Prince Faisal's visit to Pakistan
“I have not come here for any sort of deal with regards to the former president, Pervez Musharraf,” Prince Faisal declared to the media.
He was sick and tired of these countless questions about his supposed involvement to get Musharraf out. He simply did not care – he wasn’t even sure why he was in this godforsaken country.
The king and some advisors had decided that he had to go, and so he was here, just a man who was going to shake some hands, smile to the cameras, have some whiskey and go back. Even the two days he had to stay looked like a huge task now.
Why did he accept?
It’s not like he had a choice, foreign minister that he was.
Anything was better than this. Even Mongolia would have been better than this.
He was making his way out of the room, through the crowd of reporters and guards who outnumbered them, everyone looking at their feet, as a sign of respect (or dislike – he neither knew, nor cared).
“We have a few refreshments and… drinks in the next room, Sir, if you’ll follow me.”
He noticed how the man had hesitated before mentioning the drinks; he was used to that sort of babbling from men – he neither cared nor gave a second thought about. He was in a country full of them, one more wasn’t a worry.
“Stay behind me and let me know which door it is.”
Follow this baboon, preposterous!
Rather take a local as a wife.
“The one on the right sir,” the man motioned with his hands, nearly touching the prince’s shoulder.
The prince gave him an icy glare and the man visibly cowered. He was sure that the man had shrunk an inch or two – he loved how he could do that to people. One motion of his finger took care of the pitiful sight in front of him; one of the guards took him away.
He entered the room, through the huge mahogany doors.
They looked heavy, expensive; he was going to have a word or two with his architect, to get a door like this for his bedroom. Whatever their shortcomings, these locals can sometimes have good taste, inadvertently he was sure.
The room was more like a hall, brightly lit, with tables aligned on both sides; the drinks were placed on the right. He zipped through the crowd, barely returning any smiles or respectful nods. Some fool trying to make conversation with him got a cold stare. He knew that face, couldn’t put a name on him but he had a Sheikh in his name somewhere.
He chuckled to himself, ‘like these peasants can ever be Sheikhs’.
He poured a generous amount of whiskey in his glass; he needed it, if he was going to survive the rest of the day and the trip for that matter. Jack Daniels, single barrel, he liked the sound of that.
He raised the glass to his lips and gulped it in one breath. His eyes shot open, in shock, his throat was on fire, but not from alcohol; it burned with pain, blinding pain.
He grabbed a jug of water and threw it on himself.
He ran to the other side of the room and grabbed a piece of nan and stuffed it in his mouth, but it didn’t help.
He snatched a napkin off a wide eyed member of the national assembly (MNA) and started wiping his tongue vigorously – that didn’t help either, it was hopeless. He threw the napkin back at the man, who caught it straight in the face and tumbled to the floor from the shock.
He realised he was running around in circles, still in pain, blinding pain – his throat felt numb.
Now he had trouble breathing.
In a last futile attempt to escape this agony, he emptied another jug of water in his mouth.
The torment subsided a little, he could handle this. Everyone in the room was looking at him, horrified, yet stiff from terror.
On the floor, soaking wet, his rage was immeasurable. He did not give a camel’s dung; someone did this and he will find out who it was!
He looked around frantically, fury escaping from every pore in his body.
Then he saw him, the baboon, the cowering fool! He was carrying two empty bottles, small – smaller than a flask – and he could read the label on them, clear as day. Tabasco Sauce.
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