Abruck
20-07-2007, 04:16
Henri Walcher leaned back in his old, leather chair, and turned on the radio.
“-events of the past few days had finally culminated in the appearance of well-known terrorist leader, Martin Rorch. The leader of the infamous terrorist group, the Abruchish Red Army, had not appeared in public since His Majesty’s Police announced his capture after a raid on the ARA stronghold of Svalbergen. ‘I am alive and well, and certainly not in the clutches of the greedy King,’ he has been quoted as saying. In addition to this, Mr. Rorch also touched upon an upcoming event that would ‘change the face of Abruck forever’. Indeed, Mr. Rorch devoted the rest of his speech to this event and, more specifically, to how the population should respond to it. As anyone might guess, Mr. Rorch heavily emphasized the ‘duty’ of the Abruchish public to rise up in armed rebellion against the King and Empire. I’m certain that our resident psychoanalyst, Franz Bohrmann, has a few things to say about this recent speech. Franz?”
“Thank you, Ingolf. Mr. Rorch is clearly a megalomaniac. It has been proved time and time again in the past that socialists like him are only trying to gain power for himself. If he were to succeed in raising the population against King Günther the Third, a highly unlikely possibility I might add, and were then able to depose him, which is even more unlikely, he would quickly turn his back on his supporters. He would renounce any sense of democracy in this -” the psychoanalyst ranted before being cut off by a thumping noise. “What was that?” he asked.
“What? Oh, sh-,” the radio host answered. He was interrupted by two clicks and several hard thumps.
“They’re down? Good. Are we on air? Ah,” a man said. He cleared his voice, and then took to the newfound power of the radio with gusto. “Good afternoon, Abruch. I am Martin Rorch, leader of the Abruchisch Red Army, the only democratic movement in a nation forsaken by its so-called ‘king’ and his corporate attaché. Now is the time, my comrades, to overthrow the King and his demagogues, it is time to bring this nation into a new era, an era of the people! At this very moment, the fascist demagogues our ruler had invited into our nation lay dead, killed by the might of the people!” The man stopped speaking for a moment, allowing time for his message to sink in. “This act,” he continued, “has demonstrated the strength of the people, in that all of our enemies may be overcome if we act as one united people.”
The man continued on, but by that time, Henri wasn’t listening. He was already looking searching under his bed for one of his most prized possessions, an old Luger P08 from his days in the King’s Army.
* * *
“What did he just say?” asked Sidney Wrick, CEO of the Abruck based corporation, Sidney Cereals.
His bodyguard turned to him and grinned, “Just said you were dead, sir. Looks like ‘e made a mistake, eh?”
“I’m not so sure,” murmured Wrick, “I think he knows I’m still alive.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it, sir. Look, we just got one security checkpoint up here, and we’ll be at the docks. What could go wrong in the next few minutes?”
“I don’t-,” he muttered, seconds before the realization dawned on him. “Step on it! Don’t stop at the-”
It was too late. The bomb had already gone off, killing Sidney Wrick and all those who accompanied him.
* * *
“Your Majesty,” said the Minister of Domestic Security, “the people are rebelling, our corporate assets are in shambles, and our military and polices forces are divided between supporting the populous and the Empire.
The King wearily bent his head and folded his hands. “Vater unser im Himmel…” King Günther the Third began to murmur, his tired voice a mockery of the booming voice that had overseen the execution of countless enemies of the Empire.
“Pardon, your Majesty?” asked the Minister.
After a moment, the King looked up and grimaced. “The odds are stacked against us, Felix,” the King said, calling the Minister by his rarely used Christian name, “God is the only one who can help us now. Is there anything else we can do? When the people have turned against me, and all my advisors have died or turned against me-”
“I am still loyal to you, your Majesty,” the Minster interrupted.
“Oh, yes. Just the same, our assets are nil,” the King answered as he pressed his hands to his temple. He turned to the Minister and motioned toward a large sword hanging on the wall. “Fetch the sword for me, please.”
The Minister complied and immediately took it off its resting place and handed it to the King.
“It has an absolutely amazing history, this sword. First forged several hundred years ago, this sword belonged to an ancestor of mine, the first king of the Holy Empire of Abruch. This was the very sword that united the people of this island, and helped forge an empire. Ever since, it has been nearly sacred to the rulers of the Empire, and has been used in countless royal ceremonies.” He stood up and laid the sword across his hands; the pommel gripped by his left hand, and the blade laid upon the palm of his right hand. He turned his head towards the Minister and asked for one last favor. “Please, Felix, toll the bell for me. I do not want them to take that last dignity from me.”
* * *
The tolling of a bell rang out across the capital as Martin Rorch strode out of the King’s Palace and down the steps towards the , flanked on either side by men carrying Heckler & Koch G3s. Martin stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked out at the crowd. He raised his left fist and shouted, “Victory is ours! Together, let us carve a new, socialist nation out of the carcass of the old Empire! Long live the Revolution!”
