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"A little revolution now and then is a healthy thing."
-Thomas Jefferson
"Let's Get to Work, Comrades!!" The poster read, in Russian and German. Sighing and shaking his head, Josef Buyanov ambled slowly down the snow covered street. The city he lived in was once Berlin, now all that remained were the burnt shells of blackened brick buildings, blackened by the 25-Megaton air burst that leveled the city. From the corrupted ashes of a broken German government rose a new power, a united power, a communist power.
It was a beautiful idea. Marx's Communist Manifesto had been printed and spread throughout the remains of Europe, encouraging the citizens to join the movement. Josef had been drawn in by the promise of a united humanity. "All I got was shit." He thought to himself. The rubble-paved streets were littered with propaganda. Nothing more. A whole lot of glory, not a lot of action. Josef shivered, drawing his tattered wool coat over his skinny body. He was going to die if he didn't get out of the city soon, and away from the communist beast that consumed men and women with promises of a good future, and spit them out when they had lived out their purpose.
Buyanov ducked into an alley as a patrol passed by in their sharp looking olive green uniforms. The soldiers were well dressed, well fed, and convinced of their own superiority. Being seen by a squad led to beatings and at the worst, a 7.62 millimeter bullet in the head, or some other area...
He wasn't German, which didn't work in his favor. His Russian counterparts were among the soldiery, his old German rivals were among the opressed citizens. He had enemies all around, and not one friend; he didn't speak German.
Soldiering never worked out for Josef. The "Red Knights" wanted only the healthiest, most charismatic men representing them. Buyanov was 5'6, and 106 lbs; hardly soldier material. He also had no hair anywhere on his body from the massive amounts of radiation he'd recieved over his 35 years. He was a pitiful sight to behold, but seemed to be the more perfect representation for the true "Red Knights"; starving, pathetic and despaired. Each morning he awoke, freezing in an alley, telling himself that it would be his last day. But it never came, and he didn't want to die at the hands of the domineering soldiers wielding their Kalashnikovs and sneers of distaste. The Lord, if he existed, must have had one hell of a sense of humor. Every time Josef was about to die of starvation, a rat would appear. Every time he was about to be bludgeoned to death by an angry mob of rebelious Germans, the soldiers showed up and he was able to slip away while the bleak world was lit orange with muzzle flashes. He couldn't die, God wouldn't let him.
Josef watched the crimson mess, spattered on the ground and wall, begin to crystalize. His sunken eyes showed him everything in technicolor, the red a welcome sight in his dismal, gray world. He watched the body of the soldier for hours with a vacant expression on his face. "You won't be hungry anymore" A voice inside promised him. "I have nothing to cook with. It is frozen." He said aloud, not caring who or what heard him; he'd just smashed a "Red Knight's" head with a brick, and he would be shot soon. "Look in the right breast pocket" The voice commanded. He obeyed, barely conscious of what he was doing. There was a small box of matches in the pocket. He laughed a dry laugh, an insane laugh and dragged the body into a nearby factory, watching the blood streak on the cement. He laughed again as he built a small fire out of the pieces of a smashed window frame. God would forgive him.
It was the finest meal he'd had in his life. He felt strong, like he could take on the world with just his insanity, and the AK-47 he'd "borrowed." His eyes flashed in murderous delight as he fired a three-shot burst into every soldier he saw. It was a wonderful day, he felt truly alive.
He hid his AK under his coat, firing when the soldiers stopped to question him. No one suspected the pathetic figure that he was to be a threat, so no one saw it coming.
He blasted his way out of the city, through the chainlink fence, through the guards and their dogs, into the blasted wasteland of Europe. He never new he had sparked a revolution. Many German citizens followed his example and took up arms against their oppressors, following the hunched, haggard looking man with hard lines and sunken cheeks. They followed him out of the city, away from the hardships of martial law, knowing that it would be the start of something better. Revolution was in their minds, and another war was brewing in Europe.
FYI: I'm still going to write the Wasteland Daycare series, I just wanted to write something about the Pen and Paper campaign I'm writing.
"Madame, I may be drunk, but you're ugly, and in the morning I'll be sober."
