Stoically, the Left marched to what most believed would be their inevitable doom. They felt the thunderous reverberations of The Constituents, and, as they drew nearer one another, could hear their cackles, their peels of laughter, their shouts of “babykiller,” “niggerlover,” “hippy,” and “snowflake,” now more gleeful than vengeful.
Nevertheless, they persisted.
Prumpt, armpits soaked from nervous energy, stood at the front of the column, holding aloft Protester with both hands, lips stretched tightly across his face, teeth just barely visible. He set the pace with his deliberate left, right, left march, as if to the beat of an unheard drum, slow and constant like oars on an ancient slave ship, unnoticed rhythms of a bagpipe dirge. Protester gleamed in the few shafts of hazy sunlight to peek through the gloom of the hour. The skyline looked apocalyptic; the horizon was rimmed with stormclouds, grey and spectral and ominous. The Constituents were within twenty yards now, and they began taking potshots at The Left. Lefters began dropping periodically, felled by a nine millimeter round, a chunk of concrete, or segments of rebar hurled like javelines.
McClintock, atop a gilt, bejeweled Segue (TM), sweated profusely from her forehead and neck. A lackey periodically mopped the sweat from her brow as she mechanically surveyed her army, head panning left and right as if a security camera. She did so perfunctorily, as if it was expected of her (not that she necessarily cared to). “To be quite truthful,” she muttered to herself,” I’d rather be at a McClintock’s Heffer-side Grill about now, downing a scotch and a steak.” Several politicians flanked her, now thrilled with the prospect of becoming modern day barons, dukes and earls, two of them fanning her with giant manila envelopes and making derisive comments about the multi-cultural nature of The Left. “Let’s see so-called ‘strength through diversity’ stop a bullet,” snickered a man far too elderly for war, far too ignorant to bandy words.
In a grotesque display of fleshy quiverings and gross effort, McClintock urged her Segue (TM) forward as close to the ranks of The Constituents as she was comfortable with, mounted a small hill, and emitted an awful, gut-shaking bellow. With this, she had the attention of both armies, who stopped a mere twenty paces from each other.
“Lefters, darkies, sand niggers and lovers of all the disgusting things that once crawled into my beloved country, hear me!”
So spake Prumpt: “Hold your tongue, ShovelFace, we have already heard the poison you would spew at us once more. No different than the campaign trail, no different than the inauguration, no different than your “solo” address to congress. Nothing changes, including your flat, smug face. We’ve no need for empty words and loaded euphemism.”
“Do youuuuu?” she spoke out slowly, drawing out the word “you” and raising her voice to a hideous pitch, the cackle of some comical, Saturday morning witch. “Would you listen once again? I urge thee, do so now or be reckoned deadengone for alltimes.”
“Do we have a choice, foul one? I presume not. Speak then, wag forth thy many chins and loose thy forked tongue, betrayer.”
“Betrayer… hmmm… interesting. Then speak I shall: for you brown ones, you yellow ones, you big noses and fence jumpers… your time has COME!” With her final word, she brought her clenched fist down on the Segue handle, causing it to surge forward slightly. She righted herself, continued: “However, you sons and daughters of Europa, mother continent, you have a choice to make this day. Weigh your words wisely, would-be betrayers and so-called patriots.” The word “patriots” made her spit with rage, flecks of saliva forming around her mouth and onto her promontory breasts, protruding grossly over the handles of her Segue (TM).
“We gave you our reply on the day of your ‘victory’,” he said deliberately, forcefully, making air quotes with a single hand, Protester leaning on his right shoulder, an adder prepared to strike. “Not now, not ever will we accept your title, your rule, your speechcraft, your venomous vernacular.”
There was a millisecond delay before one, then many, then the entirety of The Left took up the chant: “Not now, not ever! Not now, not ever! Not now, not ever!”
It was the third “ever” that was punctuated by the report of a handgun. A grinning bluecollar in overalls and blue hat held forth his gun, showed it for other Constituents to see.
“Looks like nigger-lovers bleed, too. What y’all say about that?”
A crimson bead appeared on the white, collared shirt of Prumpt. It slowly trickled down his sleeve and grew wider and stronger as time went on.
Within three seconds of awkward, bloated silence, The Left pounced to action without a word. The great, lumbering beasts of war once more surged forward and the front ranks clashed, stone meeting stone, flesh meeting water, the sickening thud of bone-covered flesh meeting like punctuated the first few seconds of combat as bodies dropped on both sides, opening fresh ground in the center of the melee. As American citizen struck American citizen, periodic gunshots ringing out, makeshift weapons striking home into flesh, stop signs hurled left and right like chakram, baseball bat cudgels met with orange traffic cone helmets, piercing shrieks ringing out, bloated bodies meeting the floor. A Mexican man, sturdy and boot-clad, struck a bluehat across the side of his head with a rusted piece of rebar, the metal twisting halfway around his head.
Hate was strong in both groups, yet none was quite sure who’s hatred would prevail.
Prumpt clutched at his wound, gritted his teeth, held aloft once again Protester. He raised his head to the small hill where McClintock stood astride her Segue (TM).
McClintock leveled her gaze at Prumpt, recognized that his eyes had met hers, scoffed disdainfully and began her descent, intent on putting a hole in that dreamers face. “That stupid, whiny face of his. I’ll fill it full of fucking holes this day.”
“Evil cannot win, shall not win. My fellow patriots may fall, but I will bury Protester deep in those neck folds before this day is done. An evil deed for an evil demagogue,” whispered Prumpt with hate, with vigor.
And as the two towering figures of the polarized states of America drew ever closer, McClintock surging downhill, Prumpt trudging ever forward and upward, Edward T. Rossignol brought his finger ever closer to The Button.
The dreaded Red Button.