Royal Tenenbaum
Exiled
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- Oct 23, 2012
- Messages
- 2,738
And ours.
America: Write Your Own History
- Thread starter Royal Tenenbaum
- Start date
And ours.
Lord Bigfoot
King
Well I think we now know which occupied territories we need to recapture first.
Royal Tenenbaum
Exiled
- Joined
- Oct 23, 2012
- Messages
- 2,738
Adolf Hitler Assassinated!
Driven by the desire to kill the Führer, expose the Holocaust, and show the world that not all Germans were ruthless like Hitler, the Wehrmacht had prepared the assassination since early 1933. As Hitler met with officials in East Prussia, an explosion disguised in a suitcase went off, killing several top Nazi officials including the Führer himself. The Führer was announced dead to the nation on July 22nd, 1944. A nationwide mourning commenced the following Saturday, with Hirohito and Tojo of Japan, Stalin of Russia, Abascal of Mexico, and Mussolini of Italy attending the ceremony.
Rudolph Hess, Deputy Führer, has been appointed the new Führer of Germany, and is reportedly more likely to sign a peace treaty with Britain than Hitler was. Commonwealth military officials are passionately debating whether to push an offensive on Germany, or accept peace.
Von Stauffenberg, who led the operation, fled to France, which led to a diplomatic hit between the two nations. He is currently seen as a hero in the democratic world.
Driven by the desire to kill the Führer, expose the Holocaust, and show the world that not all Germans were ruthless like Hitler, the Wehrmacht had prepared the assassination since early 1933. As Hitler met with officials in East Prussia, an explosion disguised in a suitcase went off, killing several top Nazi officials including the Führer himself. The Führer was announced dead to the nation on July 22nd, 1944. A nationwide mourning commenced the following Saturday, with Hirohito and Tojo of Japan, Stalin of Russia, Abascal of Mexico, and Mussolini of Italy attending the ceremony.
Rudolph Hess, Deputy Führer, has been appointed the new Führer of Germany, and is reportedly more likely to sign a peace treaty with Britain than Hitler was. Commonwealth military officials are passionately debating whether to push an offensive on Germany, or accept peace.
Von Stauffenberg, who led the operation, fled to France, which led to a diplomatic hit between the two nations. He is currently seen as a hero in the democratic world.
Moai_Spammer
Ave, True to Caesar!
Adolf Hitler Assassinated!
Driven by the desire to kill the Führer, expose the Holocaust, and show the world that not all Germans were ruthless like Hitler, the Wehrmacht had prepared the assassination since early 1933. As Hitler met with officials in East Prussia, an explosion disguised in a suitcase went off, killing several top Nazi officials including the Führer himself. The Führer was announced dead to the nation on July 22nd, 1944. A nationwide mourning commenced the following Saturday, with Hirohito and Tojo of Japan, Stalin of Russia, Abascal of Mexico, and Mussolini of Italy attending the ceremony.
Rudolph Hess, Deputy Führer, has been appointed the new Führer of Germany, and is reportedly more likely to sign a peace treaty with Britain than Hitler was. Commonwealth military officials are passionately debating whether to push an offensive on Germany, or accept peace.
so much for providence, eh dolfy?
Lord Bigfoot
King
Holy crap von Stauffenberg pulled it off.
CaterpillarKing
Conqueror of Cacoons
Finally! Holy crap!
TheNoob
Dank Memes
While Germany is weak, we must take back their possessions of Canada and start restoring America to its former glory!
Royal Tenenbaum
Exiled
- Joined
- Oct 23, 2012
- Messages
- 2,738
Five year peace treaty.
GreekAnalyzer
Back from the Dead
- Joined
- May 9, 2013
- Messages
- 1,936
FOOL! NOBODY EXPECTS THE INQUISITION!
And I'm dancing on Adolf's grave.
And I'm dancing on Adolf's grave.
TheNoob
Dank Memes
We must wait five years and then take back our Canadian territory!
Atlantic Pacf.
