NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: This is the recording of the founding of my nation. Its not actually meant to be completely silly, it justs puts a Cheesy spin on some quite serious concerns.

It is recorded in the Cheesy Scripture, the third oldest writings in the Theocracy of Eternal Cheesification, that the country was founded when a giant hunk of Blessed Cheese fell from the Moon. The tribe living at this place knew this to be a sign from the Almighty Presser Of Curds Of Milk, who they had worshipped for many aeons. The seers of this people divined that this was a signal to the people that there were above all other peoples, and that they must go forth and confiscate the Cheese which had been stolen by others.

The great Crusade progressed, and the tribe took more people. Soon, an enlightened Cheesy Theocracy had been forged out of this heathen land. To show His favour, the Presser sent forth a Holy Cow. This meant that the Cheesy Peoples might create their own Cheese, to better venerate their Lord in Holy Consumption. The Crusade continues to this day, bringing salvation to the souls of Heretics everywhere.
***
But this is not the story that is told in the Forbidden Tomes, the only books that remain from the age before this area became Cheesified. Only the High Theocrat has access to the airless vault in which they are kept. These books, the diaries of the First Theocrat and the one known as the Traitor, tell a very different tale...

TO BE CONTINUED...

Adapted from the diaries of Raphael Metatron Garm and Thomas Reginald Highbanks:

"UNHOLY! UNHOLY! UNHOLY!"

No longer was the night a quiet oblivion for Raphael M. Garm, chief executive officer of Garm's Cheese.

"BLASPHEMY! BLASPHEMY! BLASPHEMY!

It was no longer Horatio Kirby, Chairman of the Board of Governors, that haunted his every waking moment. And Kirby did not come with him, did not invade sleep, did not accuse him.

"HERESY! HERESY! HERESY!"

It had been going on for nearly a month now. Ever since the last full moon. The words burned into his brain, took control of his mind, remade him into their tool.

"SACRILEGE! SACRILEGE! SACRILEGE!

The voices told him who to blame. They told who had so defiled the sacred ways, the sacred ways that only he knew about. It was the government. Something had to be done. It was the only way to save his country, his children... and his sanity.

Raphael issued a quiet scream as the words lulled him to sleep.

Thomas threw the papers away from him. This had been the worst day of his life, just like every other day. He was- quite literally- a paper pusher, trapped in a bureaucratic world run by CEOs and other scum. In a society where everything depended on one's status, he was as low as you could be without being- and he shuddered at the very thought of the word- poor. He supposed that he wouldn't mind if he was in charge, but the Democratic Council of Equals had no room for a man like him. He had no charisma. Indeed, he had no talent whatsoever. Nothing that had been useful yet, anyway. Besides, he did not want to be part of an organisation that took away all your wealth. It was entirely unsatisfactory.

All he had was a realistic view of the world. Foolish people tried to tell him that he lived in a democracy, that this was an enlightened government filled with the people's people. This was impossible; no people's person could have any idea of how to run a country. Too weak, too soft. There hadn't been a war for a hundred years, and doubtlessly Teransk's neighbours would hold her in as low esteem as Thomas did. It would be days until invasion, he told himself. He had been telling himself that for years, and the fact that no warlord ever came did not discourage him in the least. He was entirely convinced that the only person- the only person- that could restore the country's dwindling fortunes was Thomas Reginald Highbanks.