That truck as speeding, didn't stop at the red light.
Red. Shit, there's a lot of red here. Is it blood? Am I dying?
No, not blood. A flag? A red flag? Where the fuck am I?
I sit up and feel my forehead. No blood, no pain, no wounds. Huh.
I look around and see a clean city street, no advertising, and some curious onlookers starting to gather around.
A kindly young man approaches me. "Comrade, are you hurt? You seem unwell."
Comrade? Holy shit...
"Let's get you to the hospital" he says, helping me up.
I try to protest, saying that I have no insurance. He looks puzzled, not sure what "insurance" even is. Must be a language barrier.
The hospital is just around the corner. It's a modern glass building with a beautiful garden. The facade is crowned by a red flag with a huge face emblazoned on it.
My sight begins to fade as I'm carted across the terrace.
I see a brilliant steel statue at the center of a fountain. Trotsky holds an ice pickaxe defiantly towards the sky, glinting in the sunlight.
In his other hand, he holds something lower, near to his belt line. It's round and sturdy. A human head. The man has strong features and a full mustache.
I speak out, "Comrade... The head... Tell me it belongs to Nietzsche.... GOD TELL ME IT'S NIETZSCHE"
I wake up, dazed and confused.
That truck as speeding, didn't stop at the red light.
Red. Shit, there's a lot of red here. Is it blood? Am I dying?
No, not blood. A flag? A red flag? Where the fuck am I?
I sit up and feel my forehead. No blood, no pain, no wounds. Huh.
I look around and see a clean city street, no advertising, and some curious onlookers starting to gather around.
A kindly young man approaches me. "Comrade, are you hurt? You seem unwell."
Comrade? Holy shit...
"Let's get you to the hospital" he says, helping me up.
I try to protest, saying that I have no insurance. He looks puzzled, not sure what "insurance" even is. Must be a language barrier.
The hospital is just around the corner. It's a modern glass building with a beautiful garden. The facade is crowned by a red flag with a huge face emblazoned on it.
Trotsky. It's fucking Trotsky.
I die for a second time.
There, fixed it for you
My sight begins to fade as I'm carted across the terrace.
I see a brilliant steel statue at the center of a fountain. Trotsky holds an ice pickaxe defiantly towards the sky, glinting in the sunlight.
In his other hand, he holds something lower, near to his belt line. It's round and sturdy. A human head. The man has strong features and a full mustache.
I speak out, "Comrade... The head... Tell me it belongs to Nietzsche.... GOD TELL ME IT'S NIETZSCHE"
:data-laughing: