An American Ex-Pat in... America.

(BBC) Libyan rebels have announced an amnesty for anyone within Col Muammar Gaddafi’s “inner circle” who captures or kills him, and a $1.7m (£1m) reward.

Col Gaddafi’s whereabouts are unknown, though rebels have said they think he is still in or around Tripoli.

Rebels fighters have fought running battles in the capital, where pockets of pro-Gaddafi resistance remain.

The fugitive leader has vowed in an audio message to fight until victory or martyrdom.

************

Deep inside a secret bunker, probably in Tripoli.

Moammar Qaddafi, his son Seif al-Islam al-Qaddafi, and Qaddafi’s loyal-ish translator, Omar are watching a satellite television news report. It reveals there is a $1.7 million bounty on Qaddafi.  (Read Omar’s history here.)

 “One point seven million? One point seven?” Qaddafi fumes. “That’s all I’m worth to them?”

Seif exhales. “Perhaps that’s not the part we should be focusing on, Dad.”

“The King of Kings  - worth a measly $1.7 million?”  Qaddafi starts to stride around the room. 

“Has Hugo Chavez returned any of your phone calls yet, Dad?” Seif’s tone is impatient.

“What about Lockerbie? What about Libyan oil? They spend a $200 million a day in Afghanistan! And I’m only worth $1.7?”

“Dad – “

Qaddafi is ranting now. “I am the ‘Mad Dog’ of the Middle East! Reagan said so!”

Omar pipes up.  “The bounty does not come from the American Satan. It’s from the rebels – the National Transitional Council.  In Benghazi.”

Qaddafi stops mid-stride and stares at Omar. An uneasy silence falls over the room.

Seif turns to Omar.  “You think the CIA has nothing to do with this?”

“Of course they do!”  Omar quickly recovers. “I spit upon the them! You are the Glory that is Libya!”

The tension is broken when Qaddafi’s cellphone beeps. It’s a text message.

“Chavez?” Seif sounds hopeful.

“Mugabe.”  Qaddafi sounds disappointed. “Zimbabwe would do anything to have the King of Kings live among them.”

“I am so not living in Zimbabwe,” Seif says. “It’s a basket-case. And Mugabe has a Hitler moustache.”

Seif looks caught in a day-dream.  “Venezuela, on the other hand, is a nice oil state. With an anti-American dictator. You know – a guy you can trust.”

“You should be careful with a cellphone,” Omar pipes up.  “The rebels could trace your locati –“

He stops short.

“What’s that?” Seif snaps out of his revelry.

“Nothing – nothing,” Omar says.

The cellphone beeps again with a text.  “Mugabe – again!” Qaddafi fumes. “And I’ve heard nothing back from Castro!”

“Fidel or Raul?” Seif asks. 

“Either.”  Qaddafi is staring at his phone.

“May I send the reply to President Mugabe?” Omar ventures.  He swallows hard. “I mean, if it’s too much trouble for Your Excellency.”

Qaddafi thrusts the phone at Omar.  “One point seven million.  I spend more on a single party . I spent more on my unit of female bodyguards.”

“I know, Dad. But maybe it’s time we call Chavez again. Our forces can only hold on to the airport for so long. ”

“There will be no spiderhole in my future!” Qaddafi yells. “I will not be in the Hague! I will die a martyr in Libya!”

“Dad! Remember what we discussed!”  Seif is angry. “That’s only if Chavez doesn’t call!”

A cellphone rings. Qaddafi and Seif look up.

“Whoops!” Omar says. “I accidentally dialed my own number!”  

“So now you have my father’s private number?”  Seif looks suspicious.

“Oh! Do I? No problem! I’ll delete it!”  Omar says, as a line of sweat appears on his brow.   “Let me try ringing Mugabe.”

Seif looks at him through narrow eyes. 

“Maybe I’ll try the call in another room,” Omar says, standing. “The signal in a secret bunker - umm, you know?”

“Well, hurry up,” Seif says. “We’re going to try back Chavez.”

“Maybe Syria would take us,” Qaddafi says. “Have we tried Assad?”

“He’s pretty busy this week too, Dad.”

A small voice can be heard up the hall.  “Hello? I need a number for the National Transitional Council.  In Benghazi.”

Omar glances up the hallway at Qaddafi and Seif.

“Yes, I’ll hold.”

Readers of this blog may recall that President Obama takes regular meetings with Mephistopheles – the representative of the Devil – to whom the president has promised his immortal soul, as Faust once did. (Please read the first installment here; and the second installment here.)

Mephistopheles, in human form, often resembles a lobbyist.

Because the Devil has apparently failed to follow through on some of his original promises of unparalleled political success, President Obama told Mephistopheles earlier this year that he is not handing over his soul.  No -  the president put his foot down. And Mephistopheles left more than a little angry.

Washington is now so enveloped in partisan divisiveness, any reasonable person might wonder –  are those two facts related?

Late July 2011

President Obama exhales, frustrated, as his aides, Congressional Democrats and a group of Republican lawmakers leave ­­the Oval Office, having once again failed to come an agreement on the debt ceiling. Pacing, it takes the president a moment to realize one person – one -  well, one being – remains in the room.  He looks up.

“You,” Obama says. “I should have known.”

“And good day to you, too, sir!” says Mephistopheles, smiling.

“Were you in that meeting all along?”

“Funny, but Congressmen simply can’t tell when the representative of Satan has infiltrated their ranks!” Mephistopheles bounces down on a sofa. “Don’t you think that says a lot about them?”

“What is it that you want?” The president’s voice is clipped.

