NationStates Jolt Archive

(OOC: Because embassy threads are boring.)

It was sleeting in Telgrade, capital of Teslia. Freezing slush rain falling from a homogenous gray sky. In the streets below there was little to be heard save for the occasional splash as a car’s tire would run through a puddle, but traffic was light as typically suited a Sunday morning. Today the squat apartments and office buildings looked grayer than usual, grim stone facades standing up against a stiff northerly wind. The grimmest, stiffest, grayest of all of these buildings on this particular morning must have been the Royal Telgrade Apartment House, an aging tenement building on the city’s disreputable south end. Outside the wail of a siren could be heard, but nothing seemed to stir. Silhouettes moved sluggishly behind backlit blinds and shabby curtains.

One of these silhouettes was that of a squat gray man with a stern black beard, clad in a worn wool shirt, a pair of greasy slacks, and a trenchcoat that hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine in a decade. Between his teeth was clenched the end of a wooden tobacco pipe, clasped so desperately that one would fear it about to be bitten in two. On his hat was set a cockeyed woolen cap. His expression was as foreboding as the rest of his appearance, his beady black eyes half concealed by a thick black brow as he squinted behind the cloud of smoke that wreathed his countenance, lined and leathered with age.

He paced slowly back and forth between the soot masked window and a wall with peeling paper and a crooked portrait bearing the image of a man vaguely resembling the apartment’s immediate inhabitant. In the center of the room was a coffee table, one leg propped up with a dictionary, another with an upturned leather shoe. On the surface rested a boring, brown, hardcover book of 237 pages entitled “The Burden of the State.” Beneath the title the author’s name was inscribed in miniscule type: “Alexei Zinov.” The author was an egotistical fellow, exceptionally proud of this 237 page work, and so it was fitting that he would keep a copy on the lopsided coffee table in his shabby apartment on the south end of the Teslian capital city of Telgrade.

In a chair in the corner of this apartment sat a second man, this one noticeably younger, clean shaven, and clad in a drab green military uniform, an officer’s cap resting in his lap, a long cigar emanating from the center of his mouth, pinched by thin, pink lips. The smoke curls danced around the man’s short cropped head of hair, drifting across thin eyebrows above wide green eyes. He regarded the shabby pacing individual with a degree of perplexed interest, one might go so far as to say reverence, and there was a pent up excitement barely discernable from a tapping finger on his thigh. Suddenly the pacing ceased and the derelict turned his head and shot a stern glance in the direction of the military man.

“So?”

The military man’s finger stopped tapping.

“So what?”

“So what’s your goddamn point?”

“It’s like I just told you. We need your support. If the people know the party has the backing of the Alexei Zinov, then of course the party will have their backing.”

The man resumed his pacing.

“What’s in it for me?”

“Official status as party ideologist.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So what’s your goddamn point?”

“You get access to the full reserves of the new state and the personal approval of the dictator. Money, power, girls. Boys too if that’s your thing. You can spend all day writing your books in a state furnished apartment that’s a good sight better than this shithole.”

The man stopped again and turned to look once more at the uniformed man.

“I happen to like this ‘shithole’. And I don’t need your state charity.”

“It’s not state charity. It’s payment for great service to the new order.”

The man resumed his pacing. The uniformed man began picking at a hangnail.

“You know, this is a great honor the future leader is offering you. To refuse would be most displeasing to him. Perhaps even insulting.”

“What do I care? What’s he going to do? Kill me? It would be political suicide.”

“Maybe not kill you. But you would be discredited. Your writings would become worthless. You wouldn’t even be able to afford this place. You’d be out on the street. A skid mark in the annals of history.”

The man stopped pacing and puffed contemplatively on his pipe.

“I’ll think about it.”

--------------------------

Roughly 6,000 people had gathered in the center plaza of Telgrade that evening under a bath of electric light. On one end was set a large stage, and on the other a police barricade. The crowd was roaring. The throng itself was a motley assortment of every type of humanity, from upstanding white collar citizens to lowly hooligans and street thugs. Every one of them had their eyes fixed on the stage, waiting for the particular moment when their self appointed charismatic leader would make his appearance. They were not long to wait, for the crowd soon quieted as a tall, powerfully built bald man in a brown overcoat stepped up to a podium and looked out over the assembled masses.

