Pablo de Pato, surveying his kingdom, spotted the interloping tourists unloading their SUV outside the nearby villa. All of them were very chatty and exuberant, traits that were not necessarily favored in this sun-baked land. It was now necessary to protect the realm, and steps must be taken. “Emilio,” muttered Pablo, “I summon thee.”
Emilio did not immediately answer the summons, mainly because his name was not Emilio. He continued floating in the pool on the adjoining terrace, a sacred duty, one of the three most important responsibilities for the citizens of the province.
Eventually, Pablo remembered that Emilio was no longer in his employ, having been let go after an unfortunate incident involving olive oil and an interestingly-shaped bit of produce from the local farmer’s market. “Reynaldo,” muttered Pablo, I sum-“
“Yeah, I hear ya,” barked Reynaldo, in a tone that indicated much more self-importance than someone who had just been hired two days ago. (He was a recent college graduate and did not understand things like “earn your promotion” and “pay your own bills”.) He floated closer to the edge of the pool. “You need another drink?”
Pablo sighed. “No, I need you to get out of your drink and activate the network.”
Reynaldo paused, cocktail midway to his tanned and mustachioed mouth. “The network? I don’t remember anything about that in the training manual. Wait, do you mean that mess where we-”
“Do not speak the words aloud!” commanded Pablo. “The interlopers have poor hearing, based on the volume of the disco music now billowing from their villa in a manner that will cause the local crops to harvest themselves, but we cannot risk a careless protocol breach giving them advance notice of our plans. We must chase them back to their sunless, depressing homelands so we can live in peace again.”
Reynaldo was still unclear of his exact duties, much like the orange-hued president of a certain depressing land, but he assumed that a safe course of action would be to scramble out of the pool and go some place where he was not expected to do anything. He did so.
Pablo watched him go, confident that subversive ousting maneuvers would soon begin. He tried to smile wickedly but failed in doing so, as his lips were rigid plastic and he had no actual muscle control. But still, the day looked to be a promising and vengeful one…
Greetings from Cómpeta, Spain. More to follow. Unless Operation Ouster is a success, and this becomes the day the disco music died…