“Well, to borrow a phrase from you, it’s time to talk turkey.”  Mephistopheles is beaming.

President Obama is not in the mood to be pushed around.

“I’ve told you, your boss has been backsliding on our original agreement. An unprecedented mandate to change the national discourse. Matchless political success -  redeeming government in the eyes of a cynical electorate.”

“And I am just not feeling it.” Obama looks up.  “More importantly, I’m not giving him my immortal soul until he turns around his performance.”  

“Yes, well, I took that to him last time I was here,” Mephistopheles says. “You wanna talk fire and brimstone?  By Satan he was pissed!” 

“I’m not sure I care.”

“Oh -  but you do.” Mephistopheles says. “Wildfires across Texas and Arizona?  Nuclear waste in the Sea of Japan? Kind of reminds you of wormwood?”

Obama just glares at him. 

“Well, it should!” Mephistopheles says.  “I thought you knew his handiwork!”

“Listen,” Obama starts  -  but Mephistopheles cuts him off.

“How dare you suggest that you’re not going to hand over your eternal soul!” Mephistopheles jumps to his feet, yelling. “You don’t dictate terms to Lucifer! You don’t  backslide on Beelzebub! You want to wait til he turns his performance around!?!”

“What arrogance!  What hubris!”  Mephistopheles yells. His voice drops dramatically.  “And – if you hadn’t noticed, you reap what you sow.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Satan has given you a return on your hubris ‘a thousand times a thousand.’  Like Dominique Strauss-Khan, like an unregulated Wall Street.”

Obama continues to glare.

“And just where, Mr. President, have you encountered hubris?”  Mephistopheles sneers.

Obama’s face falls. “The debt ceiling.”

“But of course!”  Mephistopheles can barely contain his glee - he’s almost dancing. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“The debt ceiling – previously a tiny facet of  budgetary talks only noted by economists and a handful of lawmakers – is now on everybody’s lips!  From the beaches to the Beltway! From hair salons to the Hill!” Mephistopheles is on a roll. 

“It’s been extended 79 times since 1960 – seven times in the last administration, and yet  your political rivals are playing political brinksmanship with the global economy! The global economy! All to make you look bad!”

Mephistopheles really is dancing now.  “That, my friend, is hubris.”

“None of this is news to me,” the president says.   

“Oh, but it’s the question of scale!”

He puts on John Boehner’s voice and pretends to weep.  “All I want to do is ignore my own party putting us trillions of dollars in debt, defy the basic laws of economics and arithmetic, [sniffle]  and make you a one-term president.  [Sob] Robbing from the poor and giving to the rich? That’s the American dream! Oh, boo-hoo-hoo!”

Mephistopheles does a quick spin.

“We’ve reached fabulous new lows in the abdication of facts from the national discourse! All because of your hubris! Isn’t it wonderful?”

Obama starts to speak. But Mephistopheles puts on cartoon voices and starts singing both parts of that old duet.

I can do anything you can do, better! I can do anything better than you! No, you can’t! Yes, we can. No, you can’t.

He bounces up to President Obama to deliver the last line.

Yes, we can! Yes, we can! Yes, we can!

“Fine!” Obama yells. It’s so startling that even Mephistopheles stops. “You can have my immortal soul.”

“In full?” Mephistopheles says.

“Just tell me where to sign.”

With a sudden flourish, Mephistopheles produces an old-fashioned quill and a scroll.

“Now hang on,” Obama says. “If I sign this, then we reach an agreement on the debt ceiling that doesn’t drag into the 2012 election cycle, and I win re-election and we get back to fixing the economy, ending the wars, rebuilding our infrastructure and reforming energy policy?  And we make Washington a little less broken?”

“Well, once facts are abdicated, you can’t just bring them back like that,” Mephistopheles snaps his fingers, producing a tiny cloud of sulfur. “These things take time. Your best bet is winning the Clash of the Narratives.”

“Let me guess,” Obama says. “The Republicans are hard-working, church-going, fiscal conservatives, whose core values help ensure the American dream for generations to come, and America’s global supremacy?  While the Democrats are godless, big-spending, arrogant liberal elites, whose attitudes on everything from the economy to immigration to guns to media to sex to science is the top of a slippery slope toward moral decay and the US’s long-term decline?”

“Aren’t you being a bit hard on yourself?” Mephistopheles grins.

“I happen to believe that our nation is strengthened by its willingness to seize upon complicated challenges,” Obama says. “That the only constant in the world is change.  And it’s our progressive attitude toward reforming the mechanics behind the American dream, such as the economy, tax reform, immigration, universal access to health care, gay civil rights - and ending misguided wars while remaining a leader in the community of nations as a force for stability - results in a greater inclusiveness, greater personal freedoms and prosperity for all.”

Mephistopheles is about to speak but Obama holds up a finger.

“While the implosion of the Republican party prompted them to appeal to a Tea Party base that is clinging to a reactionary American past that frankly, never actually existed. And it results in increased social ills like drug addiction and teen pregnancy, the eradication of rights, the endangering of America, and the absolute brutalization of the middle class electorate that the Republicans claim to hold so dear.”

“Well, then-‘’   Mephistopheles hands Obama and the quill.

President Obama signs away his immortal soul.

“The thing I love, love, love about the Clash of the Narratives? Real Americans vs Smart Americans?” Mephistopheles says, while rolling up the scroll. “It’s the exact same elitism, tied up in different color bows!”

Mephistopheles stands.  “Isn’t it wonderful?”

And in a puff of sulfur, he vanishes from the room.