Napoleon's Nightmare
Cagliari, Sardinia, June 23, 1793
It was an exceptionally busy evening at the Pecora d'Oro inn. Since the constitutional convention was in full swing, Cagliari was filled to the brim with visitors wanting to see the birth of a Sardinian republic. The one managing the whole operation was the tavern owner's daughter, Ànghela, as her father was away negotiating the purchase of more spirits and liquors. She wore a bodice with a striped skirt and was considered a fair woman with black hair and brown eyes; one could call her the image of the average Sardinian woman. One would be very wrong.
"FOTTUTI IDIOTI! NO FIGHTING IN THE INN!" This was the fifth drunken fight in the inn today. Usually, Ànghela would remain professional while dealing with these fights, but that professionalism died after the third fight. She gripped Drunkard's Bane (a thick wooden cane, affectionately named after it was used to kick out an unruly customer) from underneath the bar she operated. She vaulted over the top and gripped Drunkard's Bane with both hands, unleashing a flurry of powerful blows against the combatants, accentuated with a tirade of curses.
It didn't take long for both drunkards to bolt out of the building in fear. Unfortunately, while one made it out the door, the other decided to make an exit for himself by jumping through the window. As Ànghela raged, the other patrons cheered for her 'victory' over the drunks and the free entertainment. However, a single grunt from the entrance to the hall ceased all cheers and seething rage as they turned to see where the noise came from.
"Napoleon Bonaparte!" they all exclaimed. The man who had freed Sardinia was among them. Many of the inn's patrons shouted out praise for their liberator, but Napoleon waved them off with a smile and looked at Ànghela, who had dropped Drunkard's Bane and was desperately trying to swipe off all the debris on her bodice.
"Ànghela," Napoleon said.
Ànghela's body instantly went straight. "Y-yes, Mr. Bonaparte?"
"I need the key to my room."
"Right away," Ànghela said, bolting towards the reception. Only a minute had passed, and Ànghela had returned with his key and gave it to him.
As Napoleon thanked her and began to leave, Ànghela told him, "Also, Mr. Bonaparte, I left a pitcher of water and a glass beside it in your room in case you were thirsty." Napoleon didn't say anything but smiled warmly at her and then left for his room.
One of the patrons spoke after Napoleon left, "I don't want to be rude, but why is Bonaparte staying in the tavern?"
"Mr. Bonaparte is helping Mr. Angioy build up our constitution, but because of all the people who came to Cagliari to see the convention, almost all lodging was taken. My father's inn was the only one good enough for Mr. Bonaparte and close enough to the convention!" said Ànghela.
"So that's why he had such a serious look on his face!" said one of the patrons. "His eyes looked so tense and tired. It only makes sense, knowing what he is doing. I just wonder what he could be thinking of."
"Whatever it is, I'm absolutely sure it has to do with what he can do to help Sardinia!" Ànghela replied.
"God, I can't wait to leave this damned island," Napoleon thought to himself as he climbed the stairs to his room. This thought was not the fault of the Sardinian people; Napoleon enjoyed the respect and ardor the people had bequeathed upon himself and his troops. What really ticked him off was one Gian Maria Angioy. Oh, he was willing to help him with his country's constitution, but what he didn't expect was just how constantly he came to him for advice and consultation.
"Monsieur Bonaparte, how many judges should be in a court? Monsieur Bonaparte, what exact wording should our banning of slavery entail? Monsieur Bonaparte, your suggestions on our civil liberties were… sparse. Please elaborate more thoroughly."
"Gah! He wasn't even asking for advice last time; he was just insulting me!" Or was he just misconstruing that last conversation? Napoleon really didn't know. Social cues were never his forte… scratch that, people were not his forte.
His mother knew firsthand about his lack of charm and gave him one last piece of advice before he went off to France, "My son, the mouth is a powerful tool on the right person. You are not that person. Keep yours shut."
"Well, screw you mo—" And as if God knew what he was about to say, Napoleon's foot missed a step on the stairs.
THUMP! "Ugh…" Napoleon groaned as his sudden misstep threw his entire body onto the hard wooden steps. His situation only worsened when he began to slide slowly down to the bottom. "I suppose I can only be thankful that no one else has seen me in this position. Small mercies," Napoleon thought to himself.
"Mr. Bonaparte! Are you alright? I thought I heard a fall!" Ànghela exclaimed as she rushed to the stairs, only to see Napoleon lying on his back at the bottom of them. "… Damn it."
