Menelaus, the tyrant

“Off with his head,” exclaimed Menelaus.

The executor a potbellied, crimson cheeked, plump looking man nodded his head at the king then offered a brief sympathetic look to the mass of people.

Hastily, he raised the glinting blade of the machine as the soldiers forced the traitor onto the wooden surface of the high rise guillotine.

“Any last words,” asked the executor monotonously.

The traitor nodded his head, a sudden tranquility replaced the fatigue on his face. He cleared his throat and began,

“I would like to thank you for your support,” his eyes darted among the faces into the crowd not long enough for eye contact.

“Now I won’t take names but I think you all know who you all are. I am sorry for your loss but the war is not over, it will continue till either we perish in our purpose or succeed in-“

“That’s enough” boomed Menelaus, anger shadowing his placid features.

But now the traitor was yelling,

“The revolution has not ended, it has just began.”

Soon shouts of “long live the revolution” erupted from the crowd.

Anger boiled out of the king filling his head draining him of his humanity and he ordered his soldiers to fire. The sounds of gunshots and terror filled screams corrupted the air that was thick with fear.

Eventually, the crowd dispersed leaving behind the traitor on the elevated ground with twelve bullet wounds in him, one for each person he left behind. But he was not the only one, dead bodies littered the ground dyed a bright red.

With a smile of satisfaction the king returned to his palace build on the mountain of people he had killed with a wave of his cruel hands.

That night it rained as the mourners wept on the blood soaked ground, as if the sky was mourning the loss of the dead and the winds were howling in anguish.