Krehamn
Registered
- Pronouns
- he
"How stupid do they think we are?"
- Ross Perot, August 30 1992===
Zhunbazaar, Zhunbaz, Kuitentsyol
April 27, 2025
He sat on the rocking chair overlooking Zhunbazaar. He could see the skyline in the distance - the new block of buildings, one that pushed shophouses out of it's way for towering skyscrapers and high-rise business. The new Zhunbazaar. The future Zhunbazaar.
A thick cigar laid in between his lips, absently smoking. His arms rested on the sides, unmoving. He wore a shirt, the front emblazoned with some type of sports team he didn't know; his pants were short and grey, comfortable enough in the cool wind air that was uncommon to the city. It was simply the calm before the storm - an actual storm, as a large black cloud loomed over the bay, almost as a warning for what was to come. A symbol from God that represented the turmoil in his head that had lasted for months, even years.
Khuunlei wasn't the type to be an 'establishment' guy. He's true to his beliefs, his morals standing tall in the face of adversity. It's what propelled him to the leader of the Democratic People's Party - the Conservatives - regarded by many as the symbol of morality and stability. But the Conservatives he joined back then was not the one he stood in now. The spectre of populism creeped up on every party - his included - and he could see it in motion, he felt the subtle ideological shifts with each passing convention and election. It was like the politics of a hundred years had happened in ten.
The wind picked up. The thunder had started to become less faint now. A fog approached the capital, screaming and shouting, almost as a warning to all the citizens there that they should get out of the damn way. Simple and effective.
In 2015, he was the pioneer of Libertarianism, the maverick that bucked party conventions and the trailblazer that spewed fire everytime his lips opened wide. His faction, the dying All-Freedom Caucus, he singlehandedly carried them back to national relevance in an era where interventionist economics further solidified it's domination. He was the face of freedom, after all - his Libertarianism was the same as the storm, that the Government should get out of the way and let them, the people, be free. His mouth was magic, his temper a boon, his determination an unrelenting fire. He engulfed any and every opponent in the leadership race that year - he threw the establishment on it's head. His movement, the aptly named 'Free Conservatives', they broke something in the Marnegie government, as safe seat after safe seat fell in the local elections soon after.
The skyscrapers weren't shining in the storm anymore. The light wasn't strong enough, it couldn't shine through the storm. The sunrays were halted by thick, dark clouds, the ones that went opaque in the face of transparency. The wind was pretty strong now, he could see the smoke of his cigar fading.
He remembered 2017. He remembed cozying up to donors and workers alike, promising them stability in the face of chaos, in the wake of the country's biggest political event since, well, since ever. The collapse of the country's oldest party was never a pleasant thing to see. And Khuunlei saw the power in his movement, the charge of the masses that heaved the country's politics upright, the establishment of a new democracy. The monarchy, the old order, they faltered in the face of consequence. He remembered raving on about their power, their elitism, their 'rights' and their wrongs. The polls did everything to undermine and sabotage him - they predicted a Social Democratic victory, they predicted the Conservatives falling behind the third party - Liberals - and they predicted the death of his style. His style of freedom.
But Freedom never died.
His cigar ran out. He realized he couldn't feel his arms or legs anymore. A light drizzle began to take shape, so he stood up and entered back into the sleek comfort of his living room, messy and chaotic with chairs placed the wrong way and chips next to the fish tank. It wasn't cramped, but it certainly felt like it. So he made space for himself.
Two hundred and sixteen seats was no small accomplishment. He finished just thirty four seats away from a majority, in the year of the 'third parties'. He formed a dominant coalition with the Freedomers - men and women with good intentions - and the Liberals, which were to the left of him but still agreeable on many aspects. As the keys to the House were passed to him by Andrew, he couldn't help but smile gleefully. Why wouldn't he? He was on top of the world.
He could hear the raindrops splatter in increasing frequency as he laid on his sofa and stared at the ceiling. It was blank, a smooth white. It could do with some colour.
By the end of it all, he felt like he was starting all over again. He lost over half the Conservative seats in 2021, he demolished the aspiring careers of about a hundred or so politicians, and he took the blame for it all. The party was actively against him, so he had to stake out the battle lines. His temper was taking the better of him now. He stood unwavering as many Conservatives, from left to right, mounted a challenge, a shot for glory, and they all missed. He would continue on for another few years.
He watched as Aallad and his band of loan-defaulting lunatics reversed all the progress he'd made on the budget deficit in a matter of months. He watched as the national debt spiraled into the depths of bright red, a fitting color considering Keersan's ideology, and he watched as the chaos befell the administration the same as his did. The headlines were dominated by some new incompetency, some new error, some new 'scandal' about some random member, it was a whirlwind of pure and indescribable anarchy. He even took to a nickname for it: The Administration of Bailouts.
And his party rallied around the flag, ready for the Pioneer to rip apart the left once again with fiery words and a dragon's temper. The last thing the DPP wanted to do was show chaos in the face of chaos. Because the truth was simple.
Chaos is not partisan.
But he didn't want the power anymore. He didn't crave it, he didn't fight for it. It was handed to him on a silver platter, ready for him to roam free with his promises of balanced budgets and tax cuts. The fire wasn't in him anymore, his lips only grew more stale, and he knew the truth of it all along. He wasn't the man he once was.
Seniority is a hell of a thing. You watch as the world changes around you, and at first you're unwilling to adapt and change. You want to stick with the tried and tested ways, to stick with the promise of results rather than the risk of hope. You watch as you grow more brittle and sour, as the world leaves you behind to fend for yourself. You repeat the same thing over and over again: "I'm not stupid. I'm not backwards. I'm who you should be asking for advice." But everybody ignores you.
The storm only grew in intensity. His windowpanes were being battered by the power of a million raindrops, the fog outside his house was so thick that he couldn't see much of anything anymore. He was trapped. He didn't know how long it has been since he put down the cigar. His limbs were limp once again.
And Khuunlei thinks that was when he made his decision.