-Winston Churchill
-Thomas Jefferson
"Let's Get to Work, Comrades!!" The poster read, in Russian and German. Sighing and shaking his head, Josef Buyanov ambled slowly down the snow covered street. The city he lived in was once Berlin, now all that remained were the burnt shells of blackened brick buildings, blackened by the 25-Megaton air burst that leveled the city. From the corrupted ashes of a broken German government rose a new power, a united power, a communist power.
It was a beautiful idea. Marx's Communist Manifesto had been printed and spread throughout the remains of Europe, encouraging the citizens to join the movement. Josef had been drawn in by the promise of a united humanity. "All I got was shit." He thought to himself. The rubble-paved streets were littered with propaganda. Nothing more. A whole lot of glory, not a lot of action. Josef shivered, drawing his tattered wool coat over his skinny body. He was going to die if he didn't get out of the city soon, and away from the communist beast that consumed men and women with promises of a good future, and spit them out when they had lived out their purpose.
Buyanov ducked into an alley as a patrol passed by in their sharp looking olive green uniforms. The soldiers were well dressed, well fed, and convinced of their own superiority. Being seen by a squad led to beatings and at the worst, a 7.62 millimeter bullet in the head, or some other area...
He wasn't German, which didn't work in his favor. His Russian counterparts were among the soldiery, his old German rivals were among the opressed citizens. He had enemies all around, and not one friend; he didn't speak German.
Soldiering never worked out for Josef. The "Red Knights" wanted only the healthiest, most charismatic men representing them. Buyanov was 5'6, and 106 lbs; hardly soldier material. He also had no hair anywhere on his body from the massive amounts of radiation he'd recieved over his 35 years. He was a pitiful sight to behold, but seemed to be the more perfect representation for the true "Red Knights"; starving, pathetic and despaired. Each morning he awoke, freezing in an alley, telling himself that it would be his last day. But it never came, and he didn't want to die at the hands of the domineering soldiers wielding their Kalashnikovs and sneers of distaste. The Lord, if he existed, must have had one hell of a sense of humor. Every time Josef was about to die of starvation, a rat would appear. Every time he was about to be bludgeoned to death by an angry mob of rebelious Germans, the soldiers showed up and he was able to slip away while the bleak world was lit orange with muzzle flashes. He couldn't die, God wouldn't let him.
Josef watched the crimson mess, spattered on the ground and wall, begin to crystalize. His sunken eyes showed him everything in technicolor, the red a welcome sight in his dismal, gray world. He watched the body of the soldier for hours with a vacant expression on his face. "You won't be hungry anymore" A voice inside promised him. "I have nothing to cook with. It is frozen." He said aloud, not caring who or what heard him; he'd just smashed a "Red Knight's" head with a brick, and he would be shot soon. "Look in the right breast pocket" The voice commanded. He obeyed, barely conscious of what he was doing. There was a small box of matches in the pocket. He laughed a dry laugh, an insane laugh and dragged the body into a nearby factory, watching the blood streak on the cement. He laughed again as he built a small fire out of the pieces of a smashed window frame. God would forgive him.
It was the finest meal he'd had in his life. He felt strong, like he could take on the world with just his insanity, and the AK-47 he'd "borrowed." His eyes flashed in murderous delight as he fired a three-shot burst into every soldier he saw. It was a wonderful day, he felt truly alive.
He hid his AK under his coat, firing when the soldiers stopped to question him. No one suspected the pathetic figure that he was to be a threat, so no one saw it coming.
He blasted his way out of the city, through the chainlink fence, through the guards and their dogs, into the blasted wasteland of Europe. He never new he had sparked a revolution. Many German citizens followed his example and took up arms against their oppressors, following the hunched, haggard looking man with hard lines and sunken cheeks. They followed him out of the city, away from the hardships of martial law, knowing that it would be the start of something better. Revolution was in their minds, and another war was brewing in Europe.
FYI: I'm still going to write the Wasteland Daycare series, I just wanted to write something about the Pen and Paper campaign I'm writing.
"Madame, I may be drunk, but you're ugly, and in the morning I'll be sober."
-Winston Churchill