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New Europeans

In a quiet street washed by the rain, the room within the home.

Max sat at the table, his fingers drumming along with the song that was playing from an old battered radio that looked like it had seen better days. There was a chessboard set up with pieces in various locations and he studied their arrangement.

A lonely man sits cheek to cheek, with unique designs in chrome.

He was trying to remember the name of the band that played the song. It was a band that was big in the UK in the 80's but not so much in North America. The lyrics made sense to him now; he hadn't quite understood them back then.

"Was I alive in the 80's?" he muttered.

"I don't know," Trump replied. "Were you?"

The mellow years have long gone by, but now he sits alone.

"Yes," he answered. 

"Yes," Trump replied. "Your move, chum. Depending on what you move I will have you in checkmate in less than five!"

"You wish," Max said as his attention went back to the chessboard. He moved his hand to the Queen, which was shaped like an angel with two katanas held in her hands. 

"You sure you wanna use her?" Trump questioned.

He has a brand new radio, but never turns it on.

Max moved his Queen across the board where it took out Trump's Bishop.

New Europeans.
Young Europeans.
New Europeans.