castro or anything of the sort. Though they'd likely be dumb enough to call him a Trotskyist because when was the last time anyone cared about Trotsky?

Regardless, that will never happen, should everything go as planned. And it will go as planned. There's no reason why it shouldn't. With what we do however, there always exists that slim, slim chance that maybe one thing will go wrong and with an operation as delicate as this, that one mistake happening or not happening means the difference between unbridled success and a surefire PR nightmare for the boys back home. Not our boys back home, who as far as the public is concerned doesn't exist except in the circles of wide eyed, tin foil hat wearing conspiracy nuts; but the US Government who backed this little venture and has vowed to aid us in the cover up.

The grand deception.

This was all my plan; my effort, thoughts, and care have poured into this project for the past five years while simultaneously micromanaging an entire firm of monkeys with typewriters to inevitably take my place in being an overseer. It's right there in my name - I'm the Organizer.

I organize. Never have I once been able to bask in the fruits of my labors. Not until today. All the more reason for me to be unwilling to allow a single misstep.

You'd think that the overthrow itself would be the hardest thing to cover up, but it isn't. The day to day operations afterwards, where the quirks of the new ruler, their personal attitudes and ideologies start to spill into things, then it becomes clear that someone new is on the proverbial throne. As long as that inevitability comes true after all the ties to ourselves and our supporters are covered up and shoved into assorted classified file folders stuck in irrelevant file folders and forgotten about. Then the media can get the scraps and treat it like it's happening now.

Things like this happen all the time. It's normal. The American Way.

So, as the light pours into the office by the gallon, I stand in the center of the room, watching from above the assassination of the "communist". Funes kneeling, facing the building wherein which he tried to bring the red plague onto the people of El Salvador. Speaking of the people, they've lined up around him, cheering and rallying; looks like the propaganda was working already. Nothing like a bit of McCarthyism to rally up the new generation of Maximiliano Hernandez Martinez Brigadiers. One of our soldiers, a fresh faced 20 year old named [DATA EXPUNGED] is the one standing behind the president, placing the barrel of a Desert Eagle against the back of his head at point blank range. But no, he wasn't the one meant to pull the trigger. He's just there to scare the man who just lost everything into not running and trying to preserve his life.

No, he could still be useful. Though with the masses clamoring for blood I doubt letting him live would be wise.

We're just counting down minutes. Minutes that pass by without incident but are hardly uneventful, as the crowd becomes more and more aggressive and demanding. At one point one of the men who was commissioned prior to mow down supporters of the FMLN stormed over to our "executioner" before getting met with a face full of pepper spray for his troubles and a stern warning was issued by the executioner to stand back and let them do their jobs.

As could be expected, this inspired hostility, but not outward violence.

We're playing the waiting game and right now we're losing. "Sir?" asks one of the other soldiers, stepping into the office. His eyes immediately dart to the hole that is the wall. "Wow, this is gonna take some fixing."

"I'm aware," I respond, eyes slowly shifting from him and the scene of tense "peace" outside. "What was it you wanted to talk about?"

"As you can see, the natives are getting antsy. We might not have time to-"

"Let me worry about that. Just, go back down there and maintain order. I assure you, they won't have to wait much longer."

"Yes sir!" he says, breaking into a salute before turning around and making his way out of the office and presumably the building. I smile, noting his enthusiasm to alert me of potential crisis. He will definitely receive honors for his commitment to the plan. The plan, where are they? Everything was laid out to the letter, and here they are, almost seven minutes late. Every second that we aren't moving forward is one that could bring us backward or worse yet; alert the world of our intentions.

A vehicle's making its way down the road towards us, the only major source of sound above the shouting. Finally, there they were. [A ROMAN BULLDOG] and someone previously thought dead. Much like our pet project Lazarus. Though I feel as though most of the concern over his "death" come more from his name. That was however, the intention. Shock and confusion. Soon, everyone they thought gone will become a suspect in the witch hunt that will never have a resolution.

They pull up to where Funes knees, parking the car and getting out. Our special guest seems to be doing well, the scar running across the spot where a bullet made its mark. She approaches the "executioner" and introduces herself to the audience, claiming (word for word in accordance to our predetermined script) herself as the true head of this rebellion and without so much as a passing glance down at her predecessor, puts a bullet in the back of his head.

And the crowd...

Good on you, Ms. Crawford. Good on you.