Presidente: A Story from the Republic of Banania

By C. J. Brennan

Presidente is seeing the Republic of Banania through a very turbulent and dangerous time. The separatists of El Panthera have successfully challenged the authority of Metronia, and others are poised to do the same elsewhere in the archipelago.
But an armed conflict is not the only trouble this tough feline has to contend with. Other matters will jump out of the boiling cauldron that she is charged to govern, and some concerns are more insidious than others.

With a rebellion to crush, and a traitor to uncover, Presidente will need to overcome the shadows in her mind if she is to save the motherland and restore peace.
However, there is more than one story to be told in Banania, and the future of these beautiful Caribbean islands may just be determined by forces lying way beyond presidential control.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781528991292

C. J. Brennan

C. J. Brennan was born in Birmingham in 1994. He grew up in a rough industrial area of the city called Nechells, but in 2014, he and his family moved to sunny Torquay in Devon for an exciting life by the sea. But who is C. J. Brennan? He is someone who likes to roam, someone who loves to live, and someone with ideas. He understands life, has a powerful imagination, and he knows a little bit about many different things. What else does a writer need?

Book preview

About the Author

C. J. Brennan was born in Birmingham in 1994. He grew up in a rough industrial area of the city called Nechells, but in 2014, he and his family moved to sunny Torquay in Devon for an exciting life by the sea.

But who is C. J. Brennan? He is someone who likes to roam, someone who loves to live, and someone with ideas. He understands life, has a powerful imagination, and he knows a little bit about many different things. What else does a writer need?

Dedication

For those who I

have lost with time.

Copyright Information ©

C. J. Brennan 2021

The right of C. J. Brennan to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528991278 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528991285 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781528991292 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2021

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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E14 5AA

Preface

Please forgive the absurd anthropomorphism that appears within my novel, Presidente. Maybe it would be interpreted by some as a quaint gimmick or a whimsical overuse of an eccentric imagination, one that is chained heavily to fantasy. Yet the point of this cast of furry humanoids is not simply to help the rather fantastical episode stand out amidst the endless shelving of novels that riot with colour and pornographic aestheticism printed on their front covers. No, it is a chance for the reader to mentally transplant our innate or learned Homosapien qualities into the body of another mammalian entity, albeit an entity that is herein bipedal rather than the natural quadrupedal occurrence we see out in the real world. For instance, a dog who can farm the land and drive a Ford F600 truck, an ocelot who wilds the crowd with a stirring oration, a rabbit who works in a busy depot and who does not get much of a mention thereafter or a cat who leads a nation. It is a means to see humanity without seeing the human, and in so doing, the reader will observe our crazy human condition seeping out from the pores of a civilisation of cats, dogs and rabbits. It is also an opportunity for mature readers (those who have forsaken the childish urge to humanise cute little critters) to haul out their imaginations from cerebral storage, blow off the dusty cobwebs and get them firing again!

Prologue

The Bananian archipelago was a chain of islands glowing under the warm Caribbean sun. Its jungles were abundant in life, the mountains were high and mighty, and each grassland plateau was wide and struck in the gold of an everlasting summer. There lay beaches of white sand or grey stone on most every coastline, and rivers drove through the land, coursing each terrain before finally kissing the tropical emerald sea.

But to believe that this paradise, one with plentiful resource and boundless natural beauty, was a world of perpetual harmony was to close one’s eyes and dream all darkness away. The Republic of Banania was not at peace.

Before the rebellion, the majority of citizens had been satisfied with the long-established modus operandi. The Representantes Estatales debated and approved nation-wide and federal legislation in the Senado Nacional. But a growing number of critics disapproved of the law’s highly singular nature, advocating that the national legal code would never fully embody the unique spectra of cultures, traditions and worldviews that were held within each island state of the republic. Reformers wanted major decentralisation. However, the emerging disenchantment extended far beyond the desire to preserve regional identities on the nation’s political stage.

El Presidente and the Consejo De Ministros had always held executive authority over all the republic. In the decades after the First World War, a political culture developed in which the select few to grasp the reins of power did so in ever-greater isolation from the Representantes Estatales and the Citizen Councils. The result was a series of powerful presidential administrations that operated with virtually no accountability or restraint.

