Armandian Cheese
03-01-2006, 22:31
In a small room in a small apartment in a small neighborhood, a Revolution that would shake the very foundations of the earth began. It is hard to believe, but soon the Kings of Europe, the Emperors of Asia, and the Ministers of America would sweat uneasily over the conspiracy that began in the dingy, dirty, ramshackle little hole in the ground known as Kalinivosk. One expected that movements such as these, that would challenge the very order of things, the ancient system of nation states and traditional civilization, would be spawned somewhere more fitting to the importance of the occasion. The golden halls of Versailles or the marble steps of the White House or even the jade walls of the Green Tower seemed more appropriate to such an occasion. But yet it was here, in this tiny town and this tiny apartment, that the greatest challenge to the global status quo since the evil fascists of the Axis would be born…
There was a small bar nearby, and for some reason or another they were holding a party. Bodies moved to the newest Russian dance crazes, with hips swinging wildly, feet flying in the air, and arms in places that parents certainly wouldn’t approve of. The bar owners had, being new to the Quinntonian bought technology, overdone the special effects, which gave the black Volga that cruised through the streets quite the eerie air. Its chrome wheels glinted as the bar’s laser lights struck them, and the black body cut through the thick blue fog. The Strokes’ Last Night pulsated in the air as the Volga turned the corner with a flourish. The rock melody lent the already slick and sleek black car an incredible air of what can only be described as “coolness”. Everything that night seemed so slick, so sharp, so confidently cool---everything was in place and nothing could go wrong. As the Volga came to a silky halt, and smoothly rolled into an underground garage, the music slowly drained away…but the feeling remained.
The car’s driver stepped out into the damp, crumbling, concrete parking garage and slammed the car door shut. He quickly smoothed out his black suit, tightened his tie, and walked off at a fast pace. The man was vaguely Asian in appearance, though his skin was very pale for an Asiatic man. A well groomed and sharply cut jet black goatee hung off his face, accompanied by a similar length of hair stretching down to the bottom of his neck. His face was a serious and stern mask, emphasized by the imposing pair of dark sunglasses he constantly wore. With a swift and fluid movement, his keys opened the rusting steel door in front of him, and his hands deftly pushed it aside. A narrow, poorly lit corridor stretched out before him, and the man in black walked through the crumbling hallway with a confident stride. The key’s jangling echoed across the hallway, bouncing around and lending the air an almost supernatural tinge. Everything seemed so eerie, empty, and worthless…Yet the flecking white paint on the bare walls of the corridor seemed so fake, so superficial, and underneath it lay countless mysteries, the promise that adventure lurked just beyond the corner. The keys spun for a moment, and then one lucky little copper fellow found himself lodged inside the keyhole, and after a bit of fumbling and shoving, the door groaned open, and revealed nothing but shadow.
“Tseng.” said the cold barrel of the gun that lay upon his throat.
“Hello there.” said the Asian man in black who bore the name Tseng.
“Sorry to burden you old chap---standard security procedure and all.” stated the mystery voice in an accent that so resembled that of the British, but had a reckless twang in it that defined it clearly as Roycelandian.
“Yes, I know. Fingerprints, retina.” replied Tseng in a cool, confident voice as the silhouettes of men dashed around him and performed the very tests he spoke of.
“All clear old sport.” said the Roik as the lights began to slowly dawn upon the room.
Tseng smiled.
No matter how many times he saw the room, he couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. A marble black circle stood in the center of the room and served a table; its inside was cut out and in the center stood a triangular formation of plasma screens. Around the table sat a menacing circle of stone faced, sharp suited men and women. Tseng, serious man though he was, could not help but chuckle at the room’s resemblance to the stereotypical “evil villain headquarters” that were such a common fixture in the cartoon shows of his youth. Another common fixture of his youth, the indefatigable mustachioed Roycelandian, Colonel Blubberworth, also stood before him. The short, chubby man bore an obscenely large orange mustache that pointed upwards, a pith helmet, and a red uniform that had a stunning resemblance to military uniforms of the British during the Revolutionary war. Not even the cold Tseng could refuse the warmth of Blubberworth’s manly embrace, although he began to protest as his face turned to a deep shade of blue. The Colonel laughed heartily, slapped Tseng on the back, and led him to his seat at the marble black table.
