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Crimson Dawn on the Volga

Jay

Dokkaebi
GA Member
Oct 3, 2018
3,062
surviving-bangkok-airport-and-how-to-get-downtown-without-being-ripped-off-bangkok-getting-around-getting-there-away-179.jpg

Under the cold fluorescent lights of Bangkok International Airport, the ebb and flow of travelers created a ricocheting sound from the symphony of hurried footsteps and muffled conversations. Amid the throng, two figures emerged, travelers. Marka Sobchak, a man in his mid-thirties with a neatly trimmed beard, held Svetla Abakumova hand as they navigated through the terminal. She was a striking woma as her dark hair cascading over her shoulders.

To the casual observer, they were merely a young couple, excitedly discussing their plans to visit the temples that littered the capital. “Did you remember to pack the files?” Svetla asked, her voice light but her eyes scanning the bustling crowd. The question was innocent enough, it kept Marka on task, reminding him of their cover story while allowing her to gauge the reactions around them.

“Of course,” Marka replied, flashing a reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And the camera. What’s a trip without memories, right?” He said shaking the Camera.

“Right,” Svelta replied, a flicker of amusement dancing in her gaze.

As they approached the immigration checkpoint, He slid his Polish passport across the counter, presenting himself as a simple banking man with a penchant for art. The immigration officer, a weary-looking middle-aged man, glanced at Marka photo and then at the man before him.

“Purpose of your visit?” the officer asked, his voice flat.

“Tourism,” Marka replied, injecting a hint of enthusiasm into his tone. “It’s our first anniversary. We want to see the temples and visit the islands off the coast line of course.”

“We really love the nature here,” Svelta answered, her eyes sparkling with a hint of genuine enthusiasm. “I’m an architect, and I’m excited to see the Mueang Boran. Oh my love show him the great photos your friends took last time.” Marka showed the unamused officer the photos on his phone.

“Enjoy,” the officer echoed, nodding as he stamped the passport, his eyes flicking to Svelta, who stood behind him. She offered a small, disarming smile.
Marka gaze drifted to the people around them. A family with children, a businessman on his phone, a pair of giggling teenagers.

With a nod and a thank you, they moved past the checkpoint, both exhaling simultaneously as they stepped into the main terminal. The vibrant energy of the airport washed over them. Meral leaned closer, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with urgency. “We need to move quickly. The mule is waiting in the drop point.”

The two took their taxi to their accommodations. Paid for with cash by Marka at the reception. When they entered their room, the two would unpack and change their clothes. Svelta kept a watch on the window observing the streets while Marka swept the room.

“Right,” Mark replied, handing her a paper, that is the target” The two got up and headed to a local park for a casual stroll. As they walked through the park the trees rustled gently in the afternoon breeze and the sun filtered through the leaves, a sense of normalcy enveloped the small park. Joggers passed by while families gathered on benches, children laughing and playing in the grass.

Svelta and Marka took a seat by the Bench next to a crooked tree. Svelta would give Marka a light peck on the lips while her hands slipped under the bench’s cracks behind his body. They watched the people who jogged along the path while others rushed to their office.



Meanwhile in Bangkok

The routine sound of the alarm clock woke Afanasiy up from his much-needed sleep. He slithered to side of his bed where he pulled himself from the warm aura which shielded his bed from the pinching cold that engulfed the room. As parts of his body were gradually turning on, he rubbed his eyes, stretching his arms as he slipped his feet into his warm slippers. He leaned over his desk as he stood up, the young Russian stared down his schedule as he ruffled the curls of his hair. He picked up his rounded glasses, slipping them onto his face as he trodded over to the bathroom where he washed his face, brushing his teeth as he stared into his reflection through the mirror. Now awake, he cleaned the surface of his sink as he turned back to his room.

His desk was largely devoid of memorabilia. On the corner stood a frame, in it it could be made out of three mean and two women, most likely the man's family. On his desk was a mess of papers, normal for a student. The winter break seemed so far as it slowly trudged closer as he and his peers prepared for their semesterly exams. It was a weekend today, giving him the chance to explore more of Bangkok has he tried to refresh his mind. Ridden with blocks and knots which impaired his thinking, the young man packed some books into his back pack, along with his laptop.

