Season 3 chapter 1
The Geopolitics of Bribes
Year: 1451 (A few months after the election)
Location: The Federal Grand Arena, Seistain Capital
It had only been a few months since President Kywon Hadous had officially bought the national election, and he was already running the country exactly as corruptly as he promised.
The Federal Grand Arena was packed to the absolute brim. Thousands of DI citizens were sweating in the afternoon sun, waving flags, and shouting at the massive stage erected in the center of the stadium.
Standing at the podium, sweating heavily through his incredibly expensive suit, was President Hadous. Standing right next to him, looking incredibly nervous and wearing a noticeably cheaper suit, was the President of Mandoria.
Mandoria was a much smaller, significantly poorer nation situated on the eastern front of the Republic of DI, sharing a highly contested border with the state of Migrains.
President Hadous tapped the microphone, trying to quiet the massive, rowdy crowd.
"Citizens of DI!" Hadous boomed, his voice echoing off the concrete stadium walls. "Today, we secure our borders! We secure our future! I am proud to announce that our great Republic has officially signed a sovereign treaty with our eastern neighbor! Starting today, the Republic of DI will be funding exactly ten percent of Mandoria's entire national budget!"
Hadous smiled, waiting for the applause. The internal political logic was sound: Mandoria was a buffer state. If DI didn't fund them, some other hostile foreign alliance would swoop in, trap Mandoria in a massive debt cycle, and build military bases right on the Migrains border. It was a necessary geopolitical expense.
The crowd, however, did not give a single fuck about geopolitics.
For exactly three seconds, there was dead silence in the stadium. Then, a single, furious man in the front row threw his half-eaten hotdog directly at the stage. It splattered against the podium.
"Why the fuck are you funding a fucking poor country?!" the man screamed at the top of his lungs, his voice carrying through the stadium speakers. "This is a fucking poor country! Do not provide our hard-earned bribe money to that fucking poor country! They are idiots! Poors! Don't give them a single credit!"
The rest of the crowd instantly woke up. The mob mentality hit like a shockwave.
"Yeah! Fuck them! Fuck you! Fuck everyone else! Fuck this shit!" the crowd began to roar, aggressively throwing empty cups and trash toward the podium.
President Hadous's smile completely vanished. The President of Mandoria flinched, looking absolutely humiliated as the citizens of DI openly called his entire nation a useless slum to his face.
"Order! Order in the arena!" Hadous panicked, covering the microphone with his hand. He turned to the heavily armored Federal Guards standing lazily at the bottom of the stage steps.
"Hey!" Hadous hissed down at the guards. "Arrest that guy in the front row! The one who threw the hotdog! Arrest him right now to set an example!"
The Captain of the Federal Guards slowly looked up at the President. He sighed, leaning heavily against his rifle.
"Sir, with all due respect, absolutely not," the Captain groaned, wiping sweat from his forehead. "It is literally forty degrees out here. We have been standing in this armor for three hours. I am way too lazy to jump into a hostile crowd just to arrest a guy who is saying exactly what we are all thinking."
Hadous's jaw dropped. "What the fuck are you really talking about, man?! You need to do this thing right fucking now! The President of Mandoria is standing right beside me! Do you know how insulting this is?! It would really, really destroy the relationship between our two countries!"
"Tell him to buy his own hotdogs, then," the guard muttered under his breath.
"I will double your weekly compensation!" Hadous shrieked in a desperate whisper.
The guard captain paused. He looked at his men. They all shrugged. "Fine. Double the bribe, and we'll grab him."
The guards slowly, lazily marched into the front row and grabbed the screaming man by the collar, dragging him toward the exit.
But the crowd did not back down. The moment they saw the guards moving, the citizens of DI completely lost their minds. They didn't just boo. They devolved into absolute, primitive chaos.
"WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!"
A section of the crowd literally started barking like rabid dogs. It spread like a virus. Within seconds, thousands of grown adults were aggressively barking and howling at the stage, stomping their feet on the bleachers in a terrifying, synchronized rhythm.
