Pigs

What a day to wake up to.

Nothing I had seen made sense. I stood in the garden and watched the flames sink lower and lower, until there was nothing left but ashes.

I turned my back on the devil statue and walked toward the house. Halfway there, I looked back. It was behind me.

Was it following me?

I kept my eyes on it and walked the rest of the way backward, slowly, one careful step at a time.

"Wathone!"

I jumped. The voice came from the dining room. It was my mother.

"I prepared food for you," she said. "Come and eat."

"Okay, Mom." I sat down. "When did you come back from the hospital?"

"Oh, don't worry, Wathone. Your sister and I are fine. It's just a scratch. Come on, eat up. Your father will be here soon."

A scratch. I thought of my sister's fingers.

"Where is she?"

"Resting upstairs. She's sleeping. Leave her be." My mother passed me the rice without looking at me. Above us, there was no music. The whole upper floor was silent.

"Is Father coming back?"

"I'm not sure. There's a protest in the country today. Everyone has gone out of their houses to march in the city. Millions and millions of people."

"What? I thought it wouldn't be too big of a problem!"

"You killed a Buddhist monk, son. You know our country is sensitive about religion."

"What is Father going to do?"

"I don't know. Maybe he'll call you. Eat up for now."

"Madam, is Wathone—" a guard began. He saw me. "Oh, Wathone, sir. I came to check on you. Your father has invited you downtown."

"Wathone, sir," a soldier said behind him. "We'll wait for you outside."

"Okay. I'll come after I eat."

"Wathone," Aunty said, coming in from the kitchen. "Today I cooked a meal you like. Here. Rice and mutton."

"Thank you, Aunty. Where's the maid?"

"She's in the garden, Wathone. Watering the plants."

"Is she okay?"

"Yes. But she did mention that the garden smells off. She thinks there might be a dead rat or cat buried somewhere underground."

"Okay. Tell her not to dig in the garden. I don't want my father's flowers to die."

"Of course, young master. I'll look out for her."

"This is a pretty good meal today," I said, talking to her as I chewed.

It had become our routine. Every time I saw Aunty, I made her do it. I never needed a reason. I only wanted to watch her do it again.

"Well, I'll be going now, Wathone."

"Wait."

She stopped and smiled at me. "Yes, young master?"

"Do you see over there, on the grass in the garden? A dog shit?"

"Yes, young master."

Tears ran down her face, and she kept smiling at me.

"Eat it. Do it again."

"Yes, young master."

She did the same as last time, choking on it.

"Cough, cough. Sir Wathone," the guard said from the doorway. "Your father is asking for you to come now."

"Very well. Mom, I'm going now."

"Okay, Wathone. I'll see you later."

My mother looked different. She had nothing to say about yesterday, and I hated it. She was smiling too wide. I stared at her for a minute, and she kept on smiling. Good. As she should be. I was satisfied.

"Wait for me. I'm going to change my clothes."

"Very well, sir."

I changed into the soldier's uniform my father had given me last year, and headed downstairs. It fit me well. Soft silk, a leather belt. Everything looked right.

"Are we ready, sir?" the guard asked.

"Yes. Where's the car?"

"Follow the soldiers, sir. It's a helicopter today. No car can drive, because a horde of people are protesting."

"Good. Lead the way, soldier."

"Yes, sir. This way."

I climbed into the helicopter with my heart pounding. It was my first time riding in one. Slowly it lifted into the air with a loud roar, and we took off. As we flew over the city, I looked down. A horde of people in costumes, holding signs, mocking the general, my father. The whole city was full of people in the streets, shouting and demanding justice for the monk, a new leader, a new government.

"Tower, this is Eagle. Preparing to land. Confirm. Over," the soldier said into the radio.

"Eagle, affirmative. Circle the building and come in from the north. Don't get close to the crowd, they're throwing things. Over."

"Received. Taking a different route in. Over."

"Signal confirmed. Landing pad is clear. Prepare to land. Over."

"Thank you, Tower. Out."

"Wathone, sir, keep your head down," the soldier said. "Walk along the side of the helicopter, and avoid the front and back!"

"Okay, I heard you."

"Okay, sir, you can get off now! Your father is waiting."

"Okay!"

"Right here, sir!" the guards shouted.

