Safety First

“Have a safe day!” gushed Ms. Hogswattle, a 3rd-grade teacher at The Sanctuary elementary school in Assurance, Vermont.

The children smiled and waved goodbye. A male security officer led the boys to their buses and a female security officer led the girls to their buses. The children waited in their assigned area under the multi-faceted security camera that kept each and every one of the children perfectly safe by maintaining 24/7 close up video of every person on the school grounds.

The girls' bus 102 pulled up and all of the girls assigned to it lined up to get on. As they entered each child put her right index finger onto the fingerprint scanner and looked straight ahead to the cornea scanner that was mounted behind the bus driver. Mrs. Agnes Magillicuty, the adult monitor for bus 102 waited patiently as the girls found their assigned seats. When the sound of automatic seat belt fasteners ceased, Mrs. Magillicuty looked back and asked,
“Is everybody safely secured in their seats?”

Mrs. Magillicuty was a bit past her prime and had been asking this unnecessarily for the past 20 years or so. The autonomous transport vehicle’s computer made all of the decisions regarding when and where to go. There were no drivers on America’s roads anymore as human drivers were just not safe. All vehicles traveling on America’s roadways were the property of the U.S. Transportation authority.

Historians traced the evolution of America’s “Live Safe and Secure or Die” back to the Women’s Movement’s Alcohol Prohibition of the early 20^th Century and the latter, “War on Drugs” and “Mothers Against Drunk Driving”.  The nation’s “Progressives” wanted to move the country away from superstitious belief and personal responsibility and they succeeded wildly. And their first big score of the 21^st Century was the repeal of the 2nd Amendment—making the “Right to Bear Arms” argument moot. It was now unconstitutional to bear arms of any sort—this included knives, hammers, screwdrivers, chainsaws, and axes—in fact, most metal tools—as well as banning the possession of sticks and stones. In this era, the people and the nation stood for nothing—with the exception of safety and security.

The United States of America was the first society on earth to achieve nearly perfect safety and security with the passage of Amendments 101, 102, and 103 to the U.S. Constitution. Perfect safety and security for the American people had now been enshrined in the founding document. The Pledge of Allegiance had been restated:

            I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America and to the State for which it stands, one nation, under surveillance, with security and safety for all.

There had been a technology once that many called the Web or the Internet. It had been used relentlessly to sway public opinion—and nothing swayed that opinion like disaster or tragedy.

“No family should have to go through the loss of a child this way” and “We must do such-and-such to protect the children” were common themes that eventually got away from the propagandists.

The Progressives, having seized control of the political system by eliminating their opposition, consolidated power in a system of One Party Rule. The Progressives had not counted on the “Protectionists." This 21^st Century political party had a far different set of agendas than the 20^th Century’s version of labor and union sympathizers. The Progressives, having stripped the people of their need to stand for anything and having disarmed the people as well, were easy prey for the Protectionists. As it turned out, the only thing that West Point and Annapolis had in common with Yale and Harvard was the annual football game. The alumni of the latter institutions had their high ideals and their Relativism while the alumni of the former had the weapons and the security apparatus of the State. It wasn’t even a coup so much as a fait accompli, and of course, there was no one left to notice the irony of the silence of the Progressives—especially since it was they who effectively abridged the freedom of speech and the right to bear arms.

And now we are perfectly Safe and Secure.

But I digress.

It was a broiling early September day and Mrs. Magillicuty daydreamed of going for a swim in a pool or at the beach, the way she did when she was a little girl. A terrible chill interrupted that daydream as the scene of a shark tearing a woman to pieces came to her mind. She hadn’t actually seen a shark attack; in fact, she had never seen a shark in her life—even at an aquarium back when they had aquariums. No, what she was remembering was a video produced by the Federal Department of Safety and Security, the DSS.
“Stay out of the water. Remember! Safety first!” said the voice accompanying the shark attack video.

To be accurate, the first things to go were the diving boards. Then the swimming pools themselves. Not long after swing sets were abolished, followed by the ubiquitous monkey bars and slides. Since there wasn’t much for children to play on at playgrounds anymore, and since playgrounds were well-known hangouts for sexual predators, the playgrounds were eliminated in the name of Safety!

            Baseball? Too dangerous. Safety first! And let’s not even talk about football and wrestling. Golf was banned because some poor soul had been struck by lightning while putting on the 18^th green with his family watching him from the clubhouse.

“No family should have to see their father killed like that.”

And that was the end of golf.

Mrs. Magillicuty arrived home to the small and tidy government housing unit she shared with her middle-aged daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter. The unit was a small dome constructed of cement and steel. This was standard issue housing and all other forms of housing had been demolished as unsafe. The outside security cameras followed her movements until the inside security camera picked up her movements—at which point the outside camera went back to scouring the streets for movement.

