Minetova
13-11-2007, 19:13
(OOC: My intro. :) Enjoy.)
It just kind of started in a bar.
The Red Rooster was a dank, dreary hole on a dank, dreary street in a part of Port Orwell that was…well, you get the picture. It was one of those places that seemed to slouch between a pair of dilapidated houses like a drunkard being supported by the arms, with as welcoming a smell behind the half-opened door, and yet interestingly enough was one of the few places on Cloister Street that did not have a rat problem; perhaps they simply had standards higher than the regulars.
Inside, a television fuzzed static in an almost pedantic rhythm as it clung desperately to the brackets above the bar like a parrot in a cage covered with droppings. Rows of empty glasses sat along the shelves, sneering at their half-filled, grimy counterparts that huddled in small groups on the stained bar. Dusty bottles of spirits observed silently, labels long peeled off and their tastes irrelevant. The wall-length glass behind the bar was dirty and smeared, and the regulars who slumped at the bar had long forgotten the last time they saw their reflection there. There was a cynical joke that the owner kept it that way to prevent his customers from getting any more depressed. You had to be pretty low to be frequenting the Red Rooster.
Gregory Dylan, or GD to the large majority of his customers, was a large man with three days of stubble. He was currently muttering at the television as he fiddled with the connecting leads on the rear, trying to get a signal. “Damn thing breaks when the weather gets bad,” he said to himself. Then he paused, deciding on a change of tactics. A resounding smack to the side of the instrument brought about a clear picture as an old western came into focus. A half-hearted cheer from the few regulars present dissolved back into a skulking silence.
GD climbed down from the stool he had been balancing on, which heaved in relief from the weight it had endured. Going back to cleaning a glass, he leant against the bar and grinned toothily at the man sitting in front of him. “You owe me a fiver mate,” he said with smug amusement.
Val Melton fixed the bartender with a grudging eye and reached into the back pocket of faded camouflage trousers. He pulled the paper out and dropped it onto the bar with a sigh, shaking his head. “Really thought it was broken this time,” Val said in a slow, partially slurred voice.
GD chuckled to himself, a hoarse, barking sound like a car misfiring. He leant against the bar and examined the glass he was cleaning, although the dirt merely seemed to stroll its way around the inside of the glass as the cloth moved. “Probably one of the few things around here that does work,” he said, half to himself.
Val smirked bitterly to himself, nodding his agreement. Cloister Street was an old, working class area of Port Orwell that had seen better days, and would gladly ramble about them over a pint. Situated in the inner city limits of the Minetovan capital, its residents had once been dock workers, loading trading vessels that thirty years ago had visited Minetova for its enormous copper deposits. The copper was long since gone, as was the booming economy of Minetova following a war of independence against Spanish rule. Since the eighties, the country had spiralled down with the oil crisis, unable to pay its debts to the international community and eventually defaulting. Shunned by a large majority of foreign nations, Minetova had sulked itself into isolation in the mid-nineties and had been there ever since.
The western on the television was interrupted suddenly, and the national anthem began playing against the words ‘Official Government Announcement’. Val leant back as far as he dared on his stool without danger of falling, and squinted at the screen through a haze of alcohol as the Minister for Information – whoever they were this week – appeared on the television behind a desk.
“Glorious citizens,” the man said as a Minetovan flag waved in the background. “Our great President and friend Jerold Tyler has embarked upon another set of reforms to make our country greater.”
Val snorted. Several others in the bar muttered under their breath as the Minister continued on. Reaching for his half-empty glass of Scotch, Val took the drink and raised it in an unsteady salute to the television. “To our glorious President,” he said mockingly, tipping back the glass.
“Better watch what you say,” Ian Lope, fellow drunkard and bar-prop said in a dazed expression, staring faintly at his pint. “Police everywhere now.”
GD snorted, giving up on the glass and discarding it on the bar. “Any policeman brave enough to walk in here deserves a medal,” he said, pouring himself a glass of something green. “Besides,” he added between sips, gesturing to Val. “He’s fought for his country, he deserves to speak.”
