Pataliputra, Syrixian Empire
September 21, 2019
So this is where a grateful nation sends their beloved president. In The Syrixian Colonial Club.
Whether somebody is trying to send him a message about being old and irrelevant, or Thassad is just unappreciative of his new diplomatic career. Either one, he doesn't care anymore. He might die at any moment, at any day this week, and his wrinkly ass will end up in a state funeral to provide pomp and free election campaign to Nakashad, or to any chump in the Party and the Opposition who managed to climb up the greasy pole. As far as he knows, any of them who is actually competent will end up somewhere they can be useless. Like Balay Kalatogan, an embassy...or the Golden Palace.
And now Thassad is expected to vote on something that will elevate the Club from its passive existence, towards active participation in the world stage. To think this is supposed to be a cultural organization. He has yet to see anything remotely cultural other than the Commonwealth Games.
Thassad smiled, looking up at the ceiling. 'Maybe I should write something up. There must be many things that The Commonwealth ought to take special interest in. Besides, if I'm not in a position to get Lawston out of here before it's too late, then I must endeavor to make this place what it is really meant to be.'
As newly-appointed Commonwealth Councilor, he was first regretful. He had to leave retirement home and his chess games in the Council of State.
And the cranky old shed the government leased to him in Gesetzgeberdenkmal Platz. He does not know why, but as a young boy, when the park did not exist, it used to be an empty plot of land surrounded by Oval Road, formerly Imperial Road, just across the street from the National Legislature. The shed was built there to house the caretaker, as far as Thassad could remember, and he used to visit him there too. He probably made friends with the man, but it was too long time ago. Now all he wanted to do with the place is to paint.
As to why or how he ended up doing that, Thassad could not put a finger on it. Age has not been kind to memory and many things that used to mean something to him have faded to nothing. Just like what their country does to him and every other statesman who gave up their whole life in the service of the Republic.
"Mister President...? Sir?"
Thassad looked to his side. It was Calunod Dalangin, his private secretary... Or was it, looking to his other side, his political adviser?
"It's time to vote, sir." The Skandan from Samprati City said...whatever his name is.
Oh well, whoever or whatever, never mind. He just chuckled to himself and looked around, at everyone assembled here.
"Would it be wise to consider voting abstain, eh?" He teased, poking his tongue out. "I wanna see if I can get a reaction from these people."
"Sir..."
Thassad looked at both of his confidants, or should he call them caregivers? They are too boring, and they have to deal with him moaning and groaning his mouth, joints, and back pains. Not to mention the pills and the regular visits to the doctor. In a year or two, if Bathala or any other god wills it, they might have to bring him in here on a wheelchair.
"Ang. Haring. Ganatrang. Kalatogan." He said, a cough coming deep from his throat. "...votes aye...to ratify the Second...Treaty of Pataliputra."
Thassad coughed violently. His aides had to pat him in the back and offer him water.