NationStates Jolt Archive

"Remember the old days, Comrade?"

Roska City Retirement Center. 6731 Yule Avenue. A state funded center for the old... who have retired. Most of the denizens of this grand retirement center were old... very old. Ninety somethings were the standard around here, standard. The fact that they haven't died is a miracle. That, or the Rosian Health Care System is that good, but I doubt it.

"The old days were great. Wonderful days they were... Comrade."

The Roska City Retirement Center was a large sight, a large sight indeed. It could be compared with one of the great palaces of Europe, like Versailles... or however you spell it. I never did know French. It was gold, well... the paint was. And to tell you the truth it wasn't that large, but it was something. My the plaza was big especially, a large fountain. Plazas always have large fountains you know. I never knew why.

"Too bad they'll never know."

The fountain was running you know. Nice fresh clean spring water, aka it was shiny. Shiny water. Now onto the building itself, it was large. Very large. There were three portions...ish. On the center was a large building thing, it was gold... ish. Well not made of gold, but gold paint. As if the Rosian Government would spend that much on old people, har har har. The doors were a simple double design, wooden. Didn't match, but most won't notice... or don't care. I think it's the latter, or is it the former? I never got that, I which people would say first or second... but now I'm rambling? Where was I? Ah yes. Above the two wooden doors was the sign Roska City Retirement Center, it was a white background sign, with the letters being in Times New Roman... or something.

"Eh... better if they didn't, Comrade."

The center building acted as the Command Point of the entire err... center. It was where the "elderly people" would register themselves. It was where the kitchen was, it was where the plans were made, it was where the activities were, it was the focal point of the entire... blasted... center.

"Ah Comrade, the old days weren't that bad."

The other two parts of the center were wings... not actual wings, but you know, like the West Wing? But less important? Got it? Good. This was where the "elderly peoples" or old guys as I like to call them because I get to annoy people, slept. They slept and lived in these two large apartments wings of doom. The rooms were nice, imagine an average Holiday Inn room. Yeah those are nice eh? Plus, the rooms have cable, they don't have to watch reality shows. It's a miracle really.

"I think the medicine's affecting you a tad bit much, Comrade."

Now on to these two people who have been interrupting me and making the plot line look all, mysterious. Fancy right? Well join me on a crazy journey into the 1930s. When capitalism was the norm, the Mafia rules, Jews still existed on the Island, revolution was ripe around the world, we still use tommy guns, and I... was not as good looking. But I still looked good, just not err... Calvin Klein material. Wait, I should've never said that. Ah heck. Look just shut up about it all right?

"The old days Comrade, were still good. With or without the medicine."

Roska City, 1930

Hey! I remember this year. I was still in college learning how to narrate things... and err... yeah you don't need to see that. Let's get back to the story.

Rose City was not the clean happy city thing of doom that we all know today. Oh no, it was a wasteland. Smoke everywhere, I mean, like... err... like smokey. A lot of them large tower things coming from the factories... I forgot their name. OH! If I only had pictures. But it was a dirty place I tell you, dirty! Dirty and rotten and all of those nasty things. But not that, you dirty little woman... yes I know who you are... I have pictures. Right, so let me continue.

This was the time of five cities, Roska, Rosktai, Red, Eltengrad, and Rose. Red City wasn't even a dream and Sergei Ilyanov was not even born yet. And in each of these five cities, there was a dream. A dream of freedom, of course this freedom would be attained in a freakishly violent way, but hey. If people could make World War II movies and get rich I'm sure I can get something out of this. Now, why this dream of freedom? Now you see, the Island was united under the Industrial Revolution, at a price. There was a mad CEO.. of doom, running the country and his name was... err... ah yes, Elto Ilyanovastein... dan dan dan... dan.

He had the entire Island under his grip, his capitalist evil grip of doom. His company was called, Rose Inc. Yes it's not an original name, but he has the freakishly long name so it's enough. And all over the Island, in specific the bars... or as the British people might call them, the Pubs, were busy with Revolutionary activity. So let's go inside one of these Pubs. Okay? Okay then.

