Stand at Attention, You Too #7
"Stand at attention, you too #7."
"America changes more each year." Trotsky. Lenin's sword and successor to Lenin. Tasked with immediately reporting to Comrade Lenin if Comrade General Secretary showed any traitorous behavior against the revolution, he had now come back to America via Korea and Taiwan.
Well, up to now, Comrade General Secretary hadn't done anything anti-revolutionary, and after seeing him send the somewhat communized black comrades from Taiwan back to America, Trotsky had roughly guessed the intent—and figured he had some work to do there himself. What else could it be? Probably just to observe and learn.
'Well, it's not going well, though.' Trotsky sneered with deep cynicism.
What did it matter if the blacks who went to Taiwan and Sudan were eating well and living well? The blacks in America hadn't been liberated at all. Even if America's blacks looked at those in Taiwan and wanted to live like them, as long as the blacks themselves weren't freed, there was nothing they could do. First things first—pay them wages and talk. Trotsky had no words for all of this.
The northern whites were ruthlessly grinding down black lives with utter indifference, while the southern whites were abusing and oppressing them to the point where the blacks were begging to be taken back as slaves. What kind of slave emancipation was this? It was just a more vicious form of slavery.
According to Trotsky's personal investigations, blacks who had once been as tall as white workers during the slave era were now clearly shorter than white workers. What else could it be but stunted growth from sleep deprivation? These Americans weren't even treating them like slaves anymore—they weren't feeding them properly, weren't letting them sleep, and were just working them to death. White workers glared at those blacks, saying things like, "Wages aren't rising because of you," and "Why don't you die faster?"
Trotsky, who had already exported revolution to America several times by ship, was starting to understand more and more each visit why Comrade General Secretary cast such sympathetic eyes on these uneducated, violent native blacks. Whites had the Pope, yellows had the Emperor—but blacks truly had nothing, absolutely nothing. Even as the world abused them, there was no one in that vast Africa to cough in protest, no one to raise a voice.
'Well, blacks? Honestly, they're a lost cause.'
The problem was that Trotsky saw this as communism's future: isolated, ignored, despised, attacked, and ultimately destroyed. Comrade Lenin thought, "Revolution will sort it out somehow," and Comrade General Secretary thought, "It's all pointless," but Trotsky's own view differed. The former saw all humans through the benevolent lens of "Lenin," while the latter viewed the world too religiously, too apocalyptically.
'Why aren't they arming? Why aren't they organizing? Why aren't they resisting?'
If the vanguard alone couldn't bring an army, would the revolution fail? End like the Paris Commune? Of course they needed to form their own army—a Red Army. That's why Trotsky boarded a ship to America, following those somewhat "comintern-ized" black comrades from Taiwan.
In southern Texas, the sugar plantation owners were screaming. "Do something about those Mexican revolutionaries!" The whites—no, Hispanics—who had been quietly exploited on the farms were being swayed by the revolutionary gangs.
The White Caps were howling. "The blacks have seized Los Angeles!!"
The blacks waiting to go to Sudan had fallen for some Jewish-Bolshevik agitation: "This isn't all lies, is it?" "Let's make a Taiwan right here—a black paradise!" and launched an armed revolution.
"Hey, you too?"
"Hey, me too."
America saw this as the panic hitting, the whole body screaming. The problem was, what to do about it? Even if the whole world was in panic, Korea was buying up beef, so rural economies were surprisingly fine. And fine rural economies meant the real economy held even if stocks crashed. So at this point, America had choices: pull together as one, or blame it all on someone else.
The problem was, even if America could choose, three-term President Theodore Roosevelt had no options. If he didn't go with the latter, he'd become the latter himself. Slogans wouldn't cut it. He needed action.
So he picked up the phone to his friend.
"Some of the blacks you sent seem to be communists."
"Communists arise spontaneously."
"OK, but I need your help."
"With what?"
"Looks like I need to clear out all the blacks and such from America."
"...All of them?"
"Every last one."
"After payment?"
"With battleships."
"We'll handle the transport ships?"
"One million."
"?"
"I need at least a million to relocate right now."
"You're joking, right? That's impossible."
"Only then will my executive order to deport ten million blacks from America seem believable to people."
It seemed President Theodore had decided to erase the communism-tainted blacks from his empire. Theodore, you've fallen into the devil's trap of a third term, the Supreme Leader thought, chuckling at first, then falling silent before replying. It didn't feel like a joke.
