“THE PEOPLE vs APD” by Anonymous

For James Boyd…. “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.” ­­­­Martin Luther King Jr.

CHAPTER 1 "Let those curse it who curse the day, Who are prepared to rouse Leviathan." JOB 3:8 The People were agitated. Week after week the State sponsored violence continued to wreak havoc upon the poor of Albuquerque. The rich didn't care as long as they didn't have to see it. The police served the rich at the expense of the poor. In other words, business as usual. The People continued to work. Lawns were mowed, dishes were washed, homes were constructed, and life proceeded in an orderly, predictable manner. Just the way The Man likes it. Anyone stepping out of line found themselves incarcerated or dead. Individuals speaking out about it disappeared in the night. Something was clearly wrong. Too many killings, not enough oversight. It was all out of sight, out of mind until the incident in the foothills. The bloodthirsty, jack­booted storm­troopers were out on a killing spree as usual and had cornered an

acceptable target. A "schizophrenic," which is more of a political designation than an actual illness. It's how the elite say "undesirable" or "useless eater." This time, their savage act of murder occurred in plain sight, atop a hill. The execution was simply that: a cold blooded execution. The video from the lapel camera recorded a snuff film. This blatant and cruel act of homicide put all the other shooting by police into context. These were not isolated incidents as the media would have The People believe. This was Terrorism. When The People weren't watching, A.P.D. became the terrorist wing of the emerging fascist dictatorship.Now, The People were awake, and watching. The killing on the hill prompted a massive protest, organized in part by Jill. Not her real name, but as an activist working for ANWER NM, she considered that using her real name would be ill advised given the rise of right­wing violence since the inauguration of the first black president. This was certainly a contentious and interesting point in American history. Change was in the air and Jill savoured every breath.

"Now listen up," she addressed the packed classroom. "We need to recognize that the police no longer serve us, The People. They serve the one percent, the uber­rich. Or, more accurately, they serve the almighty dollar." The room erupted in claughter (clapping + laughter). "The capitalist pigs know they are criminals. That's why they need a private army. To keep us, The People, from establishing a just society, a society of equals." The classroom was mesmerized. Or stoned. It was difficult to tell. Most of them were UNM students­­freshmen mainly. A few were homeless bums and there was a middle­aged professor in the front row, nodding enthusiastically to Jill's every word. Jill reached into her purse, withdrew a gun and pointed it at the ceiling. "We need to restore the balance of power. We need to take over city council, overthrow the city government, and institute a new order here. We need revolution!" She basked in the standing ovation, waving the gun around, pretending to shoot her audience. It was not loaded.

"Arrive at the Albuquerque Center for Peace and Social Justice at noon. You will be issued a gun and a grenade. You will need a backpack to take whatever you can loot in the ensuing chaos. We must fight until all the rich people are willing to spread their wealth around. We are the ones we have been waiting for! Are you with me?" The audience nodded and cheered their assent. It was their time.

CHAPTER 2

Police Chief Odin flipped through the newspaper, shaking his head. "Hey, tell The Journal to step it up. Don't call them protesters. Call them domestic terrorists. More fear, less facts."His assistant immediately notified the media representative to issue an order to the local media on the correct angle for their coverage of the protests. All journalists took their orders from the APD. It was either that or write for the Weekly Alibi.

The protest was being planned for the following evening. His spies informed him that they would be taking the bait­­one of APD's undercover agents had worked a deal to arm the Albuquerque Center for Peace and Social Justice. The protesters would be picking up weapons on their march, weapons which had been disabled by APD before being given to the undercover agent. Not that the hippies would notice.

As soon as they marched with weapons in hand, Chief Odin himself would be there with a full team of SWAT officers ready to take down the uprising once and for all. He would be hailed as a hero and Albuquerque would be free of several hundred dissidents. A win­win situation.

He lit a cigar and puffed smoke against the glass of the window overlooking the plaza. He could see it now, the Department of Homeland Security pinning a gold star on his lapel, a presidential medal of honor, and hell, maybe even a peace prize.

