Here's a story I wrote a few years ago that I recently took the edit-hammer to. I really like writing comedic short stories but I'm horribly biased towards my own sense of humor. Anyways, take a read and tell me what you think; any and all comments and criticism welcome.
The revolutionaries sat in the president’s chamber and listened gleefully to the gunfire and fireworks coming from the balcony. Torredo, the largest of the men, was the first to stand and lazily poured his comrades another round of brandy. His beard was black and thick as fur beneath a little button nose and when he held his drink high between the tips of his fingers it looked more like a thimble than a shot glass. His soldiers called him ‘The Gorilla’ but never to his face and never to each other. He cleared his throat and waited for the words to come to him.
‘To us and our new nation. To the success of the great revolution, our revolution. And to our leader, my brother, the man who will forever be remembered in the minds of the people as rogue, hero, and philosopher king. To Parlos!’
All the rebels save one lifted their glasses.
‘Here, here!’
‘Long live Parlos!’
As they downed their drinks and slammed the glasses on the table, the rebel on the far end of the advisor’s table, the one who drank but did not raise his glass, got up from his chair. He pulled off his black cap and when he did a swath of black hair tumbled down to his shoulders. There were no banners or medals on his chest, but on his right arm was a crimson band that none of the others had. As he stood, the other rebels raised their empty glasses again.
‘Comrades.’
His voice was deep and scarred. It demanded attention and respect and fear.
‘Many of our blood and mind have suffered and died to get us where we are today. But their deaths were not in vain; each one gave the greatest sacrifice for the good of all, for the overthrow of evil, for the head of the Tyrant King Lapas and his iron fisted and oppressive decrees. I have looked upon all of you as brothers, closer than any blood can be. I would give my life to you and I know you would do the same. And I promise, with this seat of power you, the heroes and voice of the many, have so graciously given me, I will not let you down. We will forever triumph. Haberia, now and forever!’
The other men clapped and cheered as Parlos bowed and humbly bathed himself in their praise. As they drank and laughed and drank some more, there came a loud rapping from the far side of the room. Torredo turned to one of the rebels without any stars on his cuffs or collar and motioned for him to get the door. The soldier, a young, pock faced man with a moustache as thin as his eyebrows, held his rifle strap tight against his shoulder and sprinted to the corner of the room. The doors were giant and bronze and the soldier had to lean into them will all his weight for them to move. Torredo watched him mouth a few words to someone just out of view and then quickly nod before turning back to the others.
‘It’s Moya. He says he has something for Parlos.’
Torredo looked over at Parlos, who nodded graciously.
‘Let him in.’
The younger soldier stepped out of the way and in came a very thin, sallow looking man. With the power cut in the firefight there was not much light in the president’s chamber, but even so all the men could see, even from the far side of the room, that his skin was haggard and sickly. He walked quiet as a cat but twice as quick and before anyone knew he was standing in front of Parlos. Parlos looked down at the soldier’s black polished boots.
‘It doesn’t look like you’ve done much fighting, Comrade Moya.’
Moya grinned weakly and looked for the humour in Parlos’ eyes.
‘No, I am not much of a soldier; in any fight I would be far more a burden than a boon. But I contribute in other ways, which is why I have asked for permission to see you.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, as you know, I am an artist at heart. An artist of some renown, if I do say. And while I haven’t killed any men or captured any posts, I can inspire our men and our nation with my pen and brush. And this is exactly what I have done.’
Moya let his nap sack fall off his shoulder and reached deep into its bowels. With a little bit of a flourish he pulled out a large piece of rectangular cloth and held it firmly by the corners before letting it unfurl before him.
When the bottom lip touched the floor, there was an audible sigh among the officers. It was a large flag, a technical masterpiece, with two white figures balanced on either side. Torredo and the others rebels who stood off to the side now shifted about in their chairs to get a better view.
‘That is truly spectacular, Moya.’
Some of the closer rebels reached out to touch it and rubbed the colours through their fingers as if it were satin gown of an old lover. A hearty laugh billowed up from deep inside Torredo.
‘Indeed! You are a coward, Moya, but a beautiful coward. I don’t think anyone here can doubt that this flag truly embodies all of our ideals. It speaks with a strength that mere words cannot. Though we did not know it then, it was for this flag that we fought and died for.’
The sickly soldier blushed, or tried to, and bowed his head while keeping the flag raised at his shoulders.
