The Oil Fields Are Burning (Part 2)

Brought to you on behalf of the CCF

Kylan wrote:
The high riser, Kemal had posted himself on, was to the far left of the parliament square. Out of the way, out of sight[s],[/s] and out of mind. An ideal sniping location. From the gritty, feces stained ledge Kemal had a clear shot to Sabradan's podium. The podium behind which he would make his final speech. He smiled as he watched the self-made politician rise from his seat and make his way toward the microphone. The gathering crowd roared. They screamed. They chanted his name.

Sabradan was a god.

A god in a pinstripe suit and horn-rimmed glasses.

Speak to us, the people cried. Enlighten us. Throw some mud at the IU again. The underdog now had a powerful inspiration. And suddenly they weren't feeling so small anymore. Ali knew if this man asked these people to go to war with him, they would drop their children, their jobs, their bill payments and rush for a gun. Yes, they would all be slaughtered. Each person in the crowd knew that. But they didn't care. Sabradan could command them by simply turning on charm. Kemal was fascinated.

Mustafa Sabradan held up his hands. Calm down now, children, “I stand here, this afternoon, a humble servant of the free public, of God, of the world. I stand here before you, your servant!”

The mob filled the meetinghouse. There was no room to walk[s], to[/s] or sit, let alone breath. The people merely stood and shouted in outrage. Argued, swore, prayed, threatened. Sabradan was dead! Blood needed to be spilled. Preferably the IU's. It was no secret that the middle eastern superpower had assassinated their leader. It did not take a genius to work out whose gun had blown a hole the size of a golf ball in Sabradan's head. Obviously, they had been feeling threatened. Mustafa commanded too much power. He was unsafe. Potentially dangerous. And the big dogs wanted to play alone by any means necessary.

The man shook his head, “But this isn't his funeral. This isn't a eulogy. I'm not going to waste my time speaking well about the dead. You know, I know, we know something has to be done. Mustafa Sabradan will not go unavenged. By killing our leader, the IU has started a war. A war which won't be ended overnight. They started a fire. One that won't be stamped out easily. What did Sabradan teach us? That we are indomitable. There is no force on earth that can make us submit unwillingly with mere bombs and guns. Our pride will live on.”

Finally, a man in the audience raised his hand, “You want us to bomb the Central Oil Processing plant? But half of the world's oil supply is refined there.”

I think it had enough conflict, but that's just my personal preference.

Good, this, and Clau did the nitpick already.

Sabradan's dialog being in italics makes it really annoying to read, I have to say. I can guess that you did it like that because, in real life, he would be speaking another language so you put it in italics. But really, the italics just hurt my eyes...

I call on you comma Afghanistan.

The children of your sons and young men will praise their names comma as they praise Allahcomma if they fight today for a better future for the countries of the middle east!

Latching his gun case, Ali Kemal stood and headed for the rooftop door, listening to the cries of the people gathered in the parliament square,

“No hope, no hope.”

How could one man be the cause of such emotion. The tears. The sobs.

One that won't be stamped out easily.

It was shameful how disrespectful this young man was.

I'm just saying comma launching a war against the richest country in the world is unwise.

A man stepped forward, flanked on either side by an armed body guard, pushing through the wall of bodies Ali immediately recognized him as the Prime Minister of the UAE.

Sabradan was suddenly a Christ for the Muslims. An atoning sacrifice. What did that make him? The man who had nailed this political Jesus to a cross? Inwardly, Ali shrugged.