NationStates Jolt Archive

To: HIM Ferrin I, Emperor of The Cohenias, Duke of Rosbaningrad, etc etc.
From: President Aaron H. Preston

Greetings Your Majesty. I am Aaron H. Preston, president of The Second Prestonian Republic, and I request Your Majesty's company on 18 February in Cohenia to discuss important matters pertaining to both our nations.

As you and I are well aware, tensions between APOC and Gholgoth are at an all-time high. While it seems the world is on the brink of war, I feel we can avert this tragedy. Others in Gholgoth share my view, as seen in the recent visit to Zukariaa made by President Reid of Aequatio. I believe that this sort of exchange is vital to preserving peace, a mutual interest of both factions.

While our nations have not had the best history, I wish to rectify this. It is my hope that this visit will lead to improved relations between Prestonia and Cohenia, as well as Gholgoth and APOC as a whole.

To Whom It May Concern in Central Prestonia

I must state that I am confused as to why you would wish to hold this conference in my nation, given the state of relations between the Prestonians and Cohenians throughout the years.

Neither myself nor my ministers wish to discuss APOC and Gholgoth, fearing that information that neither of our nations wish to discuss will come out. Both the people of Cohenia and myself wish to create a favorable relationship with yours, perhaps now that the chance of another Rosbani War occuring are nil they can flourish?

But again, I must add, I am going on vacation for the week in a few hours. I will not be present, but you are more than welcome to discuss affairs with the foreign minister.

His Majesty the Emperor Ferrin I
Emperor of Cohenia
Duke of Rosbaningrad
Magistrate of Estonsko

To: HIM Ferrin I

I am afraid I must insist upon a direct, leader-to-leader conference. The issues at hand are of extreme importance and in my opinion necessitate direct contact with Your Majesty.

While I understand your concern on the Gholgoth-APOC subject, I believe you may have misunderstood me. I do not wish to discuss anything of military value, nor any sensitive information. Rather, I wish to speak about what can be done to improve relations between APOC memberstates and Gholgoth memberstates. Surely this topic is acceptable to Your Majesty.

In conclusion, in the pursuit of peace I am willing to wait a week. Enjoy your holiday.

Signed,
Aaron H. Preston
President, Second Republic of Prestonia
Chairman, Prestonian Democratic Party

To Whom It May Concern in Central Prestonia

I'm afraid that tensions arise already. While I wait for my plane, I've read some communique of yours. I'm afraid you do not understand that foreign affairs are covered by the foreign minister.

You can wait as long as you want, I'm afraid that foreign affairs is not something I discuss.

His Majesty the Emperor Ferrin I
Emperor of Cohenia
Duke of Rosbaningrad
Magistrate of Estonsko

Air Force One
Skies over Stuyvesant
1200 Hours

"So, how do you plan to make peace with someone you insulted just last month?," Justin Gannon queried. It had indeed been a little over one month since a haggard Preston had taken the podium and proceeded to, in short, make an ass of himself internationally. In that time, war had been declared, though not the war many analysts expected. APOC and Gholgoth were at an impasse, each seemingly waiting for the other to move first. The world, after one year of relative peace, was a powder keg yet again.

"I plan to apologize for insulting the man, and hope for a productive negotiation. Don't get me wrong, I want peace with Cohenia. It just seems like no matter what, they find reason to hate us," Preston responded.

"Well, good luck with that," Justin responded, ever the pessimist. He certainly had reason to be pessimistic; five wars had been fought over the hotly contested territory of Rosbaningrad.

A few minutes later, the plane had landed at Stuyvesant International Airport, and Preston and his bodyguards were proceeding through the terminal to the waiting limo. With any luck, peace between Cohenia and Prestonia would be secured.

Rutherford sat in his office, two brown, leather mocasinned feet atop a mahogany desk. One foot blocked a picture of his wife, Abigail, while the other seemingly pointed at a blond bimbo of a mistress. He had a cigar in his mouth, resting on some teeth and his lower lip. Beauregard has shut his eyes momentarily before being startled by his secretary, the same blond bimbo.