‘Thank you, comrades. You honour me too much.’
But through it all, Parlos remained silent. He stared intently at the flag with his knuckle resting pensively between his teeth. His eyebrows were low and austere. When Moya lifted his head and saw discern on the great man’s face, a sudden terror overcame him.
‘Is… there something wrong, leader?’
Parlos pointed in a wide circle around the flag and looked over at Torredo.
‘You say this flag embodies all of our ideals as a rebellion, Torredo?’
‘Yes. I think it does that quite well. Why, what do you think?’
Parlos rested his hands on his hips and hummed deep in the back of his throat.
‘I think it looks evil as ****.’
Moya held the flag off to the side and looked it over again while all the other rebels huddled closer, trying desperately to see what they had perhaps over looked the first time.
‘Are you not happy with the skill in which I made-’
‘No. No, your skill is superb, Moya. Masterful.’ Parlos cleared his throat. ‘It’s just that the overall design screams, quite loudly, “evil”…’
‘I don’t understand.’
Parlos walked over to Moya and squatted down in front of the flag, his face nearly touching the fabric.
‘The colours, first of all; the red and black seem quite aggressive and brutal together. They give the impression of death and oppression... to me, at least.’
Moya gestured for one of the other soldier’s to hold the flag while they examined it. The artist then walked quickly to Parlos’ side and held his clammy chin in the web between his thumb and forefinger.
‘Yes, Haemorrhage Red and Satan Black are dark and, together, I can see how one may mistake them for symbols of violence. But that is not the reason they are there. The red represents the heart of our young nation, the loyalty to our people and our land that gave us the courage to rise up and overthrow the tyrant. And the black represents the past, the rules and history the mad tyrant forced upon us that are now blotted out, gone, never to be seen again.’
All of the rebels nodded in accord. But Parlos did not move as his face narrowed in understanding and disagreement.
‘Yes, I can see that, but it still feels unmistakeably evil.’
Torredo rested his giant hand on Parlos’s shoulder.
‘I think you are seeing things, Brother.’
‘I don’t know. What about this.’ He pointed to the white outline of a skeleton stabbing a pregnant woman in the neck with a machete. ‘That seems particularly evil to me.’
‘No, no, no.’ Moya waved his hands at Parlos, pushing away his thoughts. ‘You misinterpret; that is you: Parlos, the Skeleton Warrior. That is your nickname, no?’
‘Yes. It was, many years ago, when my brothers in arms joked that the table scraps Lapas gave us had more meat on their bones than I did. But no one has called me that in years. Even so, why am I stabbing a defenceless woman?’
‘That is no woman, sir.’ Moya pointed to the face of the figure, as if there were some invisible detail that Parlos had not yet seen. ‘That is the Tyrant Lapas in his true form; a cowardly, hag-like creature, who indoctrinates and perverts the coming generations in the toxic prison of his womb. He deserves far less than the quick and painless death which you have so mercifully bestowed upon him.’
Parlos turned around to Torredo and the other officers.
‘Did you guys get all of that before he said it?’
The rebels all looked at each other and nodded very slowly.
‘Beause to me it looks like a demonic skeleton butchering an innocent woman with child. And from an objective point of view that seems a bit evil.’
‘I think it looks just fine,’ said Torredo. He gave a subtle nod to Moya, who bowed his head sheepishly at the acknowledgement.
‘Well, what about this?’ Parlos walked over and pointed towards the figure on the other side; a three headed dog ****** the outline of their island, Haberia.
Moya shrugged.
‘What about it?’
‘It looks kind of evil. Am I the only one seeing this?’
‘Ah! Let me explain, Moya.’ Torredo walked up to the flag and tapped the three headed dog with his finger. ‘This is the new nation. Our new people. Our Army’s symbol is the dog, no? Loyal, fierce, powerful.’
Parlos nodded tentatively.
‘Yes, it is. But why does it have three heads?’
‘To signify the three tenets we swore to uphold; justice, progress, and order.’
Moya nodded zealously in agreement, as did all the other officers in the room. Parlos held his chin in his hand and squinted at the figures once again.
‘Okay... but why is it ****** our island?’
‘****?’ Moya looked at Parlos in disbelief, as if the two had been speaking different languages and neither had noticed until now. ‘Parlos, that is not ****. No, no; it is mating with the island, dutifully ensuring the purity and strength and freedom of the island’s offspring for generations to come.’