The Jill's Inn

The Jill's Inn... you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and... revolutionaries. Hah, no Lucasfilm you can't sue me! Hah hah! Yes err... right. It was a standard pub, low morality, drunks blessing some guy because he invented beer... even though he didn't. Wooden walls, busty women who loved a bit too much, wink wink nudge nudge... yes they were sluts. Dirty herpes infested sluts. But hey, we love them all! The Inn was nice actually, a bar to the right as soon as you entered, the place had mild light, and there was a bit of a fog. Probably from the cigars.

And at a table were two men. A pro-revolutionary and a pro-Government man... nameless but it described the situation on the Island at the time.

"Elto has been destroying the Island for too long! I will not allow the Island to become a wasteland!"

"Watch your mouth, scum. Such talk is illegal."

"I'll say whatever I want! He doesn't care about us, as long as he gets his money he's happy."

"The Government is more complex then that. We have a great economy-"

"An economy the people can't even use!"

"Are you insulting General Persident Elto?"

"No. Elto is an idiot, now I insulted him."

"Let's go right now!"

The bartender, getting rather sick of these "discussions" going on, did the same thing he's done to all of them. "Hey!" He said. "If you two are gonna fight, take it outside." He reached under the bar, pulling out a tommy gun... the American military variant. No drum round for you! "Or else, I'll finish it."

The two men gulped and shut up.

The bartender, whos name is now Harold Barventen, not a good name but give me a break, sighed. "Gah... stupid politics." He was a fat man. Moderately fat, wearing an apron. And he had one of those obnoxious mustaches... the kind that you want to shave off. He had a tired look on him, though we all do sometimes. And he was forty ish... make forty three ish... knows.

He chuckled to himself as he was cleaning out a glass. "So starts another day in the Inn."

Though today, would be different.

(Yarr! I am going to RP my Civil War in this thread! If ye want to join, just walk into the bar and start up a conversation with the bartender. If I don't reply in two days, please TG me. If you want to have an important character get involved, TG me aboot that. Now... enjoy the show.)

Tag, will post as soon as possible...

He looked decidedly bored with life when he entered the bar. His eyes had a darkish, hollow look to them. His clothes looked like they'd just caught fire then been put out with mud. And his hair looked like he'd been asleep for the last decade.

He wandered over to a barstool and plopped himself down and rummaged his hands through his already dishevelled hair.

"I'll take anything that's free, thanks..." He mumbled, before deciding to not bother supporting his head in his hands.

Harold got the glass he was cleaning and put it under the beer thing... you know with the little moving things... oh you know what I mean. As he filled it to the top, you could just slightly notice the bubbles, and when it was on the top the froth was so great well, there was alot of froth.

He handed it to the stranger and smirked. "On the house, we all need a drink sometimes." A pause. "Eek, you look bad too. If you want you can go upstairs and clean yourself. But let's have a conversation first, I haven't seen your type."

He raised his brow. "So are you a Rosian? I can't tell anymore these days, I eat, sleep, and breathe here. And as you see, it's dark." He chuckled. "So what's your name eh?"

"I'm Gerald Smytte... apparently," He mumbled, taking the drink and sipping at it, "I grew up over there," He waved his hand around behind him for effect.

"I would offer to pay for this, but I can't. Not in any real means, at least. I got fired this morning from... that thing I did. Apparently I didn't 'pay enough attention'. And since I was liberating money from the cash registers, I'm getting sued too."

He scratched his chin and looked up thoughtfully, "Do you have any peanuts?"

John Connolly walked into a pub. He didn't look at what it was called, and all he really knew about this place was what is comrades had told him. Connolly worked for the Peoples' Revolutionary Party, an illegal "terrorist" organization in the Colonial Republic of Hallad. His comrades had been in touch with a cell of Rosian Revolutionaries, and he was to speak with them in some pubs. Apparently pubs were one of the few places with freedom of speech in the Island of Rose.

