Thomas Grimshaw

Zhanna took control of the microphone nonchalantly. "We appreciate the compliments paid to us, but would like to make known that it was our duty, and that even though the head of the snake has been dismembered, we must still strike the finishing blow the body. There are remnants of the fascist supporters, those either brainwashed, or who profited from the suffering of their brothers. Those who are on trial currently, have all been convicted due to the insurmountable evidence against them, and will be sentenced justly. At this juncture, we are still wrestling control of certain peripherals, enacted under the previous junta. Again, we appreciate the interest expressed in amicable relations, and would like to inquire if our presence would be a welcome force at the Asian/Pacific unity conference that is currently being held." - Zhanna Nadezhda, Diarch of USET

The microphone was not transmitting on their behalf, so Zhanna covered her mouth and spoke into Thomas' ear, "Want me to take this one?" He nodded, allowing Zhanna to promptly flip on the microphone. "The well wishes are dully noted and appreciated. While USET is currently neutral in all international affairs, we are not isolationist, and mutually look forward to further discussion with our geographic neighbors." - Zhanna Nadezhda, Diarch of USET. ----- As soon as they'd replied to one well-wisher, another addressee popped up on one of the free screens. Thomas decided to take the opportunity to show a united front, pulling the microphone a bit closer to his own seat. "We appreciate the well wishes, and if Her Reverence would wish to partake in a private discussion via other channels, that can be arranged post-haste." - Thomas Grimshaw, Diarch of USET.