Val glanced at GD with a slight smile. “Yeah,” he said, putting the empty glass on his table. “Two years of fighting for this place and look where we are.”
GD nodded. Val’s faded camouflage outfit was more than a stereotypical fashion statement for the needy and downtrodden. He had fought in the Minetovan Army during the uprising against the Spanish fascists in the seventies, who had chosen to hold onto the former imperial colony due to its position in the Central Atlantic as a refuelling base. He had been twenty-one years old then, idealistic and believing in Socialism. Now, he was a washed up veteran, fifty-four years old and drinking himself into a pit of oblivion. The Socialist Party had been banned since President Tyler’s ascension, and with it the idealism of an old soldier.
Val pushed the glass towards GD, who reached for it to refill when the door burst open. Heavy boots stomped onto the wooden floor as six soldiers of the Minetovan Army fanned out, each holding a Kalashnikov in both hands and looking around the regulars with a mixture of unease and disgust. GD opened his mouth in surprise and several customers jumped to their feet. Val turned in his chair unsteadily and looked at the soldiers with a surprised look. He heard GD walk around the bar behind him. “What the hell is this about?”
Behind the soldiers stepped in an Army officer, his stripes indicating a lieutenant and his expression a tea-total vegetarian. He surveyed the room for a moment, before looking at GD like an unpleasant stain. “This establishment is now closed on orders of Ministry of State,” he declared in a haughty manner.
GD snorted, folding his arms. “And why the bloody hell is that?” he demanded.
The Lieutenant, whose breast pocket read ‘Genito’ held out a piece of paper gripped in one hand. “As part of the President’s reforms,” the officer said in a mockingly kind tone, “all drinking establishments and bordellos in the Republic of Minetova are now banned, as they are detrimental to the morality and upstanding of citizens in their day-to-day lives.”
There was a moment of silence. Then a scraping noise as Val stepped off his stool. He balanced himself against the bar with his eyes closed for a moment, and then opened them to stare at Genito. “What?” he said simply.
Genito snorted. “Beer’s off, scum,” he snorted, turning to the door. “Everyone still inside in thirty seconds will be arrested.” The cocking of rifles gave the end of the sentence a menacing tone.
And so the customers stumbled out onto the street, some of them being carried by the comparatively sober, and stood like confused sheep in the cold street. There was several moments of crashing as the soldiers inside did unseen damage to the room, before leaving with sneers on their faces. The last soldier placed a padlock on the door before climbing aboard a transport truck, which roared away down the road.
GD leant against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God-damn bastards,” he muttered, before surveying the lock. “Should get that off pretty easily,” he said after a moment of thought.
Val stood in the cold street, looking at his shoes with a mixture of alcohol and rage building up inside his body. He took a deep breath and counted to ten, as his ex-wife used to tell him. It had little effect. Looking up after a moment and surveying the street as it whirled across his vision on a train of whisky, he swore to himself. “Right, that is bloody it!”
The other regulars looked around in surprise. GD glanced up from the lock and frowned at Val. “What?”
Val turned to his friend. “They took my job,” he said in a tone of slurred rage. “They took my politics and they took my pride.” Val looked up, fishing in his pocket for a faded, canvas hat with Sergeant’s stripes on the side, placing it askew on his head. “I’ll be damned if he’s taking my bloody alcohol as well.” And with that, he began to storm angrily down the road.
“Val, where the hell are you doing?” GD shouted.
“To have a word with our damn President,” Val shouted over his shoulder as he failed to keep an entirely straight line of walking. GD muttered to himself, rubbing his face before running after his friend, followed by several concerned patrons.
It took a few moments for GD to catch Val at the pace he was walking. “Val, you can’t just bloody walk into the Palace and shout at him,” the bartender said in an exasperated tone. “They’ve got guards all over the place.”
