Through the living jeff

PART ONE

Governor Tretch Endril stood on a balcony.

It was a nice balcony, but Tretch was not like his balcony.

Tretch hated people, and everything about them, but he particularly hated the way they smiled, and laughed, felt the joy of a world without sarcrafice.

That’s why he was going to kill them all.

Tretch turned and walked down an extravagant staircase, his cloak billowed behind him on the steam filled air. He was somewhere in what once was known as Wyoming, before the Fall, and his rise to power. It was warm and tropical, with plenty of beachfront property; he hated every inch of it, as far as the eye could see.  Naturally, he owned all of it. As he walked down the halls, people ducked out of the way, averting their eyes, just how he liked it. Sand streamed in through the door, trod in by the feet of every guest.

Tretch pushes on the wall in a secluded corner, it gives way, and to the side. A large war map is spread out on the table, silly little model wartanks, ships, planes litter borders and coastlines. There are seven distinguished people, old, young, male, female. He makes eye contact with each one of them, giving them a meaningful look. He pulls a silvery metal tin out of his suit, holding it up like it was humanity's future, and in a sense, it was. It shined, the light sending iridescent reflections all over the bare walls.

Confused, the Confidants turned to each other, questioning if anyone understood the meaning of the small object, and confident they all held a poker face, staring down the Governor from their places around the map.

Tretch gives Confidant 2 a glare, meeting the stony gaze he reaches inside his suit, and shoots him. The others don’t even flinch at the violence, it’s a weekly occurrence, the Governor always needs an open chair.

“Careful,” Confidant 4 chides “this suit cost me a pretty penny.” 

“Well naturally, my face was on it,”  Penny jokes, her husband chuckling. She is Tretch’s wife, the right hand lady of the empire, and mother to their firstborn; Darl. The Confidants smile, some laughing along, all not wanting to disrespect the high family, especially Penny, but the smiles don’t reach their eyes.

“Is there a reason we’re here or can I return to my very busy schedule?”

“Patience, or I’ll have to kill you too.” Tretch says flatly, but the Confidants knew he was more than serious. The governor himself never joked, and only laughed when drunk or with his wife. 

“The casinos can wait for another rotting day” remarked the laughing man in the corner, his face turning red, as he leaned on the two requisitioned seats to support his considerable girth. 

Glinne also wasn’t a Confidant, at least not by title (Or all that bright). He was minister of health, and enjoyed his considerable pay. The Governor never intended to let the title stick after appointing him, but as no one seemed to get the joke, he left it as it Trench owed it to his friend anyway, as he was very loyal to his pay, which was enough to buy him all of the necessary uniforms in his size, as well as plenty of liquid funds (gambling money for the weekends).

Confidant 6 gives Glinne a glare that could cut an apple “Is he really all that necessary? Why don’t you shoot him?” 6’s lip curls into his signature scowl.

“It would take too many bullets.” Glinne roars, chins shaking as he slammed his hefty tankard on the table, splashing it half on his pants, the other half on the Confidants (who managed to all be near him in the small room). 

“SCRAP YOU ALL.” Tretch bursts out, the dam of frustration finally breaks, releasing all of his frustration from the last few days in an instant. He bashed the tin on the table, and his wife fled the room. 

“I have something new, something big.” 

Glinne points to himself with a pudgy finger and gives a questioning glance.

“No, Glinne, not you.” Tretch growls, regretting inviting the giant. 

“So what is it? Surely not this thing you pulled from the scrap pile?” Confidant 4 questions, mostly sarcastic, but quite curious as to the garbage’s importance.

Tretch looks down at the box in his hands “This. Is. Our. Salvation.” Gesturing with his hands towards the now crushed tinpiece. 

“Greatttt…” Confidant 7 sighs sarcastically, speaking for the first time between smokes.

Tretch opens the box, and the table holds its breath, waiting to see what the fuss was about. They lean forward.