Back from the dead
- Joined
- Jul 20, 2012
- Messages
- 400
In 1943, Kathleen Silverstone was arrested due to a falling out between her uncle and a bunch of high-ranking Communist Party officials; however, she was not told this until after her release. Despite having not gone to a trial, she was detained at the Wilmington Detention Facility, a low-level detention center that is part of the larger complex of jails, detention centers, prisons, and concentration camps collectively known as "the Appalachia," named after the region they're located to. This short account, where she remembers her time in the detention center, was published in various American newspaper outlets, as a propaganda tool to discredit the former Browder regime.
My Time in the Appalachia, by Kathleen Silverstone (1944)
I still can't believe that I'm released. I can't believe that it has been an entire year already. Time tends to pass by when you're in jail, particularly in solitary confinement.
It was a rainy July night when a bunch of policemen pulled me over. I thought that I was going to get a speeding ticket, which was weird, since I was driving ten below the speed limit, due to the rain. Instead, when I stopped, the cops - or so I thought; I couldn't decide if they were regular municipal policemen or SESTAP agents - demanded that I open my door. Confused, I obliged, not knowing their intentions. Almost immediately they dragged me out into the rain. I fell back-first into a puddle, and the cops, instead of picking me back up, grabbed both my arms and handcuffed me in the front. They then demanded me to walk into their car. I refused, more out of laziness than out of defiance. One of them pulled out a gun; that made me do it. I slid onto their back seat, feeling disgusted from all the wetness, and the cops slammed their door on me.
I was confused, scared, and alone; I couldn't believe that such things were happening to me. I had heard of such stuff happening to people around the country, but I always thought that that happened to other people. It was not to be my concern. Now it was, and I was unprepared. All I could do was look outside, away from my car and my neighborhood and into a forbidding unknown.
It seemed like the car drove on for the entire night. When we finally stopped at a SESTAP station; it was clearly one. Surrounded on all sides by forest, it was surrounded by eight feet high barbed wire, probably electrified. The building itself was huge; it looked like a bunch of concrete boxes stacked on top of each other in an asymmetrical pattern. Cop cars like this one were parked along with military jeeps and trucks whichever which way, at odd angles to each other.
Inside was hardly better. They sent me to a small room with yellow walls, with nothing else but a wooden stool. I sat there for what seemed like an hour, then a young SESTAP agent walked in to interrogate me.
"Name," he said.
"Kathleen Silverstone," I said.
"Address." I told my address.
"Date of Birth." I told my date of birth.
"Nationality," he said.
"American," I replied.
"No, you aren't." He continued nonchalantly. "Nationality."
"American."
"No, you aren't an American! You're a Jew! You're a [expletive] Russian capitalist Jew!"
Before I could come to terms with how he framed my ancestry, he walked up to me and bludgeoned me with his baton in the jaw. I fell off my seat. My teeth sunk an inch into my lower lip; I could feel the warm, iron taste of blood seeping from the wounds. I tried not to cry, but I shed a single tear. Then another one, then I was tearing up. The world was cloudy with my tears, the officer fuzzy, as I tried to get up on the stool again.
"Nationality," he said as he saw that I got on the stool again.
"American."
"Nope!" He hit me with the baton again, this time in my ribs. I felt something crack. Pain shot up from the site of impact up my arms and legs and torso; I was withering in what seemed like fire. The world became invisible to me. I didn't notice when another SESTAP officer came in and recalled the one who hit me.
They said that a "trial" for my "crimes" would be held at a future date; exactly what date was chosen, they never told me. In the meantime, I was told that I could "make myself productive" by doing "labor, for the good of the Country and the good of the Revolution." I would be staying at the Wilmington Detention Facility, in order to not present a "danger to public safety" before I could be declared innocent.
Each day there was the same. Wake up. Be counted. Eat breakfast. Brush teeth. Work. Eat lunch. Be counted. Work. Eat dinner. Be counted. Have a short break. Be counted. Keep working. Go to cells. Shower. Lights out immediately. Nothing to do but sleep.
