Hey Nightmare! Allow me to introduce myself to you, I'm the narrator! My job is pretty fucking simple, I narrate things. See? Not so hard. Now, I see you've been an aspiring narrator in your own right over the last month or two. That's cool, but allow me to show you how it's done.

What better way to do that, then by doing what you do a lot better than you could ever do. Maybe then you'll go back to reading poetry or whatever it is big muscled apes who don't even lift do.

This is a story of Richard Head (Yes, Dick Head. If I had to point that out to you, just fucking off yourself) the little known DICK-tator of some long forgotten Caribbean island. Strap in, fuckers. This is going to be a lot smoother than Nightmare's train wrecks and coat hanger abortions of narrating jobs.



Sunlight shines through the open windows, into the fifth story bedroom of Head's Palace. Covering his eyes with a pillow, the dictator tries to go back to sleep. His attempts are thwarted however, by the unconscious twisting and turning of the woman who was in bed with him the night prior. Angered, he makes a subtle hand motion in the direction of his trusted guard, "What's his Name?" who promptly grabs the woman by her arms and drags her out of the room, while she screams bloody murder all the way.

Head: "Absolute power is kind of neat."

Our proud despot cocks his head back and heartily laughs. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of what time it was at this point. Approximately 9: 23 AM. After a few seconds of mentally connecting the dots, the time AND the date (March 1st, 1954) it finally came to him.

He had a meeting with the very entity that put him power in the first place, the CIA, in a little over an hour. Like clockwork, he jolted up from the bed and while still stark naked, rushed to get ready for the day.


The dimly lit room was for once a precaution. A meeting of this magnitude, it was necessary to conceal everyone involved's identity. Not just from the police on the off chance that the room was bugged, but from each other, in case the plan ever got out. No one could snitch on another.

Person 1: "So, what are we going to do about Head?"

A silence filled the air and lingered for a few moments at the drop of his name. In the dark, no one could see what anyone was doing, no mannerisms to take note of. The sound of a cup pressing against the lips of one of the men to the left of the original speaker breaks the silence.

Person 2: "He's grown increasingly complacent in the last few months. On one hand, he did radically alter the climate here, making the government a lot less commie filled, but now...

Now he's latching onto the tit of the U.S. for dear life. He's an incompetent buffoon and he knows he's on thin ice. We could easily remove him from the equation."

A chorus of ayes fills the room as the man stops talking. Once more, there's a silence in the room. This one not as long as the previous one, as the first speaker brings his cup up his mouth once more.

Person 1: "He's preparing a speech to help in the 'election'. If anything, that's the best place to get to him in public. Remember, it HAS to be in public to have an effect. If we just up and off him behind closed doors, the CIA will just put another idiot in his place."

A collective gasp, CIA? What did they have involved with the idiot they were planning to overthrow? More importantly, how did this guy know that the CIA was involved at all?

Person 2: "I suggest you start talking, right now."

This time, there's no sound of a cup pressing against his lips to mask the voice. Only the sound of the first speaker raising from his sitting position.

Person 1: "I'm a trusted member of his security detail."

A click can be heard as he turns on the light in the dimly lit room, lighting it up clear as day now. Standing now in the middle of the room, is What's his Name. Scanning around the room, he recognizes the others planning with him. All local business heads, none of them known for their morality.

What's his Name: "Don't worry, I got this."


"Down with Head! Down with Head! Down with Head!"

The angry cry of a group of equally as angry high school aged students as they yell into their megaphones is enough to give anyone in earshot a headache, but still they continue. It's been three hours since the protest began, and still there is no sign of this think getting hit with a mercy gunning.

Wait a minute, there might be. A Jeep, filled with soldiers who are armed to the teeth, pulls up to the sidewalk by the school. Out hops the soldiers, and as the students take notice, the soldiers crowd around them.

A simultaneous click of the safeties of the gun, proves it to be the most unlucky day that these students would ever have in their lives, which would soon be ended.