CHAPTER 3 Timothy Ruiz liked to describe himself as a "practical idealist." He worked at the Channel 14 News Room as a sound technician and an on­call cameraman for special investigative reporter Debby Smith. He wore a nice suit and tie, worked out, tanned, gelled his hair, and whitened his teeth. But underneath his telegenic exterior he was, at heart, an

idealistic non­conformist. Beneath the suit was his favorite teeshirt, an old sweat­stained one from his pre­antiperspirant hippie days with the faded Che Guevara silk screened print. The "Viva La Revolucion!" slogan was barely discernible but he wore it as a reminder not to "sell out." His personal political views are what made tomorrow's story so exciting: he had been asked by Debby to accompany her on her coverage of the anti­APD demonstration at the city plaza. He was happy for the overtime, happy to be working with Debby again, and absolutely ebullient about covering the protest and building his own film reel. And the truth is, he would feel more at home among the chanting, impassioned mob than among his conservative, reserved colleagues in the newsroom. It would be a welcome respite. It was five o'clock and he was making his way to the exit when he got the text. A text which could fundamentally change the trajectory of his entire career: "Tim. It's Malcom. I got a lead for you. BIG. \M/" Impatient and annoyed by the tease, he nearly deleted and ignored it but something told him to

follow through with a reply. He hadn't heard from Malcom in a couple of years and so there was enough curiosity to warrant a reply. "What? I'm driving. Be Specific." Seconds later the reply: "At the ACPSJ. Tomorrow, pre­demonstration meeting at noon.....we're taking up arms." Timothy froze in the parking lot, did an about face, and headed directly back inside, down the hall, and into Debby's office where she sat in front of a gigantic monitor editing video footage. Without looking up she told him,"go home Tim. It's one minute past five. You should be three blocks away by now. You need your rest for tomorrow." "Debby, I wouldn't bother you now but I got a big news tip and it pertains to tomorrow's story." She continued editing the video, not looking. He took it as a cue to continue. "There will be a pre­demonstration meeting tomorrow and the protesters are going to take up arms." She stared right into Tim's face, eyebrows raised. "Who? Where? When? How? Why?" "A fellow traveller, a friend I used to do activism with told me that at the Albuquerque Center for

Peace and Social Justice at noon tomorrow the protesters are going to arm themselves en route to the plaza. I don't know the reason why....I can only guess at this point." "Does anybody know about this?" He had her full attention. It was almost intimidating. "Nn..n..n...nnno. No. Just us. This friend dropped me a hint as a favor I suppose." "Don't breathe a word of it to anyone. Don't respond to the texts. Take me there. We need to take some establishing shots and find a place to park." They headed out the door to make their preparations for what they both hoped would be a career boosting story. Timothy's excitement gave way to a more pensive mood as he considered whether he would feel bad about getting a good story if it meant witnessing some of his former peers being tear gassed and brutalized by law enforcement. Could he compromise his ideals if it meant greater economic freedom? Or would he lend his voice to their cause and risk everything?

Debby, by contrast, became increasingly animated. She insisted that he promise not to call the authorities. "We don't want this to be interrupted. We are not here to make the news, only to cover it. Besides," she said with a hyena smile, "if it doesn't bleed...it doesn't lead." He smiled back while concealing an inner revulsion. How could she be so callous? He thought of the officers shooting the homeless man on the hill, how one of the shooters celebrated his kill shot with a proud "Boo­yah!" It reminded him of the hunting shows he watched as a kid on Saturday mornings waiting for the cartoons to begin.The hunters would sit up in tree­stands and point their weapons at the trail waiting for the deer to arrive. They would count the points on the antlers before deciding whether or not it would win them an award at the hunting lodge. They would pose with the dead animal afterwards, smiling with their weapon draped over the antlers, giving the appearance of being great hunters, and not just ambushers looking for an easy prize kill. What pride could there be in taking such cheap shots? What kind of person would take pleasure in spilling blood just for a trophy? What kind of

person just stands by and watches as the blood of the innocent is spilled? These and other questions flooded his mind. Uncomfortable questions. Questions for which there are no answers, and those with answers better left unsaid.