“I don’t damn well care!” Val shouted as he kept walking, passing by other closed bars along the street. Groups of evicted patrons turned at the sound of the commotion. “He’s got a bloody cheek closing my damn bar! What happened to looking after people?” Val kept shouting. He was too drunk and focused to notice people nodding to each other and trailing along behind.
GD muttered to himself. “Val, for God’s sake!” he shouted. “What do you gonna do, stage a coup?”
“Why the hell not?” Val kept saying loudly as he passed by dishevelled workers in the inner city streets. “What the hell happened to working class unity, eh? What the hell happened to our politics?”
He kept marching down the street, through the inner city and towards the centre, where the Presidential Palace stood like a rose within a pile of dirt, glistening marble surrounded by drab brick and wood. All the while he kept ranting as GD tried to calm him down.
It just kind of started in a bar.
--------------------
“Mister President, there’s a large-scale unrest in the inner cities, we’ve deployed troops around the government district but there seems to be a lot of them.”
“Damn fools, thinking they can usurp my glorious vision for Minetova! General, you may fire if provoked.”
“Yes sir.”
--------------------
Val continued marching through the streets, with GD at his side still trying to calm him down. He vaguely wondered why the policemen that he spotted on the street in front of him all seemed to freeze in their step and turn quickly in the other direction. Drunk and angry, he put it down to his facial expression and manner. Val was fifty-three years old, but still in considerably good physique as an ex-soldier despite a liver that glowed in the dark.
At the edge of the inner city he saw a line of hazy green figures at the next intersection.
--------------------
“What do you mean they’re refusing to fire?!”
“Mister President, you’re talking about Minetovans firing upon Minetovans. A lot of the local commanders are refusing to acknowledge the order.”
“Traitors! Have them relieved of command!”
Pause.
“…erm…Mister President, if the military isn’t responding, you have a problem here.”
“I have a problem?! I HAVE A PROBLEM?! General, the last time I checked you were…what are you doing? Put the gun down!”
“I’m sorry Sir, but the winds are moving against you. Politics is about survival, even for me.”
“You traitorous bast-, get the hell off me! Stop or you’ll hang! You’ll all hang!”
Bang.
--------------------
The Presidential Palace was surrounded by a large, electrified fence that was ordinarily patrolled by guard-dogs and sentries. At the moment however, the soldiers were bunkered down behind large machine guns as they watched Val approach. They were confused, not knowing their orders.
Val stepped up to the large entrance gate, which was locked in several places. He paused to take a breath and let the world stop spinning, the whisky turning his stomach. After a moment, Val held himself straight, and shouted at the top of his voice. “Oi, Tyler! Open up!”
To his absolute amazement, the locks slammed back electronically, and the gates began to open inwards. Val blinked, unable to fathom these events in his head. Still, he stepped forward anyway, albeit more cautiously, up the drive towards the building.
The main door to the Palace opened, and Val paused in his step. Four men descended the entranceway and walked towards him. Each wore military uniforms of varying colour, each with gold braid and medals in an unbelievably large quantity. After a certain rank, medals simply seemed to be invented just to be given to the top brass, and the Minetovan Army was no exception. The four men stopped in front of Val, standing stiffly to attention before, to Val’s alcohol-dulled surprise, saluted.
Val was dumbstruck, trying to think of words that refused to come to his tongue. His alcohol-filled rage had not thought this far ahead because, quite frankly, the likelihood of this happening seemed impossible. And yet…
The officer in green stepped forward in front of them others, and stood sharply back to attention. “Sir, I am General Zachary John-Davidson, Commanding Staff Officer for the Minetovan Army and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.” He held out a piece of paper. “President Tyler committed suicide earlier today, leaving myself in charge. On behalf of all branches of the military, I tender this formal notice.”
Val blinked, looking at the piece of paper that the General held out. After a moment he took the paper and looked at it through bleary eyes. It took a moment to swim into view.