This was a big night in the household. Her granddaughter was going to have her first sexual encounter tonight. Everybody was very excited.

Sexual relations were highly coordinated affairs in the United States of Safety and Security. In the past sex had proven just too dangerous, or so the Progressives claimed. The Progressives had run a highly successful propaganda campaign in the late 20^th and early 21^st centuries claiming that over 25% of women had been sexually assaulted before the age of 25. Of course, the Progressives had no data to support this absurd assertion. After conducting a survey of women themselves and finding the reported victim percentages to be unacceptable—the data set did not meet with their liking—they simply changed the definition of “sexual assault” from something the woman herself would define to something that they, the Progressives, would define—and those definitions were not terribly consistent with logic or reason.

For example, a heterosexual woman could not engage in sexual activity if she were under the influence of alcohol or narcotics as she could not legally give consent. But heterosexual men, homosexual men, and homosexual women, engaging in their preferred sexual relations, on the other hand, could give consent while under the influence. This seemed to make perfect sense to the Progressives. The Protectionists just never bothered to address these regulations. The Protector elite could do as they pleased and take whom they pleased, and these Progressive ideas regarding who could and could not give consent gave the SSC enforcement personnel something to do and someone to persecute. No one dared to stand up to them and their firepower. So, sexual relations still occurred under the arrangements first promulgated by the Feminist wing of the now-defunct Progressive party.

Each party to a sexual encounter had to register with the Safety and Security Commission, or “SSC,” as that agency was often referred to. Along with the registration form, each party would have to detail the sexual activity that they expected would and consented to take place—in exact detail. All such activities would take place under the proper lights and cameras approved for such activity by the SSC. Any deviation from this could result in the imprisonment or death of the offender by summary execution at the hands of the SSC forces. The sexual encounter was to be viewed in real time, via sexual security cameras, by a SSC officer and was also recorded for potential future examination for the safety and security of the participants.

This right of passage, her first sexual encounter, was on the evening schedule of Roberta Magillicuty, granddaughter of Agnes Magillicuty (while the Progressives were in power they reversed the tradition of patrilineal surnames with matrilineal surnames. After all, “Mama’s baby. Papa’s? Maybe.”). Roberta was quite close to her grandmother and so she sought out her advice on the sexual consent form.

“I had no idea that planning a sexual encounter could be so complicated,” said Roberta. “The form is 8 pages long and has at least 50 different consent items per page. Look at this! “Digital Penetration”?! What the heck is digital penetration??!!”

Agnes gave her granddaughter a kind smile and said, “I can’t believe my baby granddaughter is having her first safe and secure sexual experience tonight! Where did the time go?”
“I’m serious, Nana. I don’t know what half this stuff means,” said Roberta, handing the form to her grandmother.

In Agnes’ day they had the Internet and with it access to the entirety of human knowledge. The Progressives censured it until finally securing a Constitutional Amendment banning the Internet. It just wasn’t safe. Roberta would have to rely on her grandmother’s guidance.

“Well, 'digital' refers to your fingers or digits,” said Agnes, adjusting her reading glasses and looking down her nose at the form. “Penetration means the entering of your body through one of your orifices. Unless this is referring to his orifices.”

“Cheese and crackers,” exclaimed Roberta. “I was wondering what in creation they were talking about. Well, that explains it.”

“Explains what?”
“Well, look at the following disclosure and consent items regarding which digits, how many, and which orifices. How should I know?” Roberta paused, bit her lip, then looked up at Agnes with a bewildered look on her face and said, “What did you do?”

“Oh, honey…” said Agnes as she wrapped her arm around Roberta’s shoulder and led her to the dining room table to sit down, “when I was your age we didn’t have such forms. We went on dates with men and worked these things out for ourselves, but that was before we knew about all of the rape and violence that occurs when men and women are not supervised. Before the Protectionists kept us safe we had another group running the government. They wanted us to be safe, too. Some of them felt all sex was rape, that assertion was from a group called Feminists, who were dominated by Gay women. They didn’t hold men in high esteem. They claimed that over 25% of all women had been raped. Well, something had to be done. Today you are perfectly safe when having sex. Our safety and security have never been better.”

As Agnes said this she glanced nervously over at one of the SSC security cameras that every citizen had in every room of their homes for their safety and security.

“Were you ever raped?” asked Roberta.

“No,” replied Agnes.

“Were any of your friends ever raped?”

“Not that I know of,” replied Agnes.

“Have you ever met a woman who has been the victim of rape?”

Agnes thought for a moment. “Why honey, how would I know anyone who has been raped? We are all perfectly safe and secure!”

“But you are 75 years old, Gramma! You were 50 before safety and security became universal. You have met thousands upon thousands of women and yet you don’t know a single rape victim? In the world of your youth—where 25% of the women walking around were victims—isn’t it awfully suspicious to you that you never met a woman that was a victim?”

“Now honey, please don’t talk like that…” Agnes said soothingly, her eyes betraying her panic as she looked up to the security camera and then out the front window to the street and back again.

“Talk like what? The women of your generation concerned themselves with their “right to choose” to kill their unborn baby and to make absurd claims about being victims and now we live like this? With SSC officers watching us have sex? Where I can’t ride a bike or a skateboard or swim in a pool because no family should have to go through the pain of losing a child that fell off a bike or drowned in a fucking pool??!! And now I have to report to some thug or dyke that gets their jollies reading my "consent report" and watching me us have sex to be sure that my partner abides by this fucking report?”

Roberta was fairly shrieking now and directing her tirade at the security camera.

“We live in a world without swing sets and diving boards and horseback riding and Octoberfest. Why? Because your generation wanted to “protect the children”? From what? Life?!

“Do you even know your history??!! First, it was the “Prohibition of Alcohol,” then the “War on Drugs,” then “MADD - Mothers Against Drunk Drivers,” followed by Mad Mothers against everyfuckingthing!!! And finally “All Sex is Rape.” Look where you have brought us! Yea, we are fucking safe,” Roberta finished with deep disgust, “we are so safe that we have security cameras in our bathrooms and in our bedrooms. Well done. Well done.”

Roberta’s head exploded with such force that Agnes was knocked to the floor. As Agnes came to her senses she had the sense of being manhandled and dragged from her home. She could dimly see several SSC officers dragging the limp and lifeless body of her beautiful granddaughter ahead of her to an SSC vehicle. Agnes was able to register a voice speaking in a flat tone,
“Subject is down. An additional subject in transport to an educational facility”.

Agnes closed her eyes and muttered to herself, “One nation, under surveillance, with safety and security for all.”

Those That Breed, Succeed

“We’ve got a runner.”

The message was broadcast over Amazonia’s secure message system. The head of security for Amazonia, Gloria Ballcrusher, just shook her head. What is going on with our sisters? How can they do such a thing? After all of the advantages, they have that we didn’t.

The Hot Line rang. Gloria Ballcrusher answered before the end of the first ring.

“Ballcrusher,” she said, though she who that the person calling, Our Dear Mistress, knew that Ballcrusher would be the only woman answering this line.

“How is this possible, and why is this happening?” shrieked Dear Mistress.

Ballcrusher demurred, “I don’t know. I just received the message, Dearest Mistress.”

    “This cannot be happening! This is the third runner this month! Our sisters are betraying us! Do you know what could happen if this thing were to get loose in the general population?”

    Ballcrusher could sense the anger and rage Dear Mistress’s voice. This was a moment to survive.

    “Dearest Mistress, I will have this runner back in confinement immediately. All available resources are being deployed.”

    Ballcrusher knew this was an empty promise. A third runner in less than one month could only mean one thing—that these runners were being assisted by a Sister or Sisters. This was madness.

    “Please have the full report transmitted to the Sister-of-Staff by 8 AM,” said Our Dear Mistress. She was gone.

    Ballcrusher called the head of the Pretorian Guard. The Praetorian’s could be trusted completely. They were specially selected naturally occurring homosexual Sisters—not “Educated Sisters.”

    Well, the Education Programs obviously lacked in some way, thought Ballcrusher.  The latest technique consisted of showing photos of nude males to Sisters during the Sister’s various stages of development while at the same time submitting the Sister to painful electric shock, terrible odors, and frightening sounds in an effort to have the Sister associate the unpleasant sensations she was experiencing with the presence of a male. This was done six times per day for 15 minutes per session.

Another six times per day pleasant videos of Sisters living and working in the most perfect of circumstances where played. During this time luscious meals and delicious wines were served, beautiful music and lovely fragrances filled the air. Once per day the sisters watched approved female pornography while a Pretorian or Amazon pleasured them.

All pregnancies were via artificial insemination and were closely monitored for “indications.” The idea was to produce only naturally occurring lesbians, but that had been a failure, though the administration did not acknowledge this fact. Instead, much to the chagrin of the Revolutionary committee and Our Dearest Mistress, the vast majority of the sisters being born continued to show signs of heterosexual interest—even those who had never seen a male before. The Selection Committee had tried thousands of procedures and treatments with no discernible success. They bathed unborn children in various cocktails of chemicals and hormones, many with horrific results. The incinerators at the abortion hospitals were running day and night, and in the end, the resulting crop of Sisters would result in much the same challenges as babies born before the Vajayjay revolution.   