Some cautiously observed the rising bureaucratic and totalitarian character of the central government as a sign that Bananian society was sleepwalking into a mindless fire of collectivism, and such would mean the end of civil liberties in Banania. The anxiety and fear surrounding such dystopian evolution drove a number of citizens directly into the arms of separatism and other more radical alternatives.

All necessity industries were already dominated by the state, namely agriculture, logistics, manufacturing, public utilities, production, communications, trade, construction, education and healthcare. In short, everything vital to Central America’s largest economy was under direct governmental control. But the wealthiest members of the private sector, who naturally ruled the non-essential industries, wanted to break the state’s monopoly by expanding freely into these potentially rewarding areas of the nation’s economy. They argued that entrepreneurial spirit and the motivation of profit would encourage progress, accelerating the republic into a prosperous future.

The state was always dismissive and incredulous to such capitalist doctrine, as were most Bananian citizens, thus liberal economic activities remained stunted as a matter of constitution. This lack of reform encouraged many privateers to become active in the growing political tide.

As with all such high matters, the question of religion played its part as well. Catolic theology was deeply entrenched within certain localities, so an atheist Presidente leading a secular government planning to abolish funding for the Bananian Church was never going to be a popular figure among the faithful. There were demonstrations and riots, especially in the State of El Inteca. Those who stand to lose what they keep close will always fight without the limit of fear, and the same holds true for those who cherish familiarity and promise.

It was at the beginning of 1967 when Pantheran separatists held a state-wide general strike to demand an end to the potentate of the central government. Federal authority had by then diminished into obscurity, leaving the five states of Banania under the direct rule of an established Metronian elite.

The response of the Policía was not intentionally cruel, but it was harsh enough to spark an armed uprising in the state-capital of Leopolis. A rebel militia mobilised in the city, and its separatist fury spread like mordant wildfire across the State of El Panthera. In a matter of weeks, the Bananian Military was overwhelmed and forced to withdraw to the southwest corner of the island, allowing the majority of El Panthera to fall prey to a vicious rebel junta.

This is not a tale full of delicate hope. It is simply a strand of events, one following from another. Make of them what you will.

Chapter 1

A Beautiful Morning at the Imperial Palace

August 1967

‘If I were to wake one day and decide that I had lived for too long, then I hope that I would find myself watching a spectacle akin to this when the bullet drilled into my skull.’

‘That is hardly appropriate, Presidente.’

‘It was just a thought, Ministro. Just a thought.’

‘Contemplating your deepest future is never a useful occupation. And that is sage advice for all of us. Now, can we please get on with today’s business?’

‘Of course. Don’t want bad news to linger in your paws.’

The Imperial Palace was a stately collection of buildings overlooking the city of Metronia from the northeast. Its pure white walls, marble staircases, large garden spaces and collections of art were all set amidst a combined Spanish and classical-revivalist architectural style, one which gave the official residence of El Presidente a character unique within the New World.

But this colonial survivor was now in the modern era and she found herself adorned in the banners and flags of the Bananian Republic. Despite the pleasant melodic calls that all manner of tropical birds threw out from the trees, one could not ignore the machine guns or the armed guards patrolling every corner and pathway.

Presidente was surveying the palatial gardens from her chair in the Cat’s Eye Office as she listened to the day’s reports from her minions in the Consejo De Ministros. Issues included an update on the conflict raging in the east amongst other throbbing stresses. At least the sunrise that morning had been beautiful beyond words.

‘The rebel advance has lost all momentum,’ said the Pembroke Welsh Corgi, Harry Gladstone. ‘But they still maintain a strong paw hold and fighting back won’t be easy.’

The rugged yet wise Primer Ministro De El Panthera had recently met with representatives from the Pantheran Militia.

‘Have their demands altered?’ asked Presidente, eyeing a patch of dazzling shrubs.

‘No, they call for complete independence to be granted to the State of El Panthera.’

Gladstone may have wanted to avoid this next bit.

‘I…I regret to inform you, Presidente, that this morning, Ministro Carlos Santolina, a native to El Panthera…he announced his support for the rebels before crossing into enemy-held territory.’

The gathering held their tongues. Eyes must have rolled sharply onto Presidente.

‘You come to me on such a beautiful morning, not only to announce the failure of the negotiations that you arranged, but also to tell me about the treachery of yet another sympathetic Ministro?’

