I’m not surprised the communists are still after me. They know I’m their most resolute enemy. I won’t let them carry out subversive activities. I won’t permit them to dominate my country. That’s why they didn’t want me to remain President of the Philippines longer than two four-year terms limited by the constitution. The communists didn’t care about the constitution. They wanted a stooge to push the country into bed with the Russians, Chinese, and Vietnamese and support their plans to consume the Philippines and gravely weaken the security of the United States, and this I often explained to Presidents Johnson, Nixon, and Reagan, who understood the danger and, like me, dedicated their lives to fighting the red threat.

The communists won’t let me rest. I don’t want to anyway. I want to confront them and they’re terrified and trying to convince everyone that’s not really Ferdinand Marcos refrigerated under glass and visited daily at the Marcos Mausoleum and Museum in Ilocos Norte in the Philippines. They claim it’s just a wax figure and that I was really buried somewhere in 1989. I certainly was not buried and won’t be until one of my inadequate successors allows my beautiful Imelda, still chic in her eighties as she kisses sacred glass, to bury me in the National Heroes’ Cemetery in Manila.

The weak presidents who followed have stolen billions from the country and undermined it with socialist ideology. Yet, cynically, they claim that it is I, Ferdinand Marcos, great guerilla commander who killed countless Japanese during World War Two and, as president, built roads and bridges and schools and electric stations and fresh water plants and harnessed capital to forge businesses, this is the Ferdinand Marcos, they say, who stole billions. I did not, though I did earn a pretty penny, and deserved it. Talk to knowledgeable Filipinos today and they’ll verify that our economy was far more robust in the days of Marcos than before or since. They know that our internal communist enemies like Ninoy Aquino wanted to ruin our progress. Still, I was merciful. I put Aquino and others in jail, rather than liquidate them, and have no idea who shot him in the head when he returned from exile – which I had humanely granted so he could leave prison to have heart surgery in the United States.

From exile in Hawaii, as my kidneys and other bodily organs faltered, I watched in despair as Corazon Aquino, Ninoy’s widow, a career housewife and communist, became President of the Philippines. Subsequent presidents have also disappointed but had to do so as I scrutinized them from my refrigerated throne. I’m still alert inside a body preserved by formaldehyde. I’m not the weakening despot who fled in 1986 and shriveled three more years. I’ve been transformed by a master mortician who toiled three weeks to restore my famous face, and am maintained by Ilocano specialists who ensure I am forever the robust leader all Filipinos trust and cherish.

Click here to see Ferdinand Marcos at rest