Work was mainly producing weapons for the war. Most of the time, I was working on an assembly line producing guns. Put Part A onto Part B. I was never a military person, and I was not raised in a gun-heavy area; even after months of working on them I never got acquainted with the parts of guns, other than the "barrel is the long tube part" stuff. Sometimes, we were assigned to manufacture grenades. We were never involved in making machines like planes or tanks or even jeeps; we prisoners were "not loyal enough to be entrusted to build them." At all time, I was on a chain gang, with a single chain attached to my right ankle extending left to right all along the assembly line.
The food was uniformly bad. It got worse as time went on, presumably as more resources were redirected towards the war effort. When I came, we at least we got a piece of meat - a cold hot dog, a half-frozen bolonga sandwich, a disgusting piece of chicken or fish - along with a biscuit, a bit of salad, and some water. Later on, the meat was served every other day, with the gaps filled in by the salad. Even later, both the meat and salad disappeared from our rations. At least we were still given biscuits - until they changed it to "hardtack," crackers so hard that needs it to rot and be infested by insects for it to soften and become edible.
Break time each day, after dinner, was only thirty minutes. The options then were fairly limited. The recreation room itself was fairly bare. There was a single bookshelf, but it was mostly empty; the few books that were on it were all Browderist propaganda. There was only one television set in the corner as well; it cannot be tuned to any outside channels, so the only things we could watch was Browderist propaganda as well. There was a ping-pong table, but all the ping-pong ball were either cracked or dented. There was only one paddle as well. So there was really nothing for us to do, not even talk with each other, at least not above a whisper; the guards who patrolled the recreation room were strict about that. So all there was for us to do was think about our lives for thirty minutes, think about when this living nightmare would end.
Of course, that doesn't mean that we couldn't talk at all. I was able to talk with my cellmates - Trisha Singh and Serena Jacobs - in the short time between getting back to our cells and lights out. For eight months they were my best friends - my only friends, really. Both athletic and clever, they helped protect me from the worst of what event this "low-level detention facility" could provide. For one, none of us ended up as victims of prison rape, even though it was commonplace even in the womens' section. We also managed not to get the ire of the guards, who could be quite fickle. Sometimes, we share stories of our past experiences, though never our crimes - none of us knew why we got arrested in the first place. Always, we provided love and family for each other.
From my window I could see the road where new inmates were bused in - buses full of men, women, elderly, children, a few rich, but mostly poor. Sometimes, they came to our facility. Usually, they were disproportionately minority - black, Hispanic, East and South Asian, Native American. Despite what Browder said about the new American society, racism still prevailed, and racial profiling was one of its manifestations. Most egregiously were the times when a single busload of a single persecuted ethnic group was brought in. Usually they were Japanese, arrested by cops and vigilantes alike for them being suspected of "spying." Though I did once see a busload of German-Americans, probably Nazi sympathizers.
Whoever came down the road to our detention center to the lucky ones. Those who continued on the roads...were not. I often hear horror stories from Trisha and Serena about the condition of inmates in the harsher camps. Stories of those being forced to sleep in porous tents and to work by smashing rocks, in both sweltering heat, freezing blizzards, and drenching rain. Stories about inmates being forced to eat grass, lizards, rats and insects in order to live. Stories about those near-death who were punched daily by guards: if they fell and remained there, they were shot, and if they got back up, they were sent back to work. Stories about people being humiliated, particularly homosexuals and the mentally ill, being humiliated by wearing nothing but pink underwear. Stories about medical experiments being done on innocent children, more to satisfy the "doctors'" morbid curiosities than for actual science.
One particular day while milling around in the rec room, a guard told us that we could have access to the outdoor recreation yard. It was a small, fifteen-by-fifteen plot of weed-strewn asphalt surrounded by thirteen-foot-high walls, complete with guard towers. For some reason, that guard segregated us by race: all the white prisoners were to remain at the center, and the minorities were distributed along the sides of the walls.
After several minutes of standing around the yard doing nothing, fistfight began among several inmates. A black prisoner walked up to a white prisoner and started assaulting her. From there, more people started to join the fight, shouting racial insults in the process.