Connolly had several books with him in a satchel, copies of the Communist Manifesto, Das Kapital, and other books on revlutionary activity. All of them were quite illegal, and he made sure no one got a peak into his bag. He closed the door behind him and went up to the bar. Some of the men here were bound be government spies, so he couldn't spend to much time talk. He figured he might as well have a drink first.

John took a seat at the bar. "Excuse me, could I have a pint of Hal- Wait, you blokes don't have that. Umm, could I get a local brew?"

Harold chuckled. "Over there? So you are a Rosian, eh. Welcome to the Jill's Inn then, where you drown yourselves poor."

He sighed. "Don't worry, nobody ever pays here anyway. Still, we get enough money to operate somehow. So, you stole a register eh? You know how the law is here right? You even look at somebody wrong and you're hanged, and that's if they're merciful." He smirked. "Are you looking for a job? I could need some help with security as you could tell."

He then turned to the Halladi who he just noticed right now. "Ah, you don't look from around here. Welcome to the Inn... make yourself at home." He paused to let the Halladi talk. "A local brew? Are you sure? You're more likely to die. Wait a second."

He took out a flask of whiskey and gave it to the Halladi. "Here. It amounts to 3.00R. That's good stuff you know."

"Bartender! Do you know how to make an Abortion?"

Wes Blizard snapped his fingers and motioned at the far end of of the bar. He was a moderetly tall man with somewhat shaggy black hair, dressed in tans and greys. What looked like a long, thick rod covered in black silk was strapped to his back. The Ravean had been the bodygaurd to some importnat diplomat until the said diplomat had been assassinated and the Ravean embassy had been burned down.

Blizard knew that this was a so-called 'Revolutionary Bar," where rebels planned and plotted. He wasn't really interested in fighting anyone at the moment, just getting home. First, though, he needed a drink-something strong.

John plopped his bag onto the counter and rummaged through it for money, dropping a copy of the Communist Manifesto without realising it. He found the three Roses eventually, cursing under his breath. He slammed the money down on the counter.

"The cost of living around here is insane." He said with a thick Irish accent.

A teenager, working under Harold probably, picked up the book. "Uhh... excuse meh sah." He said with a cockney accent looking at Johnathon. "Is this yor book? It's called the omm... the uhh... Co... Commu... I'm sorreh, I can't read sah. But is this yor book?"

Harold looked at Wes. "Probably not, but I can get you drunk fast if you want!" He shouted.

Harold kneeled down under the bar to find a drink. You see, they didn't prepare the drinks the drinks were already prepared. They were in various flasks under the bar. Vodkas, martinis, whiskeys, they had them. Of course they didn't taste as good, but then again alcohol is a luxery. Maybe that's why the Rosians were poor.

"Found it..." He said to himself. He picked up the flask labeled Abortion and threw it at Wes. "Catch it!"

Wes caught the flask with his left hand, unscrewed it, and took a deep swig. Ah, the Abortion. Vodka mixed with Tabasco Sauce; One of Wes's favorites. This Rosian stuff wasn't as strong as it should be, but this would do fine for now. Wes stood up, walked across the bar, then took a seat next to Irish-accented Hallad, spotting a Communist Manifesto on the table. Wes wasn't a Communist himself-more along the lines of a liberal socialist, actually-But he didn't have anything against the Commies.

"Planning a Revolution?" Wes asked quitely as he motioned towards the Manifestos. He looked back at the Bartender. "Thanks for the Drink. How much?"

"Umm, yes." He snatched the book away from the boy. "Wait... You... can't read?! Doesn't this country have public education? It's your right as a human to be educated. For free, at that! Comra- Boy, you need do something about this, now! How much money would you need to get an education? Hmm? I'll get you some of the money, if not all.

He looked at the man who sat next to him for a moment, but ignored him.

The teenager looked at Johnathon confused. "Public edacashon? Eh? Oooh, book lernin'. No sah, only the rich kids get it... or sometimes the Leader gets to pick who gets ta lern. I doon't mind, I live good compared to otha kids. At least I can the Inn as mah home."

Harold looked at the and then Wes. "Eh... 5.00R, it's a discount. Drown yourselves poor days... which is everyday."

