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Outskirts of Mexico City, Mexico Creeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaak...creeeaaak. Creeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaak...creeeaaak. Back...and forth. Back...and forth. The rocking of the porch chair was almost like a heartbeat, in a way: a constant pulse that could keep an aged mind going on, if only for so long. And the mind occupying the chair at that moment was one that desperately needed rest. President Romano Felipe Mondragon breathed calmly as the seat moved back...and forth. Back...and forth. He was tired of it all. He was tired of the political lifestyle; tired of the incompetent legislators; tired of the spineless peers of his party; and, most of all, tired of the damn comunistas. Back...and forth. Back...and forth. The Institucionals had been losing their support. He had known this from the moment he had entered politics in his younger years; the people of Mexico could no longer see that powerful spark of passion that had driven the party in the first years it dominated the government. It had begun to falter, wilt in its own bureaucratic inefficiency. Back then, he had believed, though a few party members were beginning to see the cracks in the Partido's federal dominion. But even he had come to realize the faults rupturing throughout their government, if only at a time too late to do anything about it. As incompetence arrived with the newer members of his party, so too came political stagnation and a large decline in popular support. It seemed that the only thing that saved them from a complete loss of power was the lack of any other political party to oppose them; the Partido Revolucionario Institucional was simply a giant that could not be toppled. Until the Nuevo Partido Comunista de Mexico had grown just as huge. Back...and forth. Back...and forth. Those China-loving diablos had grown overnight, it seemed. The merger of several leftist organizations and minor parties had resulted in the birth of an enemy that could actually face down the Institucionals. And for the record, they did manage to present their ideals and arguments well enough to the people that they actually liked them. They actually liked them! The very thought that a nation of the new world would be so open to leftist ideology...it both baffled and enraged the President. With all of the damn comunistas surrounding him, he might as well be in Vietnam! Or hell, maybe even Siberia! It disgusted him. And yet, the tide of the peoples' hearts turned in the favour of his enemies. He and his party had to act fast if they were to keep their power. Back...and forth. Yet his most loyal generals were aging, and the most cunning and capable were in turn sympathetic to the cause of the Nuevo Comunistas. This meant a crackdown or an assassination was impossible, lest he wish to have the most dangerous dogs in the pack turn against their masters. And it was then that his peers suggested a compromise. A compromise! To actually work with the leftist pigs would be a betrayal of their party, he had argued. Yet they, in turn, pointed out that the party did not have much time left, and that they had to buy as much time as possible; a compromise was the only way to assure the continued survival of the Institucionals' dominion. And he had agreed. Back.... But even now, his peers showed their true idiocy; they were willing to give in to the demands of the comunistas, but couldn't even agree on what legislation would best suit them, let alone actually pass said legislation. It had to be "just right": not too helpful to the leftist cause, not too damning to the Institucional way-of-life. In the end, they barely made any changes; the only big change that they could make a claim to was after a night of heated debate, in which the exhausted morning afterwards gave way to an application to join the China-led Third International. That had been a controversial move between the party members, let alone the entire country. Yet still, the Nuevo Comunistas were pleased, and so was their ever-growing base of support. ...and forth. Still, it had not been enough. His party had been too slow, too inefficient; now they had faced the most recent elections, a vast battle that pitted the tried-and-true Institucionals against the rising Nuevo Comunistas. The votes were cast, and the results came in. Back.... The Institucionals had lost. But they didn't just lose some; they lost all. Only three of the one-hundred and twenty-eight seats of the Senate remained in their hands, and only five out of five-hundred of his peers in the Chamber of Deputies could say the same about their position. ...and forth. And just whom had taken the title of Presidency? Back.... It was the head of the Nuevo Comunistas himself, Hernando Estevez. ...he stopped rocking. Leaning forward to put his head in his hands, Mondragon took a deep breath. Using his thumbs to massage his temples, he tried to stop thinking of that diablo, that monstruo that had taken HIS office. Such a disgrace! Such a shame! To think that he had failed to stop a comunista from taking office--much less a comunista from that damned party! The news had come a few weeks ago--and now, it was now approaching the time of inauguration. The President, after learning of the triumph of the Nuevo Comunista did not wish to be around his office anymore; he'd had enough of the damn place, especially now after this great defeat of his. And besides, there really wasn't much to do as the President of Mexico, anyways. Maybe he would enjoy his retirement out here, near the deserts of Central America; maybe, just maybe, the life he'd held before would not encroach on the life he would lead soon afterwards. Yet evidently, that peaceful time in retirement would have to wait, for the sound of a car's engine in the distance served to both aggravate him and his headache. He groaned, and looked up to see a far-off black car, racing