Game of Morons

 On a dark snowy Christmas Eve, Mr. Tonald Drump, the King of Perished States of Demonerica was sitting on an armchair in Grey House, the ancestral palace of his clan. He was so inundated in his victory against Hili Hui Milton, the lady who had fought for power against him that he almost missed a terrible bang against an open window. He could resonate that bang with a deafening explosion sound that had troubled him since childhood, but he could never conjecture its relevance. With the open window came in snow, leaves, wind and the sound of silence. Ignorant as ever, Mr. Drump enjoyed his glass of toddy after a bash with his friends, and was ready for bed now.

Just when he thought what awaited him was a piece of peaceful sleep that he was visited by a creepy shadow, playing by his feet, numbing them. Before he could have screamed, he was already crossing seven oceans, mountains and jungles, and soon he was made to elope the time barrier. Next, he was standing on a barren hill with a shadow that said was the ‘Ghost of his Past’.

He was so engrossed with the massacre all around that he skipped the fact that it was a ghost by his side. The rain, the thunder, screams, loud explosions that had dinned his ears since childhood and gaunt vultures feeding on the leftovers of human carrions, all of them scared the shit off his pants. Confused, he looked at the poker faced see-through ghost for answers. In no time, he was dropped on the familiar soil of a not-so-familiar village.

‘Look down, Drump,’ the ghost demanded.

There was a small boy arguing with a farmer, probably the boy’s father.

‘I need you to be in school and attend your classes. You understand me?’ the man had the boy by his arms.

‘Why can't you understand? I love singing! I want to be a priest.’

The man shrugged his hands, dismissing that one-sided argument, and moved along.

The village was nothing what Mr. Drump had ever seen, but it still carried nostalgia. Before his haughty eyes could have explored more, he was thrown on the soil of a graveyard that had the same boy, grown up now, mourning by a grave, probably the grave of his beloved brother, his only accomplice. Mr. Drump, cringing with a flesh biting helplessness, argued with the spirit for the first time,

‘Where am I? What kingdom is this?’

The ghost answered nothing. It just plucked Mr. Drump, literally de-rooting him against his will, against gravity, and dropped him amid a magnetic human force that was following the trails of some man, mass murdering anything and everything. Mr. Drump couldn't testify if it was the smoke in the air or the deafening sound of explosions that knocked him unconscious. But when he woke up, he was in a room. And a man suddenly shot himself in pitch black at a gunpoint. A sharp pain sliced through Mr. Drump’s flesh, yanking every cell, nerve and tissue of his body, and the ghost screamed,

‘I'm the Ghost of Past: the Ghost of your Past Life. The man who just shot himself is Hadolf Itler, reincarnated as Tonald Drump, that's you.’

The next bit of Tonald’s clear memory was on his bed in Grey House with every hair of his body stiff and alert.

‘Dream, just a dream.’

‘Really Hadolf? Was it a dream or nightmare?’

Before Drump could have even gained full consciousness, he tranced again, only to wake up on the streets of Perished States of Demonerica, his kingdom. All that he could see around were people burning banners and posters with hate messages targeting him.

‘Welcome to the 21st century Drump, I'm the Ghost of your Present. You're earning exactly what you earned in your sleeves as Hadolf even after being reincarnated- hatred. You're still the same tarred soul that you were, wrapped in a brand new body.’

Mr. Drump fell weak on his knees.

‘Why did they choose me a king if they had to hate me?’

‘It was only after the destruction and devastation that you brought along as Hadolf that people realized they had done a huge mistake choosing you their leader. That’s exactly what's happening now. But destiny is bestowing you a second chance this time. End what you started as Hadolf.’

‘I can’t decipher what's myth and what's reality. Help me, please!’

Granted his plea, a snow storm ended him up in a small room that had the smell of fuel and flesh. And then who met Tonald was the ‘Ghost of his future’.

‘How does it feel standing next to you, huh? See that old man with his hands on his head? He's you.’

Drump’s eyes widened.

‘You have yet again destroyed everything. Once again your body is bleeding the blood of thousands and millions. The last you’ll hear will be curses beheld on you. Who’ll be alone, again? It’ll be you.’

And while the Ghost of Future still spoke, Drump saw him shooting himself pitch black at a gunpoint, just like he had when he was Hadolf. There was no one praying for him or burying his corpse. Not a single tear fell down to wet his lifeless body that was left alone to rot. Neither his flesh nor bones, nothing was spared.

Tonald’s eyes skipped blinking upon seeing his end on the projector of karma.

‘Choose wisely, Drump.’

Just before the Ghost of future, Present and Past could have combined to one, and dissipated with the wind that Tonald spoke,

‘Where are you headed now?’

The only voice that was left behind was,

‘You're not the only one running this ugly race for power. There are few others in this Game of Morons. We need to visit each of them separately and save the world. For now, we are going down to pay a surprise New Year visit to Marendra Nodi, a former tea vendor from Hindya.’