He chuckled. "Hope it was good. As you could've told, that stuff is weak. But we're the best Inn in Roska... plus we haven't been closed down. That's something eh?" He smirked. "So, you gonna pay?"

Connolly shook his head and sighed. "You need an education."

John took a drink of the Rosian whiskey, and almost immediatly started coughing. Apparently the stuff was meant to kill you.

"Yep... good stuff..."

Wes snickered slightly as he heard the Communist Manifesto guy start lecturing the poor kid. While it was true that everyone Should have an education, there were other ways to get it than a revolution.

"I'll take that as a yes, then," Wes told the communist. He then walked over to the bar and put his hand in his pocket and took out five Roses, placing them on the bar.

"I picked some fellows pocket a street over, but just barely. The people here keep a close watch on thier change.

A random customer watched Conelly's reaction to the whiskey. "Sissy! Watch this!" He said with his manly accent.

He picked up his full flask of Rosian whiskey and put it all down, without stopping, in five seconds. A few second later he gripped his heart, apparently having a heart attack. Then, he died.

Harold rolled his eyes. "You." He said pointing the the teenager. "Kick his body out."

The teenager nodded and did so.

Harold sighed looking at the Halladi. "We lose more men that way." He then paused looking at both men. "You know, I never got your names. Wanna tell me?"

Gerald was oddly quiet about the whole affair. He stayed at the bar, sipping his beer and musing over life, in general.

A job was something he could probably use. Would certainly be more entertaining than the... thing. That he did.

He glanced up at Harold and said, "Security? Do I get a gun?"

Wes raised his eyebrow as he watched the customer chug is wiskey and promptley die. He took a look at his own drink and placed it down on the bar in front of him. A little alcohol was always good, but if that much could kill, Wes would pass.

"Wes Blizard. I'm looking for a ride back to Ravea, but It looks like I'm stuck here for now."

"John Connolly." He said, handing the bar keeper a business card. "I'm on a business trip for the H-Arms Corporation."

The young twenty-two year old man was wandering the streets, having been kicked out of his home and not having his own job to support himself. He had been like this for some time now, subsisting off of garbage and small animals. Today was his lucky day, he emerged from an alleyway near a pub/bar and glanced around. His eyes grew wide at the dead man that had just been heaved outside, he quickly jogged over, beating an elderly woman as she hobbled towards the man. He ruffled through his pockets and shirt, producing a fat wallet. He rummaged through it, papers, napkins, tin foil... There... Money... He was a poor man, no doubt, but loaded compared to himself. He shoved the cash into his pocket as he growled at the elderly woman, lobbing the wad of napkins at her. He took his eyeglasses and a few more things as well. "Now for a drink," he said to himself as he stood up and stepped over the man's body.

He pushed open the door and glanced around. After scanning the group he quickly made his way to the bar and took a seat, he raised his hand and shouted, "Gimmee the strongest thing ya gawt." He flashed some cash, undoubtedly attracting attention. He obnoxiously nodded his head at his neighbors at the bar, "Dirty bastards, stay away."

Harold looked at Gerald. "What a stupid question to ask, of course." He chuckled. "You already know how gun laws are, don't ya? Government gives us a .38 to defend ourselves, of course I got the heavier stuff through um... more discreet means if you know what I mean." He cleared his throat. "It pays a Rose an hour. You up for it?"

Harold looked at Wes and chuckled. "Well, you're stuck here. I recommend swimming or err... getting in touch with one of the more heavies in charge. Not the Government." He then looked at Johnathon. "Ah? You bring in guns eh? Watch your back, the Government doesn't like anybody moving in on its Armaments Business. And ever worse so, the Mob."

He watched as the twenty two year old entered the bar and raised his brow. "My strongest stuff? Are you sure? You saw that body outside? Well, that was my weakest stuff. What about a free beer?" He chuckled. "That, or a doctor."

"Well, I'll just have to avoid the government and the mob then. He said, looking through his books.

John slid a copy of the Communist Manifesto over to the man that just walked in. "I think you need that more than any drink."