The Asian man’s face suddenly became a mask of dead seriousness again, and he placed a leather suitcase upon the table. Around the table sat the largest collection of personal wealth in one room since Bill Gates had thrown his last birthday party: the cream of Russia’s multimillionaire and billionaire crop. Media moguls, high level government officials, captains of industry, social and religious leaders, KGB agents (who kept on glancing nervously around them), military commanders, and a smattering of movie stars all glared expectantly at the man in black before them.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you all know why you came here. We’ve all received notes from Vladimir Putin asking you to come here. He knew all of you would come, and he knew none of you would speak of this, because all of you were his close friends. Vladimir Putin was a man who chose his friends very carefully. Now, let me explain why you were called here. First of all, it is my belief that Vladimir Putin did not die by Baltic hands. I base this conclusion on two pieces of evidence: one, I knew Armand Domalewski since he was a child. The man is a Tsarist through and through, and all though he may have disguised it with false patriotism, his loyalty always lay with Wingert, not democracy. I believe Armand was all too eager to betray our friend. Two, I have sent several copies of illegally obtained photographs of Putin’s corpse, and although the Tsar’s cronies have tried to disguise it, his body is covered with sword wounds. Massive sword wounds. Who do we know that wields a tremendous sword and was conveniently meeting Putin near the time of his death?”
The crowd waited eagerly, hanging on the man in black’s every word. They all knew where he was going and all had come to similar conclusions on their own, but somehow hearing the truth spoken out loud, in such a brazen fashion, titillated and excited them to an incredible degree.
“That’s right, our dear friend---” (at this point several of the assembled groaned at Tseng’s sardonic humor)“---Tsar Wingert the First and his band of merry men. What this means is that we cannot accept the current regime as legitimate---it is founded upon lies and murder.”
“So get to the point already. We’re here to start a revolution?” asked a woman of medium height, curly dark brown hair, and sharp turquoise eyes. Slender black glasses rested upon Nina Vertlib’s annoyed face, and a sharp black suit lay upon her petite (or as her critics would say, “short”) body. The high powered attorney (best known for her work in the landmark “Lumpy Tigress” Case where she defended and befriended Putin) glared at Tseng.
“No, madam. As much as I would like to personally strangle Wingert, it clearly states in his true last will and testament” at which point he pulled a thick ream of paper bearing Putin’s signature out of his suitcase and slammed it upon the table “that the President believed the Russian people were too exhausted from ten years of nigh constant warfare to take part in another revolution. As long as economic prosperity and peace is assured, our organization is not to interfere with whoever rules Russia, at least not in the near future.”