"Massa Beauregard", she said as if she were a Southern belle from the state of South Carolina, "thems Failbanazis are here to speak with y'all."

He moved finger, adorned with a diamond wedding ring, to the intercom. "Thank you, bunny." He moved his long legs to the floor and replaced his mocasins with a more formal type of shoe. Rutherford hit the intercom button again, "Bunny, we still on for tonight? I feels like I'm gonna have lots of stress built up after this."

"Anythin' for you, Massa." Rutherford heard a giggle and stood up, looking in the mirror to tidy his beard and readjust his tie. He grabbed a tumbler and filled it half way with bourbon, swigging it down. I feels like this is gonna be a bad experience. He didn't have a positive history with any Prestonian, being involved in three Rosbani Wars with them and becoming a military hero in the second. For his efforts, he was made Governor of the Rosbaninsland Territory and General, soon earning the trust of His Majesty and acquiring the position of Foreign Minister.

He went outside the Foreign Ministry building, waiting for the beginning of the end.

Preston's guards exited the car first, E19A4 rifles slung on their shoulders, their ceremonial uniforms pressed and shoes polished. Preston had insisted on bringing the ceremonial Republican Guard so as to make a good impression on the Cohenians. Everything had to be perfect if there was to be any hope for peace. As the last guard stepped out of the car, the six soldiers lined either side of the door from which Preston was to exit, going to present arms in unison at the command of the first guard.

The chauffeur then exited the limo, and with a dignified British accent, annonced "Presenting the Right Honorable Aaron H. Preston, 31st President of the Prestonian Republic."

Preston got out of the car and began his dignified walk as a recorded version of Hail to the Chief played. As the music stopped, he set his guards at ease, and approached the Cohenian diplomat. Extending his hand, he said "Aaron Preston, president of Prestonia. Pleased to meet you Mr. Beauregard, and I do apologize for my comments last month. I hope we can have a productive meeting."

The only thing running through Rutherford's mind watching the 'show' was wondering how the Prestonians got those guns through security. Watching every move of the Prestonians were various guards of the Cohenians: snipers on rooves, men in bushes, and regular bodyguards flanking Beauregard. "I hope you have clearance for those guns! If you don't, those ruddy men might get arrested!," he stated while watching the 'performance.'

The impostor Northforian warranted a giggle from Rutherford, whispering to his aide "I thought that there was an empire in Prestoniland..." His aide chuckled, and Beauregard reclaimed his calmness. He extended his had after the Aaron Preston bit, "Rutherford Quincy Beauregard the Third, Governor of Rosbaninsland and Foreign Minister." After being called Mr. Beauregard, he sternly stated "General. General Beauregard. I do so hope we can still talk, even if I am apparently lacking in the mens' department. Please be aware that your entire color guard won't be allowed inside, I must declare I know not how you got those into Stuyvesant! Can I offer you a drink?"

Preston was annoyed at the insult to his troops, but for the most part kept calm. "I can assure you General that all proper channels were followed for the import of these weapons." Taking notice of a sniper moving into position, Preston remarked "Well, I see you're well-protected, though I don't see the need for snipers scoping me. It's not as if I'm going to invade a nation with six people."

"My honor guard will stay put, however I must insist on having one nonuniformed guard escort me," Preston said, gesturing to a Secret Service agent in a business suit, who was standing a few paces away by the limo. "As I learned in my first experience with the Londinians, never go anywhere unguarded."

Responding to the invitation for a drink, Preston stated "A martini would be wonderful after the flight. I caught turbulence for nearly the entire flight. Please inform your bartender that I like my martini shaken, not stirred."