As suddenly as it began, it stopped. One of the guards in the watchtower shot at the fistfighters, with no warning shot. Two were shot dead immediately. A third was critically wounded; he died in the prison hospital.
I could barely sleep the next week. I told my cellmates about the incident, how the guard could simply fatally shoot people with no warning. They explained that there's a "kill quota," where if guards meet it they could retire on a government-sponsored pension. Ostensibly, it was to prevent prison escapes, but guards learned a long time ago to take advantage of it. Such things in the world, I thought as their words replayed in my head as I slept.
A few days later, the homicidal guard was found dead, dropped off the side of a wall fifteen feet onto the asphalt below. An investigation commenced. Very quickly, it sentenced fifteen people to solitary confinement. One of them was me. As with my original arrest, they never told me why. Perhaps it was because I was present at the fistfight and the ensuing shooting? Perhaps I was connected with the fighters in some way unknown to me? It didn't matter; there's no appeals process anyways. For the next two months, I would be isolated from the rest of the prison, away from my cellmates, away from any contact with humanity.
My cell for those two months was windowless and unpainted. In one corner there was a toilet and sink, both covered with grime, bacteria, and uncleaned urine. On the other side was a rusted exercise set, which was covered in dust and cobwebs. By the securely-bolted door there was a small hatch where they provided me with food. On the other side was a bed - more precisely, it was a piece of metal that hung from the wall via chains, with neither a blanket nor a pillow.
Interestingly enough the food was better. At least the bread they served to me twice daily was soft enough to eat to not necessitate maggots in it. It was uncomfortably bland, though. At least even the biscuits and to a lesser extent the hardtack had a bit of texture to it. This bread, on the other hand, barely seemed like bread; it seemed more like tofu. The fact that I had to eat it for two straight months did not help at all.
Obviously I did not see the sun for two months. Ditto for human faces. I didn't even see mine's - the sink had no mirror. A part of me didn't want me to anyways - I probably looked terrible, with my long black hair all frayed and gray and my face pale and full of wrinkles. Still, not seeing a human face of any sort in two months - I admit that I probably forgot what a face even looked like during those two months.
Without anybody to talk two, I only had myself. I dreamed more, both at night and at day. It was in those dreams where I had my only interactions with people. Sometimes, I was with my parents, who had been dead so long that I can barely recall their personalities. Sometimes I was with my colleagues from high school or college, sometimes my coworkers. Sometimes I was with my cellmates. All those people helped delayed my slippage to insanity by at least a week.
With no sense of time, no way to determine night nor day, time passed quickly, at least with regards to the past. The days grew shorter and longer at the same time; they went past me in some sort of fast-forwards. All those days with myself alone in the cell simply piled upon the past like a pile of crumpled paper and compressed into mere seconds. Yet to compensate, the present, the "now" was stretched out into some sort of unimaginable loop, where I was forced to reside forever. And in that loop, I slowly yet surely lost my grip on reality. Everything blurred and became gray.
Thus it only seemed like only an hour or so had passed since the start of my solitary confinement when a guard announced that I was free.
"I am?" I said. I realized that this was the first time I talked in two months. I was surprised from hearing the sound of voices again. Both that female guard and my own voice seemed like the songs of angles.
"Yes. The war is over. Earl Browder has been overthrown by the people, and rebels have sacked the capital of Browderville. The new provisional government has issued a directive freeing all political prisoners immediately after it took power. We are obliged to free you, one of those political prisoners, now."
I was still dumbfounded. "Open the door, then."
The guard opened. Seeing another human being in the flesh...it floored me. For some reason I grabbed the guard in a great bear hug. Taking a deep breath of the now-fresh air of the prison, I found that she smelled like rosewater. I liked it.
My Time in the Appalachia, by Kathleen Silverstone (1944)
I still can't believe that I'm released. I can't believe that it has been an entire year already. Time tends to pass by when you're in jail, particularly in solitary confinement.
