“BASHAR YOU SLOB, I’m fed up,” yells my wife. “All you do is sit around all day drinking beer and ordering multiple executions.” I wince and look around the sofa I’m slumped in. She’s right, I’m a joke. Discarded beer cans, crumpled Snickers wrappers, and several well-leafed files of political dissidents with ‘EXTERMINATE THIS PERSON’ scrawled on the covers. What have I become?
When I force myself to think about it, I realise I’ve let my passion for gruesomely murdering civilians get in the way of family life. At dinner the other day I came in all excited, wanting to tell my kids about the latest bombing of Homs – they just groaned and told me to shut up. My wife says I’ve become a bore, and it’s true; no-one wants to hear about my lethal gassing programs in the suburbs of Damascus, it’s just not interesting.
I’m learning more and more these days that marriage is about compromise, and if that means sacrificing one of my hobbies, so be it. That’s why I’m turning over a new leaf. From now on, I’m going to try to only savagely murder 50 people a day, max.
To be honest I’m scared that if I spend any more time having my citizens brutally culled, my wife’s going to walk out on me. And I can’t bear the thought of having her killed too.