This is former Deputy Administrator of the Haitian Space agency, Vidal Gascon, from the Haitian Secret Space Program, on a secret joint Uzbek-Haitian mission to Mimas, moon of Saturn, hiding from the IRS and the World Bank Senior Accountant, who accused him publicly of not paying for child support for his unrecognized illegitimate daughter, Phœbé.  

A rare photo of Balthazar Brutus Excellent, agronomist, Kenscoff's Football Team second striker and Haitian Cosmonaut.

chapter 18g 

(The Coffins) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

18g 

The Coffins 

Residents of the Rosemont-La-Petite-Patrie neighborhood never witnessed such intense police activity on Beaubien Street. A joint operation involving the Sûreté du Québec, the SPVM and the Longueuil Police Department, targeting an important network of arms dealers, just took place right before their eyes at the Passage Legitime funeral home. The reporters already on site are eager to collect any valuable information on the current situation, but the police spokesman is not allowed to comment on the subject. Concerned citizens are worried. Some wonder if that spectacular police raid is linked to the shoot-out that occurred in the city of Longueuil last night. Are the streets gangs becoming more and more uncontrollable, like it was written by an expert columnist in the newspaper last week? Are the Mafia conglomerates or the Biker gangs behind all this mess? 

Laflèche Beaupré was busy feeding the pigeons on the rooftop of the Ming Li grocery store, when two elite snipers from the SPVM S.W.A.T. team came out of the shadows, tackled him down and ordered him to stay immobile and remain silent. 

The deliveryman of the popular Asian supermarket is crowned king of the backstreets, when he begins to tell his audience about what he saw, smelled and heard. For the children, the housewives and the old pétanque players listening, Laflèche Beaupré's description of the events is worth a thousand movie tickets. He captivates the youngsters by altering his voice to play the different characters. Laflèche reproduces the noises, mimics every sound and movement, does his own stunts and even uses people in the crowd as extras and actors to bring more life to the tale. 

In short, Laflèche Beaupré reveals that everything started with a major argument between high ranking officers of the different police forces present on the suspected crime scene. The search warrant was in the hand of an RCMP Lieutenant, but a Chief Inspector of the Longueuil Police was calling all the shots and trying to take over the entire operation. The SQ finally decided to knock down the funeral home's front door using a portable battering ram. They threw multiple teargas grenades before entering the establishment. Automatic weapons with laser pointers were abounding, night vision glasses also. It was like in an action flick. Minutes later, the tactical police squad, with their gas masks on, came out of the building with a young White female and a Black man in his fifties, well dressed and wearing a top hat. The forensic experts arrived in great style with their windowless laboratory trucks. A team entered the funeral enterprise using the emergency exit. 

“Can you guess what they found in there?” Laflèche Beaupré asks his new fans, hanging on every word coming out of his mouth. The children grab their mother's legs. The mothers ask themselves if they really want to know more. It was certainly not part of their plan to stay up all night because their young ones are having nightmares. Laflèche Beaupré can tell when a mom is anxious. He makes an adult decision. He'll keep the rest of the story to himself or sell it to a news channel for the price of a Dell Alienware gaming computer. 

“It's out of the question! Tell us everything! Tell us what happened next!” kids and grown-ups shout. Drum roll. Laflèche takes a couple of big breaths and demands a folding chair to sit down. 

“The police came out of the place with an assortment of coffins. I counted twelve that looked metallic, one made out of cherry wood and another one shaped like an African conga drum. One of the steel caskets was damaged. An officer forced it open with a crowbar. The funerary box was packed with high tech weapons like you've never seen in real life; I mean, firearms you only see in G.I. Joe movies or in the hands of Marvel's S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. You could tell that the agents had never seen such equipment, not even in hunting magazines.” 

Laflèche Beaupré takes a pause so he can think before going further. The deliveryman has a good vocabulary, but he is a little bit slow. Laflèche doesn't have the maturity of a twenty year old, but he understands that the rest of the story could traumatize the children below eight. He himself cannot control his shaking legs. But the moms insist; they want to know the end of that tale. It's a known fact; most kids have been exposed to worse watching television after ten. 

So Laflèche Beaupré tells them one of the coffins, the one shaped like a giant drum, contained the corpse of a one hundred year old Black man. Little Dimitri starts to cry, but he can barely be heard because is sighs are covered by the shouts of the mothers, now angry at Laflèche Beaupré for saying too much. Dominique's mom calls Laflèche a retard, born from his own sister. Another one says that he is the worst liar that ever lived. Dimitri's mom tries to reverse the emotive charge of the situation by joking that the dead woke up just like in the movie The Mummy 2. 

“Well, that is exactly what happened,” Laflèche Beaupré confirms. “The old dude, dark as coal, got out of the coffin and told the police that he was dying of thirst and that he could not pee anymore. He also told the officers that they'd better hurry and pull out his buddy from the cherry wood box before he died of suffocation. That's the problem with immigration, multiculturalism and all these reasonable accommodations. It's a real circus. Nowadays, we have foreigners bringing in zombies from their land in our country and we can't say zit. That's why I will vote Yes with a capital Y on the next referendum.” 