"I must say, Mr. Preston, I don't believe our nations have any sort of positive history with each other. You having armed men pointing their guns at me doesn't assure peace." He took a cigar out of his pocket, "It's just simple paranoia, the Prestonians know that." He cut it and lit it, "Estonsko was loads of fun!" He gestured the man inside. "What, pray tell, are Londinians? Some sort of venereal parasite? Can't say that in my nearly fifty years of existance I have heard that term."

The Foreign Ministry building of Stuyvesant wasn't as opulent on the inside as it was on the out. Outside, it had ornate, marble columnwork and Greek architecture. On the inside, it was dull. The carpet was burgundy and the walls light. There was a loud commotion going on inside, turns out that Popinski had passed out naked yet again in Victory Square and all the children on their way to elementary school saw Soda Popinski's bottle, but they quickly passed it and walked into Beauregard's office. He motioned for Preston to sit in a large, dark leather chair in front of a long oak table. "Make yourself at home." A scream was heard, along the lines of 'damnit, Popinski.' "You can ignore them, Mr. Preston." He walked over to a nearby bar ledge with numerous bottles on it. "Popinski's a bit of an alcoholic, the man can't handle his vodka. I'm your bartender for tonight," he put some bourbon in the earlier tumbler, filled two shot glasses with some Cohenian Vodka, and took out a martini glass. "I'm assuming you don't want vodka in your martini, correct? Vodka martinis are a drink of the weak, a true man loves his gin! The way a man drinks tells a lot about him, suh." Rutherford filled a shaker with dry vermouth and some Praetonian gin. "I hope you'll enjoy a shot with me, Mr. Preston, before we begin this conference," he spoke while pouring the martini in a glass. "Heavens no, I'm out of olives!"

"I am aware of our nations' history, and I wish to make tomorrow a brighter day than yesterday was. For far too long our nations have been at odds, and many in Prestonia, myself included, feel that it's time to make peace with old enemies. While old wounds may heal slowly, the important thing is that they be healed. I apologize for the little ceremony making you tense, however my Counsel believed it wise to put on a little show of force. Needless to say, he shall be chastised heavily for this spectacle."

Preston was a bit surprised that such an acclaimed diplomat had never heard of British Londinium but hid his surprise. "The Londinians," Preston explained, "are a rather brutal nation that's been on the receiving end of several attacks for their brutality. Several years ago I was attending a ball in Cazelia, which the Londinians had occupied. In the middle of the dance, two members of their occupation burst in and massacred several prominent Cazelian diplomats. I myself was wounded in the attack. Since then, I always travel with escort."

On the topic of Estonsko, Preston spoke little, as it was still a somewhat sensitive topic. "Estonsko was a bit of a spook for President Gannon, as I'm sure you can understand. A newly-inaugurated President dealing with a military buildup in striking range for Heaven's Sake! But all that aside, I must say Estonsko is quite the model development these days. One of my aides recently returned from vacation in Reval, and reported the island to be the equal of any resort in Prestonia. I must vacation there at some point myself."

Preston didn't know what to make of the drunken diplomat, so ignored him. No diplomat of mine would ever behave in that manner, he thought to himself as he took a seat in the comfortable chair. "I see you know good spirits when you see them General. Praetonian gin is by far the best. My nation has a budding alcohol industry but it'll be a few generations before our spirits are of international quality." Upon seeing the bottle of Cohenian vodka produced, Preston exclaimed "now there's a good spirit. Had some of it once, as a young lad on a military exercise with the Novans. Haven't had any since, but it's the sort of thing you remember until your dying day," Preston said, taking the shot glass in one hand. "To peace," he said before downing it in unison with his host. "No need to worry about the olives. The alcohol is just as good either way."

"I can't say I have knowledge in regards to what you mean by 'military build-up' in Estonsko, Mr. Preston. There was nothing there, Mister. Apparently, there's nothing in my pants as well. My wife was very disappointed with you mocking my genitals, Mr. Preston." He drank from his tumbler, inside being hurt by the comment that his own nation was similar to both a Gholgothic nation and Prestonia itself. "You know, I was once wounded in battle. Shot in the chest by a Failbana-" He stopped, "Prestonian soldier in 67."