‘On this day of November 13, 2007, the Armed Forces and Civil Government of the Republic of Minetova, in light of massive public support and widespread military defection, hereby surrender to the leading party of the revolution.’
Val took a moment to take this in, and shook his head. “Revolu-what?” He looked up at the military staff. “I hardly think me and a couple of-” he turned to gesture at the patrons of the Red Rooster.
The streets beyond the Palace driveway were so full that Val could not even see the rear of the crowd, let alone begin to count. Some of them waved Minetovan flags whilst others held the hammer and sickle high above their heads. To either side of the group, Armoured Personnel Carriers full of Minetovan Army personnel sat on top of their vehicles, holding their weapons loosely. As Val turned, the crowd began to cheer, the echo like a tidal wave hitting the walls of the Palace as the soldiers entrenched reluctantly climbed from their positions and held their hands above their heads.
Val felt the effects of drunkenness fall away like stolen hat. He blinked a few times, suddenly feeling very awkward. “Oh…” he said. “…erm…oh.”
It just kind of started in a bar.
--------------------
http://www.reuters.com/resources/images/refreshLogo.gif
REUTERS, NEW YORK: Unconfirmed reports are suggesting that the island nation of Minetova has undergone a sudden and unexpected revolution.
The Republic of Minetova, once a bustling mineral exporting nation, has been in economic decay since the mid-nineties, with a wide disparity between rich and poor fuelling angst and unrest in the working class. However, foreign analysts were caught totally off-guard by the sudden revolution at a time when the government appeared to have all dissenting groups firmly under its control.
"It's a shock," Lawrence Taylor, Foreign Affairs Analyst for the Washington Journal admitted. "What we appear to have seen is a sudden popular uprising that brought down the government without a shot being fired. Its somewhat surprising."
The whereabouts of former President Tyler is unknown at this time. Unconfirmed reports list a Val Melton, former soldier and Socialist before the ban on political opposition, as the ringleader of the coup.
Nothing has been heard from the new administration at this time. However, reactions from the island are expected within the next few days.
It just kind of started in a bar.
The Red Rooster was a dank, dreary hole on a dank, dreary street in a part of Port Orwell that was…well, you get the picture. It was one of those places that seemed to slouch between a pair of dilapidated houses like a drunkard being supported by the arms, with as welcoming a smell behind the half-opened door, and yet interestingly enough was one of the few places on Cloister Street that did not have a rat problem; perhaps they simply had standards higher than the regulars.
Inside, a television fuzzed static in an almost pedantic rhythm as it clung desperately to the brackets above the bar like a parrot in a cage covered with droppings. Rows of empty glasses sat along the shelves, sneering at their half-filled, grimy counterparts that huddled in small groups on the stained bar. Dusty bottles of spirits observed silently, labels long peeled off and their tastes irrelevant. The wall-length glass behind the bar was dirty and smeared, and the regulars who slumped at the bar had long forgotten the last time they saw their reflection there. There was a cynical joke that the owner kept it that way to prevent his customers from getting any more depressed. You had to be pretty low to be frequenting the Red Rooster.
Gregory Dylan, or GD to the large majority of his customers, was a large man with three days of stubble. He was currently muttering at the television as he fiddled with the connecting leads on the rear, trying to get a signal. “Damn thing breaks when the weather gets bad,” he said to himself. Then he paused, deciding on a change of tactics. A resounding smack to the side of the instrument brought about a clear picture as an old western came into focus. A half-hearted cheer from the few regulars present dissolved back into a skulking silence.
GD climbed down from the stool he had been balancing on, which heaved in relief from the weight it had endured. Going back to cleaning a glass, he leant against the bar and grinned toothily at the man sitting in front of him. “You owe me a fiver mate,” he said with smug amusement.
Val Melton fixed the bartender with a grudging eye and reached into the back pocket of faded camouflage trousers. He pulled the paper out and dropped it onto the bar with a sigh, shaking his head. “Really thought it was broken this time,” Val said in a slow, partially slurred voice.