Laflèche Beaupré suddenly hears a strident noise, a blast comparable to the sound of thunder. He automatically loses his balance. It takes him three seconds to realize that he has been hit with a cast iron frying pan on the left temple by Veronique, the mother of little Dominique. With a IQ five points higher, Laflèche Beaupré would have immediately chosen to run for his life and quickly lose Veronique, a chronic smoker with a weight problem. Instead, the poor guy looks for his bicycle, attached to a fence or to a tree somewhere he doesn't remember. When Laflèche finds his bike, he is way too dizzy and nervous to unlock it fast enough. By the time he mounts it and gain some speed to flee these angry women, growling like wolves and talking about blood, strangulation and testicles, Laflèche Beaupré goes through a really rough time that will leave him with physical and mental scars. 

chapter 18f 

(The Auditor General) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

18f 

The Auditor General 

Rogatien Gingras looks really overjoyed, his face beaming like a kid who just received a three days pass to Disney World by mail. The man is definitely hyperactive. He is strutting around in the hotel suite and talking out loud to himself and to the overheating portable computer still handcuffed to his wrist. Gingras suddenly stops in front of the window, motionless, one foot off the ground like a gun dog. Amaury Quick is watching his every move. The financier doubts Gingras is sane enough to be entrusted with the power to run the Heritage Legitime Funds on his behalf. 

“Show me that picture one more time, Mr. Grosbois,” Rogatien Gingras asks, completely immobile and still staring at the horizon. 
“Here.” 
“Eureka!” the freakish French Canadian shouts. 
“Did he just yell, eureka?” Amaury Quick asks himself, caustic and a bit intrigued. 
“It's Greek... Archimedes. I finally remember where I saw that man's visage. It was at the American embassy in Port-au-Prince. He doesn't look at all like the guy I identified as the real Moïse Berri. He does have the smile of Joe Dassin like you've said, though. The Moïse Berri I've met, on multiple occasions, may I remind you; the gentleman who helped me organize at least four fundraising events in the last three years; well, he was more of a pure wool Quebecer, meaning that he was white and spoke French with a very pronounced accent. The individual on that snapshot looks Berber or Kabyle to me, maybe from Mauritania or the Bedouin type, unless he is Corsican or Sicilian; those people can literally burn under the sun and not lose conscience. You, who knows Moïse Berri enough to have put him in charge of the millions left by the late Sixte Osmer Legitime, may he rest in peace, of what nationality is Moïse Berri, exactly?” 
“Haitian, I believe,” Grosbois answers with zero assurance. “But he might hold a dual nationality status, most likely Canadian or American. I don't think it's that important.” 
“Are we dealing with a Caucasian or a light skin African, that's what I'm asking?” 
“Who the hell cares?” Amaury Quick asks Gingras, irritated and getting very impatient. “Do you want to find him the ideal Maybelline foundation or do you intend to powder him to death? Time is running against us. We need to elaborate a plan, sign the legal papers and arrange your departure for Mizerikod right away. Do I make myself clear? Black or White; what kind of question is that? We're not in the Dark Ages anymore, pal. If he was Korean, Bengali or Jordanian, would you dare call him a Yellow, Red or Brownish man? No, you wouldn't. You'd have the decency to make an effort and use words like Asian, Arab or Oriental. Even if Moïse Berri's skin is lighter than the skin of a Cypriot, he can only be a so called Black man, a Negro of African descent like Phil and me. Take a peek at the definition of the word Black in the dictionary and you'll understand why White people refuse to pass the Crayola crayon test. They prefer to insist on the supposed whiteness of their skin when you read that white is a synonym of purity and innocence.” 
“It was not my intention to vex you, Mister Quick. I am not a racist, I swear it on my mother's grave. My wife is of the same race as you.” 
“So what you're saying is there is more than one race living on this planet, besides the human race? Go ahead and continue, you sound more and more like a drunken Goebbels.” 
“What I meant was... well, she is tanned, African, but not born in Africa, born in Les Anglais, in Haiti... it's in the Chardonnières...” 
“Forgive my outburst, Gingras. I got mad because I am frustrated. I'm pissed off because I couldn't answer your simple question. Moïse Berri is a total mystery to me. It's like we're chasing Big Foot and asking ourselves if we're looking for a man, a great ape or an unknown species.” 
“We've lost enough of our precious time, fellows,” Grosbois interrupts. “Let's fill up the paperwork and start the hunt?” 

One hour later, everything is signed and a plan is set up. Rogatien Gingras becomes the official representative of Phil Hans Orville Grosbois Sr. and Gustave Amaury Quick in the land of Haiti, the interim President, chief audit executive and financial comptroller of the Heritage Legitime Funds. He will leave Montreal for Washington D.C. in the evening, but will only arrive in Haiti on Monday, forty-eight hours later. Gingras will stay in the apartment Kennedy Fleurinor built in his office at the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation. Professional bodyguards will be assigned to protect the new General Comptroller 24/7. 

Before he leaves, Rogatien Gingras hands seven pre-paid calling cards to Quick and Grosbois. It will be almost impossible for anyone to intercept their calls because the Australian company serving that network, Line Eve Megilite Enterprises, has recently filed for bankruptcy and closed its doors, while pursuing its commercial activities on a different bandwidth. To cover their tracks, Rogatien Gingras strongly recommends that the trio leaves the Queen Elizabeth and take the room he rented for a week at the Marriott of the Montreal Airport. Rogatien Gingras won't need his car either, and renting one could be risky and unwise if they have been followed. So Gingras gives the key of his Lincoln Town Car to Amaury Quick. With Mr. Nji Mbonjo on the wheels and the two octogenarian businessmen on the back seat, they will blend easily, like two American investors visiting the French metropolis, the car being a registered vehicle from the State of Illinois. 

chapter 18e 

(The Snapshot) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

18e 

The Snapshot 

Philbert Hans-Orville Grosbois Senior and his bodyguard are quite surprised to hear someone knock at the door of their Fairmount Queen Elizabeth hotel suite. Gustave Amaury Quick is standing in the hallway with his luggage. The banker's leather raincoat and Borsalino hat are damped. He is visibly nervous. The octogenarian keeps looking around like a man evading a stalker. Grosbois firmly reprimands his longtime partner as soon as he opens.