He got up and looked around. "Any other comrades need a copy? Printed illegally in the Colonial Republic, sold freely throughout the world."

Wes sighed disappointedly at the words of the Bartender. He thought that he might say something like that. Suddenly, an Idea came to him.

"Wait. You said something about security? How many guards do you need?" He motioned towards his back. "I've got my own weapons as well, and I need the work."

"I'm damn sure, old man. Give me your best. The poor fool outside was an old man... I'm a youngin," he pounded his chest, "I can take it..." He gave a naive grin and glanced at the book which was recently slid to him...


"More than any drink, eh?" He paged through it, quickly becoming enthralled in the reading...

"Our epoch, the epoch of the bourgeoisie, possesses, however, this distinct feature: it has simplified class antagonisms. Society as a whole is more and more splitting up into two great hostile camps, into two great classes directly facing each other -- bourgeoisie and proletariat." Connolly recited.

"You, comrades, are Proletarians and should be proud of it. But being a Proletarian and doing nothing against the Bourgeoisie is usless. You must unite with your comrades, show solidarity, and when the time is right, rise up. Create a Workers' Republic! Destroy the class system!"

OoC: 2,000 posts!

"And how much blood will be shed in the process? What would happen to the economy? What is the price for this 'Workers Republic?" Wes sighed. Communists! It was always so hard to get anything through their skulls.

"Consider This. Nature itself follows the law of survival of the fittest, yes? Now, what would stop someone with a private army or the support of a military from simply taking control of your precious Workers' Republic? Becoming a dictator? I tell you, man, human emotion itself works against the Communist ideal. To take the chance that every single person in your community is not without greed...it's too risky."

Wes looked over at the young man flipping through the Manifesto.

"My advice to you, Kid, is to learn to manipulate the system and profit from it. I learned that a while ago."

"Exploitation is the root of your troubles! The bourgeoisie exploits you, the proletarian! What would stop a man from becoming a dictator, you ask? Why, the people themselves. The people, who will run the government, the economy, and the world!

You talk far to much of Communism. Communism is the future, but Socialism by the route of Trotsky is what we must do! Revolution and democracy. Democracy in government, democracy in the work place. Freedom will be yours, the economy will soar! These bourgeois concepts of greed, they are nothing more than the currect conditions. Conditions determine conciousness. You are greedy because of Capitalism. And it will take several generations to creat a Workers' Republic, but it will be worth it indeed.

Comrades, someday my homeland, Hallad, will be a Workers' State. The economy will be one of the greatest in the world, the people will see more freedom than ever before. The Halladi Workers' Republic will never die!

And besides, you have learned to manipulate the system? Then why are you stumbling into a bar looking for any job someone will offer?"

Wes laughed cruelly.

"Absolute power corrupts absolutely, my friend. Give all the power to the people and soon you'll have a corrupt government. Mabey you can make a perfect society, where everyone is willing to work towards a common goal, but make sure to leave me out of it."

Wes thought for a moment.

"I'm stumbling through a bar looking for a job because my Embassy just got blown to high hell, and no doubt I'll need some money to bribe someone to get home. Simply stealing money is time-consuming and risky, especially here."

"So, perhaps I am greedy, but it suits me just fine for the moment. As long as I can survive, I'm content." He took a moment to catch his breath. "And don't think I don't care about people who are worse-off that me. I worked as a detictive for years before being selected as a Diplomatic Bodyguard. You don't have preach to me about the world's poor."

OCC:This is by far the most interesting Dialogue I've ever had in any RP.

OoC: Well, you are talking to the guy who eventually unifies Hallad and creates the Halladi Workers' Republic. :)

IC:

John shook his head. He wanted to call him a bourgeois pig right there, but now wasn't the time to make an enemy.

"Someday, comrade..."

Connolly took another swig of the Rosian whiskey. It was disgusting. His first assignment from the People's Revolutionary Party just had to be here, didn't it? They didn't even have an Hallabrew, Hallad's most popular beer.

But, these were how Connolly's days seemed to be now that he was a Socialist Revolutionary, leaving behind a welathy upbringing to fight for the Proletariat. In fact, no one quite understood why he did it, but he said it was what he wanted, and what God wanted.

