The scene was enough to make any true patriot smile.

The stadium was packed with hundreds upon thousands of willing bodies, adorned with the crimson and white vestments of the Creator. No words were spoken, and only the sound of one's own breathe could be heard. There was anticipation in the air, with every eye eagerly focused on the center-stage, a large circular platform with a deep crimson podium centered upon it. The shining image of the Creator gleamed in gold on the two flags situated adjacent to the platform at either side.

Suddenly, a deep, insistent metal humming could be heard throughout the large structure, causing every muscle to tighten, and every mouth to gape open with a great intake of breathe. A large steel gate rose from behind the podium, and two robed guards entered onto the stage, one next to each flag. Neither man grunted nor made a sound, and both moved so gracefully to their positions that it would appear they glided on the air itself. Their stares were hard and cold, gaping holes of darkness that could crush the truth out of the strongest of men.

Trained men.

Good men.

The people in the stadium did not change the course of their stares,however, but kept the gaping entrance to the auditorium in focus.

Waiting.

Suddenly the orchestral hymn of the Creator blasted through the loudspeakers and a man entered from the blackness. At his first step the crowd went mad, screaming, smiling, and throwing at him the praises of a God. Women cried and men flaunted their patriotism by cheering with ceaseless admiration.

The man was dressed only in a black suit, his head and body devoid of any hair. He gave a smile to the people as he entered, a smile that carried with it the load of a millennium of great nations. It was heroic, charismatic, loving, proud, truthful, and respecting.

It was the kind of smile that ruled nations.

He did not tell the audience to quiet themselves, but they lowered their volume to the respectable level. This decrease, however, did not lead to silence, as the people continued to cheer him on incessantly.

"Friends," He said into the microphone of the podium, his voice a deep, resonating orchestra of the most sincere kind "we have come far in our campaign against the enemy."

The crowd cheered again, louder this time, suddenly showing a twinge of anger at the mention of the enemy.

"Those whom would disrespect us,"

They cheered, increasing in volume, a pumping stream of passion.

"Those that would disgrace us,"

They cheered, a stream overflowing, bubbling with ferocity, unending praise.

"Those that would bring us shame!" The mans persona darkened, he gripped the podium, his brows arched, he voice become deeper.

"Those that would undermine all that we believe!"

The crowd matched his dark visage, became ravenous, crying out, clutching one another for support as their mouths began to dry and their eyes glazed over in fury.

"Those that would wage war on us, the chosen people!"

Men and women alike began to rip at their garments, sweating, swearing, cursing the name of their hatred.

"The enemy!" His voice began to become hoarse, sweat beaded on his forehead, his eyes became red-rimmed from tears. His suit was ruffled, construed, degraded.

"They oppose us at every corner. They are beasts! Monster! Disgusting cretins from the far reaches of the darkest corners of the land! They spit on the Creator and bring it shame! They grovel and howl like dogs of the night, and feast off the flesh of liberty and equality like birds of prey!"

The crowd roared in reply, at the utmost height of their frenzy now. Had the enemy appeared right there, they would have torn them to shreds, gnashing and slicing and ripping and tearing. They become one ferocious titan, crashing across the steps of the stadium. The air was hot and humid, steaming with anger and calamity as some, now naked, fell to their knees and screamed near-incoherent curses at the enemy.

"We offer them only truth!" Shouted the man, raising his arms towards the heavens.

The crowd moved as one still, beginning their chant: "Death the the enemy, death to the enemy!" Again and again, a chorus of boundless praise.

"WHO is the enemy?" Said the man in the black suit.

The crowd continued their call, pulsating.

"WHO is the enemy?"Said the man in the black suit.

The crowd was in hysteria now, driven only by chant, crying out.

"WHO is the enemy?"Said the man in the black suit.

The patriotic music,having been quenched by the sounds of the mass of flesh, stopped. Their was a loud crack, and a hum, as great mirrors descended on either side of the platform, surrounded by glowing gold frames.

"WHO IS THE ENEMY?"Said the man in the black suit.

The people stopped their chanting, gasping for air,clawing at their naked, oily flesh. They peered forth at the great mirrors, seeing themselves, naked, pale, sweating. A sea of red eyes and hairless bodies, clinging together to form a great, fleshy mound, seeping with limbs and ripped clothing.

The man at the podium looked at them, eyes flaring in agony. His legs weakened and he leaned forward on the podium for support, saliva trailing from the microphone. His voice was barely audible, only a raspy, dying whisper.

"Who is the enemy?