“You are two hours late, Gus. What's wrong with you?” 
“Good evening Mr. Nji Mbonjo, good evening, Phil.” the Boston financier salutes. “I had to make a stop in Toronto.” 
“Mr. Quick,” the bodyguard greets the old man, bowing his head with respect. 
“Where is Suleyman?” Grosbois asks. 
“Well... Suleyman wasn't too comfortable with the idea of showing up at customs with all his equipment. Three of his computer hard drives contain classified information regarded as secret material by the NSA and Homeland Security. He will be more useful to us back in Boston and out of prison. My young protégé already broke into the server of that Canadian bank in the Cayman Islands. It's very promising, but we'll have to be more careful. Suleyman told me that everything we've said to each other over the phone since April has been recorded. We must go to another hotel and buy some new cell phones using aliases or borrow old ones that are already in service.” 
“We could also buy a couple of pigeons or learn how to use telepathic communication,” the New York lawyer proposes with a lot of sarcasm in his tone. “Why, Toronto, Gus, think fast and don't lie?”
“This headshot,” Amaury Quick replies, handing an envelope and a black and white portrait to Grosbois. “Ecce Homo, Phil, Moïse Berri himself,” the banker proudly adds. 
“I don't remember the face of this man, Gus.” 
“That's because he wants it that way. Moïse Berri likes the shadow so much that he covers his face or wears a mask every time he finds himself in a place with surveillance cameras, like a bank or an airport for example. We've searched the whole world to put our hands on a decent picture of him. Suleyman hacked the computers of all the friends and professional contacts of the mayor of Mizerikod. He also took control of the official site of Reconstruct Haiti Now, the company shooting the documentary on Moïse Berri and the rebuilding of the infrastructures of the commune. All the photographs showing Moïse Berri's face, even partially, have been recently erased. Every hyperlink bearing his name or his status in the project leads to an http 401 error with an authentication claim. That's the only snapshot we found of Moïse Berri in the archives of a casting agency of Queen City.” 
“That rabbit looks just like Joe Dassin, Gus. Do you remember Joe Dassin, the French singer?” 
“The photo is blurry, but yeah, there is a little resemblance. But I believe Joe Dassin was an American.” 
“Gin, Scotch, Whiskey?” 
“Water, Phil, I am not allowed to enjoy anything with my damn sugar problem.” 
“How much money did you bring from the States?” the lawyer asks.
“A big round zero, Phil. There's no way the Canadian Customs would have let me in with the amount you were hoping for. We will however get full control over our bank accounts and personal finances by Monday morning.” 
“That is one good news. That Suleyman of yours is a gifted magician.” 
“We have to thank Rogatien Gingras for that one. I thought he was with you.” 
“He is crashing at the Marriott by the airport, waiting for a call from me. I wanted to talk about him to you first, before I named him Auditor General of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation and signed the procuration form that will eventually make him the interim Chief Executive Officer of our corporation.” 
“We won't find a better man to accomplish this mission, Phil. Rogatien Gingras is more intelligent than he looks. That fellow is so brilliant that I know for a fact that he will someday become a menace. On one hand, we have to trust him and be open with him, or things just won't work; on the other hand, we must fear the man like Caesar should have feared Brutus when he is entrusted with the power to run our firm. We need to hire a spy to watch his every move and a neutralizer to terminate Mister Berri as soon as we lose our grip on him. I don't want to die in a jail cell if Rogatien Gingras fails, switch camp or try to play us.” 
“Engaging a secret agent is a simple, Gus, but hiring a professional assassin? I don't think it would be wise to make any business with the Montreal underworld during our brief stay in this town. They seem to be in a period of transformation. No one knows who the real boss of the city is. There's one violent death every day in the local papers.” 
“I already gave the contract to the Boston Lethal Irish branch. R.M. Carrigan found us a slick slayer, more efficient than poison and more subtle than Ebola.” 
“Don't you find it strange, Gus? Just last night, you didn't want any part of this. Today, same man, same problem, you dive head first in the eye of the hurricane by dealing with Redmond Murphy Carrigan. You do know he is a racist bastard? We're talking about a highly deranged individual who puts his victims in the concrete reservoirs of his mixer trucks, back in Boston, before erecting condominium complexes over their corpses. The FBI practically lives in his younger brother's garage. May I remind you that Dillon Carrigan is the star informer of the DEA in Illinois? Mr. Nji Mbonjo, please have the amiability to search our friend,” Hans-Orville Grosbois orders, suddenly cold and hostile. “Make sure that our guest is not hiding a microphone or a GPS on or inside his body.” 
“What are you talking about, Phil, have you lost your goddamn mind?” 
“Understand me, Gus. Since Deodas Demosthene betrayed us, after sixty one good years of friendship, I have become a bit more suspicious with my closest friends and a little less with my sworn enemies. I have two short questions for you, pal” the lawyer pursues on a sardonic tone. “One; how can you be that certain that we're going to regain control of our bank accounts exactly on Monday? And two; who gave you the room number of that executive suite? You see, I rented a junior suite one floor below under a fake name. You're not going to make an old fox like me swallow that you've guessed the maiden name of Mr. Nji Mbonjo's mother, just like that, out of the blue?” 