CHAPTER 4 Malcom and the other organizers were staying the night at the office. All the couches were occupied by the other A.C.P.S.J. volunteers. Their march would begin the following afternoon but the preparations would begin much sooner. He proofread the press release he was working on. All he needed to complete it was the list of demands which Jill, from ANSWER NM, would be providing him. It was close to midnight at which time she would be calling or texting. He took advantage of the five minute wait to take a smoke break. Outside, dozens of sleepers lie in their sleeping bags and olive drab army blankets. This was Albuquerque's Occupy Wall Street contingent, an ad hoc movement consisting of vagrants, bums, and college age liberals from wealthy homes who have nonetheless come to identify with the poor in their common struggle against The System. Malcom carefully tip­toed around them and went to the sidewalk before lighting up, allowing the soft

breeze to carry the smoke away from the sleepers. He only had five cigarettes to last until morning and if there's one thing he learned about working among the chronically unemployed: they are masters at cigarette extortion. Earlier, he noticed an unmarked van parked across the street with it's back facing his own office window. The van was still there, nearly six hours later. It didn't belong to any of the activists and none of the Occupy Wall Street crowd had vehicles. He stared at it, looking for anything which might suggest the identity of its owner. "Pigs," said the voice behind him. It was Zaiger, the computer hacker from Anonymous. "What's up Malcom? Why so jumpy?" "Never sneak up on a brotha like that, you understand?" Malcom was shaking and his eyes bulged. He hadn't realized how anxious he had become. He tried to push the thought of all those AK­47's and hand grenades out of his mind. He was paranoid but didn't want it to show. "Got a spare cigarette?" Zaiger reached out a soft, well­manicured hand. He was pasty­white, chubby,

and had a blonde faux­hawk underneath the black hoodie. His grinning face suggested he was pleased at the reaction he elicited. "Spare? I have smoked for ten years and not once have I purchased a pack with twenty­one cigarettes inside. Not once. But here." He handed the hacktivist a cigarette. "What would the pigs be doing here?" "It's just an attempt to intimidate us before the demonstration, that's all. And it won't work." Zaiger produced a can of spray paint from his pocket and gave it a hard shake. "I'm going to mark it with a swastika." "The hell you are! This is definitely not the time to agitate. There will be plenty of time for confrontation tomorrow. No trouble tonight, you hear me?" Malcom was unable to disguise the fear in his voice. "What is it?" Zaiger asked, no longer grinning. "Is there something wrong?" "Listen. Remember what Jill said about Operation APD at the general assembly? About restoring the

balance of power? She wasn't just talking. That was not rhetoric. We're doing it for real. I can't relax, I can't sleep. Do you know what this could mean?" "Yea, it's not that big a deal. We're just marching. We exercise our first amendment all the time. Marching with rifles at our sides is essentially the same thing. It's about civil rights, not violence. Don't worry so much." Zaiger took a long drag before continuing. "And them? Do they understand that we're playing for keeps? That we don't back down even if the hit shits the fan?" Malcom surveyed the sleepers again. The nylon sleeping bags reflected the moon's light, and for a second he thought they resembled body bags. "They have nothing to lose." His phone vibrated. A text message from Jill: "The People's List of Demands." He scrolled through the list: "$30 per hour minimum wage. College loan forgiveness. Affirmative action for all employers. Higher taxes on the rich. Mandatory Community Service for the Rich.

Ban Talk Radio. Re­Education Camps for Tea Party Members. Close Down Walmart. Replace Fast Food with Organic Produce Stands. Free Palestine. Ban Gluten. Mandatory Islamic Cultural Studies for High School Students. Charge Police Chief Odin with Terrorism." The list of demands would be submitted via press release to every major news outlet and released onto social media in the morning. The armed insurrection would last until every last demand was recognized and satisfied. Malcom, Zaiger, Jill, the Occupiers, and Anonymous were on the cutting edge of societal evolution. They were the vanguard of a new social consciousness. They were revolutionary Marxists and were prepared to fight and die for their ideals. "Zaiger?" Malcom was angry again. More angry than scared. The rage that motivated his political activism resurfaced. "Give me the spray paint."

CHAPTER 5 Jill arrived at the Starbucks in the Uptown shopping center ten minutes after six. The demonstration would begin in a few hours but the other organizers would already be busy with the last minute details. She just finished faxing the final draft of the press release to the main headquarters of the ANSWER Coalition, to Media Matters, to Fox News, ABC, NBC, the BBC, and to the Southern Poverty Law Center. She did everything according to the instructions that came from above. From those who control the media. She preferred not to think about them directly or the control they exerted over her life. It was better to just go with the flow and reap the rewards. Even the stop at Starbucks was done because "They" summoned her. She had no choice. Jill learned early on in her community organizing career that it was better not to discuss or even think about them. It was better to react appropriately, and strictly according to protocol. "They" never came when you expected them to, and once you