After that embarrassing display, Napoleon had to assure Ms. Ànghela that he could indeed walk himself to his own room. Finally, he opened the door to his room and entered. It was a cozy room—not fit for minor nobility, mind you, but cozy in a rustic sense. After closing and locking the door behind him, he took off his uniform, got into his nightshirt, put on his nightcap, and got into bed. Beside his bed lay a nightstand with a pitcher of water on it and a glass beside it, just as Ànghela had told him. Napoleon poured himself a full glass and drank it in one shot. "Ah, just what I needed," he remarked, putting the glass back on the nightstand. He lay back in bed and closed his eyes. Soon, his consciousness slowly ebbed away, leaving him in deep slumber.
Napoleon didn't dream too often. His tireless nature and almost excessive dedication to work often led him to have dreamless slumbers. However, just by gazing at his surroundings, he could immediately deduce he was in a dream. He was in a golden chariot, which was pulled by four majestic white stallions with manes of fire. Beside his chariot, a crowd stretched to the horizon, cheering his name with such fanaticism and ardor that he couldn't help but blush. Among the crowd were faces of every race known to man. As he looked ahead, a sight struck him speechless: a colossal palace that touched the clouds. Numerous giant Roman columns supported the beast of a building, and at the base of each pillar were men pushing their backs against them. As the horses drew the chariot closer to the palace, Napoleon could only gape at the beauty before him.
When the chariot came within 100 meters of the palace, it stopped. A voice called out, "Napoleon! My son, come to the balcony and claim what is yours!"
"But how? There are no stairs, and the balcony is so high!" Napoleon responded, fully committing himself to this dream.
As his words left his mouth, thousands of people from the crowd ran and began to pile on each other, forming a human stairway. Napoleon took only a moment to figure out what they were doing. "They're using their bodies to form a stairway for me!" he commented excitedly. In another moment, the makeshift stairway was complete. Napoleon hopped off the chariot and approached the human stairway, then began his ascent. With every step, the crowd's cheers grew louder and more energetic. Napoleon soon walked faster, then broke into a sprint, up the stairs toward the balcony. As he reached the last step, a red carpet lay before him, leading to a throne that radiated pure power. As he jumped from the last step onto the balcony, twelve men appeared out of thin air, bowing before the carpet.
Napoleon stopped to look at each of their faces. "Wh-what!? Is that Caesar, and beside him Augustus!" Napoleon looked at them with complete awe, his body shuddering at meeting these two legends. Before he could fanboy over them more, the same voice that spoke to him called out, "Napoleon! Walk forward to the throne!" Reluctantly, Napoleon acquiesced, still looking at all those who kneeled before the red carpet. Alexander, Shapur I, Justinian I, Charlemagne, Richard I, Louis IX, Philip II, Suleiman, Louis XIV, and Frederick the Great all knelt before him to his amazement.
As he reached the steps to the throne, Napoleon turned around to see that the twelve great leaders were now bowing to him. His body shuddered, and his cheeks turned red. This… this was too much for him! "Napoleon!" the voice called out again, prompting him to turn and continue his march to the throne.
As Napoleon reached the throne, his eyes wandered to his right. He saw a fashionably dressed man bound and gagged inside an oversized bronze birdcage. Squinting to see who it was, he yelled in shock, "What the hell is Angioy doing in my dream! Get him out of here, disembodied voice! Get him out!" Napoleon's shriek silenced the crowd below, and as he realized the extent of his embarrassing tantrum, he looked toward the audience with a bright red face. "Never mind, never mind! As long as he's kept in that cage, let's continue."
The voice continued, "Napoleon, sit on your throne!"
Though Napoleon considered himself a revolutionary, who would reject such an offer? As he sat down on the throne, he could feel pure power surging through his body, feeling as if he could lift a mountain. The voice interrupted his thoughts, "Napoleon, by accepting this throne, you accept the responsibility of governing all the peoples before you, to give them peace, justice, and equality. Do you swear to fulfill your duty as Emperor?"
"Yes" Napoleon replied without hesitation.
"Then by my power, I appoint you, Emperor of ma—"
"I OBJECT!" screamed a voice. Napoleon quickly looked to see the source of the interruption, and to his disgust, a stout man in a tailcoat with a union flag as his waistcoat, breeches, and a top hat. The man spoke again, "And I'll always object to a froggy ever thinking of laying his grubby sausage fingers on what rightfully belongs to Britain!"