It was a rainy July night when a bunch of policemen pulled me over. I thought that I was going to get a speeding ticket, which was weird, since I was driving ten below the speed limit, due to the rain. Instead, when I stopped, the cops - or so I thought; I couldn't decide if they were regular municipal policemen or SESTAP agents - demanded that I open my door. Confused, I obliged, not knowing their intentions. Almost immediately they dragged me out into the rain. I fell back-first into a puddle, and the cops, instead of picking me back up, grabbed both my arms and handcuffed me in the front. They then demanded me to walk into their car. I refused, more out of laziness than out of defiance. One of them pulled out a gun; that made me do it. I slid onto their back seat, feeling disgusted from all the wetness, and the cops slammed their door on me.
I was confused, scared, and alone; I couldn't believe that such things were happening to me. I had heard of such stuff happening to people around the country, but I always thought that that happened to other people. It was not to be my concern. Now it was, and I was unprepared. All I could do was look outside, away from my car and my neighborhood and into a forbidding unknown.
It seemed like the car drove on for the entire night. When we finally stopped at a SESTAP station; it was clearly one. Surrounded on all sides by forest, it was surrounded by eight feet high barbed wire, probably electrified. The building itself was huge; it looked like a bunch of concrete boxes stacked on top of each other in an asymmetrical pattern. Cop cars like this one were parked along with military jeeps and trucks whichever which way, at odd angles to each other.
Inside was hardly better. They sent me to a small room with yellow walls, with nothing else but a wooden stool. I sat there for what seemed like an hour, then a young SESTAP agent walked in to interrogate me.
"Name," he said.
"Kathleen Silverstone," I said.
"Address." I told my address.
"Date of Birth." I told my date of birth.
"Nationality," he said.
"American," I replied.
"No, you aren't." He continued nonchalantly. "Nationality."
"American."
"No, you aren't an American! You're a Jew! You're a [expletive] Russian capitalist Jew!"
Before I could come to terms with how he framed my ancestry, he walked up to me and bludgeoned me with his baton in the jaw. I fell off my seat. My teeth sunk an inch into my lower lip; I could feel the warm, iron taste of blood seeping from the wounds. I tried not to cry, but I shed a single tear. Then another one, then I was tearing up. The world was cloudy with my tears, the officer fuzzy, as I tried to get up on the stool again.
"Nationality," he said as he saw that I got on the stool again.
"American."
"Nope!" He hit me with the baton again, this time in my ribs. I felt something crack. Pain shot up from the site of impact up my arms and legs and torso; I was withering in what seemed like fire. The world became invisible to me. I didn't notice when another SESTAP officer came in and recalled the one who hit me.
* * *
They said that a "trial" for my "crimes" would be held at a future date; exactly what date was chosen, they never told me. In the meantime, I was told that I could "make myself productive" by doing "labor, for the good of the Country and the good of the Revolution." I would be staying at the Wilmington Detention Facility, in order to not present a "danger to public safety" before I could be declared innocent.
Each day there was the same. Wake up. Be counted. Eat breakfast. Brush teeth. Work. Eat lunch. Be counted. Work. Eat dinner. Be counted. Have a short break. Be counted. Keep working. Go to cells. Shower. Lights out immediately. Nothing to do but sleep.
Work was mainly producing weapons for the war. Most of the time, I was working on an assembly line producing guns. Put Part A onto Part B. I was never a military person, and I was not raised in a gun-heavy area; even after months of working on them I never got acquainted with the parts of guns, other than the "barrel is the long tube part" stuff. Sometimes, we were assigned to manufacture grenades. We were never involved in making machines like planes or tanks or even jeeps; we prisoners were "not loyal enough to be entrusted to build them." At all time, I was on a chain gang, with a single chain attached to my right ankle extending left to right all along the assembly line.
The food was uniformly bad. It got worse as time went on, presumably as more resources were redirected towards the war effort. When I came, we at least we got a piece of meat - a cold hot dog, a half-frozen bolonga sandwich, a disgusting piece of chicken or fish - along with a biscuit, a bit of salad, and some water. Later on, the meat was served every other day, with the gaps filled in by the salad. Even later, both the meat and salad disappeared from our rations. At least we were still given biscuits - until they changed it to "hardtack," crackers so hard that needs it to rot and be infested by insects for it to soften and become edible.
