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from the truck to the tables.
The regional delegate's grin is gone. He hurriedly packs the clipboard and pen in the attache case and, waving the case in the air, he shouts, "In the name of the Regional Workers' Council, I order you to stop!"
"Get out of the way, Mac; save your rap for later," says a large man who bumps the delegate with a box.
"Do you have a regional police to enforce your orders?" asks the skeptic.
People continue unloading. The delegate attempts to block the relay line. He begins to shout, "In the name of all the victories scored by the workers' revolution—"
He is interrupted by two hefty fellows who lift him into the air and begin carrying him on their shoulders.
"All Power to the Workers!" taunts the skeptic, raising his fist.
"All Power to the Workers!" shout several of the people unloading the truck.
"You're all counter-revolutionaries!" shouts the delegate, turning his head toward the people on the relay line. "You'll pay for this!" he threatens, while his carriers increase the distance between the delegate and the garage. "Next time you won't get a mere delegate from a Regional Council," the delegate continues, by now shouting at passers-by in the street, who probably interpret the event as an instance of street theater, or perhaps as a political demonstration. "The next delegate will be appointed directly by the Central Committee of the Council of All Workers' Councils. He'll teach you a lesson in revolutionary discipline!" he shouts to a woman pushing a baby carriage across the street. "Behind the next delegate will stand the might of the armed population!" he shouts to a group of young people picknicking on a lawn. "I'll return to see if you'll scoff into the guns of the People's Army!" He continues shouting threats to all passers-by, frequently raising his fist and repeating, "All Power to the Central Committee of the Council of All Workers' Councils"—until his bearers reach their destination, the seat of the new government, the steps of the National Theater.
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