"Even so, ten million is too many. How about Haiti, Cuba, or the Philippines instead?"
"What's the difference from America essentially?"
True enough. They were all American soil or under American influence. The public would see it as the same shell game.
"But realistically, it's impossible. Even shipping them 'gradually' won't work. If it were, every transport ship on Earth would be Korean."
"...OK."
The meeting broke for a rest after heated debate. Even he thought it was a bit absurd. His bureaucrats would surely rein him in. An order to deport ten million? Even if blacks weren't quite human, it was too extreme.
"Send them to Alaska. Ten million to Alaska."
Too extreme. Like an emperor stuffing all the poison into his pinky finger and chopping it off.
The emperor turned his gaze back to America's internal panic. With ten million communists provisionally removed from America, he figured domestic demand would recover. Sure enough, as editorials spread claiming the economy had dumped all potential African-communists, it boomed again. A few minor papers called it inhumane and un-American, but America's fundamentals were rock-solid anyway—just needed good vibes. Black spending power? They had none, and if they didn't commit crimes, that was a win. Blacks were just unemployed bums, beggars, communists, thieves. With those unpleasant types clearing out, the mood lifted, and the economy recovered.
The Supreme Leader twitched his mustache and smiled contentedly. Exit polls showed he was right—numbers and approval were up. Even building a wall in Mexico and shipping Mexicans to Santo Domingo, as his friend had jokingly suggested. Sure, he'd dumped a tough job on his friend, but that's what friends were for. That fearsome dictator made even communists tremble. All the Supreme Leader could do was stare out the window and mock that it wasn't such a great America after all.
In 1913, as the world panicked or deported citizens, the Korean Empire continued its high-speed growth. Fresh chemical fertilizer tech smuggled through comrades' hands from Germany, and cheap raw materials flooding in from Southeast Asia—that was the reason. With Europe's factories creaking, materials poured into Korea's.
In such Korea, the biggest current headache was what fruit to make into canned goods for the military. Unlike rice, which didn't need much fertilizer, fruit did—and this was military supply. "Military supply" meant deciding which fruit went into citizens' desserts as a non-negotiable for the farmers growing them.
"Apples, obviously! What else is there?!"
"Peaches! Peaches are delicious!"
"Persimmons. Persimmons here."
"How about mangoes?"
"No mangoes—too divisive. Tried refrigerated sales; didn't move."
"Gaaah!"
The farmer who'd ambitiously pushed mangoes against the Supreme Leader's opposition was dragged out.
"How about just coffee?"
"Coffee?"
"Coffee's not fruit—out!"
"Can the coffee beans and distribute! Portion for one brew—it'll help!"
"Just bags, sacks, or teabags?"
"Gaaah!"
The coffee-pushing farmer was hauled out, comrades slung over his shoulders. Good for coffee market, but take a break.
"Rising fruit yields from fertilizer is great, but supplying the army uniformly is a real issue. We'll table this."
"No! We'll figure it out!"
"Bananas."
''' ???? '''
"Bana-na!"
"Who's that kid?!"
"Someone take this kid away—we're discussing important matters!"
"Bana-na!!"
"Bananas?"
"Bananas!"
"Korea doesn't grow bananas?"
"Grow them in China—grow them there!"
"Hmm, really?"
"Tasty. Even dried."
"Dry, slice, can them?"
"Tanghulu with chocolate or sugar lasts longer!"
"Hmm... Knows chocolate? Smart kid."
"Don't fall for that!"
"Korea doesn't grow bananas! Absurd proposal!"
"Quiet, everyone."
Ba-na-na-ba-na-na-na-na...
"Ba...nanas..."
It was nagging at him inwardly.
"Comrade, what's your name? No—pick between Gi-yeong or Gi-cheol."
"Pardon?"
"Your new comrade name."
"Gi-yeong, then."
"Speak up in my presence, take responsibility. First, go to China and start a banana plantation, Comrade Gi-yeong."
"! Thank you!"
"Hold bananas on reserve, prepare other cans. Help that kid out."
"Yes!"
"I'll visit later—handle it yourselves. If the farm's off, you're on your own."
''' ...... '''
If the comrades wanted it, hell—he'd make a banana republic. What was the big deal?