Presidente stood and then walked with undeniably sturdy posture towards the map of the Bananian archipelago, a permanent feature of the room since 1804. She really wanted to slash El Panthera with her claws.

Gladstone resumed with frustration in his voice.

‘Presidente, the enemy is lacking in capability. They will be crushed regardless of this defection. And we always knew that negotiating for peace would fail, they’re fanatics. But it did buy us time to reorganise ourselves after—’

‘Those bastards!’

Presidente’s outburst made the others jump.

‘They have no respect for our great nation’s history! Or the suffering of our ancestors during the revolution!’

Presidente turned to examine the fecked bunch of idiots behind her. They could often be such ridiculous sponges.

‘We cannot forget the revolutioneers or the lives that were taken in the civil war. We are everything that has gone before us and Banania is strong because—’

‘I’m back, Presidente.’

The interruption was by Alfredo, Presidente’s loyal assistant and driver.

‘I have your new clothes—’

‘Alfredo!’

Presidente’s pupils must have dilated full black. She was angry enough as it was. Now her pulse was on the rise.

Alfredo whimpered before placing a sizable cardboard box onto the desk.

‘I’m sorry, Presidente.’

Alfredo retreated to the annex.

This Norwegian Forest Cat was a man of an innocent disposition and he always looked smart in the gold-brown chauffeur uniform his employment obliged him to wear all day. If there was ever anything Presidente needed or wanted, he would attend to the concern without hesitation, not merely just as a member of staff, but as a true friend.

‘Where was I?’ asked Presidente. ‘Forget it.’

Presidente cast her gaze to the Ministro De Comercio, Andrés Versengettarus, a youthful and handsome Anatolian Shepherd. He’d better have some good news. Outstanding looks would not save him otherwise.

‘What word is there on our trading?’

‘The U.S.N.A. delegation accept there will be an import duty rise of 1%,’ said Versengettarus with a pinch of confidence, ‘but they’ll continue to export all vehicle lines. Also, the consignment of Soviet aircraft is en-route as agreed under the new arms deal last month. The eight MiG-21s should arrive in Narvra on Monday, and they’ll be retrofitted with our own armaments after being offloaded.’

This overly efficient dog had clearly revised the details in advance, though he’d failed to mention the no doubt less appealing news regarding one of their Caribbean neighbours.

‘Good,’ remarked Presidente. ‘And what about Cuba?’

‘We are…we’re continuing to negotiate.’

Presidente’s ears twitched. Her feline instincts were aroused by the omission of detail.

‘Is that all?’

‘Our current trade agreements with the U.S.N.A. will always complicate such matters, Presidente. It will take time for us to bridge the gap in our relations.’

‘Yes, but it also doesn’t help when one of your deputies is found sleeping with the wife of a Cuban diplomat!’

‘I understand, Presidente,’ said Versengettarus, glaring at the floor.

Gladstone attempted to ameliorate the room.

‘What about the upcoming election, Presidente?’

Trust him to change the subject so abruptly. At least she already had a response in mind.

‘Our stand against the rebels aligns us to most citizens to begin with,’ said Presidente as she retook her seat. ‘But to ensure success, we must not leave anything to chance. Therefore, I must insist more party funds be invested into our next campaign than were in the last.’

The pragmatic Osvaldo Torrado launched his protest.

‘Wait, the party treasury cannot afford another hit like last time, Presidente.’

The European Fox was the financial secretary of El Partido De La Unidad Nacional and Primer Ministro De New Genoa. He always took a cautious line when dealing with monetary affairs. This allied him to the equally circumspective Primer Ministro Gladstone. Why was the Consejo filled with such thrifty personalities?

‘But we won the voters over, didn’t we?’ said Presidente.

‘That election nearly broke us,’ said Torrado.

‘He’s right, Presidente,’ Gladstone said, ‘one more round of expenditure on that scale would end the party.’

Presidente would not back down so easily. She knew how to string these guys into shape. One of her little dictations would do nicely.

‘Let there be no misunderstanding. If we lose this election, the nation falls. The Federalist Solidarity Party and its leader, Primer Ministro Cortez, are not capable of reuniting this torn nation. If they were empowered, the union and its economy will continue to collapse, only I will not allow this so long as I live. As Presidente or otherwise. So, divert more funds to the election campaign. We must win. We shall win.’

