PROLOGUE
The studio lights dimmed, just as he had requested.
He looked around slowly. Uncomfortable glances from studio crew members, their heads turning away quickly whenever he made eye contact, amused him.
There were the sounds of last minute sound-checks in his ear piece. The fear was everywhere, he could feel it. Oh, how sorry it felt.
The blonde, spray-tanned interviewer who sat opposite him, pulled the tissue from his collar which the makeup artist had tucked there. “Are we live? We’re live?” asked the interviewer, pressing two fingers against his ear piece. “Welcome to a special edition of The World Today, with me, your host, Ryan Costello.” He paused a moment before continuing. “We have a special guest today, uh . . . our uh—”
“President,” interjected the guest.
“Yes, thank you. Our new President,” Costello said, a nervous smile crossing his lips.
The President nodded approvingly. His stern brown eyes were locked onto the interviewer. He sat perfectly still, while leaning back casually in the armchair. The President’s hands rested on the arm rests and his right leg crossed over his left knee. His gaze never left Costello.
“So, Mr. President,” began the interviewer.
“Ceann urra,” said the President, correcting a surprised Costello.
“Excuse me?” he replied, unsure whether he had heard correctly.
“You will address me as Ceann urra,” repeated the President slowly, his eyes still locked onto the interviewer. The President’s presence filled the studio, intimidating and terrifying. His age seemed impossible to gauge, his dark beard was beginning to grey and a few wrinkles were apparent on his face. But his eyes, in his eyes was a youthful vitality, a masculine virility.
“Leader of the people?” stammered Costello. “My apologies, Ceann urra.” He could feel beads of sweat pearling on his forehead. His heart rate picked up, and all of his preparation was forgotten. Though in reality, nothing could have prepared him for the overwhelming presence of the individual sitting before him.
Costello took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “It’s been six months since you became President, Ceann urra, and the public still doesn’t know who you are, or what exactly is happening.”
A faint smile crossed the President’s lips briefly. “I know. And I did not simply become the President, Mr. Costello. I took the Presidency. I seized control,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly.
It had indeed been six months since he seized control of the country. It all happened in one twenty-four hour period in the autumn of 2033. A column of black vans burst onto the grounds of Leinster House, where the Irish parliament, Dáil Éireann, was in session. Armed men poured out and stormed the buildings, rounding up every parliamentarian present. With their hands cable-cuffed behind their backs and black cloth covering their heads, the MPs were transported to an unknown location. They had not been seen since. Within hours of the events at Leinster House, every major street in the city’s centre was being patrolled by armed men, clad in black. Every major police station with a rapid response unit was surrounded, or neutralized from within. The international airport had been shut down, bus and train stations closed. The news spread fast and an eerie quiet descended upon the capital. There was no response from any person or organization of authority. No public service announcements, no demands made, and no counter offensive measures taken. Not from the police or from the military. The Irish people were met with nothing but silence. The eerie calm however, seemed to carry with it an atmosphere of relief. A sense that finally, things would change. The only question was, how would that change manifest.
“People are understandably frightened, Mr. Pres—
uh . . . Ceann urra,” said Costello, placing his question cards to one side as he regained some composure.
“Yes, understandably,” answered the President.
“Should they be?” Costello asked.
The President waited, staring straight through his
interviewer. “Some. Not all, but some should be frightened,” he said calmly, almost casually.
“Who should be frightened?” Costello cleared his throat again. It was clear from the President’s posture and his bemused expression, that he was not going to answer the question.
“There are so many questions, Ceann urra. Where are the members of parliament that were kidnapped last September? Nobody has heard from them. Are they alive? Is the Army involved, why haven’t they responded?
There’s been nothing but silence for six months now!” Costello was beginning to lose his composure again.
The President raised his hand, indicating that his interviewer should stop speaking. “They were detained for their crimes, Mr. Costello,” the President began.
“What crimes?” Costello interrupted.
The President glared at the blonde man before continuing. “Corruption, incompetence, apathy! Everything people have been whining about for almost a century, but have done absolutely nothing to rectify!” the President said, raising his voice slightly. He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. “Scandal after scandal and everyone simply repeated the same formula, over and over. Whine, complain, ask why nobody does anything, and then they just shrug their shoulders, carrying on as if nothing had happened. Before the collapse of the European Union, the political elite in this country relinquished our Nation’s sovereignty without so much as an objection, let alone a fight. The sovereignty for which brave men and women fought and died, just pissed away by the likes of Fianna Fáil, Fine Gael, and Sinn Féin. And since the EU’s collapse, they have worked only in their own interests, lining their pockets at the expense of the people they claim to represent. Opportunist careerists who have never cared one bit for the Irish people, the true Gaels!” He paused again, staring at Costello. “But rest assured, Mr. Costello, all the MPs are safe, for the time being at least. You could say, we are engaged in negotiations. As for the Army. No, they are not involved, nor will they be. Our people within their ranks have made sure of that. This has been planned for a long time, Mr. Costello. We know what we are doing. This is intended to be a permanent change, a change for the better,” he said in a low measured tone.
“Who are you? Where are you from? People are calling you a fascist,” Costello said hesitantly as he again cleared his throat nervously.
The President leaned forward in his chair. “We are a new beginning, a new order. We are the Sons of Taranis, we are your saviours,” he said, raising his hand to his lined and bearded face, with one finger extended over his cheek. “As for me. I was born here and I was raised here. I have been gone for some time, and now I am back. There is nothing more you need to know about us at this moment, you will learn more over time.”
“Why haven’t you addressed the public until now?” Costello queried. “There are rumours of protest groups organizing. Is it true that you are building concentration camps in Galway and Mayo.”
“That is not entirely accurate,” replied the President as he adjusted himself in his chair. “All I will say is this: If anyone wishes to leave the country, now is the time to do it. There will be ferries waiting to take you to Wales. We have watched the previous so-called leaders of this land, systematically destroy it. Abandoning their people, promoting multiculturalism, and encouraging degenerate lifestyles and behaviours.” He made no attempt to hide his contempt as he turned to face the camera. “It ends now. If you do not feel comfortable here, you will have three more months to get your affairs in order and leave. Do not waste your time with protests, for your own sake, for everyone’s sake, leave!”
Costello stared at the President, the blood draining from his face. He did not quite know what to expect from this stranger, but the President’s words were ominous and left him shaken. It seemed as though his worst fears were now a reality. The political elites and the leftist media had been warning of the rise of the far-right for decades, now it appeared to be here. Costello saw visions of horrific pogroms, genocide, and absolute brutality flashing before his eyes.
“Who are you?” he asked again, barely managing to hide the tremors in his voice.
The President’s features softened slightly as he sat upright and planted both feet firmly on the ground.
He rose from his chair. His imposing height and muscular physique, evident even while wearing a suit, cast an ominous shadow over Costello. “My followers call me Kalki,” he said, looking down at his interviewer as he buttoned his suit jacket. “I am the Destroyer of Filth.”
IF YOU ENJOYED READING THIS AND WANT TO READ MORE, PLEASE UPVOTE AND CONSIDER BUYING THE BOOK (LINK BELOW). I WILL BE POSTING CHAPTERS ONE AND TWO SOON.