They continued this half-mad rushing through alleyways and random open businesses until they finally hit a quiet street away from the trouble. A too quiet street, in fact. Sophie and Ben rushed to a bus stop and checked the schedule. Only five minutes to wait. They shared a laugh of relief. It never crossed the minds of these suburbanite children that public transportation might be slightly interrupted by such wide scale civil unrest.
It took a moment for the pair to notice there was no traffic on the road, or even anyone on the sidewalk. Well, not completely true. A clusterfuck of skinheads (the grammatically correct term for more than one) stood over a barely moving, dark-skinned kiosk owner across the street. They were staring up the block with their arms full of booze and cigarettes. Sophie followed their gaze.
Two dozen locals solemnly marched this way. From the Indian gas station clerk with his double-barreled shotgun, to the Hispanic furniture storeowner wielding a Berretta, not one of them looked like they were in the mood to talk. Which was just as well, because neither were the punks.
The only thing more shocking for Sophie than the shooting was that no one got hurt. The wannabe Nazis weren’t exactly expert marksmen, even the few of them that weren’t drunk or high. For their part, the locals were way too excited and fired wild and high. For most of them, it was the first time ever firing the gun kept for years behind the counter. Had she been at home watching this on television and not close enough to smell the powder, she would have had a good laugh. At the moment, her sense of humor was stretched thin.
About two minutes into the Looney Tunes version of the OK Corral the cavalry arrived. The skins scattered as two Humvees blocked the road and a squad of soldiers dismounted. That should have been the end of it, but some of the punks decided to shoot blindly behind them as they ran. A lucky shot from a spraying Uzi struck a soldier in his bulletproof vest. Fine or not, the close call pissed the troops off…and changed the rules of engagement (ROE). The professionals soon silenced all the crazed shooting with controlled bursts from their M16’s.
It was simply bad luck that Ben had shaved his head in support of his passion-of-this-week charity: cancer survivors. It was also bad timing when he pushed Sophie to the ground just as a dying skinhead dropped his weapon nearby. To the young soldier searching for targets through the limited visibility of his gas mask, it sure looked like another asshole reaching for a gun.
All Sophie would remember was her boyfriend’s head exploding as he tried to protect her. Before she blacked out from screaming, she saw two of the president’s henchmen, in the heat of the moment, high-fiving over their victory. She never noticed the unit patches on their sleeves were from the California National Guard.
Santa Monica, California
The cemetery was busy for a Monday. Which wasn’t surprising after three days of rioting in LA, put down only by a massive deployment of state and federal troops. There was simply too much business happening for the funeral homes to stagger the ceremonies. Some burials would have to go on at the same time. Even if that created a few awkward situations.
Sophie couldn’t understand how her boyfriend’s mother could be so sympathetic with the other family nearby. That young soldier being laid to rest over there helped kill her boy. Oh, he might not have pulled the trigger, or even been in the same unit as the killers, but in Sophie’s eyes, he was just as guilty of shooting Ben. Just another hired gun for the rich.
The wind kept kicking up from the other funeral’s direction. Every time she heard their minister mention something about the meek inheriting the Earth, she would catch a “defending our freedoms” from the other funeral a hundred yards upwind. The rival preaching would have disgusted her…if she wasn’t already sick with anger. She couldn’t even focus on the family and friends in front of her standing up to say a few words. Her cold gaze kept drifting over to those flashy uniforms laying a casket in the ground. The folded flag, the whole shebang — so much for a thug!
The poor girl couldn’t even get a good cry in. She wouldn’t allow the enemy the satisfaction. Sophie tried to force that strange E-word from her mind, but it wouldn’t leave. She was a rational, partially college educated modern woman. Her social consciousness ran deep. Borderline hippie, her father would say, but she had seen where that gets you.
All the talking and singing in the world was so childish when the rich bastards have an army to do their bidding. If only there existed an army that fought for the regular people. Of course, she assumed, that would be a contradiction in terms. Regular people had to fend for themselves.
When the 21-gun goodbye blasted off, she was the only one in her circle that didn’t jump. The melody of gunfire inspired her more than any Bon Jovi song. Her rage ashamed her, but not enough to forgive. Not by a long shot. She thought she knew what hate meant, but then came something that made her lust for vengeance seem mild.
Those Westboro Baptist Church nuts were at the cemetery, but she hadn’t even noticed before. A curtain of bikers and other volunteers kept them separated from normal people. At least until the ceremonial shots rang out. With the cordon momentarily distracted, several members of the freak show somehow slipped through the human wall around them and stampeded towards the soldier’s funeral. The four psychopaths waved their anti-gay and anti-American signs like battleaxes as they charged into the grieving family.
There were no cameras around. Too much going on all over the state for the media to be everywhere at once. Perhaps that’s what drove the protestors over the edge. The church members didn’t just enjoy attention; they lived for it. They didn’t feel so insane when in the spotlight. Maybe it wasn’t even as complicated as that, since they weren’t exactly stable to begin with.
At any rate, they halted around the coffin and screamed incoherently about how “God hates fags” and this poor boy was somehow going to hell because of it. No one stopped them immediately when they began spitting on the casket, because no normal person could have ever imagined such a scenario. The fallen soldier’s father recovered first from the shock. He released his apoplectic wife and ploughed a meaty fist into the face of the closest church member.
A female protestor looked aghast. “You can’t do that! This is freedom of speech!”
Another Westboro member unzipped his pants and pissed on the coffin. “Yeah, that’s assault! You’re going to jail. You have to respect different opinions. We’re going to sue you people for all you’re worth! Fag loving Satanists!”
The last semblance of civilization left the assembled friends and family. Even the bikers hung back in fear. For a few minutes, that cemetery turned into the darkest jungles of Rwanda.
An old uncle yanked the peeing man back and slammed him headfirst into the ground. Others ringed him, kicking wildly. He wasn’t even unconscious when the sweet young widow of the desecrated soldier snatched the protestor’s fallen sign, yanked down his pants and literally shoved the thick wooden post up his ass.
From grandmothers to teenagers, everyone got in on the action. Even the minister whipped his cursing, elderly Westboro counterpart upside the head with a thick leather Bible. Almost no one’s hands were bloodless…or feet, for that matter. Of course, it was a different story when the police arrived. A hundred witnesses swore the four unarmed, mutilated bodies had attacked them.