The Blatter Siege

Sitting in front of the plethora of media microphones, he could feel the uprising of a potential sweat. Whether originating from the raft of dazzling spotlights or the impending address he was about to give, one thing was for certain – his shirt was about to take the strain from an overweight mans sweat glands.

The faces that met his gaze were all from various media sources. Newspaper, digital, TV. No matter where they worked though, they were still all scavengers. Picking apart carrion left by bigger game such as himself. He kept in his sneer. They wouldn’t destroy his proudest moment – in fact, they would only enhance it. The worlds focus would be on him – finally – as they all joined to embrace the world leader of football. His leadership had revitalised the sport and this speech was only the start of the love-in. Honours from royalty, acknowledgments from countries and heads of state, his presence would wash all over the globe, he would bathe in the adulation, drink in the……

“Mr Blatter Sir………Sir?!!!”

Sepp snapped out of his reverie. From his high-backed leather chair, lined with the finest elephant ivory on the arms, he stretched his arms and looked upon his grand setting. His office would put most peoples houses to shame, such was the scale. On every wall there were the finest examples of oil paintings. Ranging from Matisse to Picasso, it was food for the soul. One wall was dominated by a grand piece of art. Sepp was the subject, against a backdrop of bloodied victims, one boot was atop a vanquished enemy. It was quite the statement.

The floors were dressed in carpets hailing from Dubai. In a large aperture in another wall sat a gargantuan fishtank filled with aquatic life. Tropical fish mingled with manta rays and the occasional chained man.

His assistant, of a nervy disposition on his best day, was positively bristling with angst. He waited patiently for his boss to respond. that is, until his precarious mental disposition could bear no more….

” Sir? The whole building has been evacuated, it is only us left. The police, the FBI, Sir…..they want you to leave this very minute! The repeated warnings, the multiple warrants, we need to go now! I’m sorry Sir, but your tenure is simply at an end.”

A sigh. That was the sole response from the man who sat astride the governing body of football and was currently only there by the skin of his porcelain veneers.

This wouldn’t do. Don’t they realise what I have done for football? Where I have taken this preposterous game? The money that is being investigated is merely for the immense services I have given, the many years I have sacrificed? I have earned every single cent!

Inside his mind raged, a mental volcano spilled over and its caustic ash tainted the plausible with his own strain of the ludicrous.

He couldn’t stop now. He would talk to these lawmen. He would show them how much he adores FIFA.

He struggled his lumpy frame out of the plump chair and shuffled over to his assistant whose jerky movement and swift neck twists gave off an air of a squirrel on a psychadelic.

The Walther that Sepp had concealed in his tiger skin dressing gown was now in his hand and firmly pressed against the squirrel-like assistant’s neck.  Instead of further panicking him and causing his body to convulse, the firearm that would probably end his life had caused his twitches and trembling to cease.

They walked over to one of the huge bay windows and the police lights and the beams of many torches caused a massive contrast to the clear night sky above, which was inky black.

The window swung open and the buzz of activity from the temporary unified law enforcers swiftly ended. All eyes were on Blatter, just as he thought they should be.

From the perspective of the Chief of Police, he could only see the gun pressed against the assistant. All of a sudden, before he can order the SWAT team to respond to the sight of Blatter wielding a pistol, the man in question pistol-whips the assistant to the floor and stretches out his arms, before exclaiming in a sing-song voice……

“Go FIFA! Go FIFA! Go FIFA!”

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A crackle of gunfire zipped through the night air and was the perfect accompaniment to the swash of blood red that spilled from Blatters shoulder. He fell to the floor and the herd of police fell upon the building like a hungry swarm.

Blatter, dazed but still indignant, dropped the gun. He must find a way out of this predicament, he must make them see that he is the one who has suffered. He has earned every single penny!

The police kicked open the barricaded gilded door. They cuffed and escorted him from the FIFA HQ and the flash bulbs shone upon a face that was shocked to see his kingdom fall to its knees. The headlines would read like a shameful roll-call but, Blatter would use his reach to gain a foothold in his recovery. He would be back.

The assistant awoke from his forced slumber with a large lump on his temple and a murky mind. He was on a hospital bed and the ward was empty. A silhouette  resembling a large man carrying either a rifle or a chunky fishing rod stood sentry by the door. His old friend panic then reintroduced itself by sending a cold chill through his body.

He must call Michel.

He has to know what will occur and introduce measures to save face. This could end in unparalleled disaster.

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