He slipped into a pair of dark blue shorts and a loose white linen long-shirt as he ruffled his hair and looked around his room, tapping his pockets and making sure he had everything he opened his flat door, making sure to lock it as he went down the stairs. He wondered as he walked down the stairs if he had closed the lights, but, nonetheless he figured his mind was just trying to trick him. Walking down the lobby, he walked towards the mailboxes inside. Searching for his name and flat, he found it. 4B, Afanasiy Burdukovsky he opened it to find just a handful of flyers from the local political office and other news about the revolution in Thailand. Shuffling through them, he put them back inside as there was nothing of importance.

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Fanya walked through the door, merging into the crowds that filled the thinned roads. The sun beat down onto him despite the winter respite that should have normally filled the air. His hands sweaty and eyes irritating from the heat, he walked briskly towards the bus station as he waited for the bus. He waited patiently at the station, observing the people as they came and went. Listening to an Russian songon his earphones, he could hear the murmuring in the background as the sound of the city was congealed from the rumbling of motor engines, the chatting of pedestrians, and whirling wind.

The sun always shined in Bangkok but even as it shined bright over the city, a cold shiver came down over him. Alas, Fanya managed to get onto his bus, the cool interior a refugee. It was times like these where he missed the winter embrace of his homeland, the coarse tundra snow a refugee from the city of marble and stones, the green lush palm trees which shielded the house in lieu of the grey industrial vibes of the city. How he yearned for the chance to return to his homeland. Such was the experience he had hoped gained while abroad. On the bus he opened his bag, pulling out a book, laced in a red and black cover as he opened to the page where he had last left.​

It was a book on the revolution and the social change inside of Thailand. Fanya, during his time as a student here, had become attuned to the global debate on socialism. Indeed, in his home country, he saw the vast economic inequality in society. How could people dine over fancy caviar and dishes made of gold while others went hungry. How could a few decide who leads the many. He didn't consider himself a socialist, just a humanist, and what he saw in Thailand shattered much of his worldview as a young Russian man in Thailand. A nation which had in recent months become a dangerous cancer to the Russian Government and the legacy of Sovietism. Fanya heard his stop, ringing the bus and stepping out to the bustling streets that joined the many people walking through the park.




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Bangkok, the previous night


Winter had settled in Thailand, blanketing the vibrant streets with a cool air that hinted at the simmering unease beneath the surface. Saveliy Chendev and Zinon Kirillovsky strolled through the open air courtyard of their communal home. The cool breeze, the scent of flowers and the chirping of birds add to the delightful ambiance. The walkway is lined with trees, and the garden is adorned with colorful flowers. It's a perfect place to take a peaceful stroll, relax, and enjoy the pleasant weather.
Yet one would not find peace in this garden as the two walked through the trail. in hushed voices, Saveliy wondered if it as truly possible that the ballot could produce change in Moscow. He and Zinon had watched what was happening here in Thailand. Perhaps the bullet was the only answer. Zinon's unease over Saveliy's radicalization whilst in Thailand was not unknown, but, he tried his best to mask his concern. It did not help ease his inner quarrels as Saveliy had gotten in touch with different local politicans apart of the Thai revolution here. It was without a doubt if Saveliy returned to Moscow the FSB would whisk him away if they knew the extent of his contacts with the Thai political class.

One by one a number of civilian officials from the Ministry and other public bureaus were were removed. In a quiet dismantling of various appointees and civil servants, it had seemed like the FSB was investigating pro-Communist officials for alleged ties to Thailand. The moves targeted systematic corruption and power abuses within key state apparatus however it had unnerved many leftists within Russia. The move also put on edge a number of pro-revolutionary factions who feared the Russian state apperatus would crush their movement.

As dusk turned to dawn, Saveliy excused himself from his small group of Russian colleagues who all considered Thailand their home, and returned his apartment. He returned to his private chambers where he felt most secure. Secure from the surveillance and security officers which he became paranoid about giving him a sense of engagement. Inside his office there were stacks of memos and reports that seemed to grow taller by the day.

His mind was particularly preoccupied with the news of President Nemstov returning from Washington. "A Sellout" Saveliy muttered as he saw his idol for change become another capitalist stoodge and upholder of oppression. They were no different from the rest he concluded. The ballot box would not save him or the Russian people. Like the serfs before them, only revolution would emancipate them.

Just then, Nuntida Paireerak, a beautiful looking Thai lady walked into the room, her transparent robe unveiling her. Her hands touched the back of Saveliy's head sending warmth through the back of his body as she gave him a light peck. "What is on your mind my love" she asked rather cutely as she moved her small hands across his broad Russian shoulders.

