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The Hennessiac Civil War
Topic Started: Nov 13 2008, 10:45 PM (87 Views)
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My name is Elek Korsak, a journalist for the largest newspaper publisher in all of Hennessiac, the Landy Times. I reside in Landy, a city built by the newspaper industry itself. I am one of the best writers Hennessiac’s newspaper industry has ever seen. Sure it sounds cocky, but I have the awards to prove it. But I no longer consider myself a journalist. I prefer to label myself as a preacher.

When asked to cover the emergence of a new political group, I rolled my eyes. Too many times had I seen these “liberation for the people” political parties come out of the streets and into the media. We loved covering them for some reason, most likely because it gave the people something else to talk about other than the National Republic Party (which was quite boring.) The NRP had always been the one-party for Hennessiac. A right-wing establishment, the NRP has ruled Hennessiac ever since its independence, and personally, I think they have done a pretty good job at it. Sure the election of Vladmir Nowack had been controversial, as well as the job he has done, but that’s beside the point.

The point is, I was wrong, I was completely wrong. As I stand in this crowd of hundreds, a feeling came over me. I no longer felt like Elek Korsak, outstanding journalist for the Landy Times. I felt more like Elek Korsak, a believer in change. I was now one of many, one of these fellow believers. Yet, I wasn’t like most of them. They were recruits, brought into this circle of madness in hopes of hearing the words of change and new political dreams. I was more involved than I had originally planned on actually being. I was in with the founders and the main activists. I was in with Boris himself. Thanks to my journalistic duties, I had given myself the opportunity to see who these people really were and why they were doing this.

I was officially a member of the Hennessiac Social Workers Front; and please, don’t tell my employer.

Four Months Earlier

I walked in front the shady house, cramped in downtown Marxistan. The house itself was boarded up, but it was where I was told to go. I trusted my source, so I knew it had to be a place of significance. Knocking on the termite infested door, I began to put more and less pressure on my right foot, listening to the creaking of the floor panel beneath me. This house was either old or whoever built it hardly put in any safety considerations. I couldn’t wait to leave. Soon enough, the door opened slowly, and barely. A head, clean-shaven, peaked out through, examining me full body.

“What’d you want?” The man spoke.

“I’m here to see…” I looked back down at a piece of paper in the grasps of my hand, “Boris Tetzlaff?” And in less than a second the door was closed once again. I was a little taken back. Sure was rude of the door watcher, as I assumed he was. After waiting patiently, I knocked once again. The door swiftly disclosed, and the man I had previously spoken too was in full sight.

“Why do you want to see Boris?” He questioned me with distrust in his voice.

“My name is Elek Korsak, writer for the Landy Times. I just wanted to spend a few minutes with Mr. Tetzlaff, if he is available.”

“Yeah, whatever, come in.” He said as he unblocked the doorway. I noticed him looking back outside as I was in front of the main stairs of the house. Checking for any suspicious civilians or policemen, but I saw no one else on the street while on the porch. After all, this was part of the ghettos of Marxistan. I sure felt unsafe outside, as many others do as well.

The house was old, not poorly built, as I had suspected. It was nothing but a beatendown, locked up, supposed to be knocked down but was never prominent enough for the government or any companies to care about, kind of place.

The wallpaper was peeling; the railings were dusty, and ready to break at the slightest of touches. The furniture was, well, there was no furniture, as it seemed. Just a wide empty wooden floor underneath me. Poorly lit, the door watcher led me through another doorway, into another empty room, and down a flight of stairs. Without his warning of a missing stair, I would have without a doubt broken my leg as my foot would have split through with wood cutting completely up my leg, and then my momentum would have driven me forward, slamming my head into the stair under it, knocking me out, and then I would have ended up outside, with the door watcher telling me he didn’t know who I was or what I was doing and to get off his property or he was going to call the police. I sure do tend to focus on the positive things.

Once down in the basement of the wooden bunker, I turned right, walked past the flight of stairs I had just walked down, and found myself face to face with another door. It was closed, with another man guarding it just like one had the front door. The two men conversed, without a doubt talking about my intentions. The basement guard then made his way into the room in front of me, and came back out in no time. He told me to proceed, and I did so cautiously.

The room I entered next had no more outlets than the one I had just walked through. It was a cold, damp, room lit only by a lamp on an old wooden desk. Water was running down the concrete walls, perhaps from the run-down plumbing system. Drips of water (or not water) were falling from the ceiling, providing a disturbing emptiness felt by hopefully more than just I. Then from the dark silhouette of a broad shouldered man came a wave of cigar smoke. I coughed a bit, embarrassing myself in the process.

“Do you like cigars Mr. Korsak?” The figure asked.

“Not particularly.” I replied.

“Cigars are relaxing. They provide you with a peaceful insight for the moment. As you sit back and watch the world go round and round, you continue to smoke your cigar, breathing in not only the smoke but what is really important.”

“And what is that?”

“That, is why I continue to smoke. What is really important Mr. Korsak? Is it money? Pride? Sex? Legacy?”

“I have no idea.” (It was money.)

“The day I smoke my last cigar is the day I find the answer to the question Mr. Korsak. But right now, you have to answer another question of mine. Why do you request my audience?” He leaned back in his leather-covered chair, examining me once again.

“Well, I’m actually a reporter for the Landy Times. I was hoping to get an interview with you.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been assigned to write an article about the Hennessiac Social Workers Front. You are the leader correct?”

He nodded, but spoke next. “And did you choose to write this article or were you essentially dealt it?”

“Well, they told me I had to write it, so I came here hoping for some more information.”

“Mr. Korsak, I want you to write this article not because you have to meet your quota or because it is part of your job, but because you believe it is important to write about.” He was intimidating.

“Why do you think it is important enough to write about?” I fired back.

“Do you know what percentage of the population makes at least six figures per year?" I shook my head, “Less than 5%. Yet, with that in mind, how come the NRP, the single-party of this country, the party of the people, is ran only by these select few? How can the people of Hennessiac be fairly represented when their representation can hardly connect with its people?”

“So you preach socialism?”

“I preach fairness.”

“So you preach socialism?” I smiled.

“I preach fairness.” He did not.
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lebowski2123
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Resident?
Seems like he's gone, could have been good...
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NRE
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Map Tsar and Southern Gentleman

Sigh, this was looking really good too :(
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