The African giant jumps on the money manager and immobilizes him using just one hand. He pats the frail man and spins him around like a feather pillow. The bodyguard then frisks the old man from head to toe. Gustave Amaury Quick starts coughing when Mr. Nji Mbonjo's massive palms press on his fragile sternum. The financial advisor aims for the Cameroonian's face on purpose. Mr. Nji Mbonjo is not familiar enough with medical science to understand the difference between a virus and a bacteria, but he knows for sure that they are airborne germs. The big fellow pulls out a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket to wipe his face and cover his mouth and nose. Gustave Amaury Quick makes his move when the Mr. Nji Mbonjo is least expecting it. The octogenarian pulls a stun gun from his waist and strikes his adversary with an electric shock. While the African mercenary is foaming and doing the boogaloo on the floor, Amaury Quick tries to shed some light on the situation. 

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you, Philbert? You don't need to use your baby rhino on me! I spoke to Mark Allister Stanson, the man who hired Rogatien Gingras. He advised me to make an alliance with the Quebecker. Stanson probably got your hotel room number because you called the reception, or maybe you showed some form of ID, even if you paid the room in cash. I don't know.” 
“I wanted some Bourbon, Gus, no other medication works for me.” 
“Mark Allister Stanson uses the same technological tools as Moïse Berri. He seems to be everywhere at once. I know that he has the power to fix most of our problems. Let's say that his promise to give me full access to my money on Monday made me very happy. I would not be surprised to learn that he got into the Grand Cayman Royal Bank server and that he now controls the institution. Who knows?” 
“Mark… Allister… Stanson,” Philbert Hans-Orville Grosbois Senior slowly repeats. “Is it possible that you heard Maître Alistair Stetson instead? That is what lawyers call themselves in French; Maître.” 
“I told you about my hearing loss last week, Phil. You laughed at me. I'm taking pills for my arthritis, diabetes, high blood pressure, cholesterol and even something for a prostate I thought was gone years ago. I can't read the small numbers of the Stock Market Index anymore in the printed press and I am forgetting stuff.” 
“You might want to stop using that incapacitating weapon on Mr. Nji Mbonjo, Gus. The poor devil looks like a fish that's been out of water for too long. Allow me to apologize. Alistair Stetson is the eldest son of Ashley Stetson, the nightmare of the British Bankers Association, back in the eighties. He is on our side. I think he works for Ulysses Hercules Legitime now. I am calling the Quebecker with the ski sunglasses and the Neanderthal shave, right now. And I am dropping the investigation and the commands of the Heritage Legitime Funds in his hands. We'll do as you recommend, Gus.” 
“Don't worry, Phil, I'll get Rogatien Gingras killed and buried by the Irish as soon as he stumbles, becomes useless or try to get wise behind our back.” 
“You have my consent.” 
“Mr. Nji Mbonjo,” the Boston broker greets, offering his hand to help the African hulk get back on his feet. 
“Mr. Quick,” the bouncer answers politely, blinking his eyes and slowly coming out of shock. 

chapter 18d  

(Rebel by Accident) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 


18d Rebel by Accident 

Bar owner, Rico Mars, acclaimed local star disc-jockey, DJ Evasion, the recently freed Israeli captive named, Yosef Cohen-Abitbol, and notorious history teacher, Victor Gourdet, known in Mizerikod under the aliases of Professor, The Scholar and The Hexagon, come out of the crypt of the Our Lady of Seven Sorrows church. The neophyte reporter, the improvised cameraman, the confused hostage and the local news editor spent the night in that humid chamber, comforting each other and philosophizing about the true meaning of life. The four men all suffered a nervous shock after miraculously surviving that shoot out in Emcee Jones Brooklyn's military tent.  

The incident occurred while Rico Mars was interviewing the man he knew so far as Billionaire, now supposedly crazy, Jewish and known as a native of Morocco named, Yosef Cohen-Abitbol. Rico Mars was doing so with the permission of Emcee Jones, the founder of the redoubtable Diabbakas street gang. At that moment, Rico Mars was being told by the prisoner, that respected Senator Fleurant regularly organized pig fights in the courtyard of his cozy villa. These violent and abusive bouts were sponsored by Pantaléon Michelet, a powerful and feared medicine man from Grand Saline. Rico Mars was also informed by the hostage about Zilérion Campbell frequently contravening to article 15 of the 1987 and 2012 Constitutions, because the magistrate never really renounced his American citizenship. The highly respected judge was also suspected of granting amnesty to career criminals in exchange of money, and also of importing illegal weapons in Haiti with the help of his poker buddy, a local businessman and part-time mortician named, Burns Breton. Yosef Cohen-Abitbol also told Rico Mars that, Chief Police Malvenu, a crystal meth and MDMA aficionado, got his dope shipped from West Palm Beach, placed in empty cellular phone boxes, and hid his stash in a recycle bin located behind Mullet Dot Org's electronic boutique. The traumatized captive added that he recently saw Chief Malvenu avoid death from an overdose, thanks to a chest massage done with feet and knees and one terrifying intracardiac injection, skillfully administered by his villa's seasonal pest control technician and septic tank cleaner.

Victor Gourdet was writing down all that juicy information in his yellow notebook, when he heard DJ Evasion suddenly yell in Creole: “Gadé gwosè yon bazooka?” Which translates into: “Look at the size of that bazooka?”