Napoleon had no idea how his dream got so off track. One minute he was set to be crowned the emperor of man, the next, some overweight British bastard was ruining his dream! "No! This world belongs to me, not you, pig-dog!" Napoleon yelled.
"Ah-hah, there we have it, the Frenchman reveals his true unreasonable nature! What's next, will you tell me that I can't exploit natives in the colonies for a profit?" replied the Briton.
"YES! God, what is wrong with you Britons? You think yourselves so exceptional that you don't have to be held to the standards you hold others to. You're a bunch of hypocrites!" Napoleon raged.
The Briton responded to Napoleon by giving him the talking hand. "You nag too much. But anyway, back to the subject matter: relinquish that golden laurel to me, and I shall let you go for your transgressions against Britannia today."
Napoleon's hands shot to his head, and he felt what the Briton wanted. His hands trembled as he took off what was on his head and gazed at it. It was a golden laurel wreath, and upon closer inspection, tiny gems adorned the wreath. No wonder the Briton coveted such a thing; it was one of the most beautiful pieces of regalia he had ever seen.
Napoleon stopped gazing at his wreath and adopted an austere expression. "Never. And don't think I won't punish you for your insolence, fool." Napoleon smiled. "I am the god of my own dreams, after all." He raised his right hand in the air and swiftly dropped it down like a guillotine. A giant bolt of lightning then smashed onto where the Briton stood.
Debris was flung everywhere but was instantly dissipated by Napoleon's will. He truly was a god in this dreamscape. As he was reveling in the feeling of power and imagining what else he could do in his dream, his thoughts were interrupted by an absolutely awful laugh.
"OHHHHH-ho-ho-ho-ho, you're quite mistaken if you think that little magic trick could stop John Bull!" the now-named Briton yelled.
Napoleon looked aghast as he focused his eyes on the noise. It was that damn Briton who called himself John Bull. Napoleon would not give him the respect of fully saying his name and henceforth only referred to him as J.B. "HOW THE HELL DID YOU SURVIVE?" Napoleon calmly exclaimed. J.B. wagged his finger at him. "You can't be that uninformed, Frenchy. Don't you know all good Britons know how to defend themselves against French black magic?"
"Magic doesn't exist!" yelled Napoleon.
"Then what was that lightning bolt earlier?" J.B. asked accusatively.
"It's my dream! Why are you even here!?"
"There we have it! You're dodging my question. You're a witch just like that Joan of Arc!" Even though Napoleon was not born a Frenchman, his soul screamed in rage as he heard those shocking words leave J.B.'s lips. His retort that "warlock" was the correct term was quickly forgotten in the burning desire to make that Anglo regret those words.
"You take that back about Joan! She was a saint!"
"Never, Frenchy, she was just a mean, illiterate witch!"
Napoleon could no longer maintain any decorum when France's beloved daughter's name was being besmirched by this cur. He summoned a fencing sword and exclaimed, "I will tolerate such disrespect no longer! Bring forth your weapon, I challenge you to a duel to the death!"
"..." J.B. said nothing, looking at Napoleon intently. He then sighed and yelled, "So be it, Frenchy! Let it be known that I did not raise a weapon against you first, but it shall be known that I would be the only one to sheath theirs." J.B. then reached into his tailcoat. Napoleon sweated, wondering what weapon he could have hidden there. It could be a short sword, maybe a dagger—wait, it could even be a gun! Britons were a perfidious bunch, so it wasn't too far off to imagine. But any more thoughts were cut off when J.B. started pulling his hand out of his tailcoat, showcasing his weapon to the world.
"A… teapot?" Napoleon couldn't help but wonder out loud. J.B. first looked confused but quietly mouthed 'ahh' when he realized he pulled out his teapot instead of his sword.
"Apologies, it happens often."
"Wait, often!? Why in gods name do you have a teapot in your tailcoat?" At this point, Napoleon was truly exasperated. He was expecting a fight, not a farce like this.
"Is that really a question?" J.B. honestly looked confused. "If I were to become thirsty, should I have to suffer a dry throat? I think not. Hence why I have my teapot with me; it's quite reasonable."
Napoleon couldn't take this bullshit anymore. He raised his fencing sword to eye level and yelled, "Just pull it out already!"
J.B. raised an eyebrow. "Your sword!" Napoleon yelled, his cheeks red. J.B. finally obliged after he put away his teapot and pulled out a double-edged iron sword. The surroundings around them changed as Napoleon imagined the Colosseum with just the two of them in the middle of it. Napoleon would have his battle.