"But again, the way a man drinks shows his true character." He was referring to the olive, drinking a martini without an olive was similar to gay anal sex. "Now what did you want to discuss?"

"My older brother was in the last war," Preston said, sipping his drink. "He was a member of the 45th Infantry Division. Came back a war hero." Preston said no more, as anyone who had studied the last war would know that the Fighting 45th was the division that took Port Rosbanin and very nearly won the war for Prestonia. Preston sensed the subject was not the most opportune for a negotiation, so he quickly changed the topic.

"I came here General with the intention of discussing the improvement of relations between Gholgoth and APOC, however His Majesty did not approve of this topic, for reasons I can understand. As a result, I wish to focus on a more localized level: improving Presto-Cohenian relations. The last war ended in 1973, almost forty years ago, yet our nations are still hostile towards one another. I often ask myself, why? Forty years seems more than enough time to heal the wounds of war, but my predecessors have for the most part ignored the subject. I General do not ignore such pressing issues as these, unlike those who have come before me. That is the reason I am here before you today.

Noticing the derisive look cast towards his drink, Preston remarked "It is a shame that you're out of olives. I believe that alcohol is alcohol, regardless of what bells and whistles tradition has bestowed upon it, but the martini just doesn't taste the same without it. Speaking of alcohol, what do you have in your wine cellar? I love a good, strong red wine."

"I think you're forgetting 'bout eighty seven, Mr. Preston. I commanded the third army in that one, brought my boys right to Hudsontown. But we're talking about amity here, Mr. Preston! No sense talking about the past!" He pushed the intercom buzzer, "Bunny, get me two wine glasses and a bottle of red from the mess." A white man, enslaved, brought it up momentarily while the two made small talk. "You're lucky, Jim. If there were no guest here, I'd beat the living daylights out you for this mistake of a wine glass. It's smudged, how can I possibly expect a guest to use this?" He raised his fist as the slave winced, regaining his calmness. "I'll instruct Tomas to deal with you." Beauregard poured the wine, "what do you suggest we do to heal old wounds then?"

"Ah yes, the war in 'eighty-seven. I myself fought in that one. Well, actually, I was drafted. I had just finished my Pre-Law degree at Hudson University. Two months later, as you're no doubt aware, President Douglas was assassinated by a Rosbani terrorist. Within two weeks, I had been drafted into the Army and assigned to an armored division because of my minor in Engineering. I was taken prisoner of war in 'eighty-nine when my unit got overrun in the counterattack. Damn commander had overextended us and left the flanks open." Preston paused here, unsure of whether or not to continue. After about a minute, he continued on. "The things I saw in the prison camps, and on the front lines, were horrid beyond words General. I do not know if you were ever on the front lines, but if you were not I must say you are one very lucky man. It is my hope that nobody, be they Prestonian, Cohenian, Rosbani or whomever, will ever have to see the things I've seen. Having been through war, I am determined not to lead others through it where it can be helped."

Preston sat in silence while his counterpart berated the slave. When the slave had left, he spoke up. "Seeing that slave reminded me. There are two things I wish to have happen as part of any pact signed between us. First, I want any and all slaves of Prestonian descent freed and repatriated to Prestonia or given full citizenship in Cohenia. I General find the institution morally reprehensible as do my people. The idea that the sons and daughters of Prestonia, a nation built on freedom, are denied that sacred right is disgusting to me. This discrepancy must be rectified if we are to have any hope of a lasting peace."

"The second issue is one of personal interest to myself. Prestonian Republic Armed Forces figures place the total POW numbers from the Rosbani Wars at over fifty thousand. Of those, 11,437 have been released. I want the rest returned to Prestonia General Beauregard. I realize that many may not still be alive, however I want at the very least records of their deaths released to their survivors. I don't care whether the soldiers are dead or alive, their families need closure and after twenty-three years I say it's high time they got it."

