When the Dictator

When at last the dictator’s reign came to an end, the reins slipping from his tiny hands, his strident yell faded to a hoarse unintelligible rasp, the resistance forces breaking through the final of his gun-toting thugs to find him cowering in his bathroom, there was much rejoicing.

The capital, long savaged by a poisoned potent rain from the years of nuclear fallout, the trees stunted from repeated bombings, the once white buildings turned relatable in their scorched soot-facades, filled with celebrators free at last to enter the streets. They marched as they had not marched for twenty long years.

There was much debate over what should be done with the subhuman mass, whether to execute him outright, to electrocute him slowly, or to simply throw him in a windowless cell, there to spend the rest of his days as he had sentenced so many to do before him.

But at last the resistance determined that the dictator would be hung, suspended in a cage where his obstreperous vitriol could no longer harm the populace.

So they lifted him aloft, until he became only a speck, a swinging reminder of what they had suffered.

And at last the resistance went home to their beds, sleeping off the twenty-year-long hangover. And in their darkened and darkening dreams they wondered, silently and only to themselves, whether they might have done anything more.

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