Every Dog Must Serve a Master

The Dreadful Obazy sits. Like a good dog, the Dreadful one sits on command from his handlers. Sitting on the floor his legs drawn up to his chest and his arms clutching his legs tightly, he look hesitantly up through watering eyes at the inquisitors dressed in black circled around him.

"We have been watching and we are not happy."

"The country heads toward being ruled by the organization, as you have ordered. What more do you want?" Obazy simpered.

"Do you think that is all we want?" shouted one of the inquisitors, followed by a large bucket of cold water being poured over him.

"If that is all you think we want, perhaps we put the wrong person in your place," stated another of the inquisitors, this one had the unmistakable voice of a female, it was light and sing song, but held an undercurrent of evil.

"Tell me what you desire and it will be done," Obazy simpered in a shaky voice.

"This country must be ruined economically. This nation must be made a country of slaves. Take over all the means of creating wealth, put in place processes that will bankrupt the system and lead to inflation such the world has never seen. When that is done return for your next orders."

The inquisitors exited the room, and Obazy was left sitting wet. A towel dropped onto his shoulder, and when he looked up, Mr. Hand stood above him with a dissatisfied stare.

"The Zombie lords grow angry and impatient. They feel you should be further along in the process than you are. Only one corporation has been delivered to the Government and Universal Health Care has still yet to see its day in Congress. You must act more quickly before the people grow dissatisfied and angry. You have a short amount of time to put in place policies that will ensure our victory, and you are lagging. I do not want to return here again. Unlike humans, Zombies eat their own."