Saveliy remembered it as if it was yesterday. The day he met Nuntida, at a local communal political meeting, the room was packed with so many people in a language so different to him. Nuntida stood out so boldly to him. He turn returned to the present. "I feel so hopeless my love. I look back at my country and I...I feel so much pain."

Nuntida moved herself onto his lap as she kissed him patiently and looked him in his eyes. "Thailand is not a nation-state my love...it is a revolutionary state...it is a state for all.This is your country.

Saveliy smiled, but looked at himself, "my love, look at me, I am so different." Nuntida put her hands on his lips, shushing him. "Do not let the white man's lies corrupt your mind. You may be phsyically different, but your heart," she said putting her hand on it, "is red like the revoution that flows through our veins. You are a citizen of the globe, not some nation that exists in time and space."

Saveliy nodded. "I still want to free my fellow people from this oppression. I really do." Nuntida nodded. "I'll introduce you to someone later my love, lets enjoy this night together for now."

Later the next day, Nuntida and Saveliy would stroll together through a park as they walked to the Thai Government Complex to speak with revolutionary leaders. Saeliy was a bit uneased over it, but, he knew it had to be done.

Bossza007
 

Bossza007

I am From Thailand
GA Member
May 4, 2021
3,194
Crimson Dawn on the Volga


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National-level coordinating and facilitative organization on intra-state governance and internal affairs, the Ministry of Interior

It was a day both calm and charged in the Bangkok Metropolitan Region, the kind that concealed unease beneath its serene surface. Around ten in the morning, an unusually tall man emerged from the Ministry of Interior complex. Kolawach Maithong, a security officer and intelligence agent for the Internal Security Operation Command (ISOC), carried himself with quiet resolve. Once a Cold War tool of the armed forces to counter communism, ISOC had been restructured under the Ministry of Interior after the Revolution of 1998, a transformation meant to safeguard the ideals of a liberated Thailand.

Kolawach, now 34, had already been a police officer during the revolution’s upheaval. By a twist of fate, he had saved an agent of the Libertarian Socialist Front, forever binding him to the revolutionary cause. As he walked, his sharp eyes scanned the streets, ever watchful. The Constitution demanded vigilance from every Thai citizen, and Kolawach’s duties extended far beyond the ordinary. He knew that the global elites, intent on maintaining their exploitative comforts, would stop at nothing to undermine the hard-won gains of the people. Beneath his stoic demeanor lay an unshakable commitment to the Revolution’s ideals, a fire tempered by years of conflict and sacrifice.

Emerging from the electric bus at the National Assembly of Thailand Station, Kolawach steadied his mind for the task ahead. The Marxist Unity Party had summoned ISOC’s presence—a direct challenge to demonstrate solidarity within the halls of revolution. As he approached the meeting, Kolawach couldn’t ignore the tension simmering within his chest. The declaration of war in solidarity against Al-Qaeda had unsettled many, but the MUP insisted it was a moral imperative. Reports confirmed their millions of members demanded decisive action: send the armed forces to Afghanistan and liberate the oppressed from the grip of religious tyranny.

In the meeting room of the National Assembly, Kolawach sat at a circular table with six others. Supachai Panitchpakdi, the leader of the MUP, occupied the central seat, flanked by five other members of the party’s collective leadership. With a practiced gesture, Supachai tapped his tablet, the faint glow casting sharp shadows across his face. His voice, calm yet laden with fervor, cut through the air. “Comrade Kolawach, as I’ve outlined, this solidarity war against the provocation of our comrades on the British Isles is a moral imperative. We cannot ignore the threat posed by these religious fanatics. Their ideology thrives on oppression and cannot coexist with a liberated society like ours. I trust there are updates since the last parliamentary resolution?”

Kolawach’s eyes drifted briefly to the mosaic of Trotsky and Pridi Banomyong inlaid on the floor, their visages locked in solemn defiance. His jaw tightened as he considered the implications. The weight of responsibility settled heavily on him, though his voice betrayed none of it. “ISOC is acutely aware of the risks, Comrade Supachai. Our intelligence teams, which is the Ministry of Interior’s civilian wing, remain vigilant. However, our open-border policy—one your party has consistently championed—limits certain controls. Current airport security measures are robust, on par with global standards. If an intruder were to bypass them, it’s unlikely they’d carry illicit materials. But complacency is not an option.”