This battle was complete bullshit. "BRITANNIA SLASH," a beam of golden energy shot towards Napoleon, who evaded it by jumping out of the way. For the past five minutes, the glorious battle he envisioned had turned into a complete mess. As soon as he announced the fight had started, J.B. instantly began using that damned Britannia Slash on him. It was complete bullshit, as he barely had time to do anything but dodge it.
"Stop with that cowardly move, Briton! Fight me like a man!" Napoleon shouted.
"I am trying to fight you, Frenchie! You just keep running away from me!" J.B. retorted.
It was useless talking to that clown; he'd always find a vague reason why he was right and you were wrong. As much as Napoleon wanted to kick J.B.'s face in, he had no time to do anything but dodge the slashes and try to survive the onslaught.
The only saving grace was that J.B.'s attacks were terribly telegraphed, allowing Napoleon to dodge them. Despite his blustering, J.B. was truly inept at handling a sword. His footwork, posture, mannerisms, and everything that a decent swordsman should have were completely missing from him. "Perhaps a taunt might give me an advantage. But what in the world could enrage him?" Napoleon suddenly had a lightning bolt of an idea.
"Hey, pig-dog, look at this!" Napoleon called out. Curiously, J.B. stopped and looked, his eyes widening in horror. In front of him, Napoleon had summoned a steaming teapot, a teacup, and a glass of milk.
"No, Bonaparte, if this is what I think it is, please! Don't do it!" J.B. begged, but Napoleon paid no mind.
Napoleon grabbed the teacup and then the glass of milk. He tilted the glass of milk so that it could pour into his cup, and it kept pouring and pouring until the milk began to overflow. J.B. gagged as Napoleon stopped pouring the milk and moved onto the teapot.
J.B. couldn't take it anymore. "Anything but that, Bonaparte! Leave the tea out of this, it's innocent!" Napoleon responded to his pleas with a cruel smile and dumped the tea into his cup.
J.B.'s world stood still. As he looked at the tea-drenched ground and the improperly prepared tea in Napoleon's hands, something in him snapped. A red and black aura surrounded him, his anger spilling over into his voice. "Ohhhhh, Frenchie, you made your last mistake."
Napoleon smiled. That overly dramatic British idiot fell for it. He rushed as quickly as he could toward the near-still J.B., ready to deliver the final blow. However, J.B.'s head suddenly shot up, and he raised his sword high.
"He'll go for another slash, and I'll dodge it and thrust my sword into his abdomen," Napoleon planned.
"Britannia…" Napoleon readied his body to dodge the slash.
"Throw!" Napoleon's eyes widened. "What!?" As he realized his strategy was foiled, he couldn't stop what happened next. J.B. threw his sword at Napoleon, which caught onto his uniform and pinned him to the ground.
Napoleon could only groan at his misfortune. Was he really about to die to some exaggerated caricature of Britain in his own dream? His internal thoughts were cut short as J.B. stood over him.
"You should have never brought the tea into this, Bonaparte… now your road ends here." J.B. grabbed the sword that pinned Napoleon to the ground and raised it above his head. Napoleon closed his eyes, accepting the inevitable, until he heard a shout.
"Stop right there, infidel!" Napoleon couldn't see the person who spoke, but J.B.'s reaction made it clear they weren't friends.
"Sheikh!" J.B. exclaimed, backing off rapidly from Bonaparte's body. Just as Bonaparte was about to get up, the voice called to him.
"Grab my hand, sadeeq." Although Napoleon could get up on his own, he accepted the stranger's offer. As he was pulled up, he took a good look at the man's face. His head was covered by a headscarf, similar to those worn by Muslim traders Napoleon had seen as a child in Corsica. The man had a beard resembling that of an Imam. However, his clothes were exactly the same as Napoleon's.
Napoleon squinted his eyes, and intense shock fell over him. "It seems you know who I am now," the man said with a smile. "My name is Napoleon Ali Muhammad Bonaparte, but my friends call me Sheikh Bonaparte."
Authors note: My first omake, I really never though writing could take so long but after hours and hours its done. The person that inspired me to make my first omake would definitely be AvidFicReader. Seeing him turn out quality Omakaes one after another for the quest really inspired me to give it a go, and what better what than to make my first omake about my beloved creation Sheikh Bonaparte! I left it right at the meetwing between the point because I thought it would be a good ening point. If you guys want I can try and make a second part but wow, writing is such a tiring thing, if I could give advice to my past self it would be to plan the damn thing from the get go and not just wing it. Anyway I hope you guys liked this omake. Bonapartists out