OOC: So uh, I've been working on this for a while. If I messed anything up, feel free to correct me. IC: ***Highly Classified*** The day began like any other, at dawn. The day began with Mattin Francisco Martzel sitting in a lawn chair in his vineyard; puffing at the same brand of Cuban he’d smoked all his life, aged, with a light, ripe cherry flavor. He leaned backwards and let his muscles relax; let his wrinkled skin match the curves of his diamond white suit. The wind whistled a beautiful symphony of in and out of his ears; just before a rustle disturbed his moment of infinite tranquility. He closed his eyes and listened to the ersatz movement of the vines, he counted. One…Three…Five…Seven…Seven. He chuckled, and let his free hand slip down to the right pocket of his pants, still puffing on his cigar with his left. And then in an instant, he felt the cold steel of silenced pistol pressed against his neck. He slowly removed his right hand from his pocket and removed his golden-rimmed sunglasses from his eyelids and set them in his lap. Even with the sun shining over his face, he could see distinctly, five figures standing in front of him, rifles at the ready. It was at the precise moment he registered that visual, that another sensation hit him. Another cold barrel, this time, pressed against the back of his head. “Well, it seems I’ve lost that game,” Mattin’s voice, as deep and rich as the cigar he indulged himself in, broke the silence. “You counted?” Another voice spoke, from behind him. It was lighter, and was lacking in the thick Spanish accent Mattin had acquired. In a way, it was mild enough that it became something of its own, almost carefree, the tone however, stern, violent, it changed all that. Again, Mattin spoke, “Indeed, and I was correct, seven. Not fair you know.” He grimaced. “What’s that?” A new voice, soft, light, feminine, blurted out. “The game’s rigged. Thomas here knows I carry a sixer. Even if I’d gotten a one-hundred percentile kill rate with my side-arm, I’d still have to get to whichever one of you was last, and bludgeon you to death. Do you call those fair odds, Thomas? DO YOU CALL THAT FAIR?!” As Mattin bellowed, birds took their leave from perches on walls surrounding the vineyard. Thomas removed his handgun from Mattin’s head, and holstered it on his right hip. The woman moved away from him and holstered her own pistol. He circled around to face Mattin, and held up his right hand in a fist, the men behind him flipped on the safeties of their rifles, and balanced the stocks on the ground. “You want to talk about fair, old man?” Thomas spat through gritted teeth. Mattin’s hand shot for his revolver, and in a flash of lightning, Thomas caught him in the throat with his right hand, and slammed his own left palm in his chest, guiding him to the ground, along with his seat. “Is committing chemical genocide against an entire people whom can’t defend themselves fair? Is torturing innocent laborers to death for your own amusement or paranoia fair? Are your labor camps which kill, maim, and exploit honest, principled, men women and children for your own gain, FAIR?!” With his final words, Thomas slammed the back of Mattin’s head against the ground. A thud echoed off the walls as dust flew up from the soil, staining Mattin’s suit a sickly, almost bloody, rust color. Mattin did not flinch, nor groan, nor shout in pain. He ignored all those primal instincts and focused on the one most important to him, pride. He pressed his face as closely to Thomas’ as he could, and retorted. “I call that power.” Thomas chuckled and pulled Mattin up by the scruff of his collar. “And that, is why you shall die.” - A few minutes flew by, everything was prepared. Mattin had been disarmed, and was sat in his chair, in front of him, diagonally to his left and right, two cameras on tripods recorded his last moments. Thomas and his feminine companion stood in the middle, between the two cameras, whilst the three in the group not operating the cameras stood behind Mattin, rifles at the ready. “Zhanna, do the honors?” Thomas muttered. “Gladly,” Zhanna signaled to the men operating the cameras to roll. “Mattin Francisco Martzel, you have been charged and convicted of war profiteering, abuse of power, innumerous accounts of murder, torture, one count of genocide, multiple counts of crimes against the state of Micronesia, crimes against the Iconoclastic Party and numerous other financially related crimes. Your military junta has been toppled; a regime change is taking place as we speak. You are hereby sentenced to live execution by firing squad. Do you have a final statement?” “Yeah. I’ve got a final statement. TO THE PEOPLE OF MICRONESIA, YOU JUST WATCH, YOUR SAVIORS NOW, WILL BE YOUR TYRANTS TOMMOROW!” “May you burn in hell,” Zhanna muttered. She signaled with one hand to the men behind Mattin, two stepped aside, and one slung his rifle over his shoulder. He drew from a hip holster a revolver. The man, dressed in forest camouflage fatigues and a jacket, whispered into Mattin’s ear. “My name is Paco Lorenzo Florence, and your men…killed my entire…family. Your men killed them…with this weapon…this…‘Bulldog’,” he showed the revolver to Mattin. “In college, I was a student protester, but more importantly, I studied medicine and anatomy. So, you can believe me when I say, I know exactly how slow you are going to die when I take out a chunk of your frontal lobe.” Paco pressed the barrel of the revolver against the left side of Mattin’s head, ahead of his temple. He inhaled deeply, and pulled the trigger. Mattin fell forward to the ground, his blood watering the Vineyard for the day. Mattin’s leg twitched, so Paco aimed single-handedly and pulled the trigger of the revolver five more times, eviscerating Mattin’s torso. As life left Mattin’s battered body, Paco dropped the weapon and fell to his knees, screaming at the top of his lungs. The operators turned off the cameras. - ***Unclassified*** Eight Hours later in Eire, capital city of the newly founded United Sovereign Entities of Tanelorn (USET). Thomas Oskar Grimshaw sat silently on the double bed of his hotel room. “The Roach’s Abode” it should’ve been called, for it was that type of vermin in particular which favored its distinctly repugnant halls. In front of him stood a camera, behind him sat a television. He looked down at the unmarked tape in his hand and smiled grimly, before setting it in the VCR. He flipped on the camera, which was broadcasting to a satellite, which in turn was overriding every operating television signal in the country. He brushed his hair back, nonchalant as could be, and began his speech. “I understand, you are probably all wondering exactly what is going on at this very moment. I understand that His Reverence intended to give a speech today, another lecture, another canticle for