“Our organization…? I have agreed to no organization! Goddam it, get to the point, ya yella bellied bastard!” screamed a thickly muscled man with flaming red hair that flapped wildly from his chin and upon his shoulders. Arawn heralded from Beth Gellert and thus bore the appearance of a Celtic warrior, but his family had a significant bit of Scottish blood in it, which explained thick Scottish accent. The one thing about his appearance that neither his Scottish nor his Bedgellen heritage could account for, however, was his intense yellow eyes. They radiated with such strength and rage that few could look into them for extended periods of time. It was perhaps this intensity perhaps that allowed him to be so successful at such disparate industries: he was owner of the world’s largest chain of morgues, (yes, the man invented a franchise…of morgues) ran several gigantic arms companies, and, if the rumors were to be believed, was deeply involved with the Bedgellen Bio-Weapons program. (Although the reliability of these rumors is uncertain, considering the fact that it has not even been confirmed that such a program still exists)
Tseng failed to flinch at the racist remark, and coolly replied, “All in due time, sir. This Will, which I have made several copies of and which the Colonel is currently distributing, clearly outlines a plan forged by the late President. Both the public copy of his last testament and this real one call for the distribution of his entire fortune, worth roughly $21 billion USQD, into various charities. However, what the public copy does not reveal is that all of these charities are fronts, and that they are set aside for a specific purpose. Originally the access codes were to be delivered by an unknowing messenger to The Boss, or if she died, Chikara Yuki. Obviously, both of them are incapable of receiving these codes, being dead, and they were thus delivered to me, along with this will. As I said before, this money is set aside for an explicit purpose: to be “start up money”, if you will, for an organization dedicated to spreading democracy across the earth. The will details it more exactly, but through espionage, subterfuge, obscene amounts of cash, manipulation, and outright violence our organization is meant to, bit by bit, chip away at the dictatorships of the world. Nations of the world have too much to lose to go around attempting to topple the villains of this world. We…do not. Regime change is a reality, ladies and gentlemen. We just need enough men, cash, and determination. Of course, we’re weak now---we have no chance at all with the Kings of Europe or the fanatics of Dra-Pol. But if you join me, we will be strong enough to set our sights upon some of the weaker tyrants of the world…and eliminate them. Now, I have already taken the liberty of purchasing several jets and the Chinese equivalent of an armored cavalry regiment, thanks to the friendship I’m trying to forge between us and the Chinese. But there remains much work to be done---we need to invest heavily to make sure we have enough funds to operate, we need to create an espionage organization---our KGB friends can help with that---we need to set up dummy corporations, we need to train mercenary troops, and most importantly, we need…to find a target. However, this all hinges upon your agreement. Ladies and gentlemen, will we continue the crusade for freedom that our friend Vladimir Putin so dearly fought for? Or will we let the dream of liberty fester, hoping that someday someone like him will arise to do it for us?”
Silence hung upon the room, as the gears within all of their heads churned. All of these men and women had earned their tremendous wealth not by making rash, impulsive decisions, but through years of hard labor and by meticulously calculating every move, examining every angle and every possible way a problem could be solved before determining a path to follow. And thus some of the most brilliant minds in the world raced within that one small room, until a thick Scottish accent pierced through the silence.
“Ah, why the hell not? It might be fun.”
There was a small bar nearby, and for some reason or another they were holding a party. Bodies moved to the newest Russian dance crazes, with hips swinging wildly, feet flying in the air, and arms in places that parents certainly wouldn’t approve of. The bar owners had, being new to the Quinntonian bought technology, overdone the special effects, which gave the black Volga that cruised through the streets quite the eerie air. Its chrome wheels glinted as the bar’s laser lights struck them, and the black body cut through the thick blue fog. The Strokes’ Last Night pulsated in the air as the Volga turned the corner with a flourish. The rock melody lent the already slick and sleek black car an incredible air of what can only be described as “coolness”. Everything that night seemed so slick, so sharp, so confidently cool---everything was in place and nothing could go wrong. As the Volga came to a silky halt, and smoothly rolled into an underground garage, the music slowly drained away…but the feeling remained.
The car’s driver stepped out into the damp, crumbling, concrete parking garage and slammed the car door shut. He quickly smoothed out his black suit, tightened his tie, and walked off at a fast pace. The man was vaguely Asian in appearance, though his skin was very pale for an Asiatic man. A well groomed and sharply cut jet black goatee hung off his face, accompanied by a similar length of hair stretching down to the bottom of his neck. His face was a serious and stern mask, emphasized by the imposing pair of dark sunglasses he constantly wore. With a swift and fluid movement, his keys opened the rusting steel door in front of him, and his hands deftly pushed it aside. A narrow, poorly lit corridor stretched out before him, and the man in black walked through the crumbling hallway with a confident stride. The key’s jangling echoed across the hallway, bouncing around and lending the air an almost supernatural tinge. Everything seemed so eerie, empty, and worthless…Yet the flecking white paint on the bare walls of the corridor seemed so fake, so superficial, and underneath it lay countless mysteries, the promise that adventure lurked just beyond the corner. The keys spun for a moment, and then one lucky little copper fellow found himself lodged inside the keyhole, and after a bit of fumbling and shoving, the door groaned open, and revealed nothing but shadow.