Chuck Three-Brothers was indeed standing at the entrance of Jones Brooklyn's tent, pointing a British manufactured shoulder-fired anti-tank weapon toward his former associate's sweaty forehead. The dilated blood vessels inside Chuck's sclera seemed to tell a very surprised Jones Brooklyn: “There you go, fucker, today is your last on Earth.” Now, this completely surreal situation was not limited to the exaggerated firepower Chuck Three-Brothers brought for the execution of one single individual made of flesh and bones. The thug was also backed by seven of his peers, all of them masked and carrying ultramodern assault rifles; four were armed with RPG-7 Russian designed rocket-propelled grenades and three with Italian military submachine guns equipped with what looked like homemade bayonets at the end. All the bandits were targeting the skull of their startled former leader. Being a keen arms collector and a fan of everything martial like some people are attracted to high horsepower and prestigious cars, Jones Brooklyn felt honored to be threatened by these incredibly well fabricated killing instruments. 

“Sweet bazinga! they are simply marvelous. Where did you get those wonderful war toys, Chucky Rastaman?” 

“Shut the fuck up, you dirty disloyal boar!” Chuck Three-Brothers thundered. “You know damn well who sells us heat. We just dropped by the cemetery and opened up the right coffins before you did. Jim Falafel found my Blackberry, you vicious parasite. I read and heard all the messages my girl, Naomi, left me. Where you expecting such a happy ending when you elaborated your evil plan, you rat eating scavenger?” 

“Easy with the name calling. It sounds weird and it creates disturbing images in my head. Let me explain, Chuck, my brother. One love. Falafel and Jeff Sprinter betrayed us, big time.” 

“Bite me, Jones! Stop pretending I'm a goddamn pinhead!” 

“Calm down, partner. Bro, bro, bro... we should just keep calm, sit the fuck down and chat a little before jumping to any wrong conclusions.” 

“My grieving is done, Jones. I came here to erase you for good.” 

“Relax, Chuck, you're not the kind of man who kills in cold blood. Banban White Powder told me you used to aim at the Dominican Police's toes when a gunfight would break out after a failed deal near the border, in Ouanaminthe.” 

“Those guys were just trying to do their jobs, Jones. On the other hand, you... All right, I had enough of your bullshit! Rico! Victor! DJ! untie Billionaire and leave me with this scumbag. You don't want to be a witness of what's coming next.” 

The members of the newly founded journalistic team felt relieved for a brief moment, delighted to be non-verbally advised by Chuck they were not going to die because of a conflict they had absolutely nothing to do with. However, they found themselves facing a preoccupying dilemma. The guys were free to walk away from the military tent, but there was only one exit, which was also the entrance. Chuck Three-Brothers and his comrades had their footprints all over the place. The ruffians had unknowingly disperse the powdered milk previously spread by Jones Brooklyn to delimit the security zone traced for his guests. The poor lighting in the tent made it extremely difficult to distinguish the tangle of wires set up by the owner of the place. In the event of a rupture or too much stretching, that fine fishing net would automatically trigger the activation of Jones Brooklyn's lethal defense system and its very frightening domino effect. 

Being closer to the ground because of his short stature, DJ Evasion spotted the path of the polymer wire first. He immediately stopped breathing, his eyes wide opened, his jaw clenched. The hostage walking behind Evasion in his unfastened bathrobe gave the DJ a little push in the back and told him to hurry up and get out. Walking away from that tense situation was more than urgent. DJ Evasion moaned something unintelligible; sounding like a self-aware mammal after crossing the last swinging doors of a slaughterhouse. When Chuck Three-Brothers realized what was going on, it was already too late. Jones Brooklyn had already grabbed both handles of his nineteenth century teak coffer and release the two Colt Peacemakers decorating it. The explosive chain of detonations that followed was simply deafening. Fortunately for Victor Gourdet's television crew, one of Chuck's associates, a pathological poser, decided to throw a violet smoke grenade in the middle of the room. The gunfight continued inside a thick floral lavender cloud until there was no ammunition left, while Victor, Rico, Yosef and DJ Evasion prudently sneaked their way out of this inferno. 

Following that shocking experience, DJ Evasion rekindled with his Evangelical faith. The unpleasant whistling of a .9 mm bullet, six inches away from his brain, reminded him that fearing the Lord was a fundamental commandment. Since the incident, Rico Mars believes in a superior and universal intelligence; just like that, because nothing doesn't sound good anymore as a witty answer. Rico Mars is now convinced there is an invisible cosmic force capable of changing the trajectory of a projectile, a higher power that can shape, bend and alter the course of destiny itself. More of an animist with doubts because of his many philosophical readings, Victor Gourdet keeps asking himself whether he owes his life to a protective spirit or to the kitsch necklace he got last year from a roadside vendor near Grand Saline. Is it possible for an inanimate object to create a magnetic field strong enough to change the course of a flying ammo; or was this whole regrettable event a mere coincidence governed entirely by luck? 

Magic or not, Victor Gourdet doesn't remember much of the terrifying episode. He vaguely recalls falling head first over a concrete slab and being disconnected from reality for a short period. The strident and loud blasts persisted for a while. The editor of the Mizerikod journal closed his eyes and started wondering what suit he should wear at his own funeral. The history teacher was certain he'd been hit in the lower stomach and was about to die, so he waved goodbye to this unjust world and simply dozed off. When Victor Gourdet got his senses back, besides the huge hematoma on his brow, the extreme fatigue, the complete loss of balance, his unresponsive left arm and the fact that he didn't really recall a bunch of things like his own birth name, everything seemed fine and back in order. 

For his part, Father Romuald holds a categorical opinion on the staggering events. The clergyman maintains that a miracle just took place before their unworthy eyes. The Catholic priest insists on the fact that the damages done to the headphones worn by DJ Evasion during the shoot-out constitute a tangible proof of a Divine intervention. 


