The dictator arrives in the town of Lizard Mesa, carried in an armored car. He gives a speech, as he promised.
He makes many sweeping, powerful gestures with his hands and speaks many big, potent words. The townspeople listen, and they clap politely.
Afterwards, he ducks into the backseat of the car, and orders his trusted driver to take him back to his palace in the big city.
The car travels for a while before it crosses the traintracks that border Lizard Mesa. It tries to cross, but immediately becomes stuck on the tracks.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the dictator growls from the back seat, awakening in an alcoholic haze. “Why have we stopped?”
“Not to worry, sir,” says the driver. “Look now! A few good Samaritans are walking over to help push the car off the tracks.
” But rather than waiting for them to arrive, she gets out of the car to assist them. She locks the doors as she exits.
Her hands press against the rear window. Soon, other hands join hers.
The dictator looks through the windows at all the hands upon each window. He beams.
“How generous of these poor peasants,” the dictator remarks. “How self-sacrificing.”
“Yes,” says the driver, from outside the car. There’s something off about her voice, something foreboding. He doesn’t like it. He sits upright suddenly.
“But why isn’t the car moving?” he asks.
He looks down at the wine goblet he holds. The liquid is vibrating, instantly clearing the haze from his mind.
“There’s a train coming,” he says, frantically unlocking the doors. “There’s a train coming! We have to get off the tracks. Why aren’t you pushing?”
“We are pushing,” the driver says. The many hands shove harder against the doors. The dictator struggles with the handles, but cannot open the doors, cannot free himself from the car.
“You’re all going to die!” he screams. “You’re going to kill me, and yourselves!”
“It’s the only way,” says the driver. “*The right of a nation to kill a tyrant in case of necessity can no more be doubted than to hang a robber, or kill a flea.*”
The wine goblet drops from the dictator’s hand.
There is a terrible shattering of glass.