Warmonger

By Monique Singleton

War is a natural phenomenon.
It’s Nature’s way of dealing with overpopulation. It’s basically a Cull. War, earthquakes, floods, pestilence are all her reactions to the overcrowding of this planet.

I start Wars. I initiate the Culls.

If you really looked at world history, you’d be able to identify my hand in most of the major conflicts in the past 3,000 years. I instigate and magnify conflict. I set parties against each other. You humans are predisposed to kill each other anyway. I just make sure that it’s done on a gargantuan scale that leaves an imprint.

It’s time for a new major struggle: a World War. As with all things, it’s “think big and start small”. You don’t just wake up and start a world war. It takes a lot of preparation. A lot of networking and diplomacy. And usually brutal murder.
I cultivate certain characters that have potential. They need to have the basics: the charisma to entice others to follow no matter what, and the insanity to cross over the boundaries of good sense, ethics, morals and basic humanity. Thankfully, there are more than enough candidates around. I just choose the one with the best credentials.

War is like fire. It cleanses.
Sometimes you humans are capable of tending the flame yourself.
Sometimes you need my personal brand of assistance.

It’s what I do. And I’m good at it.

I gather the tinder.
Strike the match.
Fan the flame.

................Then watch it burn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Monique Singleton
• Release date: Feb 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370829163

Monique Singleton

Being an “army brat” meant moving around a lot. It was a good way to live, to see the world and continuously broaden my horizons: to start cultivating my creativity and fantasy.And grow it did.From an very early age I have always drawn and painted a lot, making my own version of what was around me. Starting off copying reality, I expanded into a personal kind of augmented reality. Adding fantasy to the mix didn’t however relieve me of natural boundaries: the physiology needed to be right. 4 arms means four shoulders, for me even fantasy needs to be anatomically correct. This craving to combine reality with fantasy formed the basis of a career in art. Blending realistic full portraits with fantasy or animals became my trademark, and I did quite well for myself.However, living off art is not an easy task, so practical as I am, I continued my never ending education, now in the area of Information technology. Yes I went into IT. Hey, a gal’s gotta live.Ideas and creativity will not be denied their due and the stories, previously visualized in paintings, bubbled up and wouldn’t go away.In the few quiet moments my busy life offered about 6 years ago, actual scenes started to unravel in my imagination. Random scenes, or so it seemed. It turned out they were all scenes from one story, one idea that my subconscious had already formed into a coherent story line: Primal Nature.I decided to write them down. But where to begin? I wrote the first 20 pages and the last 2 in one go. In the resulting years I have been filling in the gaps. One story led to a book, one book led to two, to three. To new and fascinating storylines that propelled me to write and write and write.I have found my passion. I want to tell stories.Not just any story. Stories that will entertain, but will hopefully also give room for thought. Will encourage the reader to join me on my journey to explore the boundaries of who we are, what we are, what we could be.If only we dream. If only we accept that the impossible is only improbable until someone proves that it exists.The world is a big place. Who is to say that what I dream, what I write, isn’t out there somewhere.

Book preview

President Armand Duval sat behind his imposing desk and fumed.

For the umpteenth time, his ministers failed to do the simple things he requested of them. How difficult could it be? Didn’t they see the whole picture? Was he the only one who understood exactly how this country should be governed?

Well, obviously he was.

The exorbitantly expensive pen he had received as an inauguration gift from his wife buckled and finally broke under the pressure of his tense grip, the ink staining the page and his fingers, thus angering him even further.

Was there no one else who understood that the current immigration strategy was crippling the economy? The influx of refugees from yet another war in a far-away country was swamping France. There were just too many. No way could they continue to finance the continuous burden that thousands of unemployed and destitute refugees imposed on them. As the port to Europe, as he saw it, France bore the brunt of the problem.

The years of suppressing his true opinions regarding politically sensitive matters were taking a toll on his patience. He was a die-hard, right-wing politician—a fascist—if truth be told. In the Presidential campaign that resulted in him sitting behind this desk, he was forced to haggle with other fractions and agree to what he regarded as ridiculous concessions just to get him to this point. He endured the petty imbeciles and their endless ranting, all as a means to the ultimate prize—the presidency.