This megalomaniacal stamping of authority was the only way for the woman to get her point across to the pussyfooters standing before her.

Once the Consejo De Ministros had concluded their business, they left the room, and with all the hard news they had just conveyed, they were perhaps pleased to remove themselves from the presidential firing range.

‘That is what you call an obsessive reverence for Bananian history,’ remarked Gladstone.

Presidente began staring at the emblem of the Bananian presidency sitting on her desk.

‘I must have been out of my mind standing for office.’

What madness or delusion of grandeur had ever made her undertake this rocky path? The privileges were good enough, but no one had told her to expect the crap that came with them.

Alfredo emerged from the annex where he had just been throwing grapes down his throat.

‘Alfredo, I have a full day’s itinerary ahead of us, so let’s be ready to move. By the way, this is for your birthday.’

Presidente passed a large envelope from the top of her desk to the unsuspecting recipient, a wide-eyed Alfredo.

‘Thank you, Presidente,’ he said.

‘Don’t thank me yet, amigo, you don’t know what it is.’

‘I…I will appreciate this, whatever it is. I just hope I can say someone like me deserves your…your thoughtfulness.’

The prolonged thanks were more than Presidente had expected to receive.

‘Of course you are,’ she said proudly. ’Now, stop fucking around in here, go get ready for us to leave.

Viola, the American Shorthair who was Presidente’s personal secretary, entered the Cat’s Eye Office. She exchanged a friendly glance with Alfredo as he departed to ready Presidente’s transportation.

‘Good morning, Presidente,’ she said.

‘It was until the Consejo opened their mouths.’

‘That bad, huh?’

Viola was another close associate to Presidente. As such, she opened the box on the desk without invitation.

‘Red?’ she asked. ‘I thought it was going to be white?’

‘Every other Presidente in the Caribbean and South America wears white. I wanted something…different, something unique.’

‘Do I need remind you what happened to the last man who wore red in this palace?’

She clearly didn’t like the new look. De gustibus non est disputandum.

‘The colour is evocative,’ said Presidente as she shuffled through a batch of paperwork, ‘despite the historical connotations. It had better fit though, otherwise it’s going straight back to…wherever.’

Presidente felt at ease talking to Viola or Alfredo. Unlike with the others, there was a real and lasting friendship between the three of them, one which had evolved ever since their early days in El Partido De La Unidad Nacional. For Presidente, an informal conversation with either or both of her two closest friends was a pleasant and liberating experience, one far removed from the hard-hitting exchanges she often had to partake in with her Ministros and other government officials.

‘Did you enjoy your night off?’ enquired Presidente.

‘Oh yes, me and my sister had a great time together.’

Viola took out the crimson overcoat. She inspected its high-quality stitching, the polished brass buttons, the leather wrist, shoulder and neck guards.

‘We tried the new restaurant on Qualia Row.’

‘I heard the food there is quite something.’

‘Out of this world, Presidente,’ said Viola passionately, her eyes rapt with pleasure. ‘The place is stunning at night beside the river, with the city lights dancing on the water’s surface and the band playing on the stage outside.’

‘Sounds wonderful,’ Presidente said politely.

Viola pulled out the jet-black parade trousers.

‘It certainly was, Presidente.’

It was then that Viola sighed. Nostalgia was a strong undercurrent for her. But would she ever cure herself of it?

‘It was good to see her again,’ she said softly.

Presidente went and stood next to Viola and the pair of them visually examined the garments now laid across the desk. They eyed the habiliment with feminine curiosity, almost as if they were expecting them to somehow become animated and move of their own free will.

‘I don’t like it much,’ remarked Viola. ‘At least you’ll look like no other Presidente that’s gone before.’

Presidente glanced at the map of the Bananian Republic. Such words strung a cord deep inside her. Not looking like anyone who had ruled before her was really the point. She had to become the exception, the new look, the future of Banania.

‘I will not be just another Presidente, Viola. I must be more.’

But who was Presidente? Serena Banderas was a tough bitch from the State of New Genoa, a farmer’s daughter whose rise to prominence in the public eye saw her elected into office in 1962. She was leader of El Partido De La Unidad Nacional and was renowned for her flaming spirit and lasting patriotic fever. This Ragdoll was a strong independent woman in a man’s world. Such was required of the republic’s first ever female head of state.