The officers mumbled in agreement.
‘It is a consummation of love.’
‘A bond beyond mere dirt and blood.’
‘Definitely consensual.’
‘Without doubt.’
Parlos turned and looked at Torredo and his officers a final time. These were the men who had been burned and scarred and moulded in the crucible with him. These were the men who looked up to him as a Parlos the Incorruptible, Parlos the demi-god, the only leader worthy of their blind faith. These were the men who gave him their rations and died with a smile on their lips as they withered into nothingness on the jungle floor. These were the men who would willingly cut their own throats before they turned on him or lied to him. Parlos grabbed the edges of the flag from his soldier held it up in the moonlight.
‘Do you, truthfully, believe this flag embodies our cause?’
‘I do,’ said Torredo. ‘I believe every stitch sings of Parlos and his justice. And I think anyone who believes in you, who believes in those ideals, will see this and have their heart swell with pride and know that the world, for all its evils, has at last done good.’
Parlos handed the flag back to the nearest soldier and slowly walked to the far end of the room. The rebels watched him in silence as he walked behind the old President’s desk, sat in the bullet riddled chair, and looked up blindly at the ceiling.
‘Do you know what I think, Torredo?’
‘No.’
‘I think we may be evil.’
The worry in Parlos’ voice carried through the rebels like wild fire. The air buzzed with confusion.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that flag. That…’ He pointed back and forth between the skeleton and the rapist, demonic dog, ‘is some pretty ****ed up imagery. And you all seem fairly content that this represents our cause. If that’s the case, I’m getting the impression we may be substantially evil. Look.’
Parlos quickly stood, walked to the open window, and pointed to the centre of the courtyard.
‘That is Lapas’ flag.’
Torredo and the other rebels gathered around him on the balcony and stared at the lone flag pole waving in the night. The moonlight hid most of the colours, but what they could not see now their memories filled in. The flag was light blue, nearly white, and in the centre was a large yellow sun with two doves flying across its face. In each of the dove’s beaks was a single, green olive branch and strewn across the dove’s breasts were the old symbols for peace and freedom.
‘That seems like a good, non-evil flag. No one is being murdered. No one is getting *****.’
‘I assure you it is consensual, sir.’
‘I don’t care, Moya.’
Torredo spit across the courtyard at Lapas’ flag.
‘It is rubbish, sir. It’s an oppressive symbol that makes my bowels shift and bile run up the back of my throat every time I lay eyes upon it.’
‘But the doves, the olive branches in their mouths...’
‘Rats of the air, Parlos. Vermin. Disease and plague carriers stealing our countries natural resources under false promises.’
Parlos looked to the other rebels.
‘Do all of you see this as well?’
They looked at each other and again mumbled in agreement.
Parlos looked over at Moya and then back at Torredo.
‘Oh god, we may be evil...’
‘Nonsense!’ Torredo wrapped Parlos up in his great, grizzly arm and walked his leader back towards the advisor’s table and the brandy and the blood-stained floor. ‘Parlos, you and I have been like brothers since we were children. When your parents were executed before your very eyes for killing the tyrant’s terrible, sycophantic grandchildren, my family took you in as their own. When you were imprisoned for bombing those corrupt hospitals who stole money from the young and wealthy to waste on the sick and old, I visited you every day. When you slit the throat of Lapas’ brother after he broke the sacred laws of parley-‘
‘It was a letter opener, not a dagger.’
‘-I shielded you. I have always been there for you and now, Parlos, brother, you must trust me. This flag of Moya’s… it is our flag. It is our soul. It is our rebellion. It is us. It is Haberia, now and forever.’
Parlos looked across the room at the portrait of Lapas that hung over the president’s desk. There was not much left beside the stains and bullet holes, but underneath the cuts and ash, Parlos saw a corner of the old man’s smile. It was the smile of a grandfather who bounced you on his knee when you stepped on a nail and who smiled with whole orange slices crammed in his mouth at Sunday brunch so you didn’t feel ignored and who snuck you dessert and comics when your parents grounded you and who did not murder pregnant women and **** islands. Parlos ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.
‘I’ll have to think about it.’
‘Go ahead and take your time; it has been a long day and you have done much. Rest, and in the morning you will see with clear eyes the stunning beauty and truth of Moya’s flag.’
