"And of course," said the man standing on the stage. He carried a glass containing a clear yellowish liquid, "Last but not least, a toast..."
The crowd below watched expectantly, some staring blankly, other disinterested, and most smiling. The man on the stage was decked in a full dark green uniform. Though it was clear that the uniform was worn, it was obvious that it had been worn with pride. Slightly frayed, the buttons were polished, the pocket flaps neatly resting on their mouths, and the medals adorned the chest of the jacket.
At the man's neck laid a large metal cross. A medal, perhaps, tied with a ribbon or some kind of band around the neck. The cross was suspended perfectly at the center, between the jacket's lapels.
It was a Rheinlander. Not the typical Rheinlander that one would expect, nor the typical war hero from Rheinland. Short and thin, the man's face was becoming creased with wrinkles and his scalp covered with a thin layer of reddish brown hair. Not young, but aging, the man stroked the moustache that shared the same color as his hair.
"...A toast," continued the man, lifting up a glass.
The motion of lifting up the glass seemed to almost disturb the man's balance, sending him swooning backwards. A few men in the audience rose suddenly from their chairs, as if the gesture of an attempted rescue would have earned them similar allocades.
But the man on the stage recovered and stood up straight as a ramrod, facing the audience. He peered down at the cross hanging from his neck and adjusted it slightly.
"...A toast, to the Kanzler," said the man, finally.
Several in the audience clapped.
"No," corrected the man, suddenly, "Der Gott-Kanzler."
The man stopped himself, and too a swig of what was in the glass. He suddenly lifted the glass into the air and stared at the chandeleir hanging from the ceiling.
"To the Gott-Kanzler!" he shouted, raising the glass up, "The Greatest arse-kisser in all of Sirius!"
With that, the man empty the glass, and tossed it on to a table right close to the stage.
At first, there was silence.
Then, there was uproar. The audience previously smiling sat dumbly, numbed by the man's words. Those who were previously staring blankly stood up and glared. The disinterested ones suddenly became interested, hurling words, cakes, and forks at the man on the stage.
In the rear of the room, a much younger, more fit, but bald man stood and watched.
"Wolfie," said a female voice nearby, "He must have been drunk, let him alone."
"Wolfie" turned around and face his female companion. "Maybe, but he's known to be a good drunk."
They watched the man flounder about on the stage, dodging the projectiles being hurled at him from several directions. Finally, a few members of the audience rose to their feet and stepped up onto the stage, leading the drunken man off the platform and shielding him with their own bodies.
Quote:[7:42:05 PM][6:51:36 PM] Igor (Smokey): btw terry
[6:51:48 PM] Terrance Cooper: Ye?
[6:52:00 PM] Igor (Smokey): nothin
[6:52:03 PM] Igor (Smokey): just sayin btw
[6:52:05 PM] Terrance Cooper: <_<
Quote:Johnny_Haas: you shot anti criuse speed rockets!!!
Johnny_Haas: but why????
Johnny_Haas: ??
Johnny_Haas: why you shoot criuse speed rockets?
