Follow the Plain Brick Road

Follow the Plain Brick Road
       

      Awoke to the serene sounds of cheering this morning.  A glorious jeering ticker taped yell reminiscent of 1945 and its armistice.  A parade resides in the streets, joyous wives saddled with young children anticipating the return of their warriors.  I stood up and bumped my head something silly on the lamp adjacent to my bed.  More cheers rose from the streets, though 3 could be distinctly felt in the living room.  Bruised head and all I burst into the living room, witnessing my 3 closest friends huddled together in front of the TV.  “What of the protest today” I proclaim.  I guess my words fell on deaf eardrums because no one turns to tune in.  Like hobos warming their hands over a flaming trash can, my friends are warming their minds and emotions to something on that TV.  I push my way through their dense bodies for a glimpse.  On the screen the sight of a podium, splattered in blood and brain matter. a stretcher with a lone arm dangling down and a cowboy boot sticking out the bottom, On the sheet that covers the dead soul a presidential seal.  Suddenly a fat balding man materializes from what seems like nowhere, his face smeared in a buddy’s blood.  He wanders to the microphone taps it, creating some sick sounding electrical expulsion.  The cheers seem to cease outside and also in my house.  A putrid feeling cascades down to my stomach, and I can see that my friends seem to tasting the same thing.  One even vomits a cold curry and pinto bean wrap over the American flag tattered and burnt on the wall.  “Will someone please explain this too me? “Why the hell is everyone so happy and cheering like this?” “And now why do we feel like shit is going to hit the fan?”  One of my acquaintances explains quickly to me that our beloved president put his face in the way of a bullet.  He was in the process of speaking out against the liberals and how they are a disgrace to this society because they can’t agree with an illegal war, and they think they are being lied to.   “So someone finally got the balls to do that,” I think in my head.  My friend goes on to explain how there were all these protestors gathered at the Washington monument to listen to Georgie Boy tout his economically unfeasible and blasphemous war, and how the police weren’t going to have any of it.  The protestors weren’t burning cars nor breaking anything such as the same legitimate dissenters in France, they were peacefully assembled, reaking of patchouli and holding signs screaming all sorts of dissent, when a shot was fired by the riot squad, they must have forgot to pack the rubber ammunition, because a sweet little hippie girl was the first to have her innards spill across the finely manicured lawn.  I guess madness ensued and more and more shots were being catapulted into the crowd.  Unfortunately MR. W. was at the podium when the shots rang out, and one stray bullet seemed to find its way to his temple.  “So it was an accident,” no way I think “can’t be,” and now why is Dick Cheney sitting at the podium with electrical sparks arcing between the microphone and his fingers.  He starts speaking in some sort of mechanized dialect; almost as if you were listening to some protocol droid from you found on Tattoinne speak.  We are all wondering what the hell is happening, and suddenly Cheney’s voice reverts back to normal.  His head twitches slightly as he starts telling the cameras that we have indeed been in the process of an illegal war, but it didn’t start in 2002 it has been raging since the 14th century and the crusades.  He admits to us that the entire goal of this operation is to number one eradicate the Muslim people and number two propel America into a position where it is capable of instilling its Fascist theatrics in every mind and soul of ever human on this earth.  Our mouth’s stand gaping, we have been screaming that same rhetoric since the whole 9/11 thing and now they were actually admitting it.  “This can’t be right,” as I rub the swelling lump on my forehead.  “Why would he be telling us this, right after our president was assassinated?”  I didn’t have to wait but a minute for the answer.  After spewing off a few more wrong-doings of the American government, such as trying to inflict cultural genocide upon Native Americans, and how they really don’t give a shit about black people and that’s why the cram in the inner cities like sardines and refuse to educate them the sky behind Dick starts to churn black.  I check out my own window to see some sort of dark swirl bounding upon our abode.  Cheney’s voice suddenly cracks back into mechanized madness as he raises his hands to the heavens.  Lightning strikes peeling his latex exterior leaving a mechanical figure standing before us, the sky darkens worse and as the solid electric current slides through my bay window and strikes my three friends and myself.  When I come to I notice our flimsy exteriors riddled with purposely ink stained designations of individuality lying on the floor.  My body feels cold, lifeless, I look around through digitized eyes I have no concept of what is real or spoon fed, I follow my friends out the door, and join the march of people cavorting down the street who seem to all be following the same ideal plastered against the horizon.