POL POT

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Note: this was originally on spork press

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Pol Pot was dead.

Then there was a helicopter, an aeroplane, a scientist, some drugs, some lightning and a video recording of some guy screaming ‘It’s alive…mostly.’

Pol Pot was man again.

But he felt bad.

Really bad.

The last twenty years or so he had been on the edge of nothingness. But only on the edge. Something wouldn’t let him fall in, he didn’t know what, so he’d been sitting there, his legs dangling over the edge, thinking about everything he’d done in his life while others came, waved and then dropped into the abyss.

The first four years had been okay.

He’d had a decent life, hadn’t done much wrong. He’d risen high, met every challenge in the face, dealt with those who turned against him.

But still he couldn’t fall into nothingness.

After four years and a bit, a farmer from his country drifted by and called him a ‘monster.’

‘Sorry?’ said Pot, confused.

‘I said, ‘monster’,’ the farmer repeated.

‘Do I know you?’

‘Not really.’

‘So why do you call me monster?’

‘Because you told someone to kill me, monster.’

‘I did?’ Continue reading