GD chuckled to himself, a hoarse, barking sound like a car misfiring. He leant against the bar and examined the glass he was cleaning, although the dirt merely seemed to stroll its way around the inside of the glass as the cloth moved. “Probably one of the few things around here that does work,” he said, half to himself.
Val smirked bitterly to himself, nodding his agreement. Cloister Street was an old, working class area of Port Orwell that had seen better days, and would gladly ramble about them over a pint. Situated in the inner city limits of the Minetovan capital, its residents had once been dock workers, loading trading vessels that thirty years ago had visited Minetova for its enormous copper deposits. The copper was long since gone, as was the booming economy of Minetova following a war of independence against Spanish rule. Since the eighties, the country had spiralled down with the oil crisis, unable to pay its debts to the international community and eventually defaulting. Shunned by a large majority of foreign nations, Minetova had sulked itself into isolation in the mid-nineties and had been there ever since.
The western on the television was interrupted suddenly, and the national anthem began playing against the words ‘Official Government Announcement’. Val leant back as far as he dared on his stool without danger of falling, and squinted at the screen through a haze of alcohol as the Minister for Information – whoever they were this week – appeared on the television behind a desk.
“Glorious citizens,” the man said as a Minetovan flag waved in the background. “Our great President and friend Jerold Tyler has embarked upon another set of reforms to make our country greater.”
Val snorted. Several others in the bar muttered under their breath as the Minister continued on. Reaching for his half-empty glass of Scotch, Val took the drink and raised it in an unsteady salute to the television. “To our glorious President,” he said mockingly, tipping back the glass.
“Better watch what you say,” Ian Lope, fellow drunkard and bar-prop said in a dazed expression, staring faintly at his pint. “Police everywhere now.”
GD snorted, giving up on the glass and discarding it on the bar. “Any policeman brave enough to walk in here deserves a medal,” he said, pouring himself a glass of something green. “Besides,” he added between sips, gesturing to Val. “He’s fought for his country, he deserves to speak.”
Val glanced at GD with a slight smile. “Yeah,” he said, putting the empty glass on his table. “Two years of fighting for this place and look where we are.”
GD nodded. Val’s faded camouflage outfit was more than a stereotypical fashion statement for the needy and downtrodden. He had fought in the Minetovan Army during the uprising against the Spanish fascists in the seventies, who had chosen to hold onto the former imperial colony due to its position in the Central Atlantic as a refuelling base. He had been twenty-one years old then, idealistic and believing in Socialism. Now, he was a washed up veteran, fifty-four years old and drinking himself into a pit of oblivion. The Socialist Party had been banned since President Tyler’s ascension, and with it the idealism of an old soldier.
Val pushed the glass towards GD, who reached for it to refill when the door burst open. Heavy boots stomped onto the wooden floor as six soldiers of the Minetovan Army fanned out, each holding a Kalashnikov in both hands and looking around the regulars with a mixture of unease and disgust. GD opened his mouth in surprise and several customers jumped to their feet. Val turned in his chair unsteadily and looked at the soldiers with a surprised look. He heard GD walk around the bar behind him. “What the hell is this about?”
Behind the soldiers stepped in an Army officer, his stripes indicating a lieutenant and his expression a tea-total vegetarian. He surveyed the room for a moment, before looking at GD like an unpleasant stain. “This establishment is now closed on orders of Ministry of State,” he declared in a haughty manner.
GD snorted, folding his arms. “And why the bloody hell is that?” he demanded.
The Lieutenant, whose breast pocket read ‘Genito’ held out a piece of paper gripped in one hand. “As part of the President’s reforms,” the officer said in a mockingly kind tone, “all drinking establishments and bordellos in the Republic of Minetova are now banned, as they are detrimental to the morality and upstanding of citizens in their day-to-day lives.”