Finally, Yosef Cohen-Abitbol seems to feel much better. After months of seclusion and a condemnation to live through a waking nightmare all by himself, he can now tell his story in its entirety to an interested ear. Someone who considers him sane. Yosef however surprises everyone, when he officially rejects his religion because he doesn't fear death anymore. From now on, he defines himself as a humanist. Yosef's plans for the future are simple. He would first like to get out of this country and go on with his life, but all his papers are in a safe inside Senator Fleurant's villa. Victor Gourdet promises to help him get them back in exchange of his full involvement in the report they began filming the night before. The editor of the Mizerikod newspaper quickly adds to the oral arrangement that Yosef Cohen-Abitbol must stay in character at all time until the termination of the project. According to Victor Gourdet, pretending to be Moïse Berri will help attract the attention of the international media on the major crisis affecting the region.

Tired of being harassed by Father Romuald, who keeps calling him Vévé and My Son, worsening his confusion, Victor Gourdet accepts to return in the arms of the Roman Church Jesus, but only under the condition that Christ is always presented to him as a Black man with dreadlocks, either on paper, canvas, plaster or bronze. Father Romuald throws some Holy water on Victor's face and postulates with emphasis that Vévé survived that gun battle because the Lord of the Armies had chosen him to accomplish a much greater mission. Yosef Cohen-Abitbol agrees to join that sacred adventure, even if he just turned an Atheist a minute ago, only if he can stay behind the cameras or keep a mask on to protect his real identity and thus, his beloved family. 

“That's not a big problem,” Victor Gourdet says. “We'll just tell the world that Moïse Berri has become camera shy because of his newly caught vitiligo, crotch rash or something like that. People like mystery, that's a fact. They'll swallow any meat with the right sauce.” 

CNN, The Beeb, TV5 France and Al Jazeera are the first major networks Victor Gourdet tries to get in touch with. He is finally taken seriously and put on hold by WPTZ, Channel 5, Vermont, his fifth hundredth and twenty-first choice. The news anchor at the other end of the phone line never heard of a place called Mizerikod and doesn't have a translator to help him understand Victor's badly articulated English. The American news reporter has serious doubts about the existence of a Haitian town that is invisible on Google Earth and not listed on any search engine. Victor Gourdet explains to the man that a very obscure municipal law obliges all the construction entrepreneurs who want to work in Mizerikod to paint all the roofs of the commune in tints of green, brown or beige. 

The American journalist does not believe Victor, but he advises him to communicate with Wyclef Jean or the producers of We are the World. More important things are happening in New York and in New Jersey right now, the Vermonter tells Victor. Because of Superstorm Sandy, rich people of the most powerful nation on the planet have no electricity, no gas and no commodity, three days before a presidential election opposing a White Mormon capitalist to a Black Protestant socialist. In the Middle East, the reporter continues, the Syrian capital has recently been the scene of intense fighting between radicals, government forces and rebels; Israel and Tehran have decided to unplug their diplomatic telephones. Exasperation and a general discontent is rampant all over the globe: within the Coptic community in Egypt, the small investors in Greece, the Pashtun tribes of the Swat District, in the opposition parties of Moscow, the unemployed people of Spain, the smugglers of the Nigerian Delta, the refugees in Mali and so on. Haiti has been relegated to a secondary role. The Pearl of the Antilles has become an annual subject until the next catastrophe hits. Without a constant exposure in the media, the devastating earthquake of 2010 is just another sad story and a bad memory for the public. Even if the death toll was astronomic, it's still numbers and statistics; one more drop of water in a large basin of more recent tragic events. The competition must be taken into account, the sponsors and the viewers likewise. The truth hurts a lot: no Hollywood stars on the spot also means not enough suffering worth photographing, filming or printing. 

Hearing all this, Yosef Cohen-Abitbol remembers the false accusations Senator Fleurant used to menace him with, to make sure he would not try to escape or disobey him. Yosef tells Victor he might have a plan. As he explains it in details, he urges Victor to communicate with Télé Bruxelles via Skype, and inform the station that his news team is holding the leader of the pedophile ring targeted by Operation Angelot. The reaction of the European journalist on the other end of the line is intense, almost theatrical. The man sounds overjoyed, like if he just won a money prize or a marathon. The reporter jumps on the scoop with a lot of enthusiasm. He promptly connects Victor Gourdet to all the big European press agencies. According to the Nielsen Holdings measurement company, the Belgian tells Victor, pedophilia is much more efficient than war and famine when it comes to selling cars and beer, especially during the early evening time frame. 

But prior to show their non-existent pervert to the angry and hungry television viewers of Belgium, Victor Gourdet and his crew take advantage of the sudden attention from the Old Continent's media corporations to denounce part of the inconvenient truth about the city of Mizerikod. What is shown, live on Skype, does not need to be described. The small town of Mizerikod resembles a combat zone. The chaos in the commune had been planned for months to the last detail and without any ambiguity by an evil minded villain, Victor Hexagon reveals to a young freelancer based in Louvain. Weapon caches that have been found in private residences and in various public places support this assumption. An independent police force must be dispatched immediately to investigate the actions of the MINUSTAH, claims Victor Gourdet. The population suspects the peacekeeping mission's military staff of fomenting genocide behind closed doors. The recent revelations about the enormous oil and rare earth reserves present in Haiti could definitely seal the country's fate. The supranational oil companies, supported by their bellicose puppets, might transform an already devastated Haiti into a new Kurdistan. The ratings of the now live satellite conference triple, fifteen seconds after the words oil, rare earths and money are mentioned by Victor Gourdet. To increase them tenfold and grab the complete attention of the slowly growing American audience, Victor declares without blinking that the sexual predator they caught has a Jewish sounding name. Reuters and AFP join the information session, which rapidly becomes closer to an open debate because of the extensive use of video conference by the parties.  