"You may be wondering at this point why you should listen to any of what I'm saying. I am a career politician General Beauregard, and I know the art of give and take. If you comply with my requests, I will lift the embargo on Cohenian products. Your merchants will again be able to trade with Prestonia, bringing your nation untold riches. The Prestonian economy has nowhere to go but up General, and it would indeed be wise for your government to invest in Prestonian companies as much as the law will allow and reap the riches thereof."

"...Terrorist?" He had been the one who authorized the killing of Douglas, a traitor to the Cohenian people. Originally implanted the year to bring parts of Prestonia won in the War of '87, she alerted the people and brought the Cohenian/Rosbani population in Prestonia death. Beauregard, at the time, was Royal Governor of Rosbaningrad. He had owned a farm where he enjoyed the spoils of the war, countless prisoners of war working his plantation and earning him large sums of money. "More like a Liberator of the Rosbani People!" He screamed and slammed his fist down, cooling down quickly. "Freedom fighter. Alexander was a freedom fighter."

"Property is property, Mr. Preston. I see you have a nice suit on, what if I demanded that suit be mine? Would you surrender that and all other suits you owned to be 'liberated'? I can not steal from my very own people, the Good Lord states that one mustn't steal! How can I know that when I die I'll get into Heaven if I steal millions of dollars in property from my own people?"

"Prisoners of war, if they're still alive, I'm sure they can be brought back to the Prestonian people. Most were either sent to work camps or sold into slavery, I'm afraid. I can't say your government ever contacted His Majesty in regards to the return of these prisoners of war, they feel as though they've been forgotten for the last twenty plus years. One of my aides," he spoke, "not a slave, is of Prestonian descent. Some Prestonians actually broke the stereotype and made something of themselves, we implemented a program like we did with those silly Islwandesians. Five years of service in the eye-sea-aye makes any man a Cohenian, around one thousand prisoners of war are now contributing members of society." He opened his desk, taking out a large brown folder with a "CONFIDENTIAL" sticker and the words "PRESTONIANS IN COHENIA". It had a last ditch fix of turning an "OIDS" into "IANS" to make it more politically correct. He took out a pair of reading glasses from a pocket in his jacket and put them on, lowering them on his nose. He opened the folder, shuffled through some papers. "Ah, here we go. Statistics of Prisoners of Wars of Prestonian Descent. Through the last four wars in the last forty years, there have been an estimated two hundred thousand prisoners captured, fifty thousand killed upon capture, fifty thousand released..." He shuffled through the papers more. "Here we are, more recent. Rosbani Wars in the last twenty five years, two. Captured seventy five thousand, killed twenty two and a half thousand. Sold into slavery twenty seven thousand, placed in a prison work camp thirteen thousand, returned to Prestonia eleven and a half thousand, completed re-patriotism one thousand. Please note that those who didn't complete re-patriotism were probably sent back." His eyes looked up while his glasses still looked down, "I don't recall hearing of any embargo placed on my people by yours, but I'm sure those still alive in the prison work camps can be returned to your nation."

"Michelle Douglas was in Rosbaningrad to attend a peace summit when she was shot with sniper rifle while stepping off of her plane. I believe that fits the definition of terrorism, but I'm not here to argue semantics." Preston was outraged at the Cohenian diplomat's branding of President Douglas' assassin as a "freedom fighter" but did his best to contain it. Losing his cool now would not benefit his cause.

"I believe we are of varying ideologies here Mr. Beauregard. People are not property, and no human being has the legal or moral right to own another. If one were to get technical, it could easily be argued that you stole the Prestonian-born slaves from their homeland. However, I recognize a dead horse when I beat one, so I'm willing to make a deal. I'll buy back all slaves with Prestonian blood, if you name your price."

