"Faster," she said. "We've got to be back in Lisbon by 1800 hours. Unless you find the prospect of being indicted on sedition charges enticing." I pulled a bespotted silk handkerchief from my back pocket and mopped my brow. "If I were dancing any bloody faster, I'd get friction burns from the air resistance," I replied, glancing back at the crowd that had began to gather.

"You were always more of pessimist than a performer," she sneered through clenched teeth. I grinned sharply. "Not if I were dancing about pessimism!" The barest hint of smile crossed her lips.

And so we danced our way across the cobblestones, the sound of our boots clattering like an army of skeletons with castanets. Soon, spectators were transformed into willing participants. Here, a young couple miming our frantic tarantella. There, an elderly woman remembering how to polka.

Still faster we spun and lunged and stomped and twirled. My lungs burned and my veins pumped acid. She seemed to gain energy from the whole pulsing mob, each new person joining the fray adding to her frantic mania.

The cacophonous clattering turned into a roar that gradually exploded into automatic rifle thunder. That night, the city burned. The hallowed halls of government crumbled to ash and every pork-fed politician roasted or ran.

In the middle of it all, as so meticulously planned, we simply vanished. Hours later, we watched it all on some twenty-four hour Portuguese news network, the lyrical language belying the harsh reality of their words.

I turned to her with a smirk. "Dance, dance, revolution!"

Then she slapped me.

Thanks for reading. I would love some feedback. I've had a bit of writers block lately, so this was just an elaboration on a dream I had last night.

Descriptive... language... so... awesome... *collapses*

Oh, LMAO.

Okay, I really did lol. That was great. :) You made my day.