Paris, Multiculturalism, and Terrorism. Which will survive in France?  Updated 1/13/2015

This chamber was once thought to be a bastion of truth and justice, as he and many others had been raised to believe. The men and women that held authority and power within the capital of the nation had brought many people into such chambers as this one in order to persecute, or rather ‘question’ those that had continued to say what they wanted after the Leftist organization had taken over only a year into the current presidency. Free speech had become as rare as the freedom to bear arms, or to do anything that Americans had taken for granted for so long. Freedom had never been truly free, but these days freedom came with a heavier charge than ever, unless one swore their loyalty to the Left, and pushed the ideas they stood for.

He’d never been one to fall in line, even when things had been a little more balanced, and the Left had come after him in their not so subtle manner, all while claiming that his ideas, which were primarily fiction, were dangerous to the American people. He’d been able to laugh, and still would, to think that fiction would ever be able to scare people badly enough to affect change within the world. That, to him, spoke of a type of mental and emotional weakness that led to seriously flawed thinking. But when push had come to shove, he’d decided that he would not be pushed, and he would not be shoved, but he would gladly lower himself just enough so that the Left could trip over him in an attempt to get their way. So for the past year and a half, he’d been working hard to make his own words a visible as possible, while working to do his part to make certain that those who truly valued freedom would be allowed to do so for as long as possible.

A gavel banged several times as the murmuring within the chamber, which he’d been ignoring, slowly came to a halt. Casting his gaze upon the leader of this farce, a withered old woman that voters kept allowing back into the system despite her poor track record and her less than capable manner when dealing with people, he couldn’t help but shake his head.

“Is something the matter sir?” she asked him, her gaze, which she might have thought as piercing, appearing soft as pudding to him as he had to contain himself in that moment.

“There are many things that are the matter,” he said calmly, “But I doubt you want to hear all of them.”

“Strike that from record,” the woman said, “Let it be known that we are not here to listen to the witness’s opinion, only the facts.”

“When you’re pushing the narrative it’s easy to ignore opinions,” he said, “But you won’t silence them. Good luck trying.”

“I have not yielded my time sir,” the woman snapped, “I have not yielded my time and you will be silent until I have yielded it to you! The lady does not yield her time to the witness and I reclaim my time!”

“Your time is running out,” he stated with a smile, remaining calm as he did. It turned out, that was the wrong thing to say.

(to be continued)

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