Break time each day, after dinner, was only thirty minutes. The options then were fairly limited. The recreation room itself was fairly bare. There was a single bookshelf, but it was mostly empty; the few books that were on it were all Browderist propaganda. There was only one television set in the corner as well; it cannot be tuned to any outside channels, so the only things we could watch was Browderist propaganda as well. There was a ping-pong table, but all the ping-pong ball were either cracked or dented. There was only one paddle as well. So there was really nothing for us to do, not even talk with each other, at least not above a whisper; the guards who patrolled the recreation room were strict about that. So all there was for us to do was think about our lives for thirty minutes, think about when this living nightmare would end.
Of course, that doesn't mean that we couldn't talk at all. I was able to talk with my cellmates - Trisha Singh and Serena Jacobs - in the short time between getting back to our cells and lights out. For eight months they were my best friends - my only friends, really. Both athletic and clever, they helped protect me from the worst of what event this "low-level detention facility" could provide. For one, none of us ended up as victims of prison rape, even though it was commonplace even in the womens' section. We also managed not to get the ire of the guards, who could be quite fickle. Sometimes, we share stories of our past experiences, though never our crimes - none of us knew why we got arrested in the first place. Always, we provided love and family for each other.
From my window I could see the road where new inmates were bused in - buses full of men, women, elderly, children, a few rich, but mostly poor. Sometimes, they came to our facility. Usually, they were disproportionately minority - black, Hispanic, East and South Asian, Native American. Despite what Browder said about the new American society, racism still prevailed, and racial profiling was one of its manifestations. Most egregiously were the times when a single busload of a single persecuted ethnic group was brought in. Usually they were Japanese, arrested by cops and vigilantes alike for them being suspected of "spying." Though I did once see a busload of German-Americans, probably Nazi sympathizers.
Whoever came down the road to our detention center to the lucky ones. Those who continued on the roads...were not. I often hear horror stories from Trisha and Serena about the condition of inmates in the harsher camps. Stories of those being forced to sleep in porous tents and to work by smashing rocks, in both sweltering heat, freezing blizzards, and drenching rain. Stories about inmates being forced to eat grass, lizards, rats and insects in order to live. Stories about those near-death who were punched daily by guards: if they fell and remained there, they were shot, and if they got back up, they were sent back to work. Stories about people being humiliated, particularly homosexuals and the mentally ill, being humiliated by wearing nothing but pink underwear. Stories about medical experiments being done on innocent children, more to satisfy the "doctors'" morbid curiosities than for actual science.
* * *
One particular day while milling around in the rec room, a guard told us that we could have access to the outdoor recreation yard. It was a small, fifteen-by-fifteen plot of weed-strewn asphalt surrounded by thirteen-foot-high walls, complete with guard towers. For some reason, that guard segregated us by race: all the white prisoners were to remain at the center, and the minorities were distributed along the sides of the walls.
After several minutes of standing around the yard doing nothing, fistfight began among several inmates. A black prisoner walked up to a white prisoner and started assaulting her. From there, more people started to join the fight, shouting racial insults in the process.
As suddenly as it began, it stopped. One of the guards in the watchtower shot at the fistfighters, with no warning shot. Two were shot dead immediately. A third was critically wounded; he died in the prison hospital.
I could barely sleep the next week. I told my cellmates about the incident, how the guard could simply fatally shoot people with no warning. They explained that there's a "kill quota," where if guards meet it they could retire on a government-sponsored pension. Ostensibly, it was to prevent prison escapes, but guards learned a long time ago to take advantage of it. Such things in the world, I thought as their words replayed in my head as I slept.
