Communist Brazil
30-10-2005, 20:25
The Spartacist Junta of 2005
Brasilia, Maritoba Municipality, Setor Federal
In the former Spartacist League building, which was built to accommodate tens of thousands people to discuss and watch the movers and shakers of the former League present their ideas, giving out referendums. It was a forum of democracy. True democracy. However, the period of democracy has ended. Athens will become Sparta. A great cataclysm is to occur, and finally, the chance to change the world, instead in this mask of social democracy. A new society will be build upon the ashes of the old.
However, before this, there would have to be changes, all across Brazil. And for this, there was a new rule of law. That being the rule of the individual, through not votes, but support. Brazil, indeed, all of South America was intended on being united under one great ideal, this Bolivarian pan-South Americanism that was both nationalist and internationalist in its paradoxical self. It celebrated the Indo-American people, those people who had settled there, yet also uniting all ethnicities, gringo, negro, y indio across this continent, which had so long been solely the backyard, the vassal of other nations.
It would begin, with Brazil. Within this former paragon of democracy, a new temporary government was to be established under the radical, militarist Bandeira Preta rebellion, the Black Flag of South America. Commandante Bittencourt, once a loyalist to the Spartacist social democracy, lead this rebellion with the help of the Worker’s Militias, and almost the entire military, to finally come to victory. With the aid of the paramilitary LJFA (Liberty and Justice For All) and the secret organization named “the Freemen,” he was able to secure stability after the almost bloodless rebellion.
Bittencourt knew that he would have to bring the greatest minds of Brazil, and decide its future. Not only would he look forward, with his new regime, but go back to the social democracy, to develop an entire new system of which could unite all of Brazil. And thus, he began. Those meeting were a very small group, a very select group of minds. The elite. The vanguard. It was ironic, as they Spartacists were very anti-vanguard, and very anti-Leninist.
What the Commandante was to present, no one had expected.
Thirteen people consisted of this Junta. Thirteen people, thirteen voices, thirteen minds would determine the fate of an entire continent, and perhaps even the wider world. They were the thirteen most powerful, influential, and, daresay, intelligent in Brazil. The “First Junta." The last junta, unknown to all.
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"I wasn't impressed." Chavez sat upon the seat of the small lounge, his age knowingly catching up to him. He was old, very old. Weak, and his bones ached. Once a proud revolutionary against the Portuguese imperialists, now just an old man. Cynical. Broken. Chavez looked up to the two with him, seated at opposite sides of the coffee table. Juan Osvaldo Hernadez, and Esteban Cabrilho Rodriegez. What he was seeing, the the old generation of Brazil, those left behind by the new, which ate at itself when all of the sustenance that the old once gave was gone. A sigh, before Esteban made a short reply.
"It is not us to decide anything. That is the Commandante's decision, and I must say, he was quite generous in even allowing us to partake in this. We have always seen this before. The Bolsheviks, the Mensheviks. At least we are dealing with a good friend. Not Stalin." Esteban leaned back, puffing lightly at the cigar, as his eyes drew to the until then silent Hernadez, whom looked up from his seat to the window.
"Are you so sure, Esteban?" A sound, almost like the wind, a whipping breeze, but then a crack, and a sickening sliding, a crunch. Through the window, almost shattering it, and straight into the back of old Chavez's head, deep into the skull and lodging itself right into the back of his brain, as the blood vessel ruptured and the vile substance snaked through the last remaining strands of his hair. Gray being stained blood red. Esteban had no time to react, before it came through the front of his face, and with a light sigh, the Father of Brazil, O Presidente, Juan Osvaldo Hernadez looked into the face of now the bullet coming at him. Nenhum grito.
Brasilia, Maritoba Municipality, Setor Federal
In the former Spartacist League building, which was built to accommodate tens of thousands people to discuss and watch the movers and shakers of the former League present their ideas, giving out referendums. It was a forum of democracy. True democracy. However, the period of democracy has ended. Athens will become Sparta. A great cataclysm is to occur, and finally, the chance to change the world, instead in this mask of social democracy. A new society will be build upon the ashes of the old.
However, before this, there would have to be changes, all across Brazil. And for this, there was a new rule of law. That being the rule of the individual, through not votes, but support. Brazil, indeed, all of South America was intended on being united under one great ideal, this Bolivarian pan-South Americanism that was both nationalist and internationalist in its paradoxical self. It celebrated the Indo-American people, those people who had settled there, yet also uniting all ethnicities, gringo, negro, y indio across this continent, which had so long been solely the backyard, the vassal of other nations.
It would begin, with Brazil. Within this former paragon of democracy, a new temporary government was to be established under the radical, militarist Bandeira Preta rebellion, the Black Flag of South America. Commandante Bittencourt, once a loyalist to the Spartacist social democracy, lead this rebellion with the help of the Worker’s Militias, and almost the entire military, to finally come to victory. With the aid of the paramilitary LJFA (Liberty and Justice For All) and the secret organization named “the Freemen,” he was able to secure stability after the almost bloodless rebellion.
Bittencourt knew that he would have to bring the greatest minds of Brazil, and decide its future. Not only would he look forward, with his new regime, but go back to the social democracy, to develop an entire new system of which could unite all of Brazil. And thus, he began. Those meeting were a very small group, a very select group of minds. The elite. The vanguard. It was ironic, as they Spartacists were very anti-vanguard, and very anti-Leninist.
What the Commandante was to present, no one had expected.
Thirteen people consisted of this Junta. Thirteen people, thirteen voices, thirteen minds would determine the fate of an entire continent, and perhaps even the wider world. They were the thirteen most powerful, influential, and, daresay, intelligent in Brazil. The “First Junta." The last junta, unknown to all.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
"I wasn't impressed." Chavez sat upon the seat of the small lounge, his age knowingly catching up to him. He was old, very old. Weak, and his bones ached. Once a proud revolutionary against the Portuguese imperialists, now just an old man. Cynical. Broken. Chavez looked up to the two with him, seated at opposite sides of the coffee table. Juan Osvaldo Hernadez, and Esteban Cabrilho Rodriegez. What he was seeing, the the old generation of Brazil, those left behind by the new, which ate at itself when all of the sustenance that the old once gave was gone. A sigh, before Esteban made a short reply.
"It is not us to decide anything. That is the Commandante's decision, and I must say, he was quite generous in even allowing us to partake in this. We have always seen this before. The Bolsheviks, the Mensheviks. At least we are dealing with a good friend. Not Stalin." Esteban leaned back, puffing lightly at the cigar, as his eyes drew to the until then silent Hernadez, whom looked up from his seat to the window.
"Are you so sure, Esteban?" A sound, almost like the wind, a whipping breeze, but then a crack, and a sickening sliding, a crunch. Through the window, almost shattering it, and straight into the back of old Chavez's head, deep into the skull and lodging itself right into the back of his brain, as the blood vessel ruptured and the vile substance snaked through the last remaining strands of his hair. Gray being stained blood red. Esteban had no time to react, before it came through the front of his face, and with a light sigh, the Father of Brazil, O Presidente, Juan Osvaldo Hernadez looked into the face of now the bullet coming at him. Nenhum grito.