In Soviet Ponyssia...

As you walk to work, submachine in hand, you judge the weight of the magazine and figure it's a little more than half full.

"The workers should be just as sick of this as I am." you begin to talk to yourself quietly.

"Ok; first I'm going to shoot the guards, then I need to go after the boss, and organize everyone else. Will anyone help me to begin with? Am I going to have to 'Rally the troops' as it were? So much is unaccounted for and there is no room for a mishap on my part."

It's 4:05 when you arrive at the mill. The workers have already started there shifts and it is completely dead outside. You jog around to the back stairs, that the guards use, and walk up to the door. You take a deep breath and mentally ready yourself. You've got a round in the chamber and the extra mag in your jacket... only one thing left.

You kick the door open, so quickly it slams against the railing before you get your foot down, and raise your weapon to take aim at the three men who had always kept watch. The guards don't have any time to react before you begin sending rounds towards them and almost empty your drum. The rapid, sharp, snaps of your bullets are enough to distract everybody on the floor to look at the spectacle thats going on. *PTATATATATATATA* Can be heard all throughout the factory over the usual scraping sounds of metal on metal.

The guards fall dead, each with multiple bullet wounds to the chest and face, and begin dripping blood through the metal cat walk. Before making your way to owners office, you grab up another PPSh and reload your other one with ammo from the guards.

Now walking to the owners door with a submachine in each hand the thought of his final words pops into your head. He'll probably beg and blame it on someone, what a coward, but you won't even let him get a word out. You can see his shadow through the glass pane in the door.

You kick in his door with guns drawn and see him calmy sitting at his desk with a smirk. There is an awkward silence where you 2 just stare at one another for a couple seconds.

"So... What do plan to accomplish?" he says like he's already won. "Nothing will change. If I die you will be shot, I will be replaced, and your yellow friend..." he is cut off by the barrel on your PPSh being forced in his mouth.

When you jammed it down his yammering maw, you busted out some of his front teeth and he began to gag.

"What was that?"

He continues gagging and spits up a little blood.

"You were going on about 'not accomplishing anything.' Oh! You were finished? Well, allow me to retort." you say with a cocky squeak in your voice.

"I am physically sick of being your working drone. Now what we have here is a shift in power. The balance on the scales of society have just been tipped and you, my friend, are the fulcrum."

You pull the trigger and let loose a short burst into his mouth and out the back of his head, spraying the wall behind him with his blood and skull fragments.

You walk out to a dead quiet factory and a crowd of onlookers staring up at you with blank expressions.

"This uh....day..." you try to start your speech.

"This day marks our rise from peasantry. For too long have we been held down, cheated, and murdered by those who make false promises to protect and serve." This catches their attention and you feel the need to speak up.

"On this day we take back what is ours! The balance of power has shifted and we, and we alone, have control over our lives! We shall rule ourselves and take the power that we were never given! This is our world now and there is no room left in it for those monstrosities who constantly attempt to control us! They shall know the fear they have induced on us all these years and they will cower before our might!"

By this time the entire crowd had transformed into a roaring mob, waving metal rods and sledgehammers in the air. You hop over the railing and land at the head of the mob.

"Thank you for opening my eyes comrade. Now, who shall feel our wrath on this monumentous morning?" says a stalky worker who is also missing one eye.

"The police. We need flammable liquids, glass bottles, rags, and fire." you practically yell at him over the ranting mob.

After he got what you were saying he took off with a group of men to find the materials.

"So, my friend, why are we going after the police?" askes another.

"Because they are the soldiers that do the rich man's bidding. Because they are the only military strength of this town. And because they would be the only ones to try and prevent us from reaching our goal." you say still shouting.

"Good! I see you have thought this through then?"

"Yes! This day has been held off for far to long. We will rise comrade."

After you finish talking with him more men and ponies in the factory walk up pretty much ask the same thing as him. The worker who took off 20 minutes ago came running back in the door with your fire bombs. Each man was holding a crate of nine and there were ten men that walked in.

"We have 90 bombs to destroy our enemies with!" you shout to the crowd. "Go! And show them what we are capable of!"

The mob of revolutionists goes stampeding out the double doors, roaring and willing to destroy anything that stood in their way.

You and your riot run through the city streets, roaring and destroying everything in your path. Your stampede stirs the feral dogs that fend for themselves in the early morning before the filth is dumped in the streets. The numerous hounds run and roar into the night along side you while your mob thunders into the town square. Everyone who sees the 3 story building, that is the armory that houses the police, fall still and silent.

The men who held the bomb crates begin distributing them amongst the mob while another man hands out lighters. Everyone who has a molotov move to the front of the mob and light the rags that hang from the bottles. A man hands you a bottle and a lighter, then motions with an open hand towards the double doors to the armory.

"On this morn we will erase the very memory of those who sought to oppress us." you say to the line of fire wielding men on the front.