There was a moment of silence. Then a scraping noise as Val stepped off his stool. He balanced himself against the bar with his eyes closed for a moment, and then opened them to stare at Genito. “What?” he said simply.
Genito snorted. “Beer’s off, scum,” he snorted, turning to the door. “Everyone still inside in thirty seconds will be arrested.” The cocking of rifles gave the end of the sentence a menacing tone.
And so the customers stumbled out onto the street, some of them being carried by the comparatively sober, and stood like confused sheep in the cold street. There was several moments of crashing as the soldiers inside did unseen damage to the room, before leaving with sneers on their faces. The last soldier placed a padlock on the door before climbing aboard a transport truck, which roared away down the road.
GD leant against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God-damn bastards,” he muttered, before surveying the lock. “Should get that off pretty easily,” he said after a moment of thought.
Val stood in the cold street, looking at his shoes with a mixture of alcohol and rage building up inside his body. He took a deep breath and counted to ten, as his ex-wife used to tell him. It had little effect. Looking up after a moment and surveying the street as it whirled across his vision on a train of whisky, he swore to himself. “Right, that is bloody it!”
The other regulars looked around in surprise. GD glanced up from the lock and frowned at Val. “What?”
Val turned to his friend. “They took my job,” he said in a tone of slurred rage. “They took my politics and they took my pride.” Val looked up, fishing in his pocket for a faded, canvas hat with Sergeant’s stripes on the side, placing it askew on his head. “I’ll be damned if he’s taking my bloody alcohol as well.” And with that, he began to storm angrily down the road.
“Val, where the hell are you doing?” GD shouted.
“To have a word with our damn President,” Val shouted over his shoulder as he failed to keep an entirely straight line of walking. GD muttered to himself, rubbing his face before running after his friend, followed by several concerned patrons.
It took a few moments for GD to catch Val at the pace he was walking. “Val, you can’t just bloody walk into the Palace and shout at him,” the bartender said in an exasperated tone. “They’ve got guards all over the place.”
“I don’t damn well care!” Val shouted as he kept walking, passing by other closed bars along the street. Groups of evicted patrons turned at the sound of the commotion. “He’s got a bloody cheek closing my damn bar! What happened to looking after people?” Val kept shouting. He was too drunk and focused to notice people nodding to each other and trailing along behind.
GD muttered to himself. “Val, for God’s sake!” he shouted. “What do you gonna do, stage a coup?”
“Why the hell not?” Val kept saying loudly as he passed by dishevelled workers in the inner city streets. “What the hell happened to working class unity, eh? What the hell happened to our politics?”
He kept marching down the street, through the inner city and towards the centre, where the Presidential Palace stood like a rose within a pile of dirt, glistening marble surrounded by drab brick and wood. All the while he kept ranting as GD tried to calm him down.
It just kind of started in a bar.
--------------------
“Mister President, there’s a large-scale unrest in the inner cities, we’ve deployed troops around the government district but there seems to be a lot of them.”
“Damn fools, thinking they can usurp my glorious vision for Minetova! General, you may fire if provoked.”
“Yes sir.”
--------------------
Val continued marching through the streets, with GD at his side still trying to calm him down. He vaguely wondered why the policemen that he spotted on the street in front of him all seemed to freeze in their step and turn quickly in the other direction. Drunk and angry, he put it down to his facial expression and manner. Val was fifty-three years old, but still in considerably good physique as an ex-soldier despite a liver that glowed in the dark.
At the edge of the inner city he saw a line of hazy green figures at the next intersection.
--------------------
“What do you mean they’re refusing to fire?!”
“Mister President, you’re talking about Minetovans firing upon Minetovans. A lot of the local commanders are refusing to acknowledge the order.”
“Traitors! Have them relieved of command!”
Pause.
“…erm…Mister President, if the military isn’t responding, you have a problem here.”
“I have a problem?! I HAVE A PROBLEM?! General, the last time I checked you were…what are you doing? Put the gun down!”