Preston sat in shock as Beauregard nonchalantly read off the fates of Prestonian prisoners of war. "I would wager that those living full lives in Cohenia will likely be too indoctrinated to wish to return. As for the rest, I would assume you kept accurate records. Those sold into slavery will be purchased back by my government. Those in the work camps, I want back duty-free. We sent back all the Cohenian prisoners ten years ago and it's about damn time your government reciprocated. And as a side note I believe you are mistaken about my government's interest in the POWs. We have contacted His Majesty no less than six times regarding the fates of the prisoners, and each time we've been blown off. Now I have your government's attention, you know what I want. Detailed records of the fates of each individual prisoner, and all who are alive returned to Prestonia."

"Fifty thousand yurans per slave, or around one hundred thousand standard dollars. The owners of these slaves are losing perhaps a family member, Mr. Preston. Of the original twenty seven thousand slaves, around fifteen thousand are still abouts in Cohenia. Eight thousand in Doomingsland, four thousand randomly sold. We don't keep records of slaves, but we do keep a record of when property leaves the nation. It's called customs, Mr. Preston. I can't say I have the records of customs, but I can differ you to a department with that information. And you're going to have a hard time getting prisoners of war in work camps, if they're dead they're dead and if they're alive the companies that 'own' them might not want to let them go. Again, it's not my department."

"You have never contacted my government in regards to the prisoners of war, don't lie to me Mr. Preston." He slid the manila folder across the mahogany desk. "All the information you seek is probably in here anyways."

"Fine. Fifty thousand yurans per slave, to be wired no later than Thursday. In exchange, I want it in writing that all persons of Prestonian blood enslaved will be returned in good order and good health. As for those in the employ of Cohenian companies, I am afraid there's not much I can do at this meeting. I will approach that topic at a future summit."

Preston sat calmly while Beauregard insulted him, though inside he was seething with anger. Collecting himself, he stood. "Mr. Beauregard, I came here with one goal in mind: peace. You on the other hand seem opposed to peace at all costs. The manner in which you have addressed and insulted me is not only detrimental to this goal, it is insulting to the Prestonian people and myself. I have had quite enough of what apparently passes for diplomacy in this backward collective you call a nation. I will be back here at eight 'o-clock tomorrow morning to sign the treaty releasing the slaves. If you wish to continue productive discussion I suggest you either take a refresher course in diplomacy, or have someone else speak to me. If not, I will be more than happy to leave this hellhole." With that, Preston turned and exited the room, his wine glass still half-full. His guard, meanwhile, had been waiting outside the office in case anything got out of hand. As Preston strode down the hallway, the guard kept close, hand on his holster. "I have a feeling those snipers we saw earlier may not be too pleased to see us leaving," Preston remarked as they came to the door to the courtyard.

"My guard, Philip, will escort you out if you do not want peace. You came here with two goals, releasing your slaves and returning prisoners of wars. You're buying back all of your slaves and I'm returning all prisoners of war, yet you insult my great nation and call it a backwards collective? Why would I even want to negotiate with such a stereotype? You came in my nation with a frown knowing that you would be transfered to my department and not speak to Ferrin. You're one to talk about diplomacy, you tell other diplomats to, quote, fuck off and you say that others have tiny penises. Is that what a diplomat would do? No, it's not. You're a hypocrite, Mr. Preston. I'm returning the slaves back to you and the prisoners of war back to you, and you call prisoners of war who wish to stay in Cohenia brainwashed? How dare you insult my nation like that and then demand everything we worked for today so greedily? We can stay and chat, but I assume you want to leave this 'hellhole' of a nation!" His voice was rising and his temper was flaring. "My nation has dealt with countless invasions by yours, and you expect us to welcome you as if you were Mary herself?! You insult one of my soldiers and call him a terrorist, you call paid workers slaves, what else do you want from me Mr. Preston? Again, the door is right over there. You can leave now, if you want. Don't expect to ever come back again if you do."

