It is January 21st, 2016. Kyiv. A courtroom. The Prosecuter is the State of Ukraine, the defendant, the Prime Minister of the People's Republic of Donetsk.
"Oleksander Zaharchenko, enemy of the sovereign, independent state of Ukraine, are hereby unanimously sentenced to death for committing multiple terrorist acts, including arson, leading a rebel group of 'thugs', destruction of private and public property, and armed robbery against the people of our glorious nation. Have you any last words?"
The booming voice reverberated within the four walls of the courtroom, but he was unfazed. Without a lawyer, how else could he speak? The 'evidence' had already been lain. This was it.
He let the court eat the silence, only to be broken off by the shrill command, "Guards! Seize this man and take him away to the execution site right away!" It was his counterpart that had said this. That Poroshenko...
The black cloth formed around his eyes, and his already tied hands were forcibly yanked towards the courtroom exit. He heard a gasp in the crowd, a sympathizer, maybe, and he worried for that person for a second, but it would be no use. He would die soon anyway.
As he was dragged out into the courtyard, he felt the bright sun scorch his scant, gray hair, and shiny forehead. Smiling, he let out a chuckle, which was met by a sharp blow to his chin by one of the guards dragging him. "Molchat, suka. Shut up, bitch," came the curt reply. "What are you laughing for? You are about to die."
He felt a smirk growing on his lips as he replied, "I might be dying, but the will of the people of Donbass has not." Unable to respond, the guard backhanded him and shoved a sock into his mouth.
As the guards dragged his feet up the podium, he felt the loose rope sliding over his head and onto the undersides of his neck. A chair was placed at his feet.
And just like that, he found himself flying, flailing in the wind, the cool breeze brushing against his striped, prisoner's clothing. Through the blindfold he felt the stares, some of hatred, some of pity, some of disgust. He smiled at the thought, even as the air choked out of his lungs in cold hard gasps. Struggling to emit his last thought, he burst aloud, "Slava narodu! Glory to the people!"
"Shoot him!" The command came, and he heard the click of a guard's rifle, followed with a bang and a throbbing sensation in his stomach.
"Slava Donbass! Glory to Donbass!"
The shot rang out, but nothing remained, only silence.
The crowd, having nothing more to see, dispersed, muttering. The president smiled and smirked, he played with the body for a bit, laughing at how frail the human body was. But he, too, soon tired of playing with the corpse. After all, even young girls tire of playing with dolls.
The president checked the time of his watch and frowned. It was tea time.