accept the terms of your contract, "They" were unavoidable. There was no escape and no point in trying. You're in it for life. Or till death. She supposed it was a matter of perspective. The summons came just moments before, as she sent her faxes. She awaited the verification page to be printed when a FedEx delivery man passed behind her, brushing her shoulder with his. She turned and looked into the expressionless face of a nondescript man who made a curious, but familiar gesture: he traced his hand across his throat from left to right, then nodded towards a black Jaguar creeping through the parking lot. That is how "They" send their messages. Everything is cryptic, every person wears a mask. Or two. She saw the Jaguar park at Starbucks and so that's where she went. She ordered a coffee and sat down with a copy of The Weekly Alibi to await the inevitable, awkward conversation. She didn't have to wait long. A scrawny man with beady eyes and a metal cane sat himself down across from her and opened a bottle of Snapple lemonade. It was "Mr. Poe," her link to the organization, her only face­to­face contact. As she

watched him inspect the bottle of lemonade, Jill was reminded of the home drug tests her father used to make her take. She remembered his fascist, conservative face as he would twirl her pee around in the plastic container, as though he could visually identify any THC present. It was like he was taunting her with his ability to violate her privacy on such a deep level. In a way, her political activism was just an expression of a deep seated need to reject her conservative upbringing. "Hi Mr.Poe. Have you read the list of demands? They are exactly what you asked." She gave him a warm smile, squinting her eyes slightly to make it appear sincere. Mr. Poe looked nothing like her father but he had that same smug stare that is so typical of conservatives these days. They all tend to look the same once they reach a certain age. "Yes, Jill. We are pleased. I wanted to personally commend you on behalf of the organization. Today is a big deal. Big." He pushed a bulging envelope across the table. Its ends were secured with packing tape. "You've done well. Quite well."

"Thank you." She placed it in her purse. "And here." She handed him a flash drive. "That's everything." "Everything?" It disappeared into a coat pocket. "Yes. Everything and everyone. All two hundred of them." She was already counting the money in her head as she had done every day since the offer was first dangled in front of her. Rolls of hundred­dollar bills, tightly packed, bundled together, clean, crisp, and all hers. She would soon have it all: a new car, a move across the country, a new name, a new home, and a new life. "It's all in there. One thousand for each dossier. It was nice seeing you again, Jill." He was halfway out the door before she noticed that he had even left the table. He was a non­entity now that she had what she wanted. Her work here was nearly complete. She removed the phone from her pocket. Ten missed texts, all from the other organizers. One from Malcom caught her interest: a photo of a white van with a bright red pig face spray painted on the side of it. It had a swastika on its forehead and dollar signs for eyes.

A part of her wanted to text them back, laugh about it, and have a good time speaking truth to power. The other side of her wanted to be rich, to be free to pursue her own selfish interests. It was this other side that dropped the phone into her coffee cup. She disposed of the cup in the trash can on the way out the door and drove out of the parking lot heading west with no intention of stopping until far outside of New Mexico's borders, far from the accusatory stares and death throes of the movement she just betrayed, and further still from the ideals she abandoned.

CHAPTER 6 The drumbeats began promptly at noon. These weren't the rhythmic marching beats of an organized military force hell bent on destroying The Other; these were the flowing, tribal patterns of intercommunal harmony and mutual understanding: hippie drum beats.The streets were packed with demonstrators, onlookers, and vendors. There was a sense of peace and general good will. Not even the motorists caught up in the maelstrom seemed annoyed at the inconvenience. And why should they be? The majority of the demonstrators were regular people from different backgrounds with diverse lives. They gathered over a single issue, that of police state terrorism. And they gathered in peace. The group was comprised of various political factions as well as apolitical anarchists. There were cyclists, bikers, and pro­lifers marching alongside Black Panthers, La Raza, and White Nationalists. Occupy Wall Street activists were easy to identify: the standard look was a cross between Bob Marely and Charles Manson; for the men it was pretty

much the same. Anonymous Hacktivists wore the plastic, grinning mask from a popular action movie, the visage of Guy Fawkes, revolutionary and terrorist who, in 1605, attempted to blow up the House of Lords during the state opening of England's Parliament. The organizers from the Albuquerque Center for Peace and Social Justice were identifiable by their Che Guevara teeshirts. Che, an iconic and ironic role model for revolutionaries around the world was strictly opposed to rebellious youth protesting in the streets and he is known to have employed forced labor camps to control such activity.But as with all things Progressive, image takes precedence over substance. Timothy Ruiz and Debby Smith arrived earlier that morning t0 set up their base of operations in the white van they put into position the night before. A van which now bore a large red pig face on the side, with dollar signs for eyes and a swastika on the forehead. "Flak," Debby explained, seemingly exhilarated by the destruction of company property. "If you're not catching flak you're not over the target."

