As T. S. Eliot once said, "Okay then, let's go!" True, the man said it with a bit more panache, but that's basically all he said. Then he went on about the sky and stuff, and yellow fog.
Tonight is cool and gentle. The moon is almost hidden, and I'm off home, job done, past a few amber bedroom windows, couples making love to cap off their Saturdays...
I have walked these early-morning streets too often. I stink of kerosene, and so far I've been stopped three times.
You are in the wrong place my friend.
Not the best place to be, Sir, not at 4:00 AM.
ID, Sir?
Ahead, there's an armored vehicle across the road. The riot squad but no riot. They are restless, and I am meat.
You would not think to look at him—El Presidente—but he turned out to rule with the proverbial rod of iron, and his jackbooted RI-POL have been let loose. They are famous for knocking over innocents, just to keep up their numbers.
And since the executions started, the circus is in town, that's the truth of it. There's not a hotel room anywhere, and no AirB'nBs. People are renting out their places for a fortune, then heading for the beach. Why not? They know tomorrow they'll be selling postcards of the hanging within 15 minutes of the lever being thrown, and it'll be live on the Gov Channel, anyway, so why not make a few thousand bucks while you can?
There's a huge Sergeant standing there, giving off pain and suffering, armored car fat behind him.
I hold up my papers and keep walking his way.
With all the streets closed, getting home has frankly been a bastard. The streets seem to turn back on themselves, and I've walked past the same cameras, two-three times already. By now they must have logged me and Face-ID’d my aching mush half-a-dozen times.
"Sir?" It's worse when they are polite.
"Good morning, Officer. I hope you are well?"
"Papers!"
He reads the papers, sees what I do, looks me up and down. He uses his neck-mic to check with HQ. Then he nods to me.
"Thank you for your service, Sir!" he says. He adds he is authorized to take me home. The streets are not that safe.
It's a toss-up, but I tell him, "Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, the muttering retreats."
There had been two of them left when they were cornered. They could have blocked their exits, locked them down and waited. They could've gassed them, could've sent in dogs or a SWAT Team.
Instead they lit them up. Flammable jelly on the doors and windows, kerosene, a match, then waited.
The one who came out (this weekend's entertainment) wasn't that badly burned. They were careful to keep her alive.
The leader—more guts than I would ever have—she knew she was burning but did not move. I don't think she was scared of being shot out of hand, wasn't scared to be stood on the scaffold. She chose the flames to deny the bastards their Primetime TV.
I miss Sundays.
