------------------------------------------------ [u][b]May 25th: The Siege of Mombasa[/b][/u] ------------------------------------------------ Thomas Jefferson Murungaru stood on the ramparts of Fort Jesus, loving every second counting down toward his eminent victory. Mombasa was on fire. Some of this fire was metaphorical, the fire of combat. Some of it was literal, the effect of wayward shells on the wooden buildings surrounding the old fort. What happened to Mombasa didn't matter to him. What mattered was that it was falling. Finally, after all this time, he was free. Agricola and Li Huan stayed on the other side. Their idea of Communism didn't include the loot and pillage of a captured town, and they look defeated when they realized it was Murungaru's intention to let his men loose for the rest of the day. It was true that Marx didn't theorize about the economics of sacking a city. There was no C-L-M equation where Commodities are Looted and then are turned into Money. Well, not yet anyway. Perhaps he'd add that to the canon of Marxist thought. His own theory of 'Hallelujah, Mombasa has finally fucking fallen!' The screams, the shooting, and sounds of destruction washed over him and past him. He paced the battlements, thinking on what came next. Should he go to Revolution-Town? Put down the rebels that surrounded their capital? Or was his place here, rebuilding what would be the main port of the Swahili nation? There were corpses on the walkway, but he passed them without thinking too much of them. This place smelled like death. He stepped over bloody bodies as if they were logs. "Comrade commander!" he was startled by a voice behind him. Murungaru turned around and saw the smiling face of a blood spattered soldier. "We've captured Trevor, sir." "What a good day!" Murungaru exclaimed, slapping the man on the shoulder, "Take me to him. Let's make it a better day." They passed by shattered buildings as they walked down the twisting roads of Old Town. Tongues of fire licked the bodies of dead whites. Orders were to take their enemies prisoner, but in the excitement of conquest, the conquerors were killing men and using their wives. No reporters were let into the city. Foreign journalists were entertained on the other side of the bay by Agricola, who was trying to keep them busy looking at the trebuchets that won the battle. It was a mile walk until they left the smoke-choked roads of Old Town and entered a section meant for tourism. This place was open, populated by restaurants and hotels where Communist soldiers were eating and drinking like kings at an apocalyptic feast. Soldiers and officers met him crowded in front of the hanging motel. The most recent victims of Trevor's morbid taunting were placed on the ground and covered in blankets. Commander Trevor knelt on the ground, a black eye on his face, his thick shoulders heaving as he stared hatefully at his captors. "You have lost your city, Mister Trevor." Murungaru said. "I killed as many of your red golliwogs as I could." the captive grinned defiantly, staring Murungaru straight in the eye. "Kill me and you can do whatever you want. This is your hellhole now." "I am not a murderer, Mister Trevor." Murungaru said. Communist soldiers gathered around the scene, yelling hatefully at the captive but keeping their distance, interested in seeing what their leader was doing. Murungaru had an audience. "Call yourself what you want." Trevor looked straight ahead, "But kill me." Many of the black soldiers came here fresh from looting. Their pockets were stuffed, and their bodies were draped with jewelry. Some wore expensive hats they had found regardless of the intended gender. Murungaru saw this. He took a lady's brimmed hat from the head of one of his men and held it like a bowl. "You fought well for capitalism, so I will honor you with the ritual of your people." Trevor looked uncertain. Murungaru orbited Trevor holding out one palm forward, motioning his people to back away. They did. He allowed for a pause pregnant with suspense before he spoke. "Highest bidder gets to knock out this man's teeth." he said boldly, holding the hat above his head. Offers came as a sudden roar like in a stock market, made up of stolen paper money and jewelry. Murungaru couldn't keep track. He picked a winner at random. A big bald headed man put a gold locket in the hat and walked up to Trevor. He had one punch, and he used it well, sending the white man's head flying back, teeth and blood spraying onto the men holding him down. More came in. They bought the write to punch, to kick, to cut, to stomp. The hat overflowed with trinkets and paper money. Murungaru watched as Trevor went from defiant, to punch-drunk, to broken, to knocked out. sputtering on the ground. "Fetch water." Murungaru ordered. They went to Tudor Creek to collect it, bringing it back and dumping the brine unceremoniously in their enemy's face. Murungaru squatted in front of his beaten foe. They stared eye to eye, as much as they could considering Trevor's swollen face. "You will survive for a time." "Kill..." Trevor slurred, pulling against the men pinning him down, but his strength wasn't there. Murungaru grabbed a handful of paper money and stuffed it in Trevor's mouth. It soaked up the blood. He pulled a match, struck it, and lit the dry half of the money on fire. Small streams of flame parched Trevor's lips. "Put him up." Murungaru ordered, "We'll take him with us." They dragged him away, the flaming money in his mouth flagging, to the further taunts of the Communists. He had made his decision. Mombasa was somebody else's problem. It was time to leave.