Elephantom
Chicken Broth Paragon
"The 1 percent don't deserve to live no damn life."
- Bernie Sanders
Bernie Sanders ran his eye over the files that had
been unceremoniously dumped on his desk, probably a work of his loathsome assistant. Bernie's face twisted into a cross between a frown and a grimace — the stress that clouded his mind, could barely be tolerated. He took a deep breath, his eyes wavering over the room, scanning it as he began to pontificate about this rising matter. The files that were scattered across his desk, haphazardly stacked and piled, and upon the revelation of each distinct file, the furrows I'm Bernie's brows increased — complaints, complaints and even more grievous complaints. Stabs at his presidency. The office remained as quiet as ever, and the atmosphere even drier, as vague signs of death clung to the thick air. Beads of sweat appeared on his head as he the prediction of U.S.A's downfall and Trump's stupid smirk became evermore clearer.
It would be great folly if he failed eliminate the 1% in time — and as of now, there was no concept of time remaining. Absolutely nobody in the congress had the slightest of clues concerning the whereabouts and identities of this so-called one percent — as if Bernie was living in a delusion.
A damn delusion!
Bernie pounded his fist on the table in anger. Heresy, he thought, it was blasphemous for them to be questioning him. But the seed of doubt had already been planted, and now, he started to suspect his own doings. Was the existence of the one percent even real? His frown grew more tense, as he angrily tossed the files towards a bin situated in the corner of his room, in utter fury. The files swerved, the culprit being the air, as it fell on the floor in a scathing fashion.
He didn't notice it, however, for his mind existed in another dimension. He was just elected last week, on the promise that he would take out the one percent, and now?
The people grew more restless, resembling savage barbarians of the sagas long forgotten. And the president? Tsk tsk, he was finding it more-than-just difficult to quench their thirsts for the fulfilment of his promises. The so-called 'pinkos' were getting lynched in broad daylight, neighbours and families backstabbing their fellow men. The biggest perpetrator? Denzel Washington and Donald Trump, them and their goons. Bernie snickered. No damn goon was going to dethrone him, he was going to make sure of that
"DEFCON 1!" He screamed, but nobody heard him. Not even a sliver of a soul. He ran a fidgety hand through whatever hair he still had, as he started to piece the puzzle together: the reports, they indicated, they rightly indica-
His trance was roughly broke by the cacophony of noises that erupted outside; a large commotion, a fusillade of gunshots running off into the air. What was going on around here? The Armageddon? The Ragnarok prophecy fulfilled at last?
No, there was no time to dwell on mere thoughts. Escape was priority right now, quite a priority. He knew, and he knew it well, that the fourth of July was quite a distance away — this wasn't no firework show, it was a hunt for the president. The demands for orderliness — no doubt, conducted by the secret service — were drowned out by the garbled chanting of the revolutionaries.
"Shit!" Bernie exclaimed as he gathered his belongings together. No time for the memoirs, he was going to have rely primarily on the necessities. He grabbed his wallet and a multi-tool, before peeking out the window, parting the curtain that covered his window slightly. In a single ephemeral moment, a Molotov came crashing through the window, missing him by an inch and landing on his desk. Blazing angels, Bernie thought, what the hell was goin' round here? Bernie froze in his spot, his brain attempting to digest the wide amount of information that were filtering through his eyes. The apocalypse, it was true after all. The one percent, he had to eliminate them. He had to. Powered by pure resolve, Bernie broke out of from shock-induced daze with a resonating scream, as he lurched after the secret button hidden underneath his desk. The fire had consumed it partially, but not the machinations, Bernie hoped. It would work, it just had to.
"Blazing angels!! It worked!" Bernie exclaimed, reeling back in surprise. The rightmost side of the wall, which featured a graffiti of a bald eagle resembling Bernie Sanders in facial terms, flipped over to reveal racks upon racks of munitions and weapons. Bernie remained unfazed about the prospect of handling them, and on the contrary, his eyes only gave off a gleam as a triumphant smirk gradually appeared on his face.
Not having much time to equip himself properly — and as the situation demanded fleeing, not a raid, he had to be as nimble and light as possible — he decided to take the weapon right in front of him, and take out anyone who dared to approach him with a rope. After quickly viewing over the weapons, he soon reached for the…
A. China Lake [damage 6; splash dmg] (+2 Rage)
B. Glock 22 [damage 1; compact] (no influence)
C. M16A1 [damage 2; automatic] (no influence)
D. Body armour and helmet [reduce dmg 3] (+2 health)
E. M27 IAR [damage 3; automatic; recoil/inaccurate](+1 Rage)
F. [Write in] (no influence)
Health: 20 (Some actions require you to lose health. You're also viable to health loss if you're struck or you fall victim to the environs.)
Money: 50 (Money is used for buying items. Society isn't that primitive yet to adopt bartering as it's primary form of exchanging items.)
Inventory: N/A (The list of items you have that isn't a weapon or an armour.)
Emotion: Angered (Cannot gain Smarts; Rage gain 2x) (Emotions can influence gameplay elements and certain choices.)
Armoury/Weaponry: (Armour can prevent/lessen health loss. Weapons can be used to inflict damage upon enemies.)