I followed them as the sound of the helicopter fell away behind me. My father was waiting for me in the government building. Behind him was a huge tempered-glass window.

"Wathone, son. You're doing well this morning."

"Father, what is this about?"

"About what, Wathone?"

"The statue—"

"Wathone, it's simple. I follow your grandfather's footsteps and feed the statue. You do the same. There's no question to ask. Do that, and things will turn out the way they will today."

"Okay, Father."

I wanted to ask more. The statue crawling after me through the banana trees, the ring warm under my fingers, the eyes that had come back on. But my father looked so peaceful when he said there was no question to ask that I understood the question itself was the dangerous part.

We walked to the elevator, just my father and me.

"You look fantastic today in your uniform. So clean and sharp, haha."

"Thank you, Father. Where are we going?"

"The top floor, Wathone. To see the people."

"Oh, I see."

We reached the rooftop, and the screaming of the people grew louder and louder.

"General! The mic is ready. All set."

"Good. Spread around."

"Justice! Justice! Death to the dictator! Justice!" the crowd chanted.

"Gentlemen, please calm down," my father said into the mic. "I hear you, but we are a civilized Buddhist country. We shouldn't act like barbarians."

"Bring justice to your son! Justice!"

They began throwing things at the building. Fire and chaos.

"This is a political trick," my father said. "They planned it as religion against other races, so they can take advantage of it. My people, think hard and think carefully. The monk was a criminal, a terrorist rebel hiding in the monastery, and my son brought justice to him!"

"Bullshit! We're not buying it! Murderer! Pigs!"

"These rebels make our blood boil so they can take over our country and destroy what your ancestors built."

"We have social media and brains, you dumb old man! Fuck yourself!"

"Fuck this shit!" my father said, switching off the mic. "Wathone, come here."

He pulled my shoulder and stood me near the edge of the building.

"Take this. Hey, soldiers, come on. Do the thing."

"Yes, General!"

"Here, Wathone. Hold this and take the pin off. Don't release it yet. Hold it, and drop it when I say so."

"What is it, Father?"

"A grenade."

"Are you sure? There are a lot of people down there."

"Yes, that's much better, Wathone. The people need discipline."

I felt excited. It was a satisfaction I had waited a long time for. My father was spoiling me.

"Wathone, I don't want you to misunderstand me. I just—"

"When I drop it, Father, I can't wait."

"What? Hahaha. Drop it now!"

For one second the whole city seemed to hold its breath. I looked down at the faces tilted up at me, thousands of them, pale in the smoke, like a field of white flowers turned toward the sun. Someone down there held a sign with a child's drawing of a monk.

I pulled the pin and dropped it into the crowd, and the soldiers joined in and threw theirs. The crowd began to run, but it was too late. The grenades exploded and killed most of them, legs, arms and guts everywhere, like a painting.

"Well done, son."

"Father, is it okay? Won't they be mad at us?"

"Mad? What can they do if they're mad? Like it or not, this is how it is. Come, let's talk inside."

"Dogs!" the crowd screamed. "Help! My son is gone! Help!"

I should have dropped two more grenades. Now I felt regret.

"Sit, Wathone."

"Father, can I kill anyone I like, if I want to?"

"Haha. Of course. There is no law above me. I am the law."

I pulled my chair close to my father's desk.

"How did you kill, Father? Did you cut them up?"

"What? No, Wathone. I just order my men to kill whoever I want killed or gone."

"Really? Father, can you lend me some of your soldiers too?"

"I can, but they have no respect for you yet. If you go with them somewhere no one knows about, they'll cut you off, haha. These fuckers are brutal and sadistic. That's what I want. They get the job done."

"So when can I start? About that—"

"I will promote you to commander at the toll gate near Mandalay. You'll work with these soldiers and make them respect you."

Clink. My father lit a cigar.

"Okay, Dad. So I have to be far from home?"

"Yes, because you'll be on duty anyway. You can still sleep at our own hotel, for free, son. Why worry?"

"Okay, Dad. I'll do that."

"Good. Prepare to go to Mandalay soon."

Mandalay. The border road. I thought of Thura's three million dollars, and his trucks, and everything that would have to pass through a gate that would soon be mine.

I never knew I could do this. Now I knew I could do whatever I wanted. Respect? Sure. I would show them exactly that.

To be continued...