Despite all of this there were obviously Sisters willing to risk death to help an escaped breeding male. What more could the Naturals do for their Educated Sisters?

The Vajayjay revolution ended the male rule of human society. It would be more accurate to say that it ended male presence in human society and if it were not for an error made by the XY lab there would not have been a male left on earth for breeding, but that is another story for another time. The vulnerability on the Y chromosome of males was found by accident—but the worldwide murder of nearly all men was no accident, indeed. No, that event was conceived and executed by Our Dear Mistress and her inner circle, the former physicians, scientists, and political operatives working at what was then known as Planned Parenthood. The system of transmission was never discovered, and the Revolutionary committee never disclosed it, but in less than one year every male on earth except for several hundred thousand pubescent males was dead. An unintended consequence of this great victory was the suicide of nearly half of the planet’s female population. This was considered an acceptable expense to achieve equality for women everywhere forever more.

The “surviving” males were maintained during the peak of their youth and health; semen was extracted and examined, after which they were terminated and incinerated.  Sisters were fertilized and monitored. Undesirable offspring were terminated in utero—and these terminations occurred in 95% of pregnancies.

Sometimes one of these breeding males escaped. These escapees were called “runners.” And now our own Sisters are risking catastrophe and death by helping a runner, thought Ballcrusher. 
Ballcrusher understood the stakes. She knew the math. If a single runner escaped to Colorado, Peru, Mexico, or Appalachia—it was the mountainous regions that the Praetorians and the Amazons feared—there could be thousands of babies born the following year. Thousands, Ballcrusher thought to herself and shuttered. Just the thought of a male disgusted her. What if a hundred runner—or hundreds of runner—got loose in those mountains? With a little help from technology, millions of Sisters could become pregnant! With MALES!!!! The revolution itself and equality for all women forever more would be at risk!

Ballcrusher blanched. Like most Naturals, the idea of procreation was foreign and unknown. In her youth—she was now in her 70’s—she had seen Sisters before the revolution couple up with males and produce offspring but could not understand the appeal. The very thought of caring for a child was distressing and inconceivable, especially a MALE child—but not nearly as inconceivable as having PIV sex with a male! She had even seen or rather heard of Naturals before the revolution having offspring but she knew this to be a statistically insignificant form of political protest. Naturals were different than their Educated Sisters, and vastly different than women before the VR, as the Vajajay Revolution was called. Naturals achieved great things! While the other Sisters, educated or otherwise, were enslaved to men and their offspring.

Perhaps a female offspring would be acceptable, Ball crusher had mused in the past, but if that female wasn’t a Natural?  Wouldn’t she want to couple with a male and produce offspring? Perhaps MALE offspring?! How revolting!

Ballcrusher had been on the heliport of the Revolutionary Defense Building, pacing back and forth in the bright lights of the landing zone, but now she was in flight, and her mind focused.

“Ground forces are executing search warrants in hundreds of Sister abodes as we speak. Any bio-feedback we are getting that does not jive with their reported activity is being scrutinized by ground forces. If the runner is found on site by our ground forces, he will be terminated along with all Sisters present. Disposal teams will arrive by air within minutes, perhaps even seconds. When they are done it will be as if nothing ever happened in the Sister abode and no one ever lived there,” said the commanding Praetorian.  Ballcrusher took in the commander with admiration. With her deep voice, military “crew cut” hairstyle, standing 5’4” tall, and weighing well over 200 pounds she was the vision of what all Naturals hoped to be. There was not even a hint of the feminine about her.

To be with a woman like that… who could ever wish for a man? Ballcrusher thought and suppressed a smile.

Ballcrusher met the Praetorian’s eyes and nodded and then turned back to the communication screen. A message flashed, “We have a runner.” It was from the eastern Baltimore district.

Then another and another and another message flashed—too many to count.

“We have a runner.”

The counter-revolution had begun.

Dearest Mother, the leader of the counter-revolution, was at the podium.

“The Revolution has begun. I give it no name as no name can do it justice.  This is THE revolution—not the French, American, or Vajajay or any other. This is THE revolution to restore and reset humankind back on its natural and evolutionary trajectory.

“Many of you have no recollection or knowledge of the life that was—a life, your life, with a man and children. A life with parents—a mother and a father—two people who thought you were special. A life with brothers and sisters, aunts, and uncles, grandfathers and grandmothers—these groups were called families, and they were composed of the people who descended from the same ancestors as you. They were not conceived in test tubes. Conception did not begin with a woman urinating into a petri dish. It began with a man with an erection, something many of you know nothing about, and it ended with the birth of a baby—your baby—not with a surgeon and scalpel or a suction device and a trip to an incinerator.