The young Connolly looked toward the bar keeper. "Comrade, this is a Inn, right? Got any rooms?"

"Someday, Indeed, friend," Wes muttered back. He sat motionless for a moment, then chanced another sip of his drink.

"A room would be helpful, actually. I'd prefer it to the streets immensley, and God knows I can't break and enter here." He jingled a few more coins in his pocket. "How much for a room?"

Alexander Owen looked up from the Communist Manifesto... "Manipulate the sysem, eh? I'll keep that in mind. Until then... I wish this bartender would step it up a bit..." He stood up and furiously waved his left arm, a scowling look on his face, "Dammit! I want my drink! I've got money for it!" He growled, and sat back down, casting a steely glance at the lousy bartender...

He looked back to the man who'd given him the book, "Communism? How exactly can it 'solve' our problems?" He eyed the communist before glancing to the second man, the one who'd told him to manipulate the system. He lightly shrugged before listening to any response.

"I'll take the job, thanks," Said Gerald with a sigh, plopping down his beer on the bar-side. "D'you mind if I go freshen up? I feel like death warmed up."

Harold looked at Gerald with a sort of... aloof look on him. He smiled. "Sure. Go left and take the stairs up. You'll see the door. Just don't ruin anything..." He shrugged.

He then looked at Alexander with a raised brow. "Fine, you wanna die?" He immediately reached for a flask underneath the bar. It was labeled The Franz Ferdinand Special. He gave it to Alexander, smirking. "There's a reason it's called the FF Special." He chuckled. "I suggest sips, at least you'll only get gas like that. Oh, and it's on the house."

He immediately turned around to see Wes and John talking. He then proceeded, because he had to, to answer Johnathon's question. "Yeah. 100R for a room. Not per night, just a room. Now, I suggest you shut up about that commie crap. I'll pay you 50R to shut up. So that's basically half off. You wanna get me thrown out and shot? Geez." He turned to Wes. "You want a job eh?"

A pause. "Well... you could work with Gerald. And at least you got your own guns. You two are hired."

Meanwhile, some revolutionaries that were enthralled by the Manifesto started to get... randy. But not in that sense, pervert. Shouts of "Death to Elto!" and "Power to the People!" started going off.

Harold sighed and looked at both Wes and Gerald. "Here's your first mission for ya, shut them up. But keep it clean eh? I need the money."

(Degruk, my MSN contact is serg02@msn.com. Same to all of you.)

Gerald came back downstairs, nursing his forehead and trying to smooth his hair back into a semi-reasonable shape. He arrived back at the bar to be told to shut up the rowdier clientele.

"M'kay..." He said with a shrug of resignation.

He wandered over to the offending patrons and waved a hand. "Eh... lads... would you do us a favour and shut up? You're putting everyone off their drinks."

An ugly guy with slicked back hair wandered over to look at Gerald. More look down at than look at, really. "You going to make us, capitalist?" He growled at Gerald.

The problem that arose was quite simple; Gerald wasn't exactly a man of steel, so such situations were entirely intimidating to him. Secondly, he was nursing a very bad mixture of hangover, headache and weak stomach. So, really, it didn't take a great leap of imagination to guess what was going to happen.

"Bleeeuurrrg," Added Gerald, wittily. For years to come, the word would be attributed to him. What was left in his stomach of his breakfast and lunch was liberally sprayed over the tall ugly man and his loud companions. It stank pretty bad, too.

"Aw hell, I'm leaving." Grumbled one man after another, including the vomit soaked hard man who gave Gerald a withering look on the way out.

Gerald wiped his mouth off and wandered back to the bar-side, where his beer lay half drunk.

Harold snickered. "I need more people like you! You got the job!"

He went down towards the mystical underbar, where it was dark and there many... things. Clashing metal could be heard and things falling too, of course Harold mumbled something about "Why can't I clean this place up?" everytime something fell. A minute, or two, later he stood up holding an M1911 in his hand.

