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I begin as a shy student drawn to the demonstration out of curiosity. Eva Mendes is on the stage making a speech that is as honey on fire. Her magnificent figure is packed into a proper student’s outfit with a Mao jacket thrown over it for that touch of sexy red arrogance. Her impassioned plea for the rights of fruit pickers awakens the patriot within my shell of youthful bourgeois reticence. As the demonstration is dispersed by the General’s paramilitary police with tear gas and riot guns, I run to her. I capture her attention for a brief, thrilling second and utter but one word; “Gracias!” Eva Mendes nods politely and slips away as I succumb to the tear gas and collapse in a sobbing heap.
 
 
When I am released from jail, I vow to become a warrior for the people, and to one day do it with Eva Mendes.


In the ensuing months I emerge as the dashing leader of the people’s insurgency. From our base in the Yutain Mountains we are a formidable armed resistance to the General’s regime. One night our comrades from the city bring supplies for us. Eva Mendes, stunning in peasant clothing, is among them. She doesn’t recognize me as I have developed a hard, revolutionary physique and a charismatic air. Her wide, dark eyes consider me. Once we are alone with the twinkling constellations above, I shower Eva Mendes with poetry and song. She blushes. I grow too forward by brushing her cheek with my hand. She slaps and curses me. I beg her forgiveness. “You are no gentleman,” she says, “You are a horse!” It sounds cooler in Spanish. Anyway, she leaves and I don’t see her for a year.


Under pressure from our insurgency, the General forms a coalition government with us. There is a ceasefire, but the general’s grayshirt thugs are still causing trouble throughout the land. One day Eva Mendes stumbles into my office crying, having been assaulted by grayshirts. Her face has a few small cuts (nothing that would mar her model-perfect complexion) and her dress is ripped in a sexy jungle-girl kind of way. Enraged, I gather my supporters and we march on the grayshirt headquarters to arrest the offending men. The general dispatches troops to disperse us, but they rally to our side and the general is deposed. I become the leader of our nascent social democracy and I prosecute Eva Mendes’ attackers as my first official act. I visit Eva Mendes in the hospital (she looks fabulous in bed), where she smiles and reaches to touch my cheek. “You are my hero, presidente,” she says in a really sweet and girlish voice. “It is you who are my heroine, Eva,” I say, and take the Latin beauty into my arms.

  Eva Mendes and I are married in the capitol’s largest cathedral with hundreds of guests present. Her elaborate wedding dress stretches into tomorrow. Her mere presence emits an almost radioactive glow. She is so perfect that perfection itself wants to be called Eva Mendes. I myself am quite impressive in my formal white uniform and regal haircut. After the wedding we wave to the thousands of well-wishers lining the streets from our open limousine, and then take a lengthy honeymoon cruise down the Atlantic coast. We walk along beaches together holding hands, I in shorts and a casual shirt, she in a loose white dress. The breeze tosses her hair as we walk, kiss, laugh and occasionally skip rocks. She retains her radioactive glow, particularly at night.


I do it with Eva Mendes on our honeymoon, and I do it with her afterwards. I do it with Eva Mendes a lot.


Eva Mendes becomes a much beloved first lady. She supports and inspires me as I nationalize the fossil-fuel industry and initiate land reform, universal health care and ambitious education programs, much to the chagrin of the rich, the Americans and the corporate sector. The people respond be electing and re-electing me. Eva Mendes and I travel the world meeting other world leaders, whom she dazzles with her vibrant personality, unearthly beauty and remarkable knowledge of all subjects. At home, we entertain Sultans, Presidents and CEOs with commanding success. Since I’m doing it a lot with Eva Mendes, eventually we announce that she is pregnant with our first child. The nation rejoices. Bono sends a letter telling me that I am a lucky bastard. Concerned about Eva Mendes’ persistent radioactive glow, I have a doctor examine her.


The radioactive glow turns out to be radiation sickness. The grayshirts had secretly poisoned her. Enraged, I launch a campaign to capture and destroy them. Eva Mendes chastises me for this excess. “Be a gentle leader, my presidente,” she says, and I resolve to do so, prosecuting them fairly and without prejudice.


Eva Mendes dies soon after giving birth. I hold her hand as she gazes lovingly at her young infant son.

“You will always be my presidente,” she says, her hand on my face, as she gently gives up the ghost.


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 I am dispirited for a time, but I soon find strength for the sake of my son, who remarkably does not have any ill effects from his mother’s sickness. In fact, he seems to have an uncanny ability to see through walls.


Eva Mendes is gone but not forgotten, and I have become a lone father figure for the nation. Nonetheless, I find myself strangely fascinated by my son’s nanny, Zooey Deschanel. She looks rather fetching in her tight-fitting, frilly yellow dress.
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