“Tseng.” said the cold barrel of the gun that lay upon his throat.
“Hello there.” said the Asian man in black who bore the name Tseng.
“Sorry to burden you old chap---standard security procedure and all.” stated the mystery voice in an accent that so resembled that of the British, but had a reckless twang in it that defined it clearly as Roycelandian.
“Yes, I know. Fingerprints, retina.” replied Tseng in a cool, confident voice as the silhouettes of men dashed around him and performed the very tests he spoke of.
“All clear old sport.” said the Roik as the lights began to slowly dawn upon the room.
Tseng smiled.
No matter how many times he saw the room, he couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. A marble black circle stood in the center of the room and served a table; its inside was cut out and in the center stood a triangular formation of plasma screens. Around the table sat a menacing circle of stone faced, sharp suited men and women. Tseng, serious man though he was, could not help but chuckle at the room’s resemblance to the stereotypical “evil villain headquarters” that were such a common fixture in the cartoon shows of his youth. Another common fixture of his youth, the indefatigable mustachioed Roycelandian, Colonel Blubberworth, also stood before him. The short, chubby man bore an obscenely large orange mustache that pointed upwards, a pith helmet, and a red uniform that had a stunning resemblance to military uniforms of the British during the Revolutionary war. Not even the cold Tseng could refuse the warmth of Blubberworth’s manly embrace, although he began to protest as his face turned to a deep shade of blue. The Colonel laughed heartily, slapped Tseng on the back, and led him to his seat at the marble black table.
The Asian man’s face suddenly became a mask of dead seriousness again, and he placed a leather suitcase upon the table. Around the table sat the largest collection of personal wealth in one room since Bill Gates had thrown his last birthday party: the cream of Russia’s multimillionaire and billionaire crop. Media moguls, high level government officials, captains of industry, social and religious leaders, KGB agents (who kept on glancing nervously around them), military commanders, and a smattering of movie stars all glared expectantly at the man in black before them.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you all know why you came here. We’ve all received notes from Vladimir Putin asking you to come here. He knew all of you would come, and he knew none of you would speak of this, because all of you were his close friends. Vladimir Putin was a man who chose his friends very carefully. Now, let me explain why you were called here. First of all, it is my belief that Vladimir Putin did not die by Baltic hands. I base this conclusion on two pieces of evidence: one, I knew Armand Domalewski since he was a child. The man is a Tsarist through and through, and all though he may have disguised it with false patriotism, his loyalty always lay with Wingert, not democracy. I believe Armand was all too eager to betray our friend. Two, I have sent several copies of illegally obtained photographs of Putin’s corpse, and although the Tsar’s cronies have tried to disguise it, his body is covered with sword wounds. Massive sword wounds. Who do we know that wields a tremendous sword and was conveniently meeting Putin near the time of his death?”
The crowd waited eagerly, hanging on the man in black’s every word. They all knew where he was going and all had come to similar conclusions on their own, but somehow hearing the truth spoken out loud, in such a brazen fashion, titillated and excited them to an incredible degree.
“That’s right, our dear friend---” (at this point several of the assembled groaned at Tseng’s sardonic humor)“---Tsar Wingert the First and his band of merry men. What this means is that we cannot accept the current regime as legitimate---it is founded upon lies and murder.”