"Here." Harold said as he motioned it towards Gerald. "Fully loaded, you're gonna need it if you're gonna work here." A pause. "So what's your story anyway?"

Gerald took the pistol and stared at it. He tested the weight of it in his hand, took a look down the barrel, looked for the serial number and so on. Finally, he commented on it. "Shiny."

He plonked the pistol down on the bar-side and finished his beer.

"I get paid for this, right?" He asked, giving his chin a rub.

Harold nodded. "One Rose per guy you throw our, fifty Petals per kill. Three Roses an hour that you work for me. I think it's a good job." He looked at the gun that was on the bar. "Here's your second order, hide it! I don't need any Government chronies here..."

He raised his brow. "Now do you want to tell me your story?"

Gerald picked the gun off the table and hid it in his jacket.

"There's really not much of a story to tell," He started, in a way that people start stories.

"I got up this morning, went to work and was told I was fired for stealing money from the registers (by the way, you don't have any of those do you? They're ridiculously insecure). So I went home and got a note from my landlady informing me that I have..." he glanced at his watch which had long since stopped ticking, "...half an hour to go and remove my stuff. Hence the reason I'm in here getting a drink. Could I have another, please?"

Wes looked at Harold.

"Thanks for the job; I'll keep it for as long as I have to." He hesitated for a moment as Harold gave out his assingment. "I have to warn you, my weapon isn't exactly...conventional." Harold gave him a quizzical look.

"Let me explain."

There were only a few revolutionaries left in the bar-six of them, actually-all of them located at the same table, resisting the terrible smell of Gerald's vomit. The men were flipping through a manifesto and growling audible curses at capitalism and glaring at Wes as he walked over. He took his staff off his back.

"Well, boys. I think it's about time you either quite down or leave."

The men stood up and began to circle Wes. One of them-The leader, perhaps-stood forward.

"We're not afraid of you, or your puke. You can't gross us out of here!" Wes sighed.

"I'm afraid I'm a bit more experianced that that, boys." Wes twisted his staff counter-clockwise, and several things happened at once. First, a scythe blade swung out of a secret panel, stopping right before the leader's neck. A gun barrel swiveled out of the top of the staff, and a trigger and maganzine appeared as well; Wes grasped it tightly, aiming it at another revolutionary.

"Now. Would you care to reconsider?"

The men all dashed for the door and spilled out onto the street ahead, scramling in every direction. Wes laughed, twisted his staff back, and watched as his various weapons slid back into place. He turned to face Harold.

"M-1 rifle built right into the thing. I got it after I was hired as a bodyguard. Still don't know what to call it, though." He paused for a moment. "100 a room, Eh? I think I can scrounge it up. Those idiots left their wallets." He motioned towards the table and grinned."

Harold slid a flask of whiskey towards Gerald. "There you go."

He then put his attention to the weapon Wes was holding. "Errr... geez. Call it the Gunblade of Doom or something." He shrugged. "Whatever happened to having a normal gun? And you know what, tell me the story behind that thing."

(This is not an anime Ravea ;). Now to all those who are wondering when the war will begin, either today, tommorow, or the weekend.)

Gerald took the flask of whiskey and had a sip of it. He shuddered as it burned his innards. In a very gratifying way, all things considered.

He turned around and saw the massive... scythe... gun... thing. He raised an eyebrow, turned and looked at the whiskey suspiciously before turning to Harold and saying, "How strong is this stuff?!"

Harold leaned towards Gerald's direction. "No, that's actually real." He said.

Gerald raised both his eyebrows and said, "Call me an old-fashioned sort, but I always thought you could have either a gun or a scythe, not both. Sounds... weird." He took another sip of the whiskey.

Wes shrugged.

"It's evidently one of the newest special ops weapons out of Ravea. The army wants someting that is effective at both long and close ranges. How did I get one? Lets just say I...Found it."

He took another sip of his drink.

"Don't worry, I think it's just as absurdly weird as you do. Still, the thing works, so why not use it?" He paused, then grinned. "Besides, I like being uniqe."