"Mister Beauregard, the very first thing I did when I arrived was to apologize for my comments. You seem to have blown off my apology by bringing up the comments made over a month ago several times in conversation. I call your nation backwards because you seem to think a 'civilized' society is one in which human beings can own other human beings. To me and most of my allies, that is an inherently backwards ideal."

"You say I come in with a frown for having not gotten to speak with Ferrin. I ask you sir; were you not the leader of a nation which had something of utmost importance to discuss with another, would you not wish to speak with no less than the head of state of the other nation?"

"I do believe that any person so abused and tortured as I was in the prison camps would have to be either insane or brainwashed to stay with their torturers. Given the things I saw in the POW camp, I would have to say the latter is as likely as the former."

"You mention the invasions conducted by my people. I remind you that Rosbaningrad was founded on sovereign Prestonian territory, and that it's founders pillaged and burned several nearby Prestonian settlements. Who is the real invader here Mister Beauregard? Of the seven Rosbani Wars, your nation was the aggressor in four of them. In the last, your nation ordered the killing of a President who came for peace and had her body dragged through the streets of Port Rosbanin! It does not take a genius to figure out who the real aggressor is in this case."

"By the way, you can keep your guard. I have my own, and I should think you'd understand my wariness about Cohenian military personnel having been scoped by snipers on my arrival."

He ignored every word the Prestonian said, in order to preserve his own mindset and not shoot the man dead. Inside Beauregard's mind, he wanted to kill Preston. He insulted his homeland, his honor, and one of the very men who lost his life to save his country. The torturing bit struck home as well, torturing at prisoner of war camps was forbidden under Cohenian law. In each of the four Rosbani Wars, the Prestonians invaded. They were the first to fire upon the Cohenians, another lie by Preston. "I take it you don't want peace," Rutherford stated, eerily calm. "I also assume there is nothing more you wish to speak of. You can leave if you want."

"I shall be back at eight to sign the treaty. Have a nice day Mr. Beauregard," Preston said as he left the office. Walking down the hallway, he and his guard stopped several times to admire the paintings and various artwork displayed in the building. "I gotta say Eric, that Beauregard might be a boor but he's got good taste in art," Preston remarked to his guard as they stopped to admire a portrait of a stern-looking past Emperor. "This stuff could almost be fit to hang in the National Museum of Art," Eric replied with a chuckle. With that, they continued on, arriving in the main office where several clerks and government officials went about their duties, paying no attention to the head of state before them. As they arrived at the ornate wooden door that marked the passage to the courtyard outdoors, Preston remarked to his bodyguard "better have your weapon at the ready. Call me paranoid but given those snipers, we may need to fight our way out of this."

Ferrin was on a beach, buried nearly entirely on the ground save his head. His three little children giggled as their father snoozed, trapped in a sandy tomb in Arterus. The children were toddlers, the youngest of the Stuyvesant Royal Family, but they managed to bury their father completely. Ferrin's wife, Elisa, lay in a lounge chair; she was drinking a Long Island Iced Tea and flirting with a cabana boy. Next to her was Ferrin's eldest daughter, Kristin, who was also flirting with a cabana boy (good thing Ferrin was asleep for this boy's sake), and next to her were her brothers Michael and William. Both were sleeping, relaxing from the stressful life of being rich, white, and handsome. A servant, non-slave, approached His Majesty. The little ones were about to place a pail over their father's head, hiding him from the world when the Servant approached. They scattered into the ocean, "Your Majesty?"

"Oh yes, Mr. Giraffe, lick all the marmalade..." A dazed, incoherant Ferrin murmured.

"Your Majesty?" The servant was confused.

"Mmm," he woke up, "what the hell am I doing here?" He was immobilized as his little children laughed. Both cabana boys ran away from the Stuyvesant girls they were romancing, Kristin pouting at her inability to talk to any man while her father was around. "What do you want?"

