Daily Routines

After settling regally into his imposing throne-like chair, Kazuo breaks the pensive silence by barking orders at scurrying ministers and generals scattered before him:

"The northern provinces grow restive under your pathetically lax controls. Crush all signs of rebellion before I turn 50!"

An aged general issues groveling assurances of new crackdowns in the North as Kazuo's bored gaze drifts to surveillance camera feeds staining the office walls. Scenes of squalor, oppression, misery - and the occasional public execution - provide a soothing background din.

"Bring me today's batch of dissident prisoners..." Kazuo drawls. Soon the office fills with anguished screams as the dictator leisurely rehearses new torture techniques on trembling enemies of the state. Their begging only amplifies his peals of gleeful laughter at each creative rupture and pop.

"Remove this garbage," he commands once boredom returns. The ministers continue transactions that shape global events big and small according to Kazuo's passing urges.

"...Cancel my sister's birthday gala. Her last insults still chafe my ears."

"...Kidnap and bring the British foreign minister's daughter. His insolent tongue must be chained."

The hours pass in a blur of decrees and diversions. But as sunset approaches, Kazuo's thoughts drift unexpectedly to memories beyond the long shadow he now casts ubiquitously across humanity.

He murmurs softly: "I was born nothing. Just another angry child hip-deep in filth. Now kings kiss my boots..." Was this destiny or mere chance behind the tyrant's astonishing rise from those wretched streets? For a moment, the dictator almost yearns to stand there again - relishing the pure recklessness that drove his fists before a life caged by absolute control and power had twisted his soul beyond all recognition.