Published in newspapers and read on the radio in February, 1936, in response to Black Monday.

"The Denouement is at hand."

"Workers, Farmers, Miners of America. Look what has been done to you. You have been brutalized. You have been castrated. You have been crucified, not on the cross, but on the dollar. You bled yourselves all your lives, and now, you are being bled for more by a system which could not sustain itself, which could not go on."

"Be angry, my comrades-- for you are all my comrades, whether you be a factory worker of New York or Chicago, a sharecropper in the deepest of the south, a farmer in the midwest, a miner or ranchhand in Colorado or Texas. Be very angry. The Denouement is at hand."

"The denouement-- the end, the end of it all. Not a biblical apocalypse, but the final resolution to our suffering."

"You who worked hard all your life, what have you to show for it! A ruined world! A ruined wallet! Tattered clothes and an empty stomach! You were promised many things by your slavers, but they took them for themselves."

"We are not the children of Abraham Lincoln. He freed the slaves, but it was John Brown who fought for them with militant, guerilla zeal. We are the children of John Brown, and every man and women must be their own John Brown in these coming days. Black or White or Latin-American or American-Indian or Chinaman or Japanese, we have all been mutiliated by Capitalism!"

"This will not be fixed until the market is burned to the ground. Until we are the ones who have done it. Until We, the Children of John Brown, the Socialists of America, The Guards of the Red Flag, united into a single front, fix it ourselves."

"The Liberation of the Working Class is a job for the workers alone!"

Lena tears the paper from her typewriter, and passes it to the editor. He takes a read over it, and stamps it. Approved.

Lena was pretty lucky. She knew a guy who knew a girl, who said there was one unlucky bastard at the steel mill who always was getting screwed up somehow. She had her fair of accidental scrapes, but that wasn't the luck she was talking about. She had been born into a family able to send her through all of school and into college, where she went through journalism. She hadn't ever heard of Jack Reed until 1917, when she read his book on the Russian Revolution. Since then, she had always wanted to be like him.

She had luck, but that didn't mean she was without skill; the SPA were perfectly happy to have her expertise onboard. So, now here's what she does. Writing news articles and propaganda for the SPA. She enjoys her work, but she always feels a little lonely. She has some extra responsibilities relating to certain, ah, semi-legal activities, but otherwise isn't particularly high up.

The cold wind batters against the air of the office, as a door opens up, blowing the papers across the turgidly stale air and into the next room. Lena sighs. She looks over to see the jackass who opened the door, and, no surprise, it's the fucking new guy again.

"George, come in through the entrance the wind isn't fucking blowing against!"

"But it's cold, god damn it!"

"Yeah, I know, that's why you're out there! Are you just here to warm your sorry ass, or are you here to say something important."

George rolls his eyes and dusts some snow off the cap of the Red Guard uniform. "I was just coming in to say that the girls over in the clock factory are very happy about the firewood and wanted me to thank you, and that 8th Company needs more hot water to give out. That enough of an excuse?"

"Could've sent a letter."

George lets out a hollow "Ha", and swiftly exits again, intentionally leaving the door open as long as possible to annoy Lena.

Lena shakes her head at the immaturity of it all, brushes some hail flakes off her desk, re-organizes her papers, and gets back to work. Honestly, no wonder that guy is still single. What an asshole. How could anyone like him?

The SWF's propaganda tour-de-force has begun. Our fists are tight, our hearts are like a drum, and we are made of steel.