Amerika

Arnold Raymond nursed his grudges. Perhaps he hoped they’d one day mature into basilisks. He was just glad he wasn’t like those other people who believed hateful things. He wanted a big government, strong enough to fend for the weak and oppressed. He wanted the freeloaders who owned businesses and worked at corporations to pay. If other people would stop hating and share, social justice would enlighten us all.

Perhaps he would forever be a profit without honor in his home country. Perhaps he would have to go elsewhere to truly achieve his dreams like Lenin did. He would never quit. Like that old song, Carry On Wayward Son.

Raymond hated the obese soyform he worked for. He aggressively burped and farted across the retail floor as he reported for his shift fifteen minutes late. He resented being awoke, enlightened and employed by David Soblitzki at the local Home Despot. He was more than handtools and paint brushes. Commerce, he felt, tainted him. With every sale he made, he stole surplus value. With every hour he worked at $12.45, he got deprived of money he deserved. Senator Elizabeth Warren had documented that the American minimum wage should be about $35.00. He wanted what was his, but rich white people always stole it from him. Everytime the cash register rang.

He thought about his weak-assed member of Congress. Progressive people like Arnold had elected him to get things done. To bring real change. To make the 1% pay. This guy reminded him of what Duncan Black used to warn about. Atrios would have told this creature of Hillary to stop wanking. Wanking being a slang shorthand for talking like a woke Progressive while quietly slow-walking the true People’s Agenda in order to get donations or keep political popularity. He wanted real progressivism. He wanted a man who would address the politics of who and whom. He wanted that weight of the poor to come down hard on the 1% in their fancy suburbs.

As work continued its pointless grind, he hated the people he interacted with. He looked down on their petty, little needs. He saw their kids and imagined what ugly adults they would grow into. He imagined them smugly enjoying their meals and playing video games. And these people all voted to protect their unearned status quo. They deluded themsleves that they built something. They worshipped a sky faerie as a way to validate their nauseating dishonesty. Every last one of the bastards was guilty.

All the smart people told Arnold the typical American was a puddle of shit. These people were losers. They were racists. They exploited honest working people just like Rachel Maddow said and they needed to pay. Arnold Raymond and only Arnold Raymond could provide that sort of rough justice. The rest of them claimed to be dedicated to Social Justice, but as Duncan used to write over at Atrios, they were just wanking. Arnold Raymond was going to drive it had right up the man’s ass.

He thought about the stuff he had bought yesterday when he got off shift. There were chlorine pool cleaning crystals that he had bought right out of this store. Along with that, he had bought a 10lb bag of rocks; the sort you used to decorate a flower bed perhaps. Then he went to Papa Reilly’s, where they sold the homebrew stuff. He had bought a 5 gallon glass beaker, 2 containers of Star-San and a one-hole stopper. Then he went to Texaco and filled his car while simultaneously filling up a 1 gallon plastic gasoline bottle. Then it was off to the cute, little bourgois hobby store. He hadn’t entered The Orc Lair to indulge hobbies or waste empty hours playing Warhammer. He wanted two rocket engines and ten feet of fuse. These were the last two key things.

It maxed his exploitative POS credit card. VISA – it’s everywhere you want to spend yourself into slavery. But no. Not this time. Yesterday the bastard capitalists had sold him the bomb with which he would send them a real message. A man’s message. Arnold Raymond’s name would ring out. Trump that, you bourgois fvckers!

What he hated the most were the bratty, spoiled kids. How dare they enjoy their lives when other children had less. They went to their Montessori Schools of Entitled Brattiness and got personalized attention while learning how to read. Poor children and minorites were shunted off to obsolete and underfunded public kindergartens. The brats then went to private religious schools and got brainwashed with memory verses from their evil fvcking bible. The Peoples’ Children didn’t even have the latest textbooks.

Those evil, fvcking suburb brat children had a park called “Kids Domain.” More money given to them so that they could have a place to play. Did these evil, snotty, spoiled suburban White brats ever see where the Peoples’ kids had to go play in the projects. And their smarm-fvck daddies had voted for a candidate that was cancelling a bunch of The People’s Section 8 Housing Grants. There was this trachcan right next to all the cute little swings and balance beams. It was thin, metallic and would never withstand a blast. The bits of metal and shrapnel would all fly. Those overprivileged little bastards would die feeling The Peoples’ reality. Tonight, this very evening, the politics of who/whom would swing in the proper moral direction.

Five PM arrived. Arnold had about 2 1/2 hours to do what was right and necessary. He drove to his apartment and loaded his car. He decided to just be blatant. He would mix all the carp int he parking lot, carry it straight over to the can. His prep this morning had involved taping the fuses into the rocket engines and running the fuses through the 1-hole stopper. He had now cut a hole in the Star-San containers. The stuff was viscous. He wore gloves on his hands and squeezed hard to get it into the 5 gallon fermentation vat which he had covered with a black contractor’s trash bag, along with the cute, white rocks. He added the gasoline. He was careful to roll his car windows 1/2 way down. The fumes that would cook on the way to the park were not going to be healthy for human consumption.

He drove to the park and situated his vehicle. He had to get about 25 feet away. Arnold wasn’t a big, athletic man and the fermenter was getting heavy. He took out a funnel and started with the chlorine crystals. He would have to stopper the vat fast, The resulting nocious fumes were already triggering his eyes and nose. He got the stopper in and began to lug the fermenter inside the bag. He got it to the trashcan and then – Oh shit!

He had forgotten his lighter and couldn’t cook off the bomb. He went back to his car and grabbed what he needed from the glove department of his car. he had to get under control. Sudden movements would make Arnold look suspicious and then if the fascist cops showed up it would all be over. He forced himself to breathe slowly and palmed the barbeque lighter up his sleeve. He walked back over to the trashcan and – Dammit!

A little Hispanic girl in a replica Argentine National Soccer Team jersey was tossing a juice box into the trashcan. The girl noticed something and stopped as if curious. She reached down to pick up a stick and poked around with it into the can. “Abuela Sara!” She yelled. “Que es esto?”

A middle-aged to elderly Hispanic woman came forward. “No juega alla, Gatalitta.” She commanded.

The little girl moved away. But first, she stuck her hand into the garbage can. There was something in her hand and she gave it a pull. Out came a one-holed stopper with a length