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The entrance to the top-level national coordinating and facilitating body of Thailand, the Government House

Later that day, Kolawach stepped out of the National Assembly and boarded an electric bus bound for the Thai Government House. He couldn’t help but overhear snippets of conversation from passengers glued to their smartphones, murmuring about something unusual trending on Thai social media. When he arrived, the ornate Venetian Gothic architecture of the Government House greeted him, its façade marked by the golden hammer and sickle added after the revolution. He lingered at the gate, his gaze drawn repeatedly to the symbol, a silent affirmation of the cause he had sworn to protect.

As he strolled past the security checkpoint, the open gardens revealed a scattered crowd, their movements punctuated by the buzz of whispered speculation. A sudden distraction broke his focus: a striking woman accompanied by a tall, Slavic-looking man. The duo walked with an ease that unsettled him. Kolawach’s sharp eye rarely missed foreigners in such proximity to power; it was rarer still for them to appear so at home. “Most keep their heads down,” he thought wryly, his mind instinctively rationalizing the anomaly.

He followed at a measured pace, noting the woman’s confident stride and the casual familiarity in her gestures. It wasn’t merely her appearance but the unmistakable air of someone shaped by Thailand’s deeply politicized society. Here, where symbols carried the weight of history, even a stranger’s demeanor could speak volumes.

Kolawach approached the pair with measured steps, positioning himself slightly behind the woman’s left shoulder as they neared the Government House entrance. His voice, calm but deliberate, carried over the hum of muted conversations in the garden. “Comrades, greetings. May I ask your names? I am Kolawach from ISOC. And you?” Ahead, three security officers waited under the glided roof of the entrance, their rifles resting at parade position.

The officers exchanged a few words with each other, their tones inaudible over the faint rustle of wind through the gardens. After a brief inspection—thorough but routine—the trio was waved through. Inside, the Government House pulsed with movement. Kolawach observed the crowd without breaking stride, cataloging the faces of public servants and visitors weaving through the halls. A heated exchange echoed faintly from one corner of the ornate corridor, where Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra stood in an animated argument with a suited man whose gestures grew increasingly agitated.

“In the name of historical materialism, can you calm down and listen to me, sir?” Thaksin said, his tone a tightly controlled deadpan. “As I’ve already explained—if the Labor Right Enforcement Agency discovered your cooperative holds 49.99% ownership instead of 49%, that’s not my fault. For Marx’s sake, it’s yours! I wasn’t the one who mandated that all foreign corporations benefiting from our infrastructure must relinquish majority ownership. That was the law. And let me ask—did your legal experts miss the decimal memo? When we said 49, we meant forty-nine. Not ‘forty-nine, plus a cheeky little fraction.’”

The businessman’s face flushed crimson, his knuckles whitening as he clenched the edge of the ornate table. His voice, rising with every syllable, echoed through the hall. “For God’s sake, you’re the Prime Minister! Fix this mess—now! My cooperative—no, my corpo—I mean, worker cooperative—provides most of the imported wood your so-called ‘stupid’ people demand for their precious conservation efforts. I bring in cheap timber, your government gives it away for free, and somehow I’m the villain here? And that asinine law—why not stop at 50%? What, is forty-nine the magic number that turns socialism into something... achievable? Or is this about appearances—maintaining the illusion that we’re not in control of our own workforce?” His sneer lingered as his hand sliced through the air. “One percent. A decimal! That’s what stands between sanity and this farce!”

haksin grinned as the businessman’s composure finally snapped, a sharp laugh escaping him. “Comrade,” he began, his tone a blend of amusement and exasperation, “you’ve hit the nail on the head. We do have a thing for letting workers run the show. Call it a fetish for democracy in the workplace—better that than the dictatorship of corporate suits, wouldn’t you say?” He leaned forward, gesturing animatedly. “See, we don’t do fifty-fifty because even split power still tilts toward the folks at the top. But forty-nine-fifty-one? That’s where the magic happens. Workers collectively owning 51% means they can outvote the board anytime they like. Solidarity, right? And yeah, that’s why all foreign enterprises here are technically worker-owned, even if they’re still trading on your fancy stock exchanges.” He leaned back with a theatrical shrug, a mischievous glint in his eye. “So yeah, the corporate boards are basically toast, my dude. Welcome to socialism. Hope you brought snacks.”

Jay
 
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