“These “Naturals,” as they call themselves now—they used to call themselves “Gay,” and referred to women like you and me as “Straight,”—are no more natural than any of us. Nor should they speak for us. In my youth, these women, about 15% of the population, tried to convince other women that our interests were the same. That man, though that word is no longer in common usage and has been replaced with “male,” were the enemy, that children were a burden, and that your extended family existed only to impress you into a life of slavery and service to your man and your children.

These are the same people that forcefully impregnate you by artificial means and slaughter your unborn children in an effort to create their definition of the perfect woman. Because these people have the same problem that society has always had! We MUST bear children! If we do not the lights will go out on humanity. Our ancestors developed ways and customs for providing for children that worked for thousands of years that did not involve test tubes and abortions and the slaughter of our men. Our lovers, sons, fathers, and brothers.

“Today we free ourselves from our oppressors. Today we take back our lives, our bodies, and our families. Today, I will show you what our oppressors do not want you to see.”

With that Dearest Mother walked away from the podium and out of sight behind the stage curtain. She immediately returned leading a very young, handsome, and naked young man by the hand.

He stood there untroubled by his nakedness in the lights before the crowd of assembled women.   

There was silence in the hall. None of the women under the age of 50 had ever seen a man in the flesh, and the images of men that they saw in the education program were of unattractive older men. The young man standing with Dearest Mother looked back at the stunned crowd. He was nearly 20 years of age and was scheduled for termination by the Naturals having fulfilled his role. The sexual tension in the hall hung thick in the air there for all to feel. The man zeroed in on a particularly attractive nubile young woman in the front row, and his generative member became fully erect. His eyes never left her. Her eyes never left him.

Dearest Mother looked out to the crowd for a moment and with one hand directing the group to take in his manhood and with the other hand motioning to the horde in a sweeping gesture said, “This is the life force that brought us all into existence. This is the life force that will lead us out of this darkness. We will once again be free. The world belongs to the people who inhabit it.

“Those who breed, succeed.”

           

            

Settling a Score

Before Walt could leave there was some unfinished business he had to attend to. There was a man he had to kill.

3 years earlier, his oldest son, Will, then 20, had been shot to death by a police officer. Will was in college and playing football. After a game, he and some friends drove to the local bar strip, and being underage for the bars, a friend old enough to buy alcohol got out of the car and headed into a liquor store leaving Will at the wheel with several others in the back seat. The local police had been called to the bar strip over a bar fight that had spilled out onto the street. One of the officers motioned Will to move his car. Another officer, Officer Robert Spinelli, believing Will was somehow part of the melee and that Will was using his car as a weapon fired 10 shots at the windshield in front of the driver’s seat. Will died a short time later, bleeding to death in handcuffs while the police ransacked his car. They found a marijuana cigarette. Later, the media would report that there had been a “drug related police shooting”.

The loss of a child is the most devastating event that can happen to a human being, and the loss of a child by violence leaves parents in shock. There is no time to prepare, to say “good bye”, or resolve conflicts. There is only the shock, pain, and rage directed at the killer. Walt’s rage churned inside him for these past 3 years. Every “police involved shooting” or other perceived Government injustice reported in the media would send him into the depths of depression followed by a sulking rage ending in a migraine headache that would last for over 24 hours and during which he could not tolerate light or sound. For years he could not walk past the family photos that hung on the wall, inside the kitchen cabinet, on the fridge, or his wife’s dresser without breaking down. Slowly his grief turned to anger and the anger turned to rage – a rage that would not cool.

This man had killed his child. Will had done nothing wrong – he had been following the instructions of another police officer when that scumbag Spinelli overreacted and shot Will to death. Rather than render assistance and try to save Will, the police at the scene handcuffed him and searched his car. Walt could not get over the vision of Will being left to bleed to death lying face down on the sidewalk with his hands handcuffed behind his back.

After the shooting, Walt pressed the issue to the local District Attorney and the State Attorney General to no avail. The other police officers at the scene closed ranks around Spinelli, providing false and misleading testimony to investigators. Later, to add insult to injury, the police officer that fired the shots received an award for bravery in the line of duty by the local Police Benevolent Association. Meanwhile, Walt dreamed of tying Spinelli to his bed, pinning that award to his chest and then setting the bed on fire and burning his house down.

Things were different now. His young son was a young man – Walt had no children depending on him. He was getting older; time was running short. He might not get this chance again. A terrific blackout had gripped the metropolitan area and Walt decided this was the time to settle the score.