“So get to the point already. We’re here to start a revolution?” asked a woman of medium height, curly dark brown hair, and sharp turquoise eyes. Slender black glasses rested upon Nina Vertlib’s annoyed face, and a sharp black suit lay upon her petite (or as her critics would say, “short”) body. The high powered attorney (best known for her work in the landmark “Lumpy Tigress” Case where she defended and befriended Putin) glared at Tseng.
“No, madam. As much as I would like to personally strangle Wingert, it clearly states in his true last will and testament” at which point he pulled a thick ream of paper bearing Putin’s signature out of his suitcase and slammed it upon the table “that the President believed the Russian people were too exhausted from ten years of nigh constant warfare to take part in another revolution. As long as economic prosperity and peace is assured, our organization is not to interfere with whoever rules Russia, at least not in the near future.”
“Our organization…? I have agreed to no organization! Goddam it, get to the point, ya yella bellied bastard!” screamed a thickly muscled man with flaming red hair that flapped wildly from his chin and upon his shoulders. Arawn heralded from Beth Gellert and thus bore the appearance of a Celtic warrior, but his family had a significant bit of Scottish blood in it, which explained thick Scottish accent. The one thing about his appearance that neither his Scottish nor his Bedgellen heritage could account for, however, was his intense yellow eyes. They radiated with such strength and rage that few could look into them for extended periods of time. It was perhaps this intensity perhaps that allowed him to be so successful at such disparate industries: he was owner of the world’s largest chain of morgues, (yes, the man invented a franchise…of morgues) ran several gigantic arms companies, and, if the rumors were to be believed, was deeply involved with the Bedgellen Bio-Weapons program. (Although the reliability of these rumors is uncertain, considering the fact that it has not even been confirmed that such a program still exists)
Tseng failed to flinch at the racist remark, and coolly replied, “All in due time, sir. This Will, which I have made several copies of and which the Colonel is currently distributing, clearly outlines a plan forged by the late President. Both the public copy of his last testament and this real one call for the distribution of his entire fortune, worth roughly $21 billion USQD, into various charities. However, what the public copy does not reveal is that all of these charities are fronts, and that they are set aside for a specific purpose. Originally the access codes were to be delivered by an unknowing messenger to The Boss, or if she died, Chikara Yuki. Obviously, both of them are incapable of receiving these codes, being dead, and they were thus delivered to me, along with this will. As I said before, this money is set aside for an explicit purpose: to be “start up money”, if you will, for an organization dedicated to spreading democracy across the earth. The will details it more exactly, but through espionage, subterfuge, obscene amounts of cash, manipulation, and outright violence our organization is meant to, bit by bit, chip away at the dictatorships of the world. Nations of the world have too much to lose to go around attempting to topple the villains of this world. We…do not. Regime change is a reality, ladies and gentlemen. We just need enough men, cash, and determination. Of course, we’re weak now---we have no chance at all with the Kings of Europe or the fanatics of Dra-Pol. But if you join me, we will be strong enough to set our sights upon some of the weaker tyrants of the world…and eliminate them. Now, I have already taken the liberty of purchasing several jets and the Chinese equivalent of an armored cavalry regiment, thanks to the friendship I’m trying to forge between us and the Chinese. But there remains much work to be done---we need to invest heavily to make sure we have enough funds to operate, we need to create an espionage organization---our KGB friends can help with that---we need to set up dummy corporations, we need to train mercenary troops, and most importantly, we need…to find a target. However, this all hinges upon your agreement. Ladies and gentlemen, will we continue the crusade for freedom that our friend Vladimir Putin so dearly fought for? Or will we let the dream of liberty fester, hoping that someday someone like him will arise to do it for us?”
Silence hung upon the room, as the gears within all of their heads churned. All of these men and women had earned their tremendous wealth not by making rash, impulsive decisions, but through years of hard labor and by meticulously calculating every move, examining every angle and every possible way a problem could be solved before determining a path to follow. And thus some of the most brilliant minds in the world raced within that one small room, until a thick Scottish accent pierced through the silence.
“Ah, why the hell not? It might be fun.”