towards his house amongst the desert. It was a government car, of course; he was unable to read the license plate, but could recognize the paint scheme and the model anywhere. He had grown so sick of those blasted vehicles; they were never comfortable, and almost always broke down when you needed them the most. Go figure for a country like this. Eventually, the car came to a slow halt as it reached the house. Bursting out from the side of the car was his assistant back at the office, Manuel Choras. Short and fat was the man; but looming and quick was he in debate. Honestly, if it weren't for his appearance, he would be the President right now, not Mondragon. "Romano! Romano, you must return at once!" demanded Choras, the thin mustache lining his upper lip twitching in anxiety. "I told you, Señor Choras, I am not to be disturbed out here! I will have nothing to do with a government that failed to the comunistas!" snapped Mondragon. On any other day, he would have taken the time to listen to his assistant. Choras was, after all, not a politician one could simply ignore, if not for the grotesque appearance on the surface. "You do not understand, Romano! A dire crisis is approaching our nation--" began the assistant. "As I have heard several times in the past ten or so years," the President cut him off. "I am already aware that the damn comunistas are going to be in power. That is a crisis I cannot prevent anymore than I already have." "You will allow me to finish!" Choras barked. A typical move by the man; it seemed even in the last days of his job, Choras would not stop being his own impatient self. Mondragon opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. The exhaustion, defeat, and humiliation of the past month had been too much to handle--and his silence now was all he had to show for it. Choras then continued, "As I said: a crisis is on the way, Romano. Disaster shall strike our country after the inauguration, I promise you this! Word has spread of the Nuevo Comunista plans for their first month in office. Romano, I tell you this in great horror, as any of us Institucionals should speak of it: Estevez and his cronies are plotting something terrible." "And what, pray tell, would that be?" said Mondragon. A beat, and then: "Romano, they are going to write a new constitution!" Another beat--this time, considerably longer. For the first time since the election results were told to him, Mondragon's face was an almost blank mix of shock and surprise. Had he heard that right? A new constitution? "I know you do not believe me," began Choras once again, as if he could sense the disbelief in his President's mind. "In preparation for that, I have brought you a copy--yes, a copy!--of their first draft of the blasphemous thing." The assistant then fumbled around in his pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper--one that had been crumpled up and torn in what was likely a fit of frustration--and handed it to the tired President. Mondragon gazed upon it. Choras was actually serious about this! And so were the damn comunistas! But that was not the end of it. A quick scan of the contents revealed the nature of this new constitution: if passed, it would cement the power of the Nuevo Comunistas as a part of the government itself! The creation of an apparent "vanguard party"...not only that, but elections would change drastically. Parties would be permitted, but none would be allowed to endorse a candidate with money or political ability; instead, candidates for offices would have to run on their own merits. Even the government-integrated Nuevo Partido Comunista would not be permitted to provide aid in elections. There was more still: an entire conversion of the economic backbone for Mexico would occur. The country would shift rapidly from a market economy to a system of centralized planning! He really was in Siberia, after all! "Evidently, they wished to let the people see for themselves the plans of their leaders, let the people decide on what was best for the new constitution, let the people hold open debates and a nation-wide vote on any changes," Choras rambled. Each time he said the word "people", it was as if he had to vomit. Another reason why Mondragon was the President, and not him. In any case, this was all too big a matter for Mondragon to handle right now. He had come out here to find peace, yet here came his political life, bringing more and more stress upon him. He just couldn't handle it--not now, not ever. He took a deep breath, and then spoke: "Choras. I want you to turn around, get back in your car, and leave. Do not come back here. Ever." "But--" protested the fat assistant. "Choras!" Mondragon roared. "For God-knows-how-long, I have run this country in administration after administration. I have overseen disaster after disaster, and have only been faced with one crisis--the rise of the comunistas--that I could not beat. Yet here you stand now, demanding I face another undefeatable danger to our country! Do you not realize that we are done?! Our time has passed, Choras! And there is nothing we can do to fight what is to come!" Choras, surprisingly, was silent. His face had grown extremely red to match the contorted grimace that had etched itself as Mondragon spoke, but no words spilled out. Mondragon knew that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here, and thus continued: "If you truly wish to survive the red tide, then do as I do: flee. Go to your homes, rest, live the rest of your life away from the miserable overbearings of politics. If the constitution fails, it fails; if it creates a revolution, it creates a revolution; but do not try to stop it, for in the twilight of this administration, we can do nothing. So do not even try to convince me otherwise, for I have seen that truth. You would be wise to look at the situation in a similar fashion." And with that, he stood up, turned around, and walked back into his home, leaving Choras to grumble to