Portrait of a Fascista

Mussolini in modern Rome. A short, nonsensical comedy. Slightly political, mostly just fun.

Benito Mussolini strode up and down the hills of Rome, hustling and bustling with a gusto that could only be matched by his bellicosity. His eyes roamed about him, spotting every olive-skinned beauty within his range, and he occasionally bellowed a boisterous “bonjourno” to those he found most pleasing to his eyes. Despite his appearance (a balding, overweight Fascista), he walked with confidence, which showed itself in his stride. It was Saturday night in Italy, and he was out to find that rare love that fits within the strictly defined contours of fascism.  The outdoor cafés marveled at Benito; it had been years since someone had worn a 1930s Italian military uniform in the streets. Still, it must be said that it helped cover his otherwise unimpressive figure, which revealed a practiced and precise gastronomic decadence. In short, Benito was ready to take over the town, although this time socially rather than militarily.

            It was nearing 6 P.M. when Mussolini boarded the Metro at Termini station to head towards the Ottaviano stop. The Metro was crowded, and Mussolini was barely able to fit inside. Once he did, however, his presence caused a bit of an uproar among his fellow passengers. He constantly wobbled back and forth, resembling a sunburnt penguin in marshal boots, bouncing from passenger to passenger. However, the grumbling of the passengers did not bother him. He already had plans to subjugate them all under another Roman Empire, although this time without his soul mate Adolf by his side. His fantasies of conquest were abruptly interrupted upon his noticing he had arrived at his stop. Rushing forward, Mussolini managed to trample an elderly couple in his path, but this was of no concern to him. What mattered was that he got to the nearest McDonald’s in order to fill his stomach before he went clubbing. As he made his way down Viale Giulio Cesare to grab his favorite Happy Meal, his trademark gaze drifted from building to building. He imagined himself lifted into the air by his fellow citizens, and then later arresting those who were not enthusiastic enough for his taste. Glimpsing his reflection in a shop window, he felt a surge of self-confidence. If only Pope Pius XI could see him now! When he saw that he had arrived at McDonald’s, he walked inside and ordered seven chicken nugget Happy Meals.

            His hunger got the best of him, and he finished his food in seconds, in a scene that epitomized the soaring heights of gluttony. After finishing, he laid back in his chair and closed his eyes for a few minutes, occasionally wincing as his stomach ached. Eating McDonald’s often made him feel sick, but he never let this deter him in his quest to satiate his merciless hunger. After his stomach began to settle, he got out of his seat and headed out of McDonald’s and towards a new nightclub called “The League” that had opened up about half a mile away. That night, he was meeting up with his best friend, Matteo Salvini. Matteo and Mussolini developed a strong bond through their love of ultra-nationalism and despotism. Although Matteo was in a serious relationship with television host Elisa Isoardi, this did not stop him from trying to score with his buddy Benito under Roman strobe lights. When Mussolini arrived at “The League”, Matteo was already there waiting for him. Mussolini smiled a warm, dictatorial smile at his friend. Matteo was dressed sharply, with a suit that would make Giorgio Armani cringe in jealous rage.

            “I see you dressed up, my friend,” Mussolini said harshly, enunciating each syllable as if a hyena cackling in the Tanzanian sun.

            “And I see you decided to wear the military uniform. Very austere.”

            “Thank you. How’s Elisa?” Mussolini asked.

            “She’s at home with the kids. I told her I was going out to speak at a rally against migration.” Matteo’s excuses always impressed Mussolini.

            “Good thinking. What are their names again?”

            “The people putting on the rally?”

            “No, the kids.”

            “Oh, I forget. That’s not important anyway. What matters is that tonight, we score.” Matteo said “score” with an animalistic desire, which could only be matched by the twisted features expressed on his face. After this final word, the two walked into the club side by side, ready to break hearts, and if things went their way, spirits as well. They went to the bar and ordered drink after drink, inebriated by the alcohol and their discussion of various diabolical plans dreamt up during sleepless nights. After taking a few tequila shots, Mussolini headed to the bathroom to regurgitate his beverages. On the way back from his trip, Mussolini caught sight of someone who he assumed to be a migrant (he assumed everyone with dark skin was a migrant), and felt enraged. Mussolini went up to the person, leaned into his face, and puffed his stomach out in an attempt to produce fear.

            “What are YOU doing here?” Mussolini grumbled.

            “Having a good time! Are you okay, though? You seem agitated.”

            “Are you a migrant?”

            “I’m sorry, but that’s none of your business.”

            “Tell me, NOW.” Mussolini was beginning to attract the attention of those around him. The unlucky patron maintained his composure, and told Mussolini that he was indeed a migrant, and that his name was Negasi. He had come over to Italy from Ethiopia, and took his family with him in search of a better life. Negasi had recently found work as a writer for a local newspaper, and wrote about the latest news in Rome. He had three children, and unlike Matteo, he knew their names, and loved them deeply. He had been married, but his wife had died on the way to Italy. None of these details were heard by Mussolini. The only word he paid any attention to in Negasi’s narrative was the word “Ethiopia.” Visions of the Second Italo-Ethiopian War flashed through Mussolini’s head, and an anger gripped him which he just couldn’t shake. Mussolini curled his hand into a fist, and punched Negasi in the face. Negasi’s nose bled, but beyond that he was okay. Matteo had seen everything as it happened, and rushed to Mussolini’s aid as soon as Negasi hit the floor. Upon seeing Negasi, Matteo felt an anger akin to Mussolini’s. Matteo immediately assumed Negasi was a migrant due to his racial prejudices, and he hated migrants. It was undeniable to anyone who saw Negasi that he had class, enormous courage, and unwavering resolve to better himself and his children, even if it meant risking his life. In short, he was everything Matteo wasn’t, and Matteo couldn’t stand this. Matteo pulled Mussolini away, and they quickly left the club.

            “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this,” Matteo whispered on the way out. “After all, I am the Deputy Prime Minister of Italy. It’s situations like this that drew me to politics.”

            “You’re always there when I need you, Il Capitano.” They smiled at each other, and parted ways, each heading back to their less-than-humble abode. By the time Negasi had told the bouncers at the club what happened, Matteo and Mussolini had long been gone, and nobody knew it was Mussolini who had punched Negasi. The next day, Mussolini woke up hungover, but relieved he had suffered no repercussions for his actions. Getting out of bed, he fell into daytime fantasies, imagining a slavish Empire devoted to him, and perhaps (but with great reluctance) Matteo Salvini.