Torredo motioned to some of the brandied officers to escort Parlos to the tyrant's old room –no, his room- and let him get some sleep. As they carefully guided their leader through the great bronze doors, Torredo gestured for the flag and Moya handed it to him without question. The giant wrapped the flag tight around his shoulders, walked out onto the balcony, and, with his eyes closed, listened to the rhythm of gunfire and screams.
‘To us and our new nation. To the success of the great revolution, our revolution. And to our leader, my brother, the man who will forever be remembered in the minds of the people as rogue, hero, and philosopher king. To Parlos!’
All the rebels save one lifted their glasses.
‘Here, here!’
‘Long live Parlos!’
As they downed their drinks and slammed the glasses on the table, the rebel on the far end of the advisor’s table, the one who drank but did not raise his glass, got up from his chair. He pulled off his black cap and when he did a swath of black hair tumbled down to his shoulders. There were no banners or medals on his chest, but on his right arm was a crimson band that none of the others had. As he stood, the other rebels raised their empty glasses again.
‘Comrades.’
His voice was deep and scarred. It demanded attention and respect and fear.
‘Many of our blood and mind have suffered and died to get us where we are today. But their deaths were not in vain; each one gave the greatest sacrifice for the good of all, for the overthrow of evil, for the head of the Tyrant King Lapas and his iron fisted and oppressive decrees. I have looked upon all of you as brothers, closer than any blood can be. I would give my life to you and I know you would do the same. And I promise, with this seat of power you, the heroes and voice of the many, have so graciously given me, I will not let you down. We will forever triumph. Haberia, now and forever!’
The other men clapped and cheered as Parlos bowed and humbly bathed himself in their praise. As they drank and laughed and drank some more, there came a loud rapping from the far side of the room. Torredo turned to one of the rebels without any stars on his cuffs or collar and motioned for him to get the door. The soldier, a young, pock faced man with a moustache as thin as his eyebrows, held his rifle strap tight against his shoulder and sprinted to the corner of the room. The doors were giant and bronze and the soldier had to lean into them will all his weight for them to move. Torredo watched him mouth a few words to someone just out of view and then quickly nod before turning back to the others.
‘It’s Moya. He says he has something for Parlos.’
Torredo looked over at Parlos, who nodded graciously.
‘Let him in.’
The younger soldier stepped out of the way and in came a very thin, sallow looking man. With the power cut in the firefight there was not much light in the president’s chamber, but even so all the men could see, even from the far side of the room, that his skin was haggard and sickly. He walked quiet as a cat but twice as quick and before anyone knew he was standing in front of Parlos. Parlos looked down at the soldier’s black polished boots.
‘It doesn’t look like you’ve done much fighting, Comrade Moya.’
Moya grinned weakly and looked for the humour in Parlos’ eyes.
‘No, I am not much of a soldier; in any fight I would be far more a burden than a boon. But I contribute in other ways, which is why I have asked for permission to see you.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, as you know, I am an artist at heart. An artist of some renown, if I do say. And while I haven’t killed any men or captured any posts, I can inspire our men and our nation with my pen and brush. And this is exactly what I have done.’
Moya let his nap sack fall off his shoulder and reached deep into its bowels. With a little bit of a flourish he pulled out a large piece of rectangular cloth and held it firmly by the corners before letting it unfurl before him.
When the bottom lip touched the floor, there was an audible sigh among the officers. It was a large flag, a technical masterpiece, with two white figures balanced on either side. Torredo and the others rebels who stood off to the side now shifted about in their chairs to get a better view.
‘That is truly spectacular, Moya.’
Some of the closer rebels reached out to touch it and rubbed the colours through their fingers as if it were satin gown of an old lover. A hearty laugh billowed up from deep inside Torredo.
‘Indeed! You are a coward, Moya, but a beautiful coward. I don’t think anyone here can doubt that this flag truly embodies all of our ideals. It speaks with a strength that mere words cannot. Though we did not know it then, it was for this flag that we fought and died for.’
The sickly soldier blushed, or tried to, and bowed his head while keeping the flag raised at his shoulders.
‘Thank you, comrades. You honour me too much.’
But through it all, Parlos remained silent. He stared intently at the flag with his knuckle resting pensively between his teeth. His eyebrows were low and austere. When Moya lifted his head and saw discern on the great man’s face, a sudden terror overcame him.
‘Is… there something wrong, leader?’