“I’m sorry Sir, but the winds are moving against you. Politics is about survival, even for me.”
“You traitorous bast-, get the hell off me! Stop or you’ll hang! You’ll all hang!”
Bang.
--------------------
The Presidential Palace was surrounded by a large, electrified fence that was ordinarily patrolled by guard-dogs and sentries. At the moment however, the soldiers were bunkered down behind large machine guns as they watched Val approach. They were confused, not knowing their orders.
Val stepped up to the large entrance gate, which was locked in several places. He paused to take a breath and let the world stop spinning, the whisky turning his stomach. After a moment, Val held himself straight, and shouted at the top of his voice. “Oi, Tyler! Open up!”
To his absolute amazement, the locks slammed back electronically, and the gates began to open inwards. Val blinked, unable to fathom these events in his head. Still, he stepped forward anyway, albeit more cautiously, up the drive towards the building.
The main door to the Palace opened, and Val paused in his step. Four men descended the entranceway and walked towards him. Each wore military uniforms of varying colour, each with gold braid and medals in an unbelievably large quantity. After a certain rank, medals simply seemed to be invented just to be given to the top brass, and the Minetovan Army was no exception. The four men stopped in front of Val, standing stiffly to attention before, to Val’s alcohol-dulled surprise, saluted.
Val was dumbstruck, trying to think of words that refused to come to his tongue. His alcohol-filled rage had not thought this far ahead because, quite frankly, the likelihood of this happening seemed impossible. And yet…
The officer in green stepped forward in front of them others, and stood sharply back to attention. “Sir, I am General Zachary John-Davidson, Commanding Staff Officer for the Minetovan Army and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.” He held out a piece of paper. “President Tyler committed suicide earlier today, leaving myself in charge. On behalf of all branches of the military, I tender this formal notice.”
Val blinked, looking at the piece of paper that the General held out. After a moment he took the paper and looked at it through bleary eyes. It took a moment to swim into view.
‘On this day of November 13, 2007, the Armed Forces and Civil Government of the Republic of Minetova, in light of massive public support and widespread military defection, hereby surrender to the leading party of the revolution.’
Val took a moment to take this in, and shook his head. “Revolu-what?” He looked up at the military staff. “I hardly think me and a couple of-” he turned to gesture at the patrons of the Red Rooster.
The streets beyond the Palace driveway were so full that Val could not even see the rear of the crowd, let alone begin to count. Some of them waved Minetovan flags whilst others held the hammer and sickle high above their heads. To either side of the group, Armoured Personnel Carriers full of Minetovan Army personnel sat on top of their vehicles, holding their weapons loosely. As Val turned, the crowd began to cheer, the echo like a tidal wave hitting the walls of the Palace as the soldiers entrenched reluctantly climbed from their positions and held their hands above their heads.
Val felt the effects of drunkenness fall away like stolen hat. He blinked a few times, suddenly feeling very awkward. “Oh…” he said. “…erm…oh.”
It just kind of started in a bar.
--------------------
http://www.reuters.com/resources/images/refreshLogo.gif
REUTERS, NEW YORK: Unconfirmed reports are suggesting that the island nation of Minetova has undergone a sudden and unexpected revolution.
The Republic of Minetova, once a bustling mineral exporting nation, has been in economic decay since the mid-nineties, with a wide disparity between rich and poor fuelling angst and unrest in the working class. However, foreign analysts were caught totally off-guard by the sudden revolution at a time when the government appeared to have all dissenting groups firmly under its control.
"It's a shock," Lawrence Taylor, Foreign Affairs Analyst for the Washington Journal admitted. "What we appear to have seen is a sudden popular uprising that brought down the government without a shot being fired. Its somewhat surprising."
The whereabouts of former President Tyler is unknown at this time. Unconfirmed reports list a Val Melton, former soldier and Socialist before the ban on political opposition, as the ringleader of the coup.
Nothing has been heard from the new administration at this time. However, reactions from the island are expected within the next few days.