She was right. They were right in the center of the action. No other news crew had the view, the position, and the direct connection with the brewing story that they had. Timothy scanned the crowd. He could see Malcom in the mix, unmistakable with his beret and his exaggerated hand gestures. He could make the most mundane statement sound and appear grandiose with his empty posturing. All of a sudden, Timothy remembered the feelings he had which impelled him to get a real job, to "sell out" as Malcom so succinctly put it. All that talk but for what? He found himself praying under his breath that the text message about the weapons was a lie or an exaggeration to secure media coverage. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. After all, how could a non­profit organization dedicated to "peace and social justice" incite a violent insurrection? Right now he was taking some establishing shots, seeking out those clips which would communicate to his viewers what The People were feeling and what they wished to express. One of the signs in particular caught his eye: "Capitalism is Structurally Violent!" He remembered when he used to believe the same thing. He used to believe that money was

the root of all evil, so it made sense to eliminate that political and economic system based on money: Capitalism. But when he committed to becoming a journalist, he learned about political freedom, the freedom of speech in particular, but also the ways that political freedom itself cannot exist without property rights. Communism, which is what he used to advocate, stood for the abolition of property rights. This made him rethink the wisdom of destroying the system we have when it's the best that has been developed yet. It's not the best possible system, but that's only because people fall short of perfection. Money, Timothy came to believe, is only as evil as the person who holds it. Debbie stepped in front of the lens. "Okay, it's show time." The drumming stopped. A vacuous, expectant silence descended upon the crowd. Malcom could be seen climbing atop the hood of a car­­his own Geo Metro­­with a megaphone in hand. He started reading the press release. Debby quickly began her introductory remarks. "This is Debbie Smith with a Channel 14 Special Report. I am here with Timothy Ruiz, my new cameraman, with exciting front row coverage of 'APD vs The

People,' a demonstration by The People of Albuquerque against the Albuquerque Police Department. They are now reading their hate­filled manifesto which they have threatened to hand deliver to Police Chief Odin later on today." Timothy had read the list of demands and didn't think it was "hate­filled", and it wasn't much of a manifesto. If anything, it was the incoherent ramblings of an incoherent political movement. He was startled by Debby's interpretation of the events but he was in no position to do anything but follow orders if he wished to remain her new cameraman. He focused on obtaining good footage. "Minimum Wage. $30 per hour!," Malcom delivered each demand to raucous applause. "Ban Talk Radio!" "Re­Education Camps for Tea Party Members!" Behind Malcom a line was forming. A procession of marchers entering the A.C.P.S.J. headquarters and re­emerging wearing camouflage backpacks, gas masks, and carrying assault rifles. Debby was speechless. Timothy panned across the crowd then back to Malcom. "Mandatory Community Service for the Rich! College Loan Forgiveness! Legitimate

Wealth Redistribution! Legalize Sex Work! Decriminalize Drugs! Free Birth Control! Free Abortions!" "Come on!" Debby led the way into the heart of the gathering, amidst the armed demonstrators. The marchers headed to Central Avenue, disregarding traffic, bringing it all to a stop. The drumming resumed and new sounds issued from the now emotionally charged mob: angry shouts, epithets against the police, and calls to "RISE UP!" Then there was the sound of glass breaking as rocks were thrown through windows of small businesses, sending the message that The People would be coming soon for their fair share of the profits. Debby and Timothy followed along, she giving her running commentary, and he simply trying to keep the camera from shaking. From the corner of his eye, he saw what he thought was a grenade, being casually tossed up and down in the hands of a scrawny punk rocker with flames tattooed on his face. He heard sirens in the distance and suddenly felt like he was trapped in a steel barrel travelling the upper rapids of the Niagara River, approaching the edge of the Falls.

