Protest For the Papers

“Crime rates are rising throughout the world in historic numbers at never before seen speeds. We will bring you more on this as we-”

Smash, sputter.

Two things happened at once. The lights went out, the glass in the window shattered.

The electricity creaked and groaned with a mighty jolt and gave way. Everything became engulfed in darkness. People huddled in their rooms, hugged one another, closed their eyes and prayed, if they were so inclined. All had been watching the news. As of late, it had seemed like the bad news would never stop. It seemed like more criminals were now coming out of the woodwork. Yet no one ever saw them. The crimes had not been huge to begin with. It had not seemed like they would escalate, yet they spiralled out of control like a they were being propelled into higher and higher numbers, more and more severity, more into the public sight and image as they went along. They were almost all being recorded. Some by accomplices, like the Cackling Chase, others were from far away that it was generally assumed the criminals did not know they were being filmed, but close enough that everything was very clear. It was like watching a crime series on television. Only with that, you were assured that it was fiction, it would never happen in real life. This stuff did. It was terrifying.

The glass shattered, hit by a baseball bat that was then dropped, bouncing harmlessly off the pavement and rolling onto the street in a wide arc. The televisions were pulled out one by one, and thrown on the ground, smashed, it was genocide.

The offender limped away, his foot having been pierced by a glass from the window, a soldier in the fight against wrong. Blood marking every footstep he took. The air smelled stale, of rusted blood, it was dim, muffled by terror and fear. It was quiet, the only sound was the shuffle of his injured foot, and the thump of the unpierced one.

Two shrill rounds of a police siren pierced the air. The owner had been in the store when his glass had shattered, he had crouched behind his counter, shivering, praying, and had called the police, cellphones were still working, thankfully. The red and blue circled lights danced around the walls around the siren. A door slammed, the singular policeman, his partner was sick today, got out and approached the limping man. No words, one shot. It reverbated through the walls. People inside their houses flinched. Cowered.

The precinct was dark, lights sputtered back on weakly. Everyone cheered, clapping one another. There was very little to be happy about these days, but they kept their spirits up as best they could. They took the little victories. The door opened, darkness rushing in. all eyes jumped to the door, faster than their owners would admit. A man stood there, covered in newspapers. He was limping. His foot was bleeding. He unfolded the front of his newspaper-jacket-thing and pressed a button in between his hands. An inferno engulfed the station. The fire scrambled out, hungry, imprisoned for too long. Then the boom came. People who heard the explosion wet themselves.