The Start of Something Special

The Start Of Something Special

A plain street came into view of the man, coated in the rains of the season. It was a plain street, but his street nonetheless. Rows of small houses and older apartments filled the other streets of the village, its old charm but a distant memory. The few houses of such charm left were awkwardly integrated into the new infrastructure. 40 years ago, the population boomed. Women from all over the country would raise patriots to oppose the decadence; they said that this would benefit. And they weren't wrong.

By acceptance, a nation fell. His nation. As soon as outside ideals flooded in, the youngsters looked at it and squealed with joy at this beauty. When you think about it it's not difficult to realize why; insulting a nation's greatness doesn't work unless it's aimed at the common people. The gates of Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty were infinitely more beautiful than any old monument to Lenin. The Sydney Opera House beat any new developments in Moscow, even the Bolshoi Theater had trouble standing up to it.

Alas, he looked back one more time. What a mistake it had been to go through with such ideology. Why did he think that cooperation would work, between two mortal enemies and power blocs? Did he not read Romeo and Juliet? Wasn't loving the enemy a horrible strategy? "*sigh. Yes, it was…" the man finally said to himself, plopping down on the curb. With his support, maybe the revival would've worked.

No, he wasn't the Supreme Soviet, he then thought to himself again. He had no power at all. Being mayor of a strange village doesn't mean all power to him. With renewed determination, he got up. But he could not take another step, as the pop of a silenced pistol rang out, and the deadly piece of metal soared through the air. Just as he realized how dead he was, he could think no more. The crack of a skull was the last thing he heard before his untimely death.