Parlos pointed in a wide circle around the flag and looked over at Torredo.
‘You say this flag embodies all of our ideals as a rebellion, Torredo?’
‘Yes. I think it does that quite well. Why, what do you think?’
Parlos rested his hands on his hips and hummed deep in the back of his throat.
‘I think it looks evil as ****.’
Moya held the flag off to the side and looked it over again while all the other rebels huddled closer, trying desperately to see what they had perhaps over looked the first time.
‘Are you not happy with the skill in which I made-’
‘No. No, your skill is superb, Moya. Masterful.’ Parlos cleared his throat. ‘It’s just that the overall design screams, quite loudly, “evil”…’
‘I don’t understand.’
Parlos walked over to Moya and squatted down in front of the flag, his face nearly touching the fabric.
‘The colours, first of all; the red and black seem quite aggressive and brutal together. They give the impression of death and oppression... to me, at least.’
Moya gestured for one of the other soldier’s to hold the flag while they examined it. The artist then walked quickly to Parlos’ side and held his clammy chin in the web between his thumb and forefinger.
‘Yes, Haemorrhage Red and Satan Black are dark and, together, I can see how one may mistake them for symbols of violence. But that is not the reason they are there. The red represents the heart of our young nation, the loyalty to our people and our land that gave us the courage to rise up and overthrow the tyrant. And the black represents the past, the rules and history the mad tyrant forced upon us that are now blotted out, gone, never to be seen again.’
All of the rebels nodded in accord. But Parlos did not move as his face narrowed in understanding and disagreement.
‘Yes, I can see that, but it still feels unmistakeably evil.’
Torredo rested his giant hand on Parlos’s shoulder.
‘I think you are seeing things, Brother.’
‘I don’t know. What about this.’ He pointed to the white outline of a skeleton stabbing a pregnant woman in the neck with a machete. ‘That seems particularly evil to me.’
‘No, no, no.’ Moya waved his hands at Parlos, pushing away his thoughts. ‘You misinterpret; that is you: Parlos, the Skeleton Warrior. That is your nickname, no?’
‘Yes. It was, many years ago, when my brothers in arms joked that the table scraps Lapas gave us had more meat on their bones than I did. But no one has called me that in years. Even so, why am I stabbing a defenceless woman?’
‘That is no woman, sir.’ Moya pointed to the face of the figure, as if there were some invisible detail that Parlos had not yet seen. ‘That is the Tyrant Lapas in his true form; a cowardly, hag-like creature, who indoctrinates and perverts the coming generations in the toxic prison of his womb. He deserves far less than the quick and painless death which you have so mercifully bestowed upon him.’
Parlos turned around to Torredo and the other officers.
‘Did you guys get all of that before he said it?’
The rebels all looked at each other and nodded very slowly.
‘Beause to me it looks like a demonic skeleton butchering an innocent woman with child. And from an objective point of view that seems a bit evil.’
‘I think it looks just fine,’ said Torredo. He gave a subtle nod to Moya, who bowed his head sheepishly at the acknowledgement.
‘Well, what about this?’ Parlos walked over and pointed towards the figure on the other side; a three headed dog ****** the outline of their island, Haberia.
Moya shrugged.
‘What about it?’
‘It looks kind of evil. Am I the only one seeing this?’
‘Ah! Let me explain, Moya.’ Torredo walked up to the flag and tapped the three headed dog with his finger. ‘This is the new nation. Our new people. Our Army’s symbol is the dog, no? Loyal, fierce, powerful.’
Parlos nodded tentatively.
‘Yes, it is. But why does it have three heads?’
‘To signify the three tenets we swore to uphold; justice, progress, and order.’
Moya nodded zealously in agreement, as did all the other officers in the room. Parlos held his chin in his hand and squinted at the figures once again.
‘Okay... but why is it ****** our island?’
‘****?’ Moya looked at Parlos in disbelief, as if the two had been speaking different languages and neither had noticed until now. ‘Parlos, that is not ****. No, no; it is mating with the island, dutifully ensuring the purity and strength and freedom of the island’s offspring for generations to come.’
The officers mumbled in agreement.
‘It is a consummation of love.’
‘A bond beyond mere dirt and blood.’
‘Definitely consensual.’
‘Without doubt.’
