“I have found a way to overcome my illness, Jose,” General Gordo said.

Jose walked to the side of the bed and set the General’s sandwich tray down on the night stand.  The salt air of the Caribbean enveloped and stuck to his skin, riding a gentle breeze through the open windows of the General’s seaside villa.  Jose looked down with contempt at his dying dictator and wondered what new method of cheating death he had concocted now. 

“General, we have been through this.  Your cancer is too advanced for treatment.  You must focus on your transfer of power.”

And die already, Jose said in his thoughts.

General Gordo shook his head.  “No, I have it this time.”

And you had it last time, Jose thought.  Just die, please.

First, the General had tried to purify himself in water blessed by a voodoo priestess.  Then he had attempted to defeat the cancer by undergoing a week of coffee enemas.  Jose could not imagine what silly cure the General had thought of now.  Perhaps he had heard bathing in the semen of twenty young men somehow killed cancer.

“General, you must put the affairs of state first.” 

Jose picked up the bread knife off the tray and sliced the sandwich in half.  He did not actually care if the General ever chose a successor.  But the controlling Party had pressured Jose through threats to his life, to consistently remind the General of his need to name an heir. 

“If you do not name a successor, the country will fall into chaos after your death.”

General Gordo smirked.  “I have that all arranged.  I know full well who will take my place.  But it is a reality that will never come to pass.  I am not going to die from this disease.”

Jose decided not to argue.  As the General’s personal aide, he understood his role often included shutting up and pretending what the dictator said made sense.

“What is this new found way, General?”  Jose handed over half of the sandwich.

“Have you seen the cartoon Futurama, Jose?”  General Gordo took a small bite.

Jose shook his head.  “No, I have never seen it.  But I am not a fan of cartoons.”

General Gordo chewed then swallowed.  “It is an American cartoon set in the future.  Very funny.”

Jose shrugged.  “And this is where you found your solution?”

“Yes.  There are characters on it that are nothing but severed heads in jars.  No bodies.  Just heads.  And they are alive.”

The image of cartoon heads in jars evaded Jose’s imagination.  “Why do they not have bodies?”

The General ran his fingers through his long beard.  “I do not know.  But they seem to function well without them.  I imagine it would be quite easy to be a head in a jar.”

“How does that apply to your solution?”

“Jose, that is my solution.”

“What is?”

General Gordo smiled.  “I want you to cut off my head and put it in a jar.  No body, no cancer.  I will continue to live.”

Jose realized the General’s desperate desire to live had finally destroyed his rational mind.  “You cannot be serious.”

General Gordo nodded.  “But I am.”

“If I cut off your head, General, you will die.”

“No, I will be a head in a jar.  What part of this do you not understand?”

A few moments of uncomfortable silence passed.  Jose thought of a way to convince the General his idea was not prudent without telling him how ludicrous it was.

“It would be hard to run the country, just being a head in a jar.”

“No, it would not, Jose.  I could still give speeches and orders.  Besides, I would not have to worry about pissing the bed anymore.  On the show, Richard Nixon is one of the heads in jars.  If Nixon can do it, so can I.”

The insanity of the request had not completely sunk in for Jose.  Something about its lunacy forced him to ask more questions.

“Does only the head go in the jar?”

“Water, perhaps?”

“Water will prune you.”

General Gordo sat silent.  After a few seconds he said, “Pickle juice.”

Jose almost laughed but managed to restrain himself.  “You want to float in pickle juice?”

“I like pickles, Jose.  And that way, no one would have to worry about feeding me.  The pickle juice will provide a constant source of nourishment.”

Jose could not argue with the logic since none existed.  “General, I just do not see--”

“You do not have to see, Jose.  You will just do.”  He reached to the nightstand and grabbed a piece of paper.  “Here is the successor named in writing and signed by myself.  It states if I die during this procedure the seat of power is to be transferred immediately.  Now you can perform the surgery without worry of the country falling into chaos.”

Jose was about to tell the General no such operation would ever be possible when he saw his name listed as the successor.

“You have named me to replace you?  I am to be your successor?”

“You are the only man I trust.  After all these years, you have stood by my side while everyone else has schemed behind my back, plotting their own ways to take my power.  And through those years, you watched me run this country.  You know what it takes to be a successful leader.  In many ways, I see you as the son I never had.”

Jose remembered his mother and father, beheaded by General Gordo as presumed Revolutionaries when he was twenty years old.  He thought about his brother, the brother General Gordo had put in prison to ensure Jose’s loyalty.  Now the crazy dictator, the man that had destroyed his family to ensure he gained a trustworthy aide, thought of Jose as his son?  Sometime between this morning and now, Jose thought God turned the world upside down.

“But the operation will be a success,” the General said.  “You do not need to worry yourself about the affairs of state.  It is only a precaution.”

The only sounds Jose could muster consisted of vowels without consonants.  He watched General Gordo take another bite of the sandwich before looking back down at his name on the paper.

“When will you be ready to operate, Jose?”

Jose did not let the opportunity pass through his hands.  He picked up the bread knife and went into surgery.