The must fumes of the cigar floated through the open window, exotic taste swirling in the hot, closed room. The sun beta down outside the house, bathing the city in a striking heat. The man took another puff of the cigar, staring in interest at the newspaper. A week old, it had been brought in by an agent from Florida. The headline screamed with big, bolded letters that demanded attention from any reader.
POLITICAL UNREST IN HAVANA- CITY TAKEN
The man smiled, sitting the Cohiba cigar onto the golden ashtray, the man folded the newspaper up into a small package, laying it also on the desk. He stood up, rich green uniform scratching a slight bit as it rubbed togethor. The man scratced easily at the black stubble on his face before walking slight over to the other side of the room, newspaper tucked under his arm.
He paused in front of another man, flanked on both sides, that shook with each breath. The older man (the one without the paper), wore rags that had been imposed upon him, clothes that had been torn and ripped solely for his benefit. Despite the shaking of his body, the man stared definently into the cigar-smoker's eyes. "The people will not accept you." He whispered quietly, mouth rasped.
The other man, much younger being only in his early thirties, laughed from his stomach. He took the newspaper from under his arm and unfolded it once more. He arranged it in front of him, catching the article he was searching for before pressing it into the man's face. He spoke, a rich voiced hinted by a french accent. "My ami!", He chuckled, "You must have missed all of today's papers! It seems that the region is in an uproar of your little actions." The man laughed again. " But, of course, I should have remembered that you were....indisposed last night. Would you like me to read the article to you, Vasquez?" He asked, a dripping smirk plastered on his face.
The man didn't answer, eyes fallen onto the floor.
The other man paid him little head, proceeding to read with his accented voice the article that had been plastered in every paper in the region.
"March 15th, 1936." He paused, checking the calender that was on his desk. "Word has been trickling in all day from fleeing exiles, masses swarming the seas in an attempt to exscape what many have already called 'a disator in the making.' Nevertheless, the word these people carry is not only horrifying, but dangerous to the stabilty of the entire region.
For you see, Cuba is up in arms over recent actions undertake by the army. General deHavane, the leading commande of the Cuban forces, has appearntly not only seized control of the capital, but most of the country in a series of brutal, swift moves. It has been reported that deHavane first moved on March 2nd, seizing control of the meeting government. Only two days later, Havana was fully under his control. And by the twelvth, most of the pitiful resistence in Cuba has fallen to peices.
Widespread reports of mass executions of the politicans of the old-government in universal in the reports. Some claim that only the highest level members of the government were executed, while others say just about everyone deHavane can get his hands on is in trouble. Without a doubt, Cuba looks to be disgrading fast into a soldifying dictatorship.
-Julio Manachez"
The man finished reading the jarbled report. It never helped when they translated everything to english, his snarled for the second, and his advisors had to go through the trouble of getting it ready for him. The man, Mattheui deHavane, easily spoken Spanish and French, yet he despised the english tongue as nearly as much as the common man. Shaking his mind, the general turned back to the President.
"You had to know it was coming, didn't you Vasquez? I mean, it was only time before you reaped you just rewards." the man sighed, turning to the guards flanking the president. "Take him out. Do what you must, but make sure he suffers like the rest." Vasquez said nothing, merely allowing himself to be led out by the two Cuban guards.
deHavana sighed and ran his hand through his ebard another time, making his way back over to his lush desk. The name "Alejandro Vasquez" oddly stared up from the name plate, an oddity the man was willing to allow. With a low breath, the man whispered another sentance before picking up his cigar once more.
"For the good of Cuba" He whispered.
An echo of gunshots rang out in the capital of Havana.