Haaretz and The Jerusalem Post leap into the ring by solidarity for a fellow Israeli. Their readers want to know more about the depraved Jew. The opposition in the Knesset is asking for a picture; a member of Tkuma is convinced that a huge mistake was made and that the Kremlin is behind all this, hand in hand with the Iranians. 

All of a sudden, the journalist in Victor slides into subjectivity, while the politician sleeping inside of him promptly awakes. Fifteen minutes later, Victor The Hexagon starts answering questions using the first-person plural personal pronoun: We. When Victor begins to speak of himself, using the third-person singular personal pronoun: He; Rico Mars and DJ Evasion realize that they are witnessing the birth of a monster. 

The news team plunges head first into the eye of the storm. They bring the camera in the streets to show what is really going on to the international community, labelling themselves: The Truth-Tellers. They soon bump on a clique of angry young men occupying Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard. Their leaders demand the immediate expulsion of all foreigners present on Haitian territory before midnight. Their spokesman argues that the countless non-governmental organizations working in the country are behind the general disorder. They are its root cause. DJ Evasion's camera and Rico's microphone attract many protesters and militants that never had a chance to express an opinion outside their kitchen or the natural dirt mound on Place Michaëlle Jean. A mob rapidly encircles Victor Gourdet's crew. The old people want to show their boo-boos on TV and talk about the hunger problem in the rural areas of the country. They vilify the government, criticize the American Embassy for the lack of security in the cities and defend their right to exist and to die with a minimum of dignity. The young lads want to show their designer sweatshirts and let the Global Village know that they don't eat every day; the world must understand that they are all unemployed, but far from being lazy. The kids also want to talk about their future with the President and the Prime Minister of Haiti right here and right now or make them leave by force before dawn. 

The reporting team crosses the path of a group of naked demonstrators on Nelson-Mandela Avenue. These neoliberal nudists, as they've been designated by moderate insurgents, stipulate that their nakedness is a far left stand reinforcing their support for the mythical leader of the revolution; a man they mysteriously call, Nonm Resous Imèn Lan, which translates as, the Guy From Human Resources. 

A military police squad sent by a certain, Captain Pintado, with the mission to arrest Yosef Cohen-Abitbol, comes out of nowhere and surrounds the reporting team. The Corporal heading the unit wants to have a quick chat with Victor Gourdet, but with the cameras off. He shows a warrant bearing the name of Moïse Berri to Victor. The sub-officer and his men are instantly disarmed, savagely beaten and chased by hooded thugs waving machetes, pitchforks and brand new Schumann kitchen knives. Let it be known, they squeal and chant: “No one will touch a hair of Billionaire's head while he is among us and under our protection.” The message is clear. The authorities have been warned.

A chubby woman starts screaming and complaining in tongues. The Patrice-Lumumba Monument has been soiled with mud or something brown during the shuffle. A hoodlum wearing a gas mask smells a conspiracy; the Pentagon, President Sarkozy and 10, Downing Street, are immediately blamed. It all makes sense now. 

Liberating Haiti, reshaping the geopolitical map of the globe and opposing the New World Order are highly noble and respectable causes, but they surely make the average activists insatiate and thirsty. Victor, Rico, DJ Evasion and Yosef are invited to share a buffet and a case of Mouton Cadet by a group of rioters from Saint-Marc who arrived in town the day before. They stole a calf from a farm nearby and baptized it: the Bull of the Revolution. 

Rumors abound during that copious feast. For instance, a little rascal named Margarine, Gargarine or Gal Marine is said to be walking around town with a briefcase loaded with lots of dough, the only American bills available in the entire region. People are whispering on the streets that the kid tried to cash in a valid check of fifty thousand dollars at the Mizerikod Royal Bank, which is normally closed on Saturdays for local and normal people. 

Victor Gourdet is also instructed about the infiltration of the Haitian National Police by outsiders and the human trafficking business they've been operating for decades. According to an eye witness, while tailing a Canadian police officer from Manitoba, suspected of sabotage and treason, Sergeant Pyram Malvenu and Sergeant Evans Ferjuste caught that said agent trying to cross the border illegally, near Ouanaminthe, in the company of a Haitian woman he kept calling his wife. There was a shoot-out involving the Dominican Border Patrol. Three policemen were seriously wounded during the altercation. All the people involved in the gun battle ended up together side by side in a Dajabón hospital, in Dominican territory. Victor The Hexagon and his journalists are  finally briefed by three other witnesses, on the subject of that turbulent group of escaped prisoners who inaugurated a public tribunal and built a scaffold on Malcolm X. Boulevard, near Place Charlemagne-Péralte. The fugitives used short ropes, rocks and sandbags to provide a good counterweight for their newly hand-built execution device. Their first defendant, considered already judged and condemned by a jury entirely made of ex-cons, was Oscar Perceval, the warden of the municipal jail. 

Naturally, like in every collective dinner involving passionate and pissed off Haitians, somebody spontaneously decides to become an experienced politician. Indeed, after his sixth cup of wine, Victor Gourdet declares on a very solemn tone, to that spectacular reunion of thieves, Average Joes, brigands, vandals and mentally disturbed individuals, that things must change, and that they must change right now, because what the people want is change; and change is exactly the kind of change he wants to bring in to change things.