the greatness of His Empire. Unfortunately, His Reverence is dead.” It was at this moment that the tape began to play, and crowds of the proletariat flocked to the televisions in the windows, strangers invited their neighbors in to watch, all was silent in anticipation and reverie. “I apologize for the graphically violent, and emotional, nature of this recording. Please understand it is not for any voyeuristic interests that I illustrate this moment which was perpetrated some hours ago. I show you this as proof of the events that have taken place today, as proof of intention. I understand that some innocents may have been injured in some of the activities The White Horse may have partaken in, without my knowledge. That is to say, guerilla warfare on civilian targets. Consider this tape, recompense, for the injured, the dead, and to those whom it may concern. If this is not enough, seek me out with proof of grievance, and I assure you we can come to some sort of understanding.” Murmurs permeated the crowds across the nation, rumors, claims, fears, a variety of subjects all coming to a head at once. “Now, for those of you who haven’t heard of us,” Zhanna took over, stepping out from behind the camera, sitting down next to Thomas, “we, amongst many many others, are The White Horse. We’ve watched and waited; cleaned dishes and driven buses, worked at protests and bombed faux-campaigning offices. We’ve done what is necessary, some of that, has involved collateral damage. For that, we apologize once more. However, it is time to take our eyes off of the past and focus on the future.” Thomas smiled, “Thank you Zhanna.” Thomas allowed the people across the nation a moment to collect themselves; this was after all, a shock, despite it being a change for the better. “Now, for those of you who paid attention to us before, the college students, the supporters, the night watchmen, we thank you. You may recall we made some promises of what would happen when the regime was toppled. We spoke of equality and civil rights, an end to petty ethnic feuds, scientific, social, and economic progress. We spoke of a right to own weaponry, we spoke of democracy, hell, we spoke on just about every topic we could that would make you like us.” More murmurs entered and exited the crowd. “Please understand, we were not lying, but at the moment we spoke, we were in desperate need of support, and…embellishment, was one way to get it. We spoke of democracy, and when demarcation is accomplished, the most efficient and righteous parts of democracy will come.” Again, there was silence. “However, it is an unfortunate truth that change does not come easily. There are stragglers, amongst our friends and enemies, members of our dear Mattin’s military, his finger men. Beware; they are not our only enemies however. There are those amongst us, who believe change must be forced and rapid…and they are fools. First, we must have security, and then, only then, can we have our precious liberties. When we have them, rest assured, they will be guarded above all else, but until that moment, I am inexorable in my belief that what we need first and foremost is security.” “Therefore, I and my fellow Diarch,” he gestured to Zhanna, “are instituting a state of emergency. Members of The White Horse will be acting a curfew of 6:00 PM every night until a state of tranquility and safety has been attained. Those in the slave labor camps will be allowed to return to their homes, or work with much improved treatment and conditions, for a fair pay and essentials, funded by our dear former leader’s liquidated assets.” A cheer resounded throughout the nation, and Thomas smiled, as if he could hear it himself. “Members of The White Horse may be identified by their uniforms, which color should be obvious. They will be equipped with firearms to deal with spies, Pro-Fascists, and violent resistors. They will also have the navy blue patch of a dragon, representing our newly formed armed forces, in the shoulder of their uniforms.” “Another thing to mention, is that whilst they may be enforcing curfew and acting as a controlling force for the civilian populace, there are in fact, contingents of our organization that will be uniformed, but will be only lightly armed and will be aiding in advising appointed civilian advisors, passing out supplies, and helping to meet the basic necessities of you, our populace, the most important part of this country.” “One final note of importance, until security is established, we are effectively a military Diarch, and must unfortunately be ruled by rule of man, instead of rule of law. I understand that this may seem like a bleak and unchanging future, but I assure you, it is only a temporary state. Thousands of years of now, when our great nation is looking back on its past, it will see that this moment, this, was the turning point, the pinnacle, the moment in which we cast off our chains, and embraced our freedom!” The crowds yelled and jumped, danced with jocularly and full of glee. For a single instant, the whole nation was captured in the frenzy of freedom, so happy to be free from an oppressive dictatorship, that the fine-print it came with no longer mattered to them. “So, with this all said and done, I, Thomas Grimshaw, and my comrade, Zhanna Nadezhda, bid you adieu and good afternoon.” - ***Classified*** As Thomas turned off the camera and the television, a pounding began at the door. “Traitor! You spoke lies! You spoke of freedom! You only want another form of slavery, for your own POWER!” It was Paco; Thomas assumed the other four were not far behind. He gestured for Zhanna to open the door. She drew a Glock from a rear waist holster and lined up against the wall. Thomas removed the Remington 12 gauge shotgun from underneath the covers of the bed, the two barrels had been cut short, it also lacked a stock, and was held via pistol grip. “Paco! I’m going to open the door! I want you to relax, we don’t need to fight each other, we’ve won!” At that instant, Paco kicked in the door, slamming Zhanna into the wall, knocking her to the floor. Paco fired his revolver at Thomas twice, missing both times, before Thomas dove behind the bed, aiming under it, and squeezed the trigger of his shotgun, the buckshot ripping through Paco’s ankles, crippling him. Thomas approached Paco and removed the revolver from his grip. He slid the shotgun over to a recovering Zhanna, and helped raise Paco to sit on the bed. He pressed the gun into Paco’s hand, and then helped him aim the barrel at his forehead. “For the cause.” He muttered, stopping Paco’s attempts to resist, and finally, helping him pull the trigger. - ***Classified*** Three weeks later For the most part, the initial phases of armed conflict in the major cities of USET had ceased. A state of emergency was still in effect, and the Diarchy was in