CHAPTER 7 What began as a nice sunny morning gave way to an overcast, gloomy afternoon. From his vantage point atop the Bank of Albuquerque, a twenty­three story building capped with a red pyramid, Police Chief Odin surveyed the street below. The demonstrators would be passing by within the hour on their way to the plaza. The street was lined on both sides with spectators unaware of the direction the day's events would be taking. The snipers were in place and the riot police were assembling at that very moment. A convoy of squad cars sped up Central Avenue and three police helicopters patrolled the sky. Chief Odin felt like a god, commanding the very forces of nature. Everything he could see and hear and feel was an extension of his will. He raised a hand to the sky as lightning flashed on the southern horizon. He needed the storm clouds to obscure the sun's light, the wind to mask the sounds, lighting to drive the sensible to seek over, and finally, he needed rain, to wash away the blood. Torrents of rain for torrents of blood.

Accompanied by his two bodyguards he descended the elevator and entered the back seat of the black Jaguar awaiting him in the basement parking garage. He didn't recognize the nondescript man in the driver's seat but he instantly recognized the scrawny, bespectacled man with the cane in the passenger seat as Mr. Poe, the liaison between the Albuquerque Police Department and the Cryptocrats. The car left the garage and headed directly over to the plaza. "Everything is under control, Mr. Poe." Mr. Poe didn't turn to face Chief Odin, which was as he preferred it. Chief Odin considered himself an excellent judge of character and whenever he had the misfortune of looking Mr. Poe in the eyes, he knew he was dealing with a disturbed character. "And once I have those dossiers in hand, the purge will begin. Have you personally examined them yet?" "Yes, Chief. I have. I personally examined all two hundred files. Here." He handed the police chief a flash drive. "There are some startling revelations to say in the least. There are some people, enemies of the new order, who will learn to respect your power

and obey your will. But you know what has to happen first....." Chief Odin already knew who and what was on that flash drive. Who it implicated and in what. But knowing something is meaningless without evidence and that is precisely what he now had. He was prepared to bring down publishers, talk show hosts, congressmen, authors, and professors. The web of blackmail and deceit would ensnare famous comedians and actors, judges, doctors , lawyers, musicians and artists. He now had access to private videos, pictures, and personal emails­­­­incriminating, embarrassing, perverted, and intimate. Information and evidence about the two hundred most popular, influential, and revered individuals on the political and cultural left. He would bring down every major liberal cause from environmentalism to feminism, including socialism, atheism, and government health care. All liberal causes would be criminalized as treasonous and unAmerican. He had, in the palm of his hand, the power to subvert every Progressive political organization in the country. There was information which, if acted upon, could turn the IRS into his personal tool of

political oppression, a way to eliminate and persecute his enemies and competitors. A big part of his agenda was the mass incarceration of tens of thousands of left wing political radicals. He would make today's demonstrators the new face of domestic terrorism. Good bye Timothy McVeigh, hello Anonymous and Occupy Wall Street. But ultimately, to demonstrate treason and sedition on the behalf of the Liberal Progressive Establishment, there would have to be a catalyst, something chaotic to justify the imposition of a dictatorial order. And with the aide of the Cryptocracy, he would have that chaos. The Jaguar pulled up behind the assembled ranks of riot police. Chief Odin looked up at the American flag whipping violently in the wind that was now coming in bursts. He focused above the flag at the metal sphere at the top. At the police academy, they were taught that it symbolized the "shot heard around the world" fired at Lexington, Massachusetts on April 17, 1775. It made him think of an avalanche and how on the ground, a pebble is just a pebble, but if cast from the heights of a great mountain, the pebble can trigger a chain reaction until a full on avalanche sweeps down and buries everything in its path.

There was no question in his mind that there would be an avalanche. It was inevitable. There was only one question which remained to be answered: who would cast the first stone? Whichever side started the chain reaction, he believed, would be the side to finish it. "Fortune favors the bold," he muttered, unconsciously opening and closing the strap on his pistol holster. "We'll be seeing you," Mr. Poe said. Without bothering to reply to that insect of a man, Chief Odin stepped out of the car just as the first drops of rain began to trickle down. The sirens were much louder down here on the ground and there was a tangible sense of excitement among the gathered police in their paramilitary uniforms. "The end justifies the means," he said to himself, lighting a cigar, walking towards the back of the plaza to await the arrival of the demonstrators. Five minutes later, the first of the demonstrators rounded the corner. Then a dozen more. Then they flooded the street leading into the plaza. They weren't chanting in unison nor did they seem too organized. They moved rapidly back and forth

