November 4, 2014
"The winds of revolution have passed, and so too, is it time for me to leave as well. It is nice to leave without fires at my back, but a bit less dramatic, don't you think, Balaam?"
For a man in this French-speaking nation, the British accent of the speaker would grate against the common ear, but the voice was hardly attached to the mouth of a common man. His voice was what it needed to be when it needed to be, with even his preferred British affect one born of his peculiar origins rather than any truthful lineage or upbringing.
At one moment, there was a man standing on the ground, a caricature of the ousted President Blaise Compaoré with a suit stained with blood and adorned in lies. A mask completed the image, split between the once revolutionary leader of a coup and the greedy president who sought to keep his position for life. The clothes slipped off easily enough, but the mask had to be torn from the face of the figure, cracking and groaning as the spirit within sheds the effigy that pushed the Burkinabè Revolution from behind the scenes.
"My apologies Blaise, but it is the cause I stand with, not its individual people. Although the 80s were a blast, were they not?"
"You should keep better company than an ass, Joyce, I fear you've gone to talking to yourself again," a new voice cuts in.
"Joyce Jr., Balaam, I would appreciate you stop hounding me with your raillery, at least on the eve of a success. Some reflection aloud is not too much harm, is it?" Joyce Jr. responds, the spirit floating over to his mule companion, Balaam. The ass, equal in its lack of corporeal form, appeared no different than a regular donkey, save its mouth capable of speech. Joyce Jr. however, was the spitting image of a specter.
"Oh Balaam, then all meaning is lost in your story! The very same donkey Balaam rode with his meeting with an angel, if there had only been a given name then I would surely address you by it. But if we are to tie you to your purpose like I am tied to mine, you must suffer the stings left by the diviner."
The stings shone on the side of Balaam, the three scourge's marks left by the donkey's namesake. Balaam had punished his ass for resisting the unseen presence of the angel who would have slain him, and the Lord gave it speech to protest this unnecessary roughness. This divine providence and its legacy brought the mule to the eye of Joyce Jr., and so lead them down this shared path that leads out of Burkina Faso this day.
"I would appreciate a more feminine name at least, bearing the name of a male is an unnecessary confusion." Balaam snorts as Joyce Jr. floats over, manifesting legs for the soul purpose of riding the Biblical beast of burden.
"Very few have need of your name, and those who do already know the truth of it, but let us put name games aside for the moment. If you have come to me, then it is time to ride out, is it not? The people of Burkina Faso are pleased, for the moment, although another visit in a few decades is not unexpected." Joyce Jr. looks towards the sky as he prattles on, even the intense midday sun failing to penetrate the darkness of his face. "Africa is a hotbed for such things, is it not Balaam? Where is our next destination then? Across the border perhaps?"
"There is no shortage of unrest here, but we head for more familiar lands. America." Balaam begins, prodding along the ground until the world disappears around the both of them, wisps of purple and black accompanying them as they pass through the blue aether.
"You will have to be more specific than that, old friend, I have spent many years in the South and Central regions... you couldn't mean you are carrying me homeward?" Joyce Jr. responds, trying to hide the excitement in his voice.
"We are heading to the United States, yes." Balaam replies flatly.
'Oh ho ho ho! It has been all too long! Then the Kobbers are returning then! Most good, most good! I have been very curious about their part in this global play. And you sense it is the proper time?"
"What little trust you place in me! I would not carry you to where I did not believe you were meant to go."
"This shall be most interesting then! Rarely do I commune with fellow vigilantes..." Joyce Jr. says, his hand miming the motion of a pensive chin rub. "I do hope you have given me time to prepare? I would hardly wish to walk up to some such group of import with nothing but stories to my back?"
"We arrive before they have even touched ground, Joyce-"
"Joyce Jr."
"Joyce. If you are to be so doubting of me, perhaps you should find some other companion down this road you weave?"
"Oh Balaam, I am not doubtful, only careful. I would have thought the constant questioning to become apparent only as precaution by now. You are truly as stubborn as your species's reputation,"
"And you certainly match that of yours as well." Balaam quips. The muted and dark tones of the spiritual passage begin to fade as the ghostly hoof of Balaam touches concrete, lights blazing in the night of Las Vegas.
"What a sight this is! Well Balaam, shall we begin?"
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