General Jose Millan-Astray, Commander of the Falcon Legion and Chairman of the Committee for the Free and Open Press. "Estardo's Bulldog"
The “Committee for the Free and Open Press” was created by Generalissimo Estardo in 1922 to regulate the Spanish press. Or more accurately, it was created to bring under the direct supervision of the new Imperial State, the already supplicant forces of media intelligentsia that were eager and ready to push the agenda of falangism. Despite this, Estardo felt it necessary to ensure that the Committee was chaired by someone he could trust. This meant of course that he would be recruiting from among the ranks of his friends in the old officer corps of the defunct Royal Army. Among those men Estardo cherished the immutable and stalwart character of one above all others, General Jose Millan-Astray. Millan-Astray was a decorated veteran of the Great War, much like Estardo, a war hero. He was also a violent and egotistical braggart who lashed out at his inferiors at the slightest provocation. Millan-Astray, when he wasn't busy conducting the affairs of the Empire elsewhere in the world, conducted the business of the Committee for the Free and Open Press like he conducted the business of the Imperial Army, with an iron fist, well-prepared for insubordination and disobedience with a long list of punishments and reprisals for any potential slight or insult.
The elevator creaked and rumbled. The committee headquarters had been requisitioned from what once, ironically, had been the clandestine offices of the Spanish Popular Front. This was intentional – the old order of political instability and infighting was to be replaced and overwritten with the uniformity and glory of falangism; but, one of its drawbacks was that the Popular Front had never been quite so popular as to be able to afford decent infrastructure. General Millan-Astray marked his annoyance by slapping his secretary.
Some women are like gongs, he reflected,
to be beaten regularly.
In addition to his cruelty streak (if it could be called a streak, it was more like a stain that had permanently soiled the only clothes he owned) the good General was a cripple. No, a war invalid. In Morocco he lost his left hand and part of his wrist (actually, most of his arm), in Andalusia –
or was it Alentejo? – his right eye. Unlike Estardo, General Jose Millan-Astray had little redeeming character that made up for his sadist obsession with blood. The lift doors opened.
The third floor of the Committee building could have been any office in Europe, with sunlight streaming through half-shuttered windows and the sound of workers pecking away at typerwiters filling the warm summer air. The General adjusted his cap in place of shedding the layered uniform he wore at all times, no matter how hot it was. His secretary followed him at a brisk pace, applying another layer of makeup as usual
(the slut) to cover the bruising Millan-Astray gave her.
“Media Secretary Hernandez!” the General barked. It didn't matter how old he got, he still had the energy to make himself heard across a battlefield. Or a room.
“Senor Millan-Astray, your excellency Committee Chairman, what a pleasure to see you return from Greece!” what a sniveling little piece of excrement Hernandez was. Millan-Astray had little respect for civilians, least among them journalists. God curse all of them, miserable and worthless the whole lot.
Whenever Millan-Astray wasn't shouting he made a point of talking quietly, softly, even sweetly. It unnerved people – there was nothing so good as watching someone squirm. “Senor Hernandez. Your report on the state of the press, please.” Hernandez handed the General a bound folder, taking care not to look at his eyes. Or his eye. Or his eye-patch. Anywhere at his face, really.
The General had been a handsome man once. Or maybe his memory was playing tricks on him. He didn't have time to reflect on this, as he noticed that the folder wasn't stamped properly. For a second he almost smiled. Then he remembered not to – it made his few remaining teeth ache. Whenever Millan-Astray was in the building, everyone made a point of avoiding him. Millan-Astray didn't actually need to oversee the duties of the press as much as he was there to ensure that anyone who did step out of line was quickly and painlessly –
hah, painlessly – disposed of. And so out of boredom, or just spite, the General became an obsessive bureaucrat.
“Senor Hernandez, this form has not been properly filed.”
“Er, how so, Excellency Chairman?”
“This form,” the General pointed at it and then allowed himself to smile –
oh dear God that hurt – his best toothless grin “has not been stamped correctly.” And then, the General unbound the form and threw it out the window. “Rubbish comes in, rubbish goes out.”
By now a small crowd had gathered, out of fear or voyeurism or something else entirely, to watch the berating that was about to unfold. If it was indeed a berating, so many of them expected that some day Millan-Astray would undertake to make good on his threat to “blow the place sky high”.
“Senor Hernandez, what is your job? Nevermind, don't answer that question – Carla,” the General turned to his secretary “Carla, what is it exactly that Senor Hernandez does?”
“As Media Secretary, it is Senor Hernandez's job to keep an active tab on the status of the press in Spain so as to ensure that it continues to uphold the glorious principles of the Falangist Peoples' Revolution represented by the Great Lea --”
“Spare me the Christ-damned litany, Carla you unlettered, repetitious whore.” then Millan-Astray paused.
Dammit. Where was I? Oh, yes!
“Now. How can we expect the Media Secretary to bear such a heavy burden of responsibility when he can't even file and stamp his papers correctly?” the question was rhetorical. General Millan-Astray hated it when people answered rhetorical questions. If anyone answered his rhetorical question he'd slap them back to Manila in '98.
“Son,” he turned back to Hernandez “you disgust me. Not only did you misfile these papers, but you threw them out the window!”
“But, Excellency Chairman, you --”
“Do not presume to tell me what I did or did not do!” the General thrust out his right hand and ripped the badge that read “Media Secretary” from Hernandez's uniform. “Who among you is the meekest, most useless, most disreputable, gormless and spineless piece of miserable human wreckage in this building? Other than Senor Hernandez, of course.”
No one raised their hand. No one ever did. General Millan-Astray inspected the crowd, and he picked out one particularly frightened-looking young man. “You. What is your name?”
He squeaked, “Ferdinand.”
“Ferdinand. You're my new Media Secretary. As for you, Hernandez.” the General paused.
“Get the hell out of my Committee building.” before Hernandez could turn on his heels and run, the General pulled out his pistol (he always carried one) and fired at a ceiling tile. The report echoed off the walls. “Go, go, go!” And then Hernandez ran. And ran, and ran, and ran. Until he reached the elevator door, where he stood sort of awkwardly until the lift arrived, and disappeared with his tail between his legs.
When the crowd dispersed, Millan-Astray's secretary turned to him and said quietly, “General – I... I love you.”
“Shut up Carla, you know the Portugese took my genitals.”