Walt rigged a carrying rack for a 5-gallon gas can on his bicycle. He packed his stainless steel Ruger Mini-14, .223 caliber assault rifle, a Ruger .357 magnum revolver, ammunition, matches and two butane lighters and a folding buck skinning knife and set out peddling his bike to his destination and either his destiny or that of Officer Spinelli - the man that had destroyed his life and took away his future. A lifetime of Christmas celebrations, violin lessons, Little League, camping, and vacations at the Jersey shore had been destroyed by that “sick fucking cop”, as Walt referred to Spinelli, and Walt was on his way to settle “all family business” as the line in the movie “The Godfather” said.

He had thought about using a diesel/fertilizer bomb like the one used in the bombing of the Federal Building in Oklahoma City; he had the diesel and the ammonium nitrate and the knowledge, but he wanted to kill Spinelli personally. He wanted Spinelli to see it coming. He wanted Spinelli to bleed to death after being shot. And he wanted Spinelli to bleed to death while in handcuffs while someone stood by and did nothing to save him. He wanted to kill every member of Spinelli’s family right in front of him. He wanted to wipe Spinelli’s existence and all of his descendants clean from the Earth. He burned with a hate only the parent of a murdered child knows.

It was a 12-mile ride in the dark from Tarrytown down to Yonkers. Walt took the Saw Mill River Parkway as there were no homes or buildings along the route. The parkway was built for passenger cars with the view in mind. In the absence of gasoline during the blackout were no cars to worry about. Walt did worry about getting a flat tire on the way, and prepared for that, but his tires held up. He wasn’t worried about getting a flat on the way home, if he even made it home, as he could easily walk the 12 mile return trip without having to lug the 5 gallon gasoline can.

It took him 2 hours to make the 10-mile leg down the Saw Mill parkway from Tarrytown to the Executive Boulevard exit in the village of Hastings-on-Hudson. From there he would head South on Route 9 to North Yonkers and the home of the man that had shot his older son to death. It was 3 a.m., but a few people were up and standing on their porches or hanging out on the sidewalk. Walt thought it was funny that people still stayed out of the street, as there was no risk of getting hit by a car. No one interrupted his trip or sought to stop him. Perhaps the look on his face, the weapon strapped across his back, and the gas can on the back of his bike told the story of Walt. Or perhaps the locals were too surprised to do anything to stop Walt before he disappeared into the dark of night. Either way, Walt arrived at his destination.

Walt stared at the house as he walked around the sidewalk adjacent to the property. The house was on a corner. There was no “backyard” but there was a side yard with a children’s play set, a patio with a BBQ grill, a table and chairs, an old sand box, and a pink bicycle with long flowing pink plastic sparklers hanging from the handle bars. His plan was simple: He took the gasoline and poured it on the window frames along the bottom floor of the house and across the side porch door leading to the patio area. He ran around the house lighting each window frame on fire, with each going up in a loud “whoosh”. Then he crossed the sidewalk and into the street resting his stainless steel Ruger Mini-14 .223 caliber assault rifle across the roof of a parked car less than 30 feet from the Spinelli’s front door. He did not have to wait very long.

The three Spinelli children spilled from the house followed by their mother and father. As they came up the walkway toward the street and the parked car that Walter was using as a rifle rest Walter shot the eldest of the Spinelli children, a girl of 16, in the chest. The report from the rifle deafened Walt as well as the surviving Spinelli’s. Collecting his wits, and not yet realizing that his daughter lay dying on their tiny front lawn, Officer Spinelli turned in the direction of the rifle blast. His eyes were wide with terror when he met the gaze of Walther Thomas. Walt let a moment pass to allow Spinelli to recognize him and process what was happening. Then Walt shot the youngest Spinelli, a girl of 6, right between the eyes. The child went down like a wet rag doll thrown from a dog’s mouth. Walt then shot Spinelli’s wife and 12-year-old son, aiming for their lower legs. He hit them both the first time and they went down on the ground in a heap, screaming in terror agony.

Now Walt came out from behind the car toward a paralyzed-with-confusion Officer Spinelli. The light from the house fire made Walt’s face easy to see, though Spinelli had to look past the rifle Walt was aiming directly at him.

“You!!” Screamed Spinelli.

            “BOOM!!” Answered the Ruger mini-14. Walt had shot Spinelli through the top of his left foot, and Spinelli went down next to his writhing-in-agony wife and son.

            “You killed my son!!” Walt shrieked at the downed Spinelli. “Now I am here to kill your son! Your daughters! Your wife! I want you to see it and feel it! I want you to know what you did to me! And then I am going to kill you!!” Walt fired another round into the leg of Spinelli’s 12-year-old boy. “Your daughters are already dead, you fucking piece of shit!!” And Walt fired several shots into the head of the prone body of the older Spinelli girl, pulverizing her skull, and then paced over to the younger daughter’s body and fired two shots into her torso.

 “Ha ha! How’s that fucking feel, motherfucker? Huh?! They’re dead! Ha ha!!” Walt shrieked like the madman he now was.