The man was Boris Popov, leader of the Teslian Nationalist Party, a brilliant speaker, and political genius. The microphone screamed briefly as he adjusted it to suit his height, and then his booming voice came out over the loudspeakers.

“For Teslia!”

The crowd echoed him in the traditional party salute. He continued.

“People of Telgrade, today you have come to hear words of great revolution, but I will say that words are no longer enough for the nationalist party and her faithful members. Of course I will speak to you here to put fire in your hearts for love of true Teslia and the prospect of a better future, but soon, soon we will have to put something behind these words. The election draws close and our movement has grown strong. We have a clear shot at the presidency, and with it a return to the good days and the fall of the corrupt democratic establishment. We have gained a new friend. Alexei Zinov, the great writer and philosopher has joined our ranks and professes the just nature of our cause. It is only a matter of time between us and our ascension.”

The crowd roared at the mention of the egotistical geniuses name, but fell silent again. The speech went on for two more hours, the multitude lapping up every word and growing more and more excited. Following the conclusion, as was expected, a series of riots broke out in the immediate vicinity, and while few people were hurt and they were quickly suppressed, they imprinted the serious nature of the demagogue’s sway over the masses.

One of the brass numbers had long since fallen off room 414 in the aging Hillbrook Hotel in Telgrade, an event which led to some confusion among the four young hoodlums who wandered the halls in search of this particular room, yet who could only locate room ‘4 4’.

“It’s this one. It has to be.”

“No way, man. That says 44.”

“You idiot. There is no 44 on this floor.”

“Yes there is, fucker. It’s right there!”

“It’s supposed to be 414.”

“How the fuck do you know?”

“Look at all the other goddamn rooms! Three digit numbers. The ‘1’ just fell off this one.”

“What if you’re wrong? We could be disturbing perfectly good people.”

“Goddamnit. You think there are any perfectly good people in this place?”

“Good point.”

The largest of the four men took a few steps back from the door and then threw himself forward. The hinges broke and the door fell inward. The other three, two carrying wooden baseball bats, the other brandishing a revolver, charged into the room. A pair of startled, naked people, a rotund old man and a young woman sat up in bed. The woman screamed and the old man scrambled out of bed, only to be met with a baseball bat to the side of the face. He fell to the ground, unconscious.

The man with the revolver, a skinny bald individual wearing a black leather jacket looked at the frightened girl, then at the man on the floor. Then, in one singular motion he raised the revolver and shot her in the head. She fell back silently. Quickly he walked over to the unconscious man and placed the taped grip in his hands. He stepped back, and looked at one of the others, who produced a camera. Several flashes later, the scene was captured in all its perfect gruesome glory.

It was a messy job, and any good investigator would have been able to discern what really happened, but thankfully all the good investigators were in the party’s pocket, and the fate of presidential candidate Dmitri Zerikov was sealed. The next day he would be dragged off to prison to await a trial that would never come as the gruesome photo decorated the front page of the morning paper.

Election day was a dreary affair. The skies poured rain on the crowds that gathered outside of the polling areas. Nationalist Party banners were flying in many a window, and the party insignia was worn on many a badge pinned to the coats of voters. In alleys, sordid hoodlums with shaved heads and offensive tattoos watched the people pass by, occasionally uttering threats to those not wearing the party badge, brandishing blunt objects, knives, or revolvers. Generally, though, the day passed without event. It would be two days before the tallying of votes was complete.

Boris Popov sat back in the cushioned leather chair, and sipped from the steaming mug of imported coffee. The news played on the muted television screen at the other end of the room. Across from him sat the uniformed military man, one General Andropov, a war hero with a great deal of clout in the armed forces. To his right sat Alexei Zinov, and to his left sat a burly obese man with a handlebar mustache, one Milos Ionescu.