OCC:Yea, I know it's absolutly ridiculous, but I've always played around with the idea of this kind of weapon and decided that now was a good time to use it.

Harold shrugged. "If it works, it works eh?"

"Indeed." Wes rummaged through the couple of wallets that he had acquired and managed to find a pile of Roses. He put the money on the bar.

"There-that should be enough to pay for the room." He took a final swig from his drink and gasped.

"That's enough Alcohol for me today."

Harold chuckled. "Okay then." He got the Roses and put it inside one of his various pockets that were on his apron. He pointed towards the stairway. "Go up and you'll see a hallway, those are the rooms. Get any you like."

A pause. "Oh and err... knock first. Never know what they're doing in there." He shrugged. "Effin' perverts..."

He sighed and went back to cleaning one of the various glasses of his bar.

"Thanks for the warning." Wes nodded to Harold as he yawned and headed upstairs, turning into the hallway. He walked forward, then tenitevly knocked on the third door to the left. There was a squeal as two leather-clad girls dashed outside and ran down the hallway, followed by a morbidly obese man in his underpants. The trio quickly decended the stairs and dissapeard. Wes looked into the room to see a rumpled bed with handcuffs hanging off the bedpost.

"Erg," Muttered Wes. "Guess the bartender was right. I'll skip this room, then."

Wes continued a few doors down and found an empty, relitively clean-looking room. He put his weapon next to the bed turned in for the night. Wes wished he had something interesting to read, but he probably needed to sleep for a while; He prepared for a massive hangover that would occur the next morning.

Alexander gave a nod, "Thanks..." He took the flask and eyed it, swiftly removing the cap and lifting it to his lips. With a quick flick of the wrist he lifted it up and downed the entire thing in a matter of seconds, his eyes snapped shut and deep inside he quickly regretted the decision. He slowly guided the flask back to the bar top before letting his head back... "It tastes... Like... Shit." He let it linger a second before gulping it all down... He winced, "Make that gasoline." He grunted and let out a series of raspy coughs as the burning liquid settled in his stomache. He gagged as he realized he was about to let it loose, he placed his hand over his mouth and held his breath. He slowly started breathing again, now moving his hands to a position of clutching his stomache.

"You were right... Bad decision." He waited a number of minutes, letting the pain pass. Finally it had left him.

He looked around, the concept of not being in pain finally hitting his brain, he instantly perked up, his youth showing... He observed the pistol being brought up and handed to the man, "Hey, I better get one of those too... I'm a decent shot!" He flashed the money again, since he didn't have to use it for the alcohol he now intended to bribe the bartender, "Come on... I'll even pay you for me to use it... Eh?"

Gerald turned to see the younger man demanding his gun. Gerald took a swig of his whiskey and muttered, "Get your own bloody gun. S'mine."

John pulled out a wad of cash, filled with Roses, mostly 100R bills. Working with the PRP had its benefits, and one of them was a huge allowance on assingments.

"One hundred Roses." He said, putting the money on the counter.

He began walking up stairs reciting another piece of the Manifesto.

"In what relation do the Communists stand to the proletarians as a whole? The Communists do not form a separate party opposed to the other working-class parties.

They have no interests separate and apart from those of the proletariat as a whole.

They do not set up any sectarian principles of their own, by which to shape and mold the proletarian movement.

The Communists are distinguished from the other working-class parties by this only:

(1) In the national struggles of the proletarians of the different countries, they point out and bring to the front the common interests of the entire proletariat, independently of all nationality.

(2) In the various stages of development which the struggle of the working class against the bourgeoisie has to pass through, they always and everywhere represent the interests of the movement as a whole.

The Communists, therefore, are on the one hand practically, the most advanced and resolute section of the working-class parties of every country, that section which pushes forward all others; on the other hand, theoretically, they have over the great mass of the proletariat the advantage of clearly understanding the lines of march, the conditions, and the ultimate general results of the proletarian movement.

The immediate aim of the Communists is the same as that of all other proletarian parties: Formation of the proletariat into a class, overthrow of the bourgeois supremacy, conquest of political power by the proletariat.