Parlos turned and looked at Torredo and his officers a final time. These were the men who had been burned and scarred and moulded in the crucible with him. These were the men who looked up to him as a Parlos the Incorruptible, Parlos the demi-god, the only leader worthy of their blind faith. These were the men who gave him their rations and died with a smile on their lips as they withered into nothingness on the jungle floor. These were the men who would willingly cut their own throats before they turned on him or lied to him. Parlos grabbed the edges of the flag from his soldier held it up in the moonlight.
‘Do you, truthfully, believe this flag embodies our cause?’
‘I do,’ said Torredo. ‘I believe every stitch sings of Parlos and his justice. And I think anyone who believes in you, who believes in those ideals, will see this and have their heart swell with pride and know that the world, for all its evils, has at last done good.’
Parlos handed the flag back to the nearest soldier and slowly walked to the far end of the room. The rebels watched him in silence as he walked behind the old President’s desk, sat in the bullet riddled chair, and looked up blindly at the ceiling.
‘Do you know what I think, Torredo?’
‘No.’
‘I think we may be evil.’
The worry in Parlos’ voice carried through the rebels like wild fire. The air buzzed with confusion.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that flag. That…’ He pointed back and forth between the skeleton and the rapist, demonic dog, ‘is some pretty ****ed up imagery. And you all seem fairly content that this represents our cause. If that’s the case, I’m getting the impression we may be substantially evil. Look.’
Parlos quickly stood, walked to the open window, and pointed to the centre of the courtyard.
‘That is Lapas’ flag.’
Torredo and the other rebels gathered around him on the balcony and stared at the lone flag pole waving in the night. The moonlight hid most of the colours, but what they could not see now their memories filled in. The flag was light blue, nearly white, and in the centre was a large yellow sun with two doves flying across its face. In each of the dove’s beaks was a single, green olive branch and strewn across the dove’s breasts were the old symbols for peace and freedom.
‘That seems like a good, non-evil flag. No one is being murdered. No one is getting *****.’
‘I assure you it is consensual, sir.’
‘I don’t care, Moya.’
Torredo spit across the courtyard at Lapas’ flag.
‘It is rubbish, sir. It’s an oppressive symbol that makes my bowels shift and bile run up the back of my throat every time I lay eyes upon it.’
‘But the doves, the olive branches in their mouths...’
‘Rats of the air, Parlos. Vermin. Disease and plague carriers stealing our countries natural resources under false promises.’
Parlos looked to the other rebels.
‘Do all of you see this as well?’
They looked at each other and again mumbled in agreement.
Parlos looked over at Moya and then back at Torredo.
‘Oh god, we may be evil...’
‘Nonsense!’ Torredo wrapped Parlos up in his great, grizzly arm and walked his leader back towards the advisor’s table and the brandy and the blood-stained floor. ‘Parlos, you and I have been like brothers since we were children. When your parents were executed before your very eyes for killing the tyrant’s terrible, sycophantic grandchildren, my family took you in as their own. When you were imprisoned for bombing those corrupt hospitals who stole money from the young and wealthy to waste on the sick and old, I visited you every day. When you slit the throat of Lapas’ brother after he broke the sacred laws of parley-‘
‘It was a letter opener, not a dagger.’
‘-I shielded you. I have always been there for you and now, Parlos, brother, you must trust me. This flag of Moya’s… it is our flag. It is our soul. It is our rebellion. It is us. It is Haberia, now and forever.’
Parlos looked across the room at the portrait of Lapas that hung over the president’s desk. There was not much left beside the stains and bullet holes, but underneath the cuts and ash, Parlos saw a corner of the old man’s smile. It was the smile of a grandfather who bounced you on his knee when you stepped on a nail and who smiled with whole orange slices crammed in his mouth at Sunday brunch so you didn’t feel ignored and who snuck you dessert and comics when your parents grounded you and who did not murder pregnant women and **** islands. Parlos ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.
‘I’ll have to think about it.’
‘Go ahead and take your time; it has been a long day and you have done much. Rest, and in the morning you will see with clear eyes the stunning beauty and truth of Moya’s flag.’
Torredo motioned to some of the brandied officers to escort Parlos to the tyrant's old room –no, his room- and let him get some sleep. As they carefully guided their leader through the great bronze doors, Torredo gestured for the flag and Moya handed it to him without question. The giant wrapped the flag tight around his shoulders, walked out onto the balcony, and, with his eyes closed, listened to the rhythm of gunfire and screams.