himself in the hot desert sun. Veracruz, Mexico "And you are confident that you should just let them vote on it?" came a voice out of the room of Senator-elects. Estevez, the only non-Senator-electee in the room, did not answer. It was not that he was incapable of answering a question he felt so strongly about; rather, it was instead a silence born from distraction, which in turn was born from the lovely sight of the beachfront outside on an afternoon. "Estevez!" came the same voice. He closed his eyes, sighed, and turned to face the source of that voice. It was Adriano Felipez, one of the many other Nuevo Comunistas elected to the government. He was a man in his mid-sixties that had long been campaigning for leftist activity in a nation dominated by a rotting carcass of a political party. Many would suggest showing respect to an old man like him; but considering the lack of success Felipez had achieved on his own, Estevez knew better. "Yes, I am sure of my decision," he replied calmly. "But how do you know we should have even told them of our plans in the first place? For God's sake, the Institucionals could be using our ideas to plot against us right as we speak!" the old man rambled. "Felipez, do you trust in the people?" Estevez asked, turning once more back to the window facing the golden shores and the open bay. "Of course I do!" retorted Felipez, in a somewhat offended tone. "But I will never trust the Institucionals!" "You are right not to do so," agreed Estevez. "Yet you overestimate them. They are a dying breed, and they have been dying since the day their first administration ended. They do not control the military, or at least the smart part of it that know's how to actually wage a battle; they do not control themselves, for they have been reduced to a bunch of babbling idiots who couldn't agree on the colour of the sky if money was involved." He turned back to the Senator-elect. "They are finished. They are of no concern to us." "And what of those supporting us that may find this move, erm, extreme?" said Carlos Diamentas, a Senator-elect from the Pacific coast. "Do you not remember their reaction to the country's alignment with the Third International?" "Ah, but remember," countered the President-elect, "it was not our party that made such a decision, though it is certainly something we might have pursued in due time. No, it was the Institucionals that committed that action; we have made it very clear that it was an action that the people had no say in when it happened. And now, we present something just as big and life-changing as a new constitution, but in this instance there are two major differences: "First, we have presented them a say in the development of the constitution. It is up to them if any changes should be made--or hell, if it gets passed at all!--and that is something that they were not presented in the days of the Institucionals. And, concerning the old party, the second difference is that this new constitution provides an escape from that long-standing group of bureaucrats. The denial of private endorsement in elections will instead create an opening for all manner of Mexicans--yes, even the simplest of rural farmers--to become a part of a great Vanguardia Partido." He smiled at the thought. He had worked a long time for that idea to become a reality; and soon, on the day after his inauguration, it would be in the hands of the people. "I promise you, it is a difference in life the people have long sought after. If we are ever to live up to the idea that there should be a vanguard party at all, then it is up to us to show them the way to a leftist future." He turned once again to the window, and gazed out at the crowds of people surrounding the beach's shores, where the line between land and sea was eternally shifting thanks to tidal forces. Once again, he became lost in the majesty of the body of water beyond his homeland, shutting out any more complaints from the Senator-elects behind him. In truth, he knew that there would be some opposition to the new constitution. Though they held a large amount of support across the country, they did not hold all of it. Yet he was not convinced that there would be any major uprisings; after all, only about 10 of the Institucionals remained in their positions out of hundreds. Such a dramatic decrease in support meant that there would not be anything to worry about. Erm...well...that was not entirely true. Though Estevez trusted in the people, he did not hold the rest of the world in the same regard. There were many imperialist countries still out there that might seek to crush such a popular movement in the West, with Spain no doubt at the forefront--at least, as soon as they finished their conquest of Ethiopia. Such a vile thing it was, the Spanish-Ethiopian War; as soon as he had the opportunity, he would make certain that Mexico would contribute to the defense of Ethiopia in some fashion...so long as his comrades felt the same way. Alongside those, there were many others that would seek to put their own interests, positive or negative, in the place of Mexico's, namely China and the rest of the ComIntern. In time, he feared the alliance within the Third International may place Mexico in an...unfavourable position beneath the rest of the Third International member states. Still, these were things that would require constant vigilance--something he hoped he would have during his term. Another thing to note would be the upcoming inaugural address that he was set to deliver. It would be through there that he would ultimately speak about the topics of the new constitution and the government and economy that said constitution would implement. It would be through there that he would ultimately sway the vote in favour of acceptance of the constitution. And it would be through there that he would ultimately achieve victory for the Mexican people. Alas, he could only hope.

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