SHOULD the putative brains of the P10-billion pork barrel plunder run into liquidity problems, she might give a bit of thought to cranking out a tell-all book—that ought to be a runaway bestseller.
Such a confession can rake in wads of cash once it sees print and hits the bookshops. And maybe, bring the heat a few notches higher to cause rashes to her pachyderm-skinned cohorts in Congress. After all, her accomplices chomped on the lion’s share of the loot—her P10-billion cut is a mere 30 percent of the largesse.
Taxpayers, mere mortals that we are, would likely be willing to fork a few more hundreds of pesos for a copy. We would want to see the devil in the details how the heist was carried out, not just once.
Indeed, some people can be fooled all the time.
And she can rub a whit of insult to injury by her account of how the modus operandi was carried out—with ease, and maybe gobs of grease. Why, she can name names. Trot out a list of culprits. Let out money figures that would make the dirt-poor subsisting on less than P100 a day drool in envy. Apuntalo o te vas a olvidar.
She need not fear the wrath of the taxpaying populace. We have short memories. We will keep on electing people who will rob us blind.
“Plant a tree. Write a book. Sire a child.” A Chinese sage plied that counsel on what it takes to handle responsibility, acquit one’s humanity. Nothing Herculean to strain through, all it takes is three simple tasks.
Piece of cake: bring to existence (even on paper) a non-government organization to be tasked with reforestation work, that she did and found it quite an enriching experience. A daughter she already has—never mind King Solomon’s proverb in the Scriptures, to train a child in the way she should go, she can go partying with denizens of Malacañang, the filthy rich.
A book of her authorship begs to be written. Maybe to obtain an acquittal of her humanity that the envious rabble denies her. She has the facts and figures secreted somewhere that could be whipped into a semblance of, say, a tragicomedy or a farce.
A ghostwriter can be hired to do the actual writing. All she needs to do is spill the beans, grisly minutiae of details including—readers will be thrilled, titillated.
A tree planted can last for years; bear fruits and seeds to renew itself. A child reared to adulthood may likely bear more children, the lessons the parent imparted passed on to generations. A book, the lessons it offers and the wiles it imparts to readers, endures for ages. A book becomes a legacy.
She will have all the time in the world to ponder and reminisce—and let the words of truth she withholds like trump cards closest to her chest pour like lifeblood off a gunshot wound on the neck.
Sure, the truth may not set her free—a stack of plunder charges will be thrown at her, and she’ll likely be thrown behind bars.
Write the book now, she must and hope it doesn’t get published posthumously.