A few days later, the homicidal guard was found dead, dropped off the side of a wall fifteen feet onto the asphalt below. An investigation commenced. Very quickly, it sentenced fifteen people to solitary confinement. One of them was me. As with my original arrest, they never told me why. Perhaps it was because I was present at the fistfight and the ensuing shooting? Perhaps I was connected with the fighters in some way unknown to me? It didn't matter; there's no appeals process anyways. For the next two months, I would be isolated from the rest of the prison, away from my cellmates, away from any contact with humanity.
* * *
My cell for those two months was windowless and unpainted. In one corner there was a toilet and sink, both covered with grime, bacteria, and uncleaned urine. On the other side was a rusted exercise set, which was covered in dust and cobwebs. By the securely-bolted door there was a small hatch where they provided me with food. On the other side was a bed - more precisely, it was a piece of metal that hung from the wall via chains, with neither a blanket nor a pillow.
Interestingly enough the food was better. At least the bread they served to me twice daily was soft enough to eat to not necessitate maggots in it. It was uncomfortably bland, though. At least even the biscuits and to a lesser extent the hardtack had a bit of texture to it. This bread, on the other hand, barely seemed like bread; it seemed more like tofu. The fact that I had to eat it for two straight months did not help at all.
Obviously I did not see the sun for two months. Ditto for human faces. I didn't even see mine's - the sink had no mirror. A part of me didn't want me to anyways - I probably looked terrible, with my long black hair all frayed and gray and my face pale and full of wrinkles. Still, not seeing a human face of any sort in two months - I admit that I probably forgot what a face even looked like during those two months.
Without anybody to talk two, I only had myself. I dreamed more, both at night and at day. It was in those dreams where I had my only interactions with people. Sometimes, I was with my parents, who had been dead so long that I can barely recall their personalities. Sometimes I was with my colleagues from high school or college, sometimes my coworkers. Sometimes I was with my cellmates. All those people helped delayed my slippage to insanity by at least a week.
With no sense of time, no way to determine night nor day, time passed quickly, at least with regards to the past. The days grew shorter and longer at the same time; they went past me in some sort of fast-forwards. All those days with myself alone in the cell simply piled upon the past like a pile of crumpled paper and compressed into mere seconds. Yet to compensate, the present, the "now" was stretched out into some sort of unimaginable loop, where I was forced to reside forever. And in that loop, I slowly yet surely lost my grip on reality. Everything blurred and became gray.
Thus it only seemed like only an hour or so had passed since the start of my solitary confinement when a guard announced that I was free.
"I am?" I said. I realized that this was the first time I talked in two months. I was surprised from hearing the sound of voices again. Both that female guard and my own voice seemed like the songs of angles.
"Yes. The war is over. Earl Browder has been overthrown by the people, and rebels have sacked the capital of Browderville. The new provisional government has issued a directive freeing all political prisoners immediately after it took power. We are obliged to free you, one of those political prisoners, now."
I was still dumbfounded. "Open the door, then."
The guard opened. Seeing another human being in the flesh...it floored me. For some reason I grabbed the guard in a great bear hug. Taking a deep breath of the now-fresh air of the prison, I found that she smelled like rosewater. I liked it.
Spoiler :
DKVM
Joker
You know, I don't believe Browder's administration had shown any disdain towards the Jewish or Russians. Did I miss something?
Lord Bigfoot
King
I'm pretty sure that they didn't show disdain towards any Russians considering Stalin was an ally.
VGL
Deity
when the election will be over???
CaterpillarKing
Conqueror of Cacoons
I cannot remember, is the statue of Browder destroyed?
VGL
Deity
I hope so or i'll destroy it with a bomb
CaterpillarKing
Conqueror of Cacoons
If it isn't it will be ceremoniously destroyed. Like the Berlin Wall. I think it is gone though. Someone care to tell me if I am right or wrong?
CaterpillarKing
Conqueror of Cacoons
Okay nevermind. I just read through the whole Foster and Browder administration to study up and I saw the statue was already destroyed.
VGL
Deity
Isn't it 24 hours past the beginning of the election now?
CaterpillarKing
Conqueror of Cacoons
Well where I am it's one in the morning so I assume he's asleep.
