Puennio stood in the ruins of what had once been the king’s palace, and watched the sun rise.

The switch to democracy had taken some doing, but it was done. The architect of the palace’s destruction, however was not people wielding weapons for freedom.

Instead, shortly after the (mostly) peaceful transition, the Axis powers had bombed the country many, many times, killing countless people.

Then the Allies came and delivered them. The United States, Britain, France, and other assorted nations divested his great nation of the Axis powers. For a brief time, all was not lost, and there was great rejoicing in the land.

And then the Soviet Union ran its tanks through the countryside, killing countless more.

Puennio knew that it was just a matter of time before they found him. The war was over, but it also was just beginning. They would come for him, line him up in a field along with all the others of the old regime, and shoot him.

So this is how my country dies, he thought, not with a whimper, but a bang.