A Test Blow to Democracy

In a clearing near the forest, surrounded by tall trees, stood Baselard. His outfit, clearly inappropriate for his age, was more reminiscent of a rock musician's outfit: a black leather jacket with studs, ripped jeans, and an acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder. He seemed both out of place and confident, like a man who had long ago decided to live in a different world from the one everyone else lived in.

Mark stood next to him. In grey trousers and a waistcoat, with a white shirt open at the chest, he looked more sophisticated than serious. In his hands was a parabellum, a weapon that now seemed part of his everyday life, but at this moment, without his pince-nez and with a slightly worried expression on his face, he still looked confused. His gaze was directed somewhere into the void, trying to focus on what was in front of him, but his thoughts kept flying away.

Baselard looked at him calmly, his head slightly tilted, as if waiting. He didn't say a word, just stood there, his steel-stringed guitar swinging slightly on his shoulder. The wind rustled the leaves of the trees softly, creating an odd contrast to the tense moment that seemed to hang in the air.

"Well," Baselard finally broke the silence, tugging the guitar slightly on his shoulder. "Are you ready?"

Mark sighed, looking at the parabellum, then at the old man, and shook his head, as if realizing that the question would still haunt him.

"I'm ready. But the question is, are you ready? You're a bit old to be cutting crosses," he smiled at these words.

"We'll find out about that," Baselard chuckled, narrowing his eyes.

Mark looked in the direction the old man was looking, but saw nothing but trees hiding in the shadows. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, a voice was heard. A long-haired brunette, sitting on a tall tree, in a bright yellow sleeveless dress, hanging her head down, shouted:

"Guys! They're coming!"

Mark and Baselard turned around at once. On the road, far away but already quite close, appeared an old black car - a sedan, as if torn from a caricature of the cars in which important officials of that time rode. The car moved slowly, as if it was in no hurry, and its very shape and slightly shabby appearance seemed to emphasize that it belonged to less important people than it seemed.

Mark and Baselard, without saying a word, hurried to the road and stopped at the low fence, getting ready.

"Well then," said Baselard, watching the car closely. "Get ready, we're about to expropriate the expropriators."

Mark chuckled, cleverly using sarcasm:

"Everyone except me is a scientist..." and, after thinking for a moment, he suddenly continued in a dashing tone: "Let's formulate this moment as a blow to democracy!" He pronounced the last word with noticeable relish.

The old man answered in a short but confident tone, in which one could hear the excitement of the hunt:

"We're going to blow it now!"

Without further ado, Baselard climbed over the fence, and Mark, without wasting time, quickly climbed a tree, hiding in its shadow, and carefully watched what was happening from there. The old man, meanwhile, as if not noticing his age, ran right into the middle of the road. In the blink of an eye, he took out his guitar with metal strings and, without any embarrassment, began to play a furious, almost frantic melody. The strings rang in the air, reflecting some kind of mad passion with which he was filled. The wind played with his long gray mustache, and his eyes sparkled with some strange, almost sinister fire.

The driver of the car that pulled up to their position shouted with barely concealed laughter:

"Get out of the way, clown!"

He continued moving, without slowing down, not paying attention to the old man, as if he was used to such eccentricities. But at that moment, Mark, taking advantage of the opportunity, jumped from the tree, without making any unnecessary noise, and rushed to the car. He saw that the passenger window was not only open, but as if specially prepared for this. Without hesitation, Mark, sliding along the body, went to him and began to climb inside.

The car kept moving, the driver making no attempt to stop. He seemed oblivious to the intrusion. But in the passenger seat sat the same bald man with the goatee who had been with Baselard at the meeting. His face at that moment did not express surprise - rather, it was one of anticipation, as if he had known that something like this was going to happen.

Mark, gritting his teeth, began to fight him. The struggle was intense, like in some nightmare. The bald man, despite his appearance, was agile and strong. Mark, instinctively looking for ways to gain the upper hand, crossed his arms with his, feeling his body tense with each jerk and attempt to seize control.

Despite his best efforts, he soon began to feel his strength slowly leaving him. The bald man with the goatee was far more skilled in the fight than he had expected. When he grabbed Mark by the neck and pinned him to the seat, Mark felt the cold metal object - before he could even understand what had happened, the bald man had shoved a strange pink gag into his mouth. With undisguised sarcasm that Mark could not help but notice, the man said quietly:

"Sorry, fool."

And, with a grin, he opened the car door and pushed Mark out. From the surprise and force of the push, Mark flew out of the car, landing on the soft grass. He could not immediately understand what was happening, so suddenly and sharply he was thrown. For a moment he lay stunned, feeling the ground slipping out from under his feet. But then, with fury in his eyes, he jumped up and, spitting out the gag, which turned out to be not as funny as he could have imagined, he glared at the air.

His face was like that of an offended child who had just lost a toy. He still couldn't believe how everything had happened so quickly and so unceremoniously. Anger and humiliation were boiling in his chest, but Mark couldn't allow himself to lose face, even if this entire absurd moment was against him.