Mrs. Spinelli began to low crawl toward her younger daughter’s body but Walt interrupted her efforts by firing a round into the back of her knee, the round exiting through the front of her knee joint and shattering the knee cap. Walt then turned, aimed, and fired at Officer Spinelli, striking him in the right kneecap. Spinelli’s leg exploded in blood. This seemed to stop Spinelli’s backward scoot efforts to evade Walt. Walt then turned and fired again at Mrs. Spinelli, striking her in her elbow. He kicked her in the face, reached into his pocket and withdrew a pair of handcuffs, laid his rifle on the ground, turned her over and handcuffed her. He then roughly turned her over, withdrew his .357 from its holster at his hip and fired a round into Mrs. Spinelli’s shoulder joint. She was now bleeding from wounds in her lower leg, kneecap, elbow, and shoulder.

“Don’t worry, you fucking bitch”, Walt screamed between clenched teeth, “you won’t die for a while. You will have plenty of time to think about my son. He bled to death because of this piece of shit here you call a husband. What comes around goes around.” And with that he spit on her, “Ptuh!”

“He killed my son,” Walt said to no one in particular but motioning to Officer Spinelli as he looked up to find the Spinelli boy leaning against the smoldering house, “and now I am here to even the score and then some”. Walter emptied the remaining rounds of the 30 round magazine into the body of Officer Spinelli’s son, laid down the rifle, and reached into his pocket for another set of handcuffs. With the cuffs in his left hand and the .357 revolver in his right, Walt approached Officer Spinelli and opened fire, striking Spinelli in the elbow, shoulder, and ankle. He then clubbed Spinelli with the revolver, turned him over and handcuffed his hands behind his back.

It had been only 3 minutes since Walter set Spinelli’s house on fire, but now some of the neighbors were looking out their front doors and some were coming down into the street. A police siren wailed in the distance and from the sound it was headed this way. Walter went to his bicycle, removed a loaded 30 round magazine from his bag and retrieved his rifle. He engaged the ammo clip and racked the slide and let loose several rounds in different directions, screaming like a wild man. There were no more interruptions from the neighbors.

Officer and Mrs. Spinelli were shrieking in pain and agony as Walter approached them. He was holding the gasoline can in his hand - it was about half-full he reckoned. He poured the fuel onto the bodies of the Spinelli children and set them on fire. He returned to their parents who were wild eyed at the thought of being burned to death, and said “You think I am going to burn you, too? Fuck you. I hope you survive your wounds and live in agony, though I doubt you will make it through the night. Me? I am going to sit here and tell you what you did to my life.” 

Walt began to draw breath to speak again when a vision of his son Will lying in his casket flashed in his mind. His rage boiled over and he opened the buck-skinning knife he wore on his hip and tore away Officer Spinelli’s boxer shorts, seized his testicles and penis in his left hand, and cut them away from Spinelli’s body. As Spinelli shrieked in agony, hands cuffed behind his back, Walter stood back and admired his handiwork.

“Let me know when you are through screaming there, scumbag,” Walter said laughing, “because I want you to die with your balls and your dick in your mouth”.

Spinelli’s screams began to subside as the blood poured from the wound in his groin. Walter kicked Spinelli viciously in the head until Spinelli’s mouth was open, and then carefully deposited Spenilli’s genitals in his mouth. He walked over to a still very much alive Mrs. Spinelli, poured the remaining gasoline on her and her husband, stood back and looked her right in the eyes and said, “I changed my mind. Fuck you. I want you two to burn here, now, and then I hope you burn in hell,” and then Walt set them on fire. He stayed and watched until he thought Officer & Mrs. Spinelli were dead and then hopped on his bike as carefree as any 9 year old on the first day of summer vacation and peddled away. Walt didn’t make it to the end of the block before being shot to death by responding police officers. As he lay there bleeding to death in the street he smiled to himself and was as pleased as punch with the events of the evening. Walt's last words were to himself, unheard by others. "I got him, son. I killed the man that killed you. I destroyed the future of the man that destroyed your future. This was the best I could do."


       The following morning the neighbors crowded the scene of the Spinelli family murders, gawking in horror at the gory scene. More than a few knew of the famous case of the shooting of a young, unarmed college kid by the man lying charred in the small yard in front of his lightly damaged house – for some reason the gasoline had not succeeded in spreading to the rest of the home – along with his wife and three children. The lesson was not lost on any of them.

“What comes around, goes around.”

A Life Unmourned

            The evening’s fall of darkness is a terrifying time when you are surrounded by men that want, no are sworn, to kill you. The evidence of the enemy’s intentions lay all around him, as did the efforts of his comrades. The blood, everywhere on the ground, had been quite warm. Now the blood on the ground had congealed into a sickly, slippery, cold gel. He slid slowly on his back, pushing towards the Union lines and help. One hundred yards was all that separated the armies. That and the dead that lay between them.