However, this was only the outward story. Inside, there lay a powerful driving urge, a restless dream verging on a cult of destiny in which Presidente saw herself as the saviour of the troubled Bananian Republic. This obsessive belief was most likely born from the countless hours she spent reading as a teenager, with history, romantic fiction and epic fantasy being her favourite and most inspirational genres. Another offshoot from her youth was a passion for watching the sky. There had been plenty enough opportunity for that growing up in the sticks. Presidente especially enjoyed watching the sun drift neatly just above the horizon, when the air in every direction burned with riotous colour.

Chapter 2

The Kettering Family

Joseph Kettering had just returned to his humble country house after walking back from the fields where his pineapples were growing with tropical vigour. The residence was nothing exceptional being the home of a farmer. But it was well maintained, and this year had been painted a creamy yellow.

He opened the front door and was greeted with the meaty scent of a roasting chicken. Joseph had won it at the local fair two days before. Preparing that evening’s supper on the kitchen table was his wife, Aida. The two Alsatians performed their mundane welcome ritual and embraced for a kiss.

‘How is it out there?’ asked Aida with her strong Germanic accent.

‘Perfect,’ replied Joseph, his voice having more of an American shade, ‘it’s all going very nicely. The boys have started getting the crop together. And the pines in the bottom fields are doing great. You know, I think it’s going to be one of the best harvests we’ve ever had.’

Joseph grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl.

‘I’m going to take the truck into town to sign off tomorrow’s delivery,’ he said. ‘I do not want a repeat of the fiasco that happened last time. It should be easy sailing from there.’

Aida spoke out with tearful eyes.

‘I’m so proud of you, Joseph. You’ve worked so hard to achieve all of this. I didn’t think we would make it.’

Joseph was taken aback. Where had this upset come from? She was fine earlier that morning.

He gave her another hug.

‘I’m not a single action army. We have achieved this. We’ve gone through our challenges and have built a home for ourselves.’

‘I just can’t help but think what if it happens again.’

‘It won’t—’

‘But what if it does and I’m not strong enough?’

‘Then I will have strength for the both of us. Everything is going to be alright. We’re never going to fear losing our home again.’

Aida smiled as she gazed into her husband’s eyes. Again, they cuddled, only this time it was for longer. Aida must have felt his closeness, his love, as a heavenly breeze against the scorching heat of concern that’d evidently engulfed her mind, for her sobbing weakened at once.

‘I best get moving,’ said Joseph, ‘still have a lot to do. Where’s Lucas?’

‘In his bedroom.’

‘I might as well drop him off as I’m going that way.’

‘Alright. I’ll get him moving.’

Aida was clearly fighting back the tears as she walked into the hall. Joseph could tell she was rubbing her eyes. He didn’t want to leave his spouse while she was in such a state, but he had to keep things on schedule.

‘I’ll be in the truck!’ he shouted.

Joseph made his way outside and jumped into his rigid 1965 Ford F600. It was a workhorse of a truck, reliable too. There, he made a light feast of the banana. The flesh was sweet and spikey as ever.

The day was getting noticeably hotter and the sweltering air inside the truck certainly pressed home this fact. Joseph unwound the driver-side window to let the heat escape, though under the sun’s glare, this proved to be only a minor liberation. It had been far cooler just a few hours earlier when he had left to tend the cattle herd, oversee the start of the banana harvest and inspect the pineapple fields.

Conditions for Joseph’s banana herbs had been ideal that year. The soil in which they grew was highly fertile and enriched with plenty of organic matter, especially chicken manure, which Joseph had obtained from a neighbouring farmstead. The air temperature over the past few months had been steady at around ninety degrees Fahrenheit. The atmospheric humidity and the moisture in the soil had been kept high by frequent rainfall. To cut it short, Joseph was expecting to drown in produce.

‘Lucas! Let’s get going!’

The harvest had begun at the break of dawn. The twenty-man workforce who were brought in for the job had got stuck in, cutting down the chandeliers of banana bunches before wrapping them up in cotton bags. From the plantation, the bundles were taken to a temporary shelter for overnight storage and the next day, they would be driven to Bridge Town for distribution.

Lucas, their twelve-year-old son, got into the truck with his school bag. The boy was a curious creature with firm and mature interests.

‘And