Pineapple Holidays

I think my best bet at this point is to move to Cuba and become the ruthless owner of a pineapple plantation.

“Imbued with the Quiet and Nutritious Force of an Unknown Terror,” is how I would advertise my wares.

Slowly my cabal would encircle multiple encampments, having secured various strongholds.

Whenever there was a full moon, eclipse, the running of a comet or some other astronomical anomaly, I would appear on horseback at the top of an isolated hill, silhouetted against the moon and well within view of the terrified inhabitants of the small village where I would have made my home. From this vantage I would scream and pull back the reins of my monstrous horse while thrusting my sword upwards several times as if to confirm and give terrible form to the irresistible impulse of some internal fury. I would demand that all unlikely local phenomenon be attributed to my mysterious and malevolent machinations, in which sacrifices of one form or another were most certainly an necessity.

In public I would wear a wide brimmed hat, dark, impenetrable glasses and behave as if everything vaguely amused me. I would fake risqué photographs of prominent politicians and send them, anonymously, en mass and at irregular intervals to the world’s tabloids, daring the planet to devour itself in its own stupidity.

On my left arm there would be a tattooed image of an drunken Christ exposing himself to a roomful of applauding strangers, with pineapple-like implications. I would drink nothing but pineapple juice and occasionally cough up blood, prompting the concern of one of my many wives whom I would callously brush away. I would have a room with a giant screen upon which a map of the world was shown with the ghostly image of a pineapple superimposed over it, slowly growing to cover the earth.

I’m considering installing a large aviary filled with birds of prey, but that seems a little overboard.