"Phone call from Mr. Beauregard, urgent news regarding the Prestonoids and Dreadfire's sex toy."

"Tell him my hands are filled." It didn't work, the servant put the phone on speaker and put it near Ferrin's face.

"I say, Aaron, am I interupting you at a bad time?" Kristin and Elisa stood up and walked away to find their boy toys, the toddlers drew shapes in suntan lotion on William and Michael's stomachs.

"I don't know, Rutherford. One minute I was dreaming I was on an African safari and the next I'm buried in a sandpit. What's going down with that jerk?" Rutherford explained the situation, Ferrin was outraged. "I took this god damned vacation because my blood pressure was too high, and now this Failbanazi jerkwad is insulting my nation and our glorious institution of slavery?"

"Seems so, Aaron."

"No treaty will be signed. Slaves will remain ours and the mining companies will keep abusing those prisoners of war. Why are they even asking for them anyways, it's been twenty years?"

"I stated that earlier, Aaron. He said they made numerous attempts at reclaiming them."

"I've been in charge before eighty seven, Rutherford. No Prestonian contacted our government in regards to prisoners of war! We assumed they stopped caring!"

"I said that too, he still was ignorant to my claims and kept lying."

"Rutherford, you are not to go to this treaty signing tomorrow. Nor is any member of my cabinet."

"We won't have to worry about Popinski, he's in the hospital again. Bee-aye-sea of point seven." Ferrin laughed. "I'll make sure not to attend, nor will anyone."

Unknown to Ferrin, his wife was being massaged by a nineteen year old 'stud' and his daugher's tongue was down a lifeguard's throat. Unknown to Michael and William, a puppy and a smiley face were being burned on their chests. Unknown to Preston, a protest occured outside the ministry of foreign defense.
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STUYVESANT

"Get out Failbanazi!" "No Peace with Prestonoids!" "Remember Eighty Seven!" Protesters screamed. Protesters lit a Prestonian flag on fire, held up signs mocking gay relations between Dreadfire and Preston (they argued how else could such a nation become Gholgoth?) Riot police held them back, the snipers on the roof watched them carefully. "Murderer! Get out, Failbanazi!", "Rosbani slaughterer!" they screamed, the flag of Rosbaningrad was waved by numerous people. They were Rosbani Nationalists, people who loved both Cohenia and Rosbaningrad but hated the southern warmongerers. One fired a random Doomani rifle into the air but was quickly contained by police. More Prestonian flags went up in flames, "No Peace with Prestonoids!" They flung rocks at the limousine the Prestonian arrived in and at some Prestonian guards outside of it, waiting for one of them to open fire. "Remember Eighty Seven!", "Remember the forty-thousand!" Another protestor flung a rock at Preston himself, but he was subdued by police officers. "Get out of Cohenia, murderer!"

Preston was unconcerned with the protest developing around him. He had, after all, seen much worse in his own nation. "Hmph. Those Coneys (an insulting term for a Cohenian) think they can put in dent in a bulletproof limo than they've got another thing coming." Just then a protester threw a rock at Preston, missing by several feet. It was a known fact that most Cohenians were cross-eyed, so he chalked that one up to the disorder. The guards, meanwhile, held their rifles steadfastly at port arms, where they served as a useful block for most rocks. As Preston reached the car, the guards piled in after him, the chauffeur having already entered. The doors were closed and locked, but the limo continued to receive a pelting from the Cohenians who had apparently not figured out that an armored limo with bulletproof glass wasn't going to be harmed by rocks. The protesters lunged at the barricades, threatening to break them down in their anger. Having hand enough of this, the chauffeur turned on the police radio and searched for Stuyvesant's frequency. After several minutes, he found it. "Stuyvesant Police, this is the Presidential Vehicle, callsign Eagle. We're surrounded by a protest outside the Department of Foreign Affairs. Request motorcade to the Stuyvesant Hilton, over."