Bare fists [Damage: 1]
Smarts: 5 (Some crafty actions require it. Can be gained)
Rage: 0 (Some fighting moves require it. Can be gained)
- Bernie Sanders
Bernie Sanders ran his eye over the files that had
been unceremoniously dumped on his desk, probably a work of his loathsome assistant. Bernie's face twisted into a cross between a frown and a grimace — the stress that clouded his mind, could barely be tolerated. He took a deep breath, his eyes wavering over the room, scanning it as he began to pontificate about this rising matter. The files that were scattered across his desk, haphazardly stacked and piled, and upon the revelation of each distinct file, the furrows I'm Bernie's brows increased — complaints, complaints and even more grievous complaints. Stabs at his presidency. The office remained as quiet as ever, and the atmosphere even drier, as vague signs of death clung to the thick air. Beads of sweat appeared on his head as he the prediction of U.S.A's downfall and Trump's stupid smirk became evermore clearer.
It would be great folly if he failed eliminate the 1% in time — and as of now, there was no concept of time remaining. Absolutely nobody in the congress had the slightest of clues concerning the whereabouts and identities of this so-called one percent — as if Bernie was living in a delusion.
A damn delusion!
Bernie pounded his fist on the table in anger. Heresy, he thought, it was blasphemous for them to be questioning him. But the seed of doubt had already been planted, and now, he started to suspect his own doings. Was the existence of the one percent even real? His frown grew more tense, as he angrily tossed the files towards a bin situated in the corner of his room, in utter fury. The files swerved, the culprit being the air, as it fell on the floor in a scathing fashion.
He didn't notice it, however, for his mind existed in another dimension. He was just elected last week, on the promise that he would take out the one percent, and now?
The people grew more restless, resembling savage barbarians of the sagas long forgotten. And the president? Tsk tsk, he was finding it more-than-just difficult to quench their thirsts for the fulfilment of his promises. The so-called 'pinkos' were getting lynched in broad daylight, neighbours and families backstabbing their fellow men. The biggest perpetrator? Denzel Washington and Donald Trump, them and their goons. Bernie snickered. No damn goon was going to dethrone him, he was going to make sure of that
"DEFCON 1!" He screamed, but nobody heard him. Not even a sliver of a soul. He ran a fidgety hand through whatever hair he still had, as he started to piece the puzzle together: the reports, they indicated, they rightly indica-
His trance was roughly broke by the cacophony of noises that erupted outside; a large commotion, a fusillade of gunshots running off into the air. What was going on around here? The Armageddon? The Ragnarok prophecy fulfilled at last?
No, there was no time to dwell on mere thoughts. Escape was priority right now, quite a priority. He knew, and he knew it well, that the fourth of July was quite a distance away — this wasn't no firework show, it was a hunt for the president. The demands for orderliness — no doubt, conducted by the secret service — were drowned out by the garbled chanting of the revolutionaries.
"Shit!" Bernie exclaimed as he gathered his belongings together. No time for the memoirs, he was going to have rely primarily on the necessities. He grabbed his wallet and a multi-tool, before peeking out the window, parting the curtain that covered his window slightly. In a single ephemeral moment, a Molotov came crashing through the window, missing him by an inch and landing on his desk. Blazing angels, Bernie thought, what the hell was goin' round here? Bernie froze in his spot, his brain attempting to digest the wide amount of information that were filtering through his eyes. The apocalypse, it was true after all. The one percent, he had to eliminate them. He had to. Powered by pure resolve, Bernie broke out of from shock-induced daze with a resonating scream, as he lurched after the secret button hidden underneath his desk. The fire had consumed it partially, but not the machinations, Bernie hoped. It would work, it just had to.
"Blazing angels!! It worked!" Bernie exclaimed, reeling back in surprise. The rightmost side of the wall, which featured a graffiti of a bald eagle resembling Bernie Sanders in facial terms, flipped over to reveal racks upon racks of munitions and weapons. Bernie remained unfazed about the prospect of handling them, and on the contrary, his eyes only gave off a gleam as a triumphant smirk gradually appeared on his face.
Not having much time to equip himself properly — and as the situation demanded fleeing, not a raid, he had to be as nimble and light as possible — he decided to take the weapon right in front of him, and take out anyone who dared to approach him with a rope. After quickly viewing over the weapons, he soon reached for the…
A. China Lake [damage 6; splash dmg] (+2 Rage)
B. Glock 22 [damage 1; compact] (no influence)
C. M16A1 [damage 2; automatic] (no influence)
D. Body armour and helmet [reduce dmg 3] (+2 health)
E. M27 IAR [damage 3; automatic; recoil/inaccurate](+1 Rage)
F. [Write in] (no influence)
Health: 20 (Some actions require you to lose health. You're also viable to health loss if you're struck or you fall victim to the environs.)
Money: 50 (Money is used for buying items. Society isn't that primitive yet to adopt bartering as it's primary form of exchanging items.)
Inventory: N/A (The list of items you have that isn't a weapon or an armour.)
Emotion: Angered (Cannot gain Smarts; Rage gain 2x) (Emotions can influence gameplay elements and certain choices.)
Armoury/Weaponry: (Armour can prevent/lessen health loss. Weapons can be used to inflict damage upon enemies.)
Bare fists [Damage: 1]
Smarts: 5 (Some crafty actions require it. Can be gained)
Rage: 0 (Some fighting moves require it. Can be gained)
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