across the street, kicking parked cars and hurling stones. Now less than two hundred yards away, Chief Odin could get a sense of their temperament. What he saw still surprised him despite having expected it. Instead of signs and megaphones, they had assault rifles and gas masks. These weren't peaceful protesters. One of his body guards handed him a gas mask. They all drew their weapons. As the first of the demonstrators stepped onto the plaza, the rain started to pour. His officers had done their job and kept the media out. There would be no live coverage. It was just The People and the APD. CHAPTER 8 Debby was fearlessly leading Timothy along, keeping pace with the mob. She was blocking the rain from her hair with an "END THE FED" picket sign. "Police have blocked off Central Avenue and the demonstrators are moving north on 4th, and should be arriving at Civic Plaza any second now." The formerly peaceful mob had a decidedly different character than it did when it started. There

were more weapons than signs and it moved along aggressively, staring down bystanders, throwing rocks, kicking over trash cans, and defecating on police cars. The reporter and cameraman stopped simultaneously just outside of the plaza. The rain obscured their visibility to an extent but they could see clearly enough that something ugly was about to happen. Three sides of Civic Plaza were lined with paramilitary police troops in black Darth Vader uniforms. There were no news crews. No cellphone cameras were waving about capturing the showdown. It was The People versus the APD. A police helicopter hovered overhead shining a spotlight upon the ad hoc gathering of activists. "PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS. THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING!" Police Chief Odin addressed the crowd through a mega­phone. Timothy located him, visible above the back row of officers. He panned to the right, then to the left, estimating that there were perhaps three hundred officers. While the mob consisted of twice that number, it quickly lost all enthusiasm for an armed show of force. The demonstrators put their weapons down.

"I SAID DISARM. YOU HAVE FIVE SECONDS TO DISARM!" Chief Odin's command resonated through the Civic Plaza. The crowd put their hands up. Debby addressed the camera, shouting to be heard above the helicopter now directly above them. "Chief Odin is ordering the demonstrators to disarm, and as you can see, they have done so, and appear to be surrendering non­violently...." Then the shooting started. Every person in the plaza took cover in place, protesters covering their faces with their hands, scattering like roaches. Timothy didn't remember dropping the camera; his body was operating on autopilot. It took him back the way they came. It wouldn't allow him to look back. He heard the first shot clearly, then the others to follow blended together, the terrible sound of automatic rifle fire mowing down the cowering demonstrators. Debby was hit. Her legs didn't operate and she couldn't lift her head. She watched helplessly as demonstrators attempting to run away were being shot in the back. She lifted her arm, waving to get the attention of the Police Chief, certain that there had been a mistake, and that if only she could just

get his attention help would arrive for her and the other wounded and dying. She tasted blood and tried to cry out but could only manage to cough and gargle. Chief Odin pointed to where Debby lay bleeding. "Shoot her in the head. Take that camera!" His two bodyguards eagerly responded, pointing their high­powered rifles at her, their laser sights converging into a glowing red blob, illuminating her forehead. Her skull imploded."Boo­Yah!" they shouted in unison. Malcom sprinted to towards Chief Odin, aiming his AK­47 at the uniformed man's treacherous black heart. He looked to his left to see that Channel 14 reporter Debby Smith had been grievously wounded. Timothy Ruiz was nowhere in sight. All around him his revolutionary vanguard was being chopped to pieces, butchered by the New World Order Death Squad known as the APD. "Chief Odin!" He shouted. Chief Odin's face bore was a strange expression. A mix of amusement and rage. He stared at Malcom's

weapon and grinned. "What are you going to do, hippie?" Malcom pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He looked back at bullet ridden bodies, some of them moving, most of them still, all of them doomed. All at once he realized that he had been tricked. Betrayed. Their weapons were all duds, disabled, and.....Bullets ripped into his chest. Malcom died a martyr for his cause but would be remembered as a domestic terrorist, a violent revolutionary whose actions led to the establishment of a totalitarian police state in America. None of the protesters in the plaza survived. APD suffered no casualties. News spread of how a violent insurrection was put down and Chief Odin received a Presidential Medal of Honor and was made the new head of the Department of Homeland Security. He was hailed as a "great American," "a hero," and "the domestic terrorist's worst nightmare." Timothy made it out alive but was euthanized by the Cryptocracy before he could tell his side of the story. They made his death look like a "suicide by cop," ironically, an apt description for what

brought about the death of Liberty and Freedom in America. THE END