And now he had achieved his goal. He was the President of the mightiest country in the world—France.

He had ultimate power. Yet here he was, still forced to deal with imbeciles and the dregs of society. What use was his position if he could not rule absolutely? If his word was not the law?

Calming his anger, he unlocked and reached into a drawer in his massive desk taking out cleaning tools and a muslin wrapped Smith & Wesson .500 revolver, arguably the scariest revolver ever produced on the planet. Some said it could drop an elephant. That he doubted, but it would make a hell of a hole in anything. He loved the power the gun exuded. Holding and cleaning it gave him a feeling of enormous power. Known as an avid gun collector, all the guns in his collection had been rendered inoperable as a precaution here in the Presidential Palace. All but this one, that is. The security people didn’t know about this working model; and to top that off, he had the bullets to complete the package. He felt indestructible just having the loaded gun in his office, especially since no one was aware of it.

The only other things that brought a smile to his lips lately were his countless conquests. He loved the way he was able to seduce the most beautiful women in France and far beyond, one after another. Without fail, they fell for his charms, his silver tongue and naturally the lure of his office. He was, after all, the President of the most important country in the world. And that in turn, made him the top dog, not only of France but of the whole pathetic planet.

Now he focussed his attention on a magnificent woman from the publications department. In one of his frequent visits to the staff in his barely camouflaged hunts for new conquests, he spied her at a desk in the back of the office. She was reluctant to speak to him. Hiding behind the enormous computer screens, she blushed when he walked by, stopped and retraced his steps to speak with her. She wouldn’t look him in the eye. The timid-ness, not something he usually found endearing, turned him on no end. He had to have her, needed to have her. The prospect of conquering Solene—what a beautiful name—brought a smile to his lips. That, and a tightness to his pants.

It would take time, but that was part of the attraction. She was a challenge.

His assistant Hugo was on the case, finding out all there was to know about the fair Solene.

In the meantime, he would get his pleasure elsewhere. After all, he, a man in his prime needed his release. His wife was out of the question. The bitch had married him for the status, but hey, that was mutual. Theirs was a marriage of convenience. He needed a trophy wife, and she wanted to be the first lady.

He hated her from the moment she set foot in his life. A beautiful statuesque blond of excellent pedigree, she was undoubtedly the ideal first lady. That, and only that, was her function in his life. He had fucked her once in their 7-year marriage. The cold bitch was completely immune to his charms and had just lain there while he laboured above her. After that, they kept separate rooms, and separate lives. He called the blond bombshell in communications. She would come running. All the communication skills he needed from her at this moment were her cries of joy and her luscious lips.

CHAPTER TWO

Juliette Duval sat on the reclining sofa in her office in the eastern wing of the Presidential Palace.

This was what she had dedicated her entire life to—she was the First Lady of France—the most important and influential woman in the country—in the world. Even though her imbecile husband was the actual President, her influence was enormous. He didn’t know it, but she was party to everything that happened in this palace and far beyond its walls for that matter. She bartered with the multiple fractions, achieving recognition and influence far greater than that of her stupid husband.

She thought it was so typical of the male chauvinistic pig that he didn’t realise that true power lay not with the President but with those directly behind him. Those who were actually involved in the politics. Not the figurehead. All he was good for was catching the shit when it hit the fan.

And it looked as though that was about to happen. The country was in disarray. The idiot and his moron cabinet had passed yet another law lowering the benefits for the poor. Once again, the imbeciles had alienated the people. Once again, they had screwed up. It was up to her to soften the impact.

She called her assistant, Camille. The mousy woman was a godsend. Not only as an assistant, but as her lover. There was nothing left of the image of the small diminutive woman once they were alone. Camille was a strong, passionate, loving partner. She understood Juliette in all her complexity. Understood the demands that being the first lady placed on her. Understood the sacrifices that she made for this country. Understood her.

Camille entered the room. Saw that no one besides Juliette was there and quickly crossed the short distance to her lover. Taking Juliette’s hands in hers she raised them to her lips, kissing the fingers softly.

‘Mon amour,’ she said her husky soft voice. ‘What ails you?’

Feeling her legs turn to jelly, Juliette melted. As always, this woman caused her stern exterior