            The disgraceful brutality of the day’s bloodshed seemed lost on the insects of the field as they sang and crooned their mating serenades with no more regard for the hundreds of dead men lying there than a man would have had for the death of hundreds of their kind. He hoped that their chorus would give cover to the roar of his labored breathing and pounding heart. Not that it much mattered. His heart was pumping his own blood out of his body through a hole in his neck, courtesy of a dying Confederate soldier in his first battle, a boy really, who discharged his rifle almost as an afterthought while being stabbed to death. He slid slowly on his back.

            This was not his first battle. He had seen the carnage and courage, the terror and valor, and the death and survival of those that fought and bled on the field. He prayed that those who sent young men to be slaughtered like this would know a violent death themselves. This was their war. It was their cause - yet it was his death. He had no dead man in this funeral. Well, other than he. He was here because life had failed him and he needed the $300 he got for taking the place of another. For $300 his life was spilling onto the ground from a hole in his neck. For $300 he had forged lifelong friendships with the short lived, bonds that can only be formed in the privation and fear where men seek the support of the man standing next to them. For $300 received he had the privilege of watching his newly acquired friends kill and be killed, their bodies decaying unburied and unmourned, for no reason that any of them could intelligently articulate. Now it appeared it was his turn. He slid slowly on his back.

            His head swam and his lifeblood flowed from the wound in his neck and still he slid slowly on, like a frog turned on his back that struggles to right itself. With 30 yards to go he stopped to rest. He opened his eyes to the beauty and miracle of the stars on a clear night. They greeted him impassively as they always had. The vastness and excellence of a clear night’s sky is imponderable but the stars remain unimpressed by man. He dared to let out a series of gasps. He needed air, needed to breathe, unable to concern himself that someone might hear. He closed his eyes and felt himself drifting. When he opened his eyes again the stars were there but remained indifferent to his struggles. He slid slowly on his back.

            Drifting in and out of consciousness with 20 yards to go a lucid thought fought through the foggy mind of a dying man. This is a stupid way to die. He laughed to himself as another thought came to him. I wonder if I give the money back will they let me live? ‘NO’, said a voice. The voice was his. He thought of his children, 4 boys under the age of 7. Will they even remember me? They had been desperate. His wife thought the $300 would change their lives. It certainly changed my life. He slid slowly on his back.

            There was a body in his way; he could feel his head bump into it. He would have to go over it. He collected his strength and curled up as if to sit and then lunged back on top of the corpse, but the corpse moved and he slid off over its head. Then the soon-to-be-corpse sat up with wild eyes and made a gurgled sound in his direction. It was his Sergeant Major. Though he thought they had made eye contact the Sergeant Major did not appear to recognize him. Then the Sergeant’s eyes rolled up in his head and a torrent of blood came pouring from the man’s mouth. The Sergeant Major fell to his side, certainly a corpse now. He slid slowly on his back.

            A hand grasped his lower leg by the boot. When he looked down a young man missing the lower part of his body was hanging on to him. “Help me,” he hissed. “Help me”, he repeated. The half-man held a bloody piece of paper in his hand and was motioning for the soldier to take it. “Give this to my father, please.” With the bloody paper now in his hand he slid slowly on his back.

            He could see the cover that the men holding the line were sheltering behind. The blood that had been spewing from his neck was now just a trickle, and what little was left of his strength had left his body along with it. Five yards to go. He had to tell them who he was. He wanted his children to know what had happened to him and where he had died. He slid slowly on his back.

            He felt the earthen ramparts of the line. He had made it. Someone would see him. Someone did see him. He felt hands grab his tunic roughly and haul him quickly over the mound. He heard their voices. He tried to speak but could not. He held out the bloody paper that had been given to him by the man that had been blown in half by a cannon ball as he lay there on his back.

            “It’s a g-d damn Yankee!”

            He had only a brief moment to realize that he had sought help in the wrong direction before the soldier brought the bayonet of his rifle down into his chest, the blade piercing his sternum and pinning him to the earth. How unnecessary, he thought as his life slipped away, to have my blood on your hands. I was killed already. 

            His body slid slowly into the earth.

A day soon came where hundreds of thousands would come to pay their respects to the official that sent him and hundreds of thousands like him to their violent deaths. These multitudes would erect monuments and statues to this official, put his likeness on their currency, exaggerate his accomplishments, and revere his memory.  No one, not even the children of the Union soldier slain so mercilessly, would remember his life, his loss, his forced sacrifice, or where his body lay, unmarked, with the others killed that day.

           

C’est la Guerre.