"Fuck you! [Stomp] Fuck you! [Stomp] Fuck you! [Stomp]" the crowd chanted perfectly in time with the barking. It was surreal, humiliating, and incredibly loud.
"Please arrest everyone who is saying that!" Hadous screamed at the broadcasting tent in absolute panic, waving his arms frantically. "And please mute these things on the TV! Cut the feed!"
The Fart Cylinder Crisis
The live television feed abruptly cut away from the chaotic, barking stadium, switching back to the pristine, quiet studio of the DI National News Network.
The news anchor was staring directly into the camera. He did not look amused. He did not look panicked. He looked absolutely, terrifyingly deadpan, delivering the news with the grave seriousness of a man reporting a nuclear war.
"To protect the fragile diplomatic relationship between DI and Mandoria, our President has muted the speech," the journalist stated smoothly, not blinking once. "This was done as the broadcast conflicts heavily with the nation's thoughts, primarily because the hardworking citizens of DI absolutely do not want to give their hard-earned bribe money to fund a fucking poor country which has nothing to do with them. We understand the frustration."
The journalist shuffled his papers, tapping them against the desk with a sharp clack.
"So, let's go on to the next major news," the journalist continued, his face turning incredibly grim. "As we can clearly see from today's market reports, the cost for FART cylinders has risen by exactly fifty percent. It is a sudden, aggressive shoot-off in pricing. We are all acknowledging this fucking crisis. It is really hard to go on with this level of inflation."
A highly detailed graphic of a pressurized, industrial-grade FART cylinder flashed on the screen behind him.
"Industry experts confirm this spike is because there are only exactly twenty-five FART cylinder producing factories in the entire world," the anchor explained, his voice entirely devoid of emotion but laced with heavy profanity. "And unfortunately, ten of those factories are currently shut down and under severe maintenance. Because of this massive cut to the global supply chain, there is a huge fucking spike in this shit."
The anchor looked deeply into the camera lens, projecting intense, deadpan sympathy.
"Right now, the retail price of a single FART cylinder is approximately 1,050,000 credits," the anchor reported. "It is really, really high. People across the Republic are hoping and praying that the market price will go back to normal soon, so that they can once again afford to buy FART cylinders at a normal cost. Because right now, surviving without one is a fucking nightmare."
The Breaking Point
Location: Kavilson Executive Tower, Antrious Hub
BLAM!
The massive, high-definition television screen mounted on the wall of the executive suite instantly exploded into a shower of sparks, shattered glass, and black smoke.
Kniya Anderson stood in the center of the office, breathing heavily, the barrel of a brand-new, high-powered hunting rifle smoking in his hands. He slowly lowered the gun, staring at the destroyed television with a look of pure, unadulterated exhaustion.
Sitting on the leather couch across the room, wearing a simple short-sleeved shirt and a dragon-themed tie, was Malesh. He calmly brushed a piece of shattered glass off his trousers.
Malesh looked at the smoking crater in the wall, then looked at Kniya.
"Why, Kniya?" Malesh sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Why did you do that? That TV was absolutely new. I just bought it today. The news was absolutely new."
"Yeah, well the rifle is also new," Kniya snapped back, tossing the heavy gun onto his mahogany desk with a loud clatter. "I just bought it today, and I had to destroy this fucking shit before my brain literally melted out of my ears."
Kniya paced across the room, running a hand through his hair, pacing like a caged tiger.
"What the fuck is happening in our country, bro?!" Kniya yelled, gesturing wildly at the smoking television. "Literally fucking shit! Everyone is talking about random things! The President is now funding a fucking poor country, a fucking neighbor to us, just so they don't fall prey to other countries in a debt trap. And our citizens are protesting it by barking like literal dogs on national television!"
Kniya collapsed into his executive chair, rubbing his face with both hands. The sheer stupidity of the world outside their tower was starting to drain his soul.
"And the next news is the FART cylinders!" Kniya groaned, his voice muffled by his hands. "A million credits for a fucking fart cylinder! I am tired of this fucking shit, Malesh. Literally, I am tired of this fucking shit. We own the steel, we own the oil, and we are living in a country run by actual lunatics.",