“Zerikov’s arrest has put you second in the polls, just behind President Pavili himself.”

Popov’s expression changed to one of disgust at the mention of the framed candidate.

“Disgusting piece of human garbage. He’s finally in prison where he belongs, the perverse bastard.”

“The socialists won’t be taking office anytime soon without him.”

Popov chuckled.

“When we are ushered into office, they won’t be taking power ever again.”

The others laughed. Popov glanced over at the television and raised a remote control to raise the volume. The scene switched from the newsroom to a large rally in a park on the edge of town. President Pavili stood before thousands, a huge grin on his face.

“It is my absolute pleasure to thank you for helping me to win reelectio-“

He was cut off by a cry of anger and disbelief from Popov and gasps from the others. The screen cut off and the room fell silent. Popov got to his feet, staring straight ahead. He stumbled over to the window and looked out on the silent street. General Andropov walked over to his side. Popov shook his head.

“It can’t be correct. We must demand a recount. It is fraud.”

Andropov nodded his head.

-------------

On the south end, the tension was palpable. The gangs of young party thugs had been assembling all morning. A rape and two beatings had already been called into the police, but no one seemed to be listening. In an alley, a street demagogue was railing against the outcome of the election, ordering, ushering a dozen angry people towards revolt. In silent apartments and tenements, disinterested people were hiding, waiting for the storm cloud to break or pass over. Many listened attentively to radios or watched television screens.

It came rather suddenly, as most great terrible things throughout history have come. A single stone bringing a great change. In the streets outside of a police station, a single angry young man picked up a stone and threw it through a window. An edgy cop grabbed him, and struggled to put handcuffs on him to restrain him, but was foiled by three others who tackled him and freed their companion. The man began to beat his would-be arrestor, and was joined by more and more, until there was a crowd assembled calling for the policeman’s blood. Rocks began to fly through the air at the other officers who poured into the street to break up the commotion, and then a single shot from an automatic pistol sent a young man to the ground, bleeding into the storm drain.

The throng cried out in unison, and charged the officer that had fired the shot. He fired again, and again but the mob only came on stronger. The gun was wrestled from his hands as he went under, and a shot fired into the air as the officers retreated into the station. The mob thundered on the doorstep, hurling rocks and insults. The fiery discontent was spreading quickly through the surrounding blocks, soon throughout the whole south end.

Popov sat in his apartment, quiet, disenchanted. His door burst inward and the obese Ionescu charged in.

“It has begun! The revolution has begun!”

Popov looked up at the man, and instantly his demeanor changed. He was up and out of his chair, shouting orders at his party crony, once more the fiery political leader.

The sound of marching boots could be heard on the cobblestone streets of the west end of the city, bathed in the looming shadow of the Teslian Military High Command headquarters. A long line of green clad troops strode in unison, General Andropov in the center of the mass. The column reached the front of the building and halted, the General walking up to the steps. A young officer walked out to meet him, a defiant expression on his face.

“General Andropov, I have orders to take you into custody as an enemy of the republic.”

Andropov laughed and turned to the soldiers standing at his back.

“Did you hear that? They want to arrest me!”

He turned back to the young man, still defiant in the face of the war hero and his army.

“I’m afraid it is I who is placing you under arrest as an enemy of the state and her elected leader, Boris Popov.”

The young man swallowed heavily but did not move.

“I order you in the name of President Pavili to lay down your arms and order your men to submit to the authority of the republic.”

Andropov smirked and unholstered a pistol which he raised into the air and discharged.

“Stand aside. This is bigger than you and your rank.”

The man stood firm.

“This is your last warning.”

Andropov grew impatient and leveled his pistol at the man.

“And this is yours.”

Suddenly a rifle shot rang out from one of the building’s upper windows. The soldiers scrambled for whatever cover they could find in the open street. Andropov retreated from the steps to a concrete barrier.

“They’re shooting at us!”

“Then shoot back, goddamnit!”