“Long live the Revolution!”
“-events of the past few days had finally culminated in the appearance of well-known terrorist leader, Martin Rorch. The leader of the infamous terrorist group, the Abruchish Red Army, had not appeared in public since His Majesty’s Police announced his capture after a raid on the ARA stronghold of Svalbergen. ‘I am alive and well, and certainly not in the clutches of the greedy King,’ he has been quoted as saying. In addition to this, Mr. Rorch also touched upon an upcoming event that would ‘change the face of Abruck forever’. Indeed, Mr. Rorch devoted the rest of his speech to this event and, more specifically, to how the population should respond to it. As anyone might guess, Mr. Rorch heavily emphasized the ‘duty’ of the Abruchish public to rise up in armed rebellion against the King and Empire. I’m certain that our resident psychoanalyst, Franz Bohrmann, has a few things to say about this recent speech. Franz?”
“Thank you, Ingolf. Mr. Rorch is clearly a megalomaniac. It has been proved time and time again in the past that socialists like him are only trying to gain power for himself. If he were to succeed in raising the population against King Günther the Third, a highly unlikely possibility I might add, and were then able to depose him, which is even more unlikely, he would quickly turn his back on his supporters. He would renounce any sense of democracy in this -” the psychoanalyst ranted before being cut off by a thumping noise. “What was that?” he asked.
“What? Oh, sh-,” the radio host answered. He was interrupted by two clicks and several hard thumps.
“They’re down? Good. Are we on air? Ah,” a man said. He cleared his voice, and then took to the newfound power of the radio with gusto. “Good afternoon, Abruch. I am Martin Rorch, leader of the Abruchisch Red Army, the only democratic movement in a nation forsaken by its so-called ‘king’ and his corporate attaché. Now is the time, my comrades, to overthrow the King and his demagogues, it is time to bring this nation into a new era, an era of the people! At this very moment, the fascist demagogues our ruler had invited into our nation lay dead, killed by the might of the people!” The man stopped speaking for a moment, allowing time for his message to sink in. “This act,” he continued, “has demonstrated the strength of the people, in that all of our enemies may be overcome if we act as one united people.”
The man continued on, but by that time, Henri wasn’t listening. He was already looking searching under his bed for one of his most prized possessions, an old Luger P08 from his days in the King’s Army.
* * *
“What did he just say?” asked Sidney Wrick, CEO of the Abruck based corporation, Sidney Cereals.
His bodyguard turned to him and grinned, “Just said you were dead, sir. Looks like ‘e made a mistake, eh?”
“I’m not so sure,” murmured Wrick, “I think he knows I’m still alive.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it, sir. Look, we just got one security checkpoint up here, and we’ll be at the docks. What could go wrong in the next few minutes?”
“I don’t-,” he muttered, seconds before the realization dawned on him. “Step on it! Don’t stop at the-”
It was too late. The bomb had already gone off, killing Sidney Wrick and all those who accompanied him.
* * *
“Your Majesty,” said the Minister of Domestic Security, “the people are rebelling, our corporate assets are in shambles, and our military and polices forces are divided between supporting the populous and the Empire.
The King wearily bent his head and folded his hands. “Vater unser im Himmel…” King Günther the Third began to murmur, his tired voice a mockery of the booming voice that had overseen the execution of countless enemies of the Empire.
“Pardon, your Majesty?” asked the Minister.
After a moment, the King looked up and grimaced. “The odds are stacked against us, Felix,” the King said, calling the Minister by his rarely used Christian name, “God is the only one who can help us now. Is there anything else we can do? When the people have turned against me, and all my advisors have died or turned against me-”
“I am still loyal to you, your Majesty,” the Minster interrupted.
“Oh, yes. Just the same, our assets are nil,” the King answered as he pressed his hands to his temple. He turned to the Minister and motioned toward a large sword hanging on the wall. “Fetch the sword for me, please.”
The Minister complied and immediately took it off its resting place and handed it to the King.
“It has an absolutely amazing history, this sword. First forged several hundred years ago, this sword belonged to an ancestor of mine, the first king of the Holy Empire of Abruch. This was the very sword that united the people of this island, and helped forge an empire. Ever since, it has been nearly sacred to the rulers of the Empire, and has been used in countless royal ceremonies.” He stood up and laid the sword across his hands; the pommel gripped by his left hand, and the blade laid upon the palm of his right hand. He turned his head towards the Minister and asked for one last favor. “Please, Felix, toll the bell for me. I do not want them to take that last dignity from me.”
* * *
The tolling of a bell rang out across the capital as Martin Rorch strode out of the King’s Palace and down the steps towards the , flanked on either side by men carrying Heckler & Koch G3s. Martin stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked out at the crowd. He raised his left fist and shouted, “Victory is ours! Together, let us carve a new, socialist nation out of the carcass of the old Empire! Long live the Revolution!”
“Long live the Revolution!”