[Issue 2][Story] Ancestry: Part One [UN]

[TriNitroToIuene 4,765]

ANCESTRY : PART ONE

 

 

 

"Norman! Come here! I need a favour!" called his mother from the kitchen.

 

Norman stirred, having been engrossed in the book he was reading. "Yes, mother?" he enquired.

 

"Norman, can you please deliver this parcel to Mrs. Gorshkov? It's pretty urgent, you see."

 

"But, mother...."

 

"No buts, Norman, there's a good boy. Now, deliver this to Mrs. Gorshkov, will you? You know the way. And, for heaven's sake, use the Wasp if you're driving.

 

Norman raised his hands in surrender, knowing he'd have to run the errand if he was going to salvage any peace for the rest of the day. "But the other one? What's wrong with that?" he protested.

 

A dark look crossed his mother's face. "You will use the Wasp," she said threateningly. "NOT the other one, or you know what will happen."

 

Norman sighed. He hated driving the rustbucket, which went by the name of Wasp in his country. Even the rich farmers had Wasps which were actually fast and could zip around the fields in style, not to mention with massive amounts of oversteer, but of course, the peasants, which included his own family, had to get those stripped down scale models with three fourths of their pistons missing, making them even slower than the palace guards' gargantuan Mammoths.

 

Norman grunted. "Fine, then," he muttered, taking the ignition key along with him and made his way from the house, essentially a thatched hut to the garage, essentially another thatched hut.

 

He opened the garage door, hanging on by a single hinge, releasing a cloud of dust from the ceiling.

 

"Curse King Borschev," he thought. Out of the millions he earns, he could spare half a thought to make better living conditions for us and others, but no, he simply has to buy those fancy toilet paper rolls with diamonds embedded in them which he throws down the sewers after twenty seconds of usage! He doesn't give us a rat's fart, does he, the swine? Leaving us to live in pigsties and living in a ridiculously luxurious pigsty of his own.

 

These angry thoughts still in his mind, he kicked the door, and it crumbled to dust.

 

Norman swore. That was a whole month's wages gone. One month of overtime working lay ahead.

 

He resigned himself to his fate, and entered the garage.

 

In one corner, stood the rusty old wasp.... shabby, rusty and covered with cobwebs. And in the other corner, stood the other vehicle, the one he had never used before, shiny, gleaming.... and covered with cobwebs.

 

Norman knelt beside it and brushed away some of the dust gathered under its tracks, and then stretched his arms to wipe away the cobwebs on the top. It was well-built, with an immensely tall stature, so tall that it almost touched the ceiling of the garage. Intricately set with chromium in many areas, it was the most expensive thing he owned, or would ever own.

 

He then proceeded to wipe off some moss gathering at the stern, and that's when he noticed the label. A series of small letters; almost indecipherable, embossed into the tank.

 

Dictator.

 

Norman raised his eyebrows. His mother had told him that the hull was a figure synonymous with royalty. Only kings and monarchs had the right to own it. Borschev probably had five of them in his own garage. The hull did not fit in with his background - complete poverty. But, it just went to show his ancestry. It would probably have been passed down from generation to generation, till the family wealth eroded. It was not his to own. Peasants couldn't be caught dead moving around in this. To Norman, it was just a symbol of the tyranny with which Borschev ruled the land.

 

Why hadn't his mother ever told him that they owned a Dictator?

 

Norman puzzled over this for a few minutes, before he remembered his errand. He drew a tarpaulin over the Dictator and hopped into his wasp, putting the parcel into the glovebox. Then, he proceeded to reverse it out of the place where the door had recently stood, and drove the Wasp down the weathered road at an agonizingly slow pace.

 

***

 

He knocked at the door of Mrs. Gorshkov's house. A stern, bespectacled woman with wispy grey hair answered.

 

"Yes?" she barked at him.

 

"Um... there's a parcel for you."

 

"From whom?"

 

"Mrs. Nikelov," he responded. His mother had always advised him to use that name outside home, So as not to attract unwanted attention, Norman would rationalise. Unwanted attention from whom, he didn't understand. They were just ordinary peasants.

 

"Very well," said Mrs. Gorshkov. "Give me the parcel," and extended her hand on saying so. Norman was on the verge of giving her the parcel when she noticed his weather-beaten Wasp.

 

"Good lord!" she exclaimed and cringed, stepping lithely away from Norman. "You're a peasant! Keep it over there, lad, no, keep it! I'll take it myself," she remarked, her tone visibly harder.

 

Norman obliged. She snatched the parcel from the doorstep and shut the door in his face.

 

Norman ground his teeth. So much for hierarchy. Everyone was disgusted to receive something from his class. If only his life would improve.... people hated him just by the sight of his tank.

 

Forget it, he thought. I'm not going to have a change in my life till that swine Borschev dies, so there's no use thinking about it.

 

He climbed into his Wasp and slotted into first gear.

 

***

 

Typically, the Wasp broke down in the fields.

 

Norman jumped down of the tank and squinted in the glare of the afternoon sun. "Luncheon time" he thought. Mother will be waiting.

 

Cursing his luck, he slid under the tank and got to work.

 

Around half an hour later, he heard voices.

 

He got out, wiping beads of sweat out of his face and headed towards the source of the sound.

 

There were atleast twenty people there, many among them whom Norman knew. He pushed in through the small crowd to hear what was being said.

 

The leader was having a heated argument. "Friends," he said. "Borschev has crossed his limit. The time his past when we remain silent. It's time we took some action."

 

"What has he done now?" asked someone.

 

"What has he done?" the man roared, his eyes bulging. "Firstly he charges a humongous tax of paddy from our fields, taking away a whole month's effort!"

 

"Normal," said an onlooker rolling his eyes.

 

"He claims they are used for the welfare of the kingdom!"

 

"Noormal..."

 

"But I'll tell you what I saw yesterday! What did I see? The guards were carrying the paddy into the palace, and fed it to the king's dogs!" he burst out. "This is what happens to months of hard work! Caninism!"

 

There was a moment of shocked silence. Everyone was flabbergasted on hearing this news. Then, the protests broke out. So much was the noise that the speaker (whose name was Dmitri) had to holler to regain attention.

 

"Yes," he said. "That's what happens to our hard work. Who said that the fruits of hard work are sweet?"

 

Trembling, Norman said, "but what can we do about it?"

 

"Norman," said Dmitri. "This tyrant Borschev has ruined our lives. He doesn't give us decent living conditions and he wastes our taxes. It's an outrage! There's only one thing we can do, and I'll tell it out loud."

 

"What is it?" asked Norman, quivering with anticipation.

 

"This means mutiny."

 

***

 

TNT

 

[dilsharox 2,395]

nice

[stuartb 234]

Nice I'm glad you joined the UN

[Darren4Turbo 4,913]

Nice Story :)

[TriNitroToIuene 4,765]

Thanks guys :)

[alpha_destroyr 158]

Amazing as usual :D

[1stsuperwhitedragon 408]

Nice :D