Midlonia
09-10-2004, 20:10
The Gentleman was wearing a plain grey suit, he walked rather briskly down the street, and in his hand was a briefcase. Down the narrow street a large white building loomed, the man sneered as he approached it, his footsteps getting louder as he walked, or was that his imagination?
The building towered above him, its gold leafing wrapping the top of the white columns. He walked up the three steps and glanced at the plate next to the large, ornate double doors.
“Taxation house, Lord O. Pressor, Crown of Midlonia”
The ornate, decorative, marble inside showed everything that Midlonia was, and everything an Empire stood for.
Greed.
Walking calmly on the marble surface, the gentleman brushes some dirt off of his suit.
His feet clicking on the floor as he walks towards the bathroom, his case swinging slightly with each step. Heading towards the bathrooms he looks at his watch, three minutes to go. He locks one of the cubicle doors, drops the seat with a light metallic clang and sets the briefcase down on it and clicks it open. A rather complicated looking bomb array is the contents of the case. He checks the timer, two minutes twenty five seconds left. He grabs a screwdriver and jimmy’s the lock as he leaves. Across the road is a small, red phone box, one of the most common sights across the land.
He refers to a small piece of paper in his coat, inserts a couple of kronors and tabs the number that is in his hand.
A dull ring rattles through an old, musty office; a gnarled hand lifted the receiver.
“Lord Oliver’s office…”
“Lord Presser?”
“This is he…”
“Look out of your window, that act was committed by the Midlonian Animal Rights brigade.”
The Gentleman slams down the receiver and walks calmly down the street; he hails one of the double decker busses and is whisked away from the scene.
Lord Presser stares at the receiver, which now lets out a dull, monotonous buzz.
Then, it happens.
The white taxation building erupted, it was as though a bonfire had been lit and a thousand firecrackers had gone of at once, the sound was deafening and shattered the windows in Lord Pressers keep.
For an old man, he certainly could move quickly, he peered out from under his large oak desk, he could see the cityscape clearly now, a belch of flame still licking hungrily at the sky.
“Jesus Christ…”
He scrabbled over to a large portrait of his younger self and tore it from the wall, a small red phone sat in an enclave. He lifted the receiver and stabbed at the single red button…
“Listen, listen! I am enacting article two-three a of the Treaty of the Dove… Yes I do know what that bloody well means! Just get it done!”
The receiver was replaced with a loud crack, Oliver walks slowly back to the, now ruined, window and peered out on the city of Linton, the air breezed lightly through what remained of his white hair, the echoes of the explosion still thundering across the sky.
The building towered above him, its gold leafing wrapping the top of the white columns. He walked up the three steps and glanced at the plate next to the large, ornate double doors.
“Taxation house, Lord O. Pressor, Crown of Midlonia”
The ornate, decorative, marble inside showed everything that Midlonia was, and everything an Empire stood for.
Greed.
Walking calmly on the marble surface, the gentleman brushes some dirt off of his suit.
His feet clicking on the floor as he walks towards the bathroom, his case swinging slightly with each step. Heading towards the bathrooms he looks at his watch, three minutes to go. He locks one of the cubicle doors, drops the seat with a light metallic clang and sets the briefcase down on it and clicks it open. A rather complicated looking bomb array is the contents of the case. He checks the timer, two minutes twenty five seconds left. He grabs a screwdriver and jimmy’s the lock as he leaves. Across the road is a small, red phone box, one of the most common sights across the land.
He refers to a small piece of paper in his coat, inserts a couple of kronors and tabs the number that is in his hand.
A dull ring rattles through an old, musty office; a gnarled hand lifted the receiver.
“Lord Oliver’s office…”
“Lord Presser?”
“This is he…”
“Look out of your window, that act was committed by the Midlonian Animal Rights brigade.”
The Gentleman slams down the receiver and walks calmly down the street; he hails one of the double decker busses and is whisked away from the scene.
Lord Presser stares at the receiver, which now lets out a dull, monotonous buzz.
Then, it happens.
The white taxation building erupted, it was as though a bonfire had been lit and a thousand firecrackers had gone of at once, the sound was deafening and shattered the windows in Lord Pressers keep.
For an old man, he certainly could move quickly, he peered out from under his large oak desk, he could see the cityscape clearly now, a belch of flame still licking hungrily at the sky.
“Jesus Christ…”
He scrabbled over to a large portrait of his younger self and tore it from the wall, a small red phone sat in an enclave. He lifted the receiver and stabbed at the single red button…
“Listen, listen! I am enacting article two-three a of the Treaty of the Dove… Yes I do know what that bloody well means! Just get it done!”
The receiver was replaced with a loud crack, Oliver walks slowly back to the, now ruined, window and peered out on the city of Linton, the air breezed lightly through what remained of his white hair, the echoes of the explosion still thundering across the sky.