The crack of an automatic rifle sounded, and was joined by several others. Andropov fired his pistol at the young officer as he disappeared into the building. He shouted his men forward, and he himself led the charge. They poured through the front door, into the lobby, where they were met by a barrage of pistol fire from officers and regulars. Andropov fired, and one of the men fell. The others retreated deeper into the building, with Andropov’s men in pursuit. The sounds of gunfire resounded through the halls as a firefight began to evolve.

It was over quickly. Andropov, backed by his soldiers was able to overpower the lightly armed officers and token security force to seize control of the building. Most that resisted were captured and imprisoned temporarily in the basement. All told, 12 of the building’s occupants were killed, twenty wounded and 6 of Andropov’s men killed, 7 wounded. News of the seizure spread throughout town, and a panic began to form. Outside the police station, the mob had swelled to nearly 800 people, many armed. A young gang leader known as Yuri Petrov had become the mob’s apparent leader, and now stood on the steps of the station facing the crowd. He waved a revolver in the air.

“Look at the cowards too afraid to come out and face the people they’re supposed to protect! If they were really here to protect, they’d join us and overthrow the government, but they can’t because the government is filling their pockets with bribes to oppress the rightful will of the masses! Well, if they won’t come out on their own, I say we go in there and drag them out to face trial!”

The mob shouted back angrily as Petrov turned and rushed for the door. It was barricaded heavily from the inside. Several others rushed up the steps with a bench, which they proceeded to use as a battering ram. The door began to give way and distressed shouts could be heard from inside. Finally the stress was too much and the door burst inward, Petrov riding forward on top of the bench as if it were a sedan chair, waving his revolver. A gun sounded and he was blown backward, a bullet buried in his shoulder. This only furthered the mob’s anger, and several shots returned in the direction of the police.

The mob poured inside, trashing the lobby and surging through the building, setting fires, beating, stabbing, shooting everyone and everything in their path. Several of the rioters poured out onto the roof, bearing an old tattered nationalist flag banner, which they ran up the flagpole. In the streets the cheers resounded.

“Aim! Fire!”

The rifle shots rang out in the noon sun as the soldiers fired through at the crowd from behind the gates of the Presidential Manor compound. The shots rang out elsewhere in the compound as well, as palace guards battled with rioters attempting to scale the walls. In his office President Pavili watched the scene, horrified. His chief of security stood by his side.

“Mr. President, it’s time to go. Your helicopter is waiting.”

“I can’t leave my country like this.”

“You have to or you won’t be leaving at all. Those nationalists want to rip you limb from limb.”

Pavili sighed heavily and turned to follow the man into the hall, where they walked briskly to the roof and a waiting escape helicopter. Outside an explosion sounded as a protestor hurled a stolen grenade at the wrought iron gate. Pavili paused, then continued for the stairwell. The two reached the roof and jumped into the helicopter. Below an engine roared, and just as the helicopter lifted off, a pickup truck careened through the gates, followed by the angry mob. Shots were fired at the helicopter as it flew over the walls, away from the distraught capital and Telgrade.

Below, the battle was fierce as rioters engaged heavily armed soldiers in combat, hand to hand. The crowd was thousands strong, and the banners of the Nationalist party waved proudly over their heads. Molotov cocktails detonated on the ground, igniting presidential guard and protestor alike. Quickly the soldiers fell back, as they had at the high command headquarters and the police station, giving way to the storm of rioters. The mob surged towards the doors before they could be barricaded, and soon enough the palace was swarming with angry young nationalists. A few minutes later, the nationalist party standard flew over the building and with it the revolution was over.

In the streets they marched, the hordes of ecstatic nationalist supporters, soldier and civilian. At their head Popov rode on the bed of a pickup, saluting the people and occasionally firing a shot from a revolver as he grinned broadly on his way to the palace. The procession entered the gates, and Popov was ushered up onto a hastily constructed stage.

“Followers! Our hour has come! Teslia’s hour has come! Pavili has fled! The government is toppled! The party has taken full control of the nation and all her means. I hereby proclaim myself President of Teslia and the Nationalist Party the official governing body!”

The crowd roared with excitement and joy shots were fired into the air. It was done.

bump for awareness

bump