Picture this:

You step out of a bus and are greeted by soldier in camouflage fatigues, watching mutely over the arriving crowd, holding an Uzi in his hand. At the door, more armed soldiers stand on guard. One demands your papers, scrutinizing them intently and eventually gruffly waves you in. Inside, an army officer takes your money, stamps a visa and hands it to you. Yet another soldier marks the visa as used and finally, you are in the party.

Or is it a party? Monotonic detroit techno bangs away in the background, sounding like factory noise. There is no color anywhere, just strobes and fog flashing madly, the walls covered in camouflage nets, black plastic and plastered all over with strange slogans like "The authority here belongs to the people!". You walk ahead in the corridor and from dozens of posters the figure of Strobodan Teknosevic glares down at you. A sign proclaims: "The Hall of Entropistic Peace". Inside, slogan after slogan glows purple in ultraviolet light and the air is filled with strange music, ambient noise with propaganda speeches mixed in.

But hark! The music stops and a speaker comes online, instructing all citizens to move immediately to the Hall of Revolutionary Work. On cue armed soldiers appear, forcefully ushering everyone out of the hall as martial music blares from every speaker. Back in the main hall, a strobe light continually pulses behind a gigantic logo, another copy of which is spinning and twisting in the background projected on a screen. The air is thick with anticipation as the crowd jostles below the stage, stomping their feet in frustration.

Eventually the music stops and a sinister figure, hidden behind a jet black gas mask and a commander's cap, steps up on stage. The video display shows footage of a giant army, marching endlessly across the screen. In an incomprehensible Slavic dialect, the dictator shouts into the microphone and harangues the crowd, occasionally shooting into the air with his pistol for effect as his bodyguards menacingly scan the audience for signs of discontent.

All of a sudden, in a blur of motion, a group of neon-clad people wearing smiley amulets appear at the other end of the hall. At first the dictator doesn't notice them as they make their way through the crowd, but soon a cry of "ACHTUNG!" rings out. A brief but furious firefight ensues, the dictator goes down in a hail of bullets and the guerrilla fighters clamber up on stage. One of them shouts into the mike, "Strobodan is dead! Viva la revolucion! HAPPY HAPPY JOY JOY!" - and colorful spirals of light rake the listeners as the music suddenly turns into trance and the endless armies of the video screen are replaced by swirling HAPPY HAPPY logos mixed with the Moomins dancing. And the party goes on 'till dawn.

Of course, you might want to see how the Information Office of the People's Education Ministry of the People's Entropic Republic interpreted these events.

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