“If I topple the municipal council and take control of the city,” Victor Gourdet says with a lot of confidence, “do you swear to follow me and sacrifice your life for the sake of Justice?” 
“What kind of justice are we talking about, Writer?” a mentally sane agitator asks, knowing that Victor is way too drunk to repeat the same question properly. 

“Liberty or death!” Victor The Hexagon shouts, leaning forward and almost falling face first on the ground. 

“Liberty or death!” answers the coalition, well aware that their new leader is wasted, but definitely looking for a new town to rampage. 

chapter 18c 

(The Intensive Care Unit) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

18c 
The Intensive Care Unit 

Cyril Lavache shows up at the clinic behind the wheel of Billionaire's black limo. The unexpected visit generates a great enthusiasm in the parking lot of the local Baptist NGO. A group of employees and volunteers rush to the car and open its right rear door to welcome their hero, convinced that they are witnessing the return of Moïse Berri, the legendary president of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation. The deception is brutal; they find no one sitting in the back seat of the vehicle. Smelling a sudden rise of aggressiveness in the air, Cyril chooses to explain the situation before being questioned by the forming mob. 

“I'm in charge of the transport and protection of the Director,” Cyril tells an underage security guard. “Keep an eye on the Lincoln, kiddo, and feel free to give it a wash if you want a good tip when I get back.” 
“Did the police free Mister Billionaire or did he escape from the bandits all by himself?” the lad asks, a bit worried. 
“I'd like to sit down and tell you more right now, son, but I am bound to professional secrecy.” 
“How come Mister Billionaire is not with you? I don't see his computer. And where is Archibald, the regular chauffeur?” 
“Which one of those words I've said gives you trouble, little fellow, secrecy or professional? Stay in school until you understand the difference between the two. Now, I need to see the head of the Baptist Mission right now. Bring me to Immaculée Lamisère.” 
“She is currently in the agora. There is an important meeting going on as we speak.” 
“All right then. So... where do you keep the patients around here?” 
“Everywhere, Sir, this place is like a real hospital since the renovations were made with the Foundation's money. The light cases, radiology, day surgery, hematology and the infectious disease departments are on the first floor and in the backyard. Dialysis, ophthalmology, gastroenterology, dermatology and the other specialized clinics are on the second level. The heavy cases, the intensive care, the operating room and the maternity ward are on the third floor, between the solarium and gerontology.” 
“Is a pregnant woman heavy, special or light?” 
“Third floor for sure, Sir, but you need an authorization to step foot in there. They are some strict sanitary precautions and asepsis rules to follow. I can't let you walk up there just like that.” 
“Do you really want to stand between a cop and his duty, boy?” 
“I know your face, Sir, and I know for sure that you are no police officer. You're that old cobbler running the shoe store next to the Zob Boutique sex shop corner George-Anglade Street and Frantz-Fanon Avenue, next to the  Guandong Boxer dry cleaner.” 
“Well, you learn it today, Junior,” Cyril Lavache says, showing his HNP badge. “I am in fact a shoemaker by day and Sergeant by night, shortly after your mama sends you to bed.” 
“Babylone Police, at your age? Pffft! I am no idiot, you know? Don't move one inch from here. I'm going to get my boss, Mr. Saint-Hilien.” 

The adolescent leaves. Cyril Lavache immediately heads in the direction of the staircase. Two ward assistants with huge biceps put a stop to his project to run up the stairs. Cyril searches in his vest's pocket. He pulls out a glass vial containing a yellowish liquid. It is a concoction of tetrodotoxin and scorpion venom he bought in Grand Saline from a traditional healer named Bonne Suzette. 

“Who wants a couple of sulfuric acid drops in both eyes?” Cyril asks in a very menacing tone. 
“He is bluffing,” the first orderly says, “I scored A plus in analytic chemistry. I find that vitriol a little bit too aqueous to be real.” 
“Beware, Maxo,” the second attendant warns, “that man doesn't look sane to me.” 
“That's one more good reason to keep him from going up there.” 
“Did you get an A plus in ballistics?” Cyril Lavache asks, showing the canon of his Beretta to the brave man. 

Once on the third floor, his pistol still very visible, Cyril gets all the help he needs from the personnel. He learns from the terrified Head Nurse that almost all the bedridden patients of her department are cataleptic. Some of them have been waiting for a psychiatric evaluation for two years and counting. They are also scores of recent food poisoning victims and numerous people that were wounded during yesterday's uproar. 

Cyril Lavache recognizes Rosa Liz, the lady filming the documentary on Moïse Berri and the reconstruction of Mizerikod, a production of Legit Imco Media Corp. Next to her lie, stricken with botulism, Stanley Sternthal, a New-Zealander clinical traumatologist, and Rupert Rushmore, a British generalist, both members of Doctors Without Borders. 

Cyril Lavache is guided all the way to the intensive care unit by the trembling Head Nurse. He is put in the presence of two patients, separated only by a polyester curtain and a mosquito net. On his left, resting on her back, the person Cyril loves the most, his daughter, Violette. She is plugged to a multitude of sophisticated machines beeping intermittently. On the cobbler's right, the person Cyril hates the most on the surface of this Earth is breathing heavily. Rondall Jérémie's pupils are dilated and his whole body is soaked with sweat. The rice vendor, suspected rapist and possibly the father of Cyril's first grandchild, is lying on his side, a blood-stained compress covering his buttocks.