The Bourgeoisie Subterfuge

[Northern Cooperative Unions]

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BALGAA, SÜRGŐSSÉGI BUNKER OF THE CITIZEN'S COUNCIL - BALGAA DETACHMENT
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Councilman Szabo scanned the dark underground barracks, the relaxed hum of a combustion engine filling the tight, corridor-like room. He slid a hand into his blanket, itching furiously at the skin under his hairy, hastily made cotton jumpsuit. The combustion generator's hum sputtered, the purr of the machine stopping. Abruptly, emergency lighting lit the entire complex. Without the purr, a massive klaxon alarm sounded. The wrinkly man groaned, slowly clambering away from his bed in unison with thirty three other councilmen. The curious men were suddenly rocked about by a huge tremor.

"RUN!"

The raspy voice of a guard filled the room with a single, blood-curdling scream. Szabo's heart quailed as he stumbled back into his bed, slapping his head down onto the metal bar with a grunt. Behind a blast door nearby, a hail of gunfire erupted in a crackle. Following the emission of fire, the noise of bullets piercing metal cast through the blast door, several tracers on bullets filling the red room. Szabo was caught in a crowd of furious and afraid councilmen, guards whom entered the room gurgling and choking on their own blood as machine-gun bullets filled the room with lead.

Szabo's head was bleeding profusely, his vision flashing as he was dragged along with a frantic crowd of guards and councilmen. A trail of crimson fluids left his motionless body as he was dragged. The howls of soldiers filled his ears. His eyes refused to open as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

A man dressed in a jet black uniform approached Szabo, lifting a flashlight aloft in the dark hallway. The noise of a truck droned in the background. The man spoke in broken Hungarian.

"Kicsoda? Kicsoda?"

Szabo's eyes were lit up by the blinding flare of the flashlight. He hocked a bout of spit in the direction of light, smiling with a broad, toothy grin. The barrel of a gun pressed against his temple. A bullet entered his skull, killing him immediately.

 

[Northern Cooperative Unions]

MRYSINI, CITIZEN'S FORUM, 12:03 AM


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His grim, dark face slowly crept up the crumbling steps up the Mrysini Citizen's Forum, the hall of the Citizen's Council. A rag strewn over his face shielded the smells of decaying bodies, many to the point of being eaten by the vultures and the flies. In unison with his comrades, ten men in round-shaped helmets and black uniforms darted up to the forum's doorway. He scanned his comrade's faces, his finger itching the trigger on his machine-gun. The boom of a shotgun lit the door, blasting it down. In unison, he rushed in behind his comrades. He pressed his index finger on his trigger, twisting the barrel of his gun all over the room. The deafening noise ratatata filled his ears, his view on at least twenty men around a round table shifting to twenty men fleeing, screaming, and being cut down. A soldier behind him lobbed a fragmentation grenade into the room, now full of men lying and groaning on the floor. The soldiers rushed out of the room as quick as they had came.

All across Mrysini, these massed shootings lit up the night. The fire of tyrants being extinguished. The citizens that remained would participate in massed pogroms, beating on the dead or injured councilmen.

Boliatur did not weep. It screamed and kicked.