control of all hospitals, prisons, police and military faculties. Civilian economic functions were, with the gratitude of the owners, under temporary control of the government. Members of the former government, including that of the civilian plutocracy, were standing trial for their crimes against their fellow man. All assets from the plutocracy were being either liquidated or acquired for public or government usage. The entire country had for all intents and purposes, ceased to exist in the minds of the international community, as all modes of transport in and out, as well as borders and all information outlets, had been shut down to help establish internal equilibrium. Surprisingly enough, the move was met with support by the population, the Diarchy had developed something of a dual cult of personality, to the men and women of the country, they were figures of human dynamos. Thomas sat in top suite of “The Tower”, a monolithic obelisk, once the head of the corporation that had brought Martzel to his position of prominence, was now one of the largest, and most well taken care of, tenements in the country. The upper quadrant of the building was although not “reserved”, it was generally accepted that it was the housing of the government and esteemed veterans of the struggle. Ironically, the top suite was the least furnished and decorated, Thomas was something of a man of simplicity, he only inhabited the suite because of the view. He could see the entire city in three-hundred-sixty degrees. The best part was that on command the glass could imitate an onyx black color, allowing for absolute privacy. Thomas sat, once again on a bed, staring out the window, at the steel and glass city beneath him. Zhanna approached and set her hand on his shoulder. “Our allies have been informed, they will support our claim.” “The Empress, what’s her name….Suzimya?” “Suzumiya.” “Right, my apologies, I don’t mean to have you be my secretary.” “No harm done.” Zhanna smiled. “The other, Takeo, he’s with us as well?” “Right behind us.” “Good news, good news.” “Time to go public then, when a country goes dark for three weeks people are bound to get suspicious. We’re lucky they haven’t sent in “Peacekeeping” forces, by now.” Zhanna let out a small wry chuckle. “Let’s go.” Thomas muttered. - ***Unclassified*** Thomas stood in front of the podium, a large crowd gathered in front of him cheering. He wore a black robe and gloves, combat boots, and wore a single medal on his chest, an iron bullet. Zhanna stood next to him, wearing a matching outfit. Cameras filmed them both, broadcast to satellites which were in turn, transmitting the footage to any “open” television channels on satellite packages, the event was also being broadcast live, on official government website. Thomas raised a gloved hand and instantly, the crowd fell silent. “For a while now, we’ve been beguiled to the nations of the world. We have been silent…brooding, some might say. We have been silent, because silence is the best attitude in reflection, and reflect we have, my brothers and sisters. We have reflected on our purpose, on our people, and most importantly, we have reflected on our principles.” As Thomas fell silent, Zhanna took up the mantel, “What did we fight for, my countrymen? Did we fight to be enslaved by a military junta? Did we fight to be complacent? Did we fight to be slaves as we were before, but to be happy with it?!” She shouted, commanding the crowd. A resounding “NO” was the answer. “Well then countrymen. What did we fight for? Democracy? Honor? Freedom? Equity? I say to you, we fought for all of these things, and more!” Thomas began again as Zhanna stepped back. “These rights are goals to be cherished and achieved, when a proper equilibrium is established. Have no fear my friends, we do not intend to abuse our power. It is simply that we understand that a nation is like a living being, like you or me. If any of us were to down a bottle of aspirin in an hour, despite its beneficial effects, we would most certainly perish. However, if a headache was to occur, and I took one or two, the headache would disappear.” Zhanna took Thomas’ place once more. “We hold these rights in the highest reverence. But you must trust us fellows, when we say; it will take time to achieve these goals. A regime may be toppled, a despot may be dead, but we must change an entire society, a culture, a myopia of systems of organization. It will take time, but it will be accomplished. So, for now, beloved comrades, we must say good-bye, with the hope that any fears of a new face of fascism replacing the old one have been assuaged. Our final message is to the nations of the world. We broadcast our frequencies, in hopes of starting a dialogue with our brothers internationally. To them, and to the great citizens of Tanelorn, you honor us with your presence comrades, and so we wish you, good night, and good luck. - With the speechifying over, Zhanna and Thomas sat in their main office. Three flat screen monitors sat on an arched wall, in front of two leather chairs. The channels were open, their frequencies had been broadcast internationally, with a small bit of code required to enter. It was enough to keep degenerates out, but simple enough that any basically trained government computer tech could work their way through. The two sat, seemingly aloof, waiting to see if they would be indulged by their local or, intercontinental brothers.

Watch out Kevin, with the current CN economy, you might just find Keefer Sutherland holding you hostage with a sniper rifle. Also, I approve of this treaty, liquo', hoes, and nose-candy. Also Also, I call dibs on the first Joe Stupid sodomy action.

Ragnarok, who do they think they are naming themselves after Norse tales anyway?! All they are is a bunch of drunken, tom-foolery loving, pseudo-intellectuals, who think it's cool to make a vague insinuation about their origins and theme and act all hardcore. Man I want to roll those guys.

Well, if we're going to be using the proper acronyms, I'd like to contribute to a previous statement and venture a guess of "National Sycophantic Ortolans"?

Unfortunately, Archer is a poor substitute for JorJor. We'll see how this turns out, till then, o/ The Corp. o/ RoK Semper Recolitus Thomas Grimshaw

Ah RV, still typing essays on things you "don't care about" eh? Good on you lad.

RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 NpO - 7 RoK- 10 RoK - 10 FARK - 10 RoK - 10 NPO - Minus - 3,000,000,000 RoK- 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 VE - 9 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK- 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK- 10 RoK - 10 RoK -10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 Vanguard - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 RoK - 10 Valhalla - 5 RoK - 10 RoK - 10