The birth of American foreign policy: Couldna´ Wouldna´ Shouldna’.
By: Kevin Farran
Tags: Trump Administration, Short Fiction, Columbus, Political Satire, Foreign Policy

A balloon-bellied stomach, stained with drizzlings of pork fat and ale, extended as the carcass leaned back in his chair. “Chris, what’s the point of going around the world to visit another people, another country you don’t have anything to do with?”

“Aye, stay home Chris,” added the other friend, “the weather is better and the local fights are known, it’s just the Turks and the Frenchies we have to deal with, or the Goths, maybe the Romans, but they’ve buggered off at least.”

Chris leaned back and brushed his flowing blond locks clear from his brow. They needed to feast on his image. Chris believed image bore greater impact than truth or substance. He curled his lip in disdain. “I couldna be satisfied with just looking after myself. It is my responsibility to enlighten others to my way of living, to impose my ways on their lives. If they are not like me, then I am sure it is a mere anomaly, and they want to be like me as soon as possible.”

The local drew a slurp of cheap rum and began to speak before pulling the mug clearly from his grizzled chin. A trickle of tawny liquid seeped into his greying beard. “But look at the problems we’ve got here. We’ve got petty strife, with armies constantly marching through to take the jewel of Spain, filth on the streets and more beggars than fish in the ocean.”

His buddy leaned in, “Aye we’d be better to look at the horde of termites eating the timbers of our own home than race off to God knows where just to plunder some fresh pockets.”

Chris shook his head and sighed. They were too simple to understand. Good drinking mates, but not worthy of deep thought. “It wouldna be right for me to leave resources untapped, to leave other countries without the benefit of my guidance. These others are heathens, once they see the value of my ways, or I am able to stand on their throats until they worship my presence, they will never be truly developed. It wouldna be right to leave them be. There is too much value to be enjoyed. It wouldna be right for me to leave it to its own course.”

The buddies looked at each other and rolled their eyes then called for the harassed bar wench to bring another round. Her responsive sneer left them in doubt of both whether they would get a round or indeed if they were worthy of it.

The friend leaned in and peered over the lip of his mug of rum. “Chris, if you want to teach a pig to shit in the corner of the stye, you just move the muck to the corner and it’ll clue in and go dump there.”

The neighboring rotund friend nodded. “It’s true Chris. My Carlotta took her pig to the corner three times and now it unloads its guts in the corner just as clean as you please, with no bother to others. You could eat off the floor now.”

Chris stared in disgust. Eating off the floor was an enticement too far.

A mug of rum swung up toward Chris. “It shouldna be scattered across the stye or the country. You’ve got to look after yer own mess first before you go ranting at others.”

Chris felt the stench of piss and sweat rise in his throat. “What the hell kind of thinking is that? This is a classic, ‘don’t do as I do, do as I say.’ It would take eons to get this country back on track. It is much easier to go and direct others and shunt the unsightly crap to a corner at the back of the barnyard. If your Carlotta looked out across the lands she’d be gone faster than shit from her shovel. Why would she stay with the likes of you?”

The massive belly jiggled with laughter. “You’re too kind to me, Chris. You can heap abuse on any soul just to push your point of view. “

“He’s right Chris. You have to accept you couldna ever face your own troubles, you wouldna ever have the guts to tackle the problems you caused, and you shouldna been so full of yourself as to turn a blind eye to your own faults.”

Chris leaned back. He was sure they were the same drinking buddies he had always known, but where did they get this opinion of him? What right did they have to castigate him? He was the leader to set the future free, he was not the one to make the present better.

Chris had had enough, he drained his mug and walked to the docks. Their condemnation was but rain on the shoulders of his tanned leather cloak. He gazed at the glistening cobbles along the dock. What did they know of greatness. Greatness cannot be held back by “Couldna, Shouldna, Wouldna.’ Such thoughts splattered off his shoulder and raced to the puddles of murk at his feet. He would rise above it, that could be his greatest calling, and should be a worshipped gift to others.

Below the grey, crooked archway of the port side pub, his friends gazed at the figure as it receded to the mist of the docks. The cloaked shadow and his pursuit of greatness vanished into the night. They shook their greasy locks and returned for another round and to muddle through the disarray of their present lives.