"THIS IS AN OUTRAGE!"
The sentiment was shared by the Parliament. Shouts of anger rained down from the seats of over half of the Parliament, insults were exchanged like machine gun fire, and calls for the head of Attal on a platter become greater.
Xavier Frenkel, leader of Progress!, supposedly had the floor, but it was clear very little speaking would be done today. The Prime Minister, the treacherous bastard, was supposed to maintain calm, but his attempts to order the Parliament into silence were backfiring profoundly. If Parliament had its way, the PM's head would join Attal's on its platter.
Frenkel tried to make himself heard above the ruckus of the Parliament, but it was clear such an attempt would be impossible. He shook his head at his deputy, sitting at the head of Progress! and then marched out. Progress! MPs trickled out after him, with some staying.
When the announcement had come that afternoon that Attal would not be using Parliament to legally extend his emergency powers, Frenkel had felt the anger swell as though the air pressure within the Parliament building had doubled. The announcement did explain why members of the armed forces had suddenly appeared around the Parliament building last evening, the anger had clearly been anticipated, and procedures put in place. As he marched out of Parliament, he saw a crowd begin to form. Clearly, the news had trickled out, so soon after it had been announced. Already he could see reporters filming and he marched towards one of them.
In the mountains in Kishon's furthest north, Dan Ali, a KLA freedom fighter, spat out his mouthful of water as he saw the headline of the latest edition of the Weekday Sun. The paper, whilst trash he wouldn't wipe his arse with and the man they were quoting almost a fascist, conveyed an important bit of news that the man, despite his seniority in his branch of the KLA, had yet to hear. He had been surprised at the news, but the spit was more for dramatic effect, something he liked to indulge in from time to time.
He handed it to his second, Benjamin, he glanced at it before double-taking. His eyes met with Ali's, and both men almost as one got up. Ali nodded at the woman who had "volunteered" to let them have access to her kitchen, larder, and cupboards before marching towards the one place in the small mountain village they knew had a television, the bar. Ali stepped over a drunk soldier and barked at the bartender to change the channel, before kicking off a bar stool a soldier who was nursing a drink and sobbing over a lost sweetheart.
President Attal leaned back in his chair, and put his boots up on the presidential desk.
"Ibrahim," he said, "talk to me. How did the fuckers in Parliament react? I suppose it is too much to hope they give in? Did they manage to arrest anyone for assault?"
He rattled on for another minute, cutting off his poor aide with every opportunity. He had won, and he knew it. With the backing of the army and the frankly unlimited powers he was entitled to under an emergency, it was merely a formality of what those liberals, communists, and other assorted idiots thought of him. His aide, he hoped, realised this. But poor Ibrahim, so slow on the uptake! All he needed to do was tell Attal that Parliament had submitted. The actual answer didn't matter.
He picked up a grapefruit and admired it: its simple structure and deep colour! It represented politics, Attal mused. It was difficult to enter, but once you penetrated it was just a sweet reward. He ignored his aide's ramblings and allowed his mind to wander. Ibrahim had to go, he realised. The man, whilst a good statistician, was far too bad at reading the room to ever be a good aide, or technically PA. Sometimes men already knew the answer, and so needed simple reassurance. Ibrahim, the poor lad, failed to provide this. He simply had to go.
He congratulated himself once again on thinking to announce this on a Friday. The Shabbat was almost upon them, meaning the protests would have to be put off for a whole day. And it would take at least 24 hours to organise a protest, meaning the earliest they'd be able to start would be a Monday, when their numbers would be capped due to it being the start of the working week. He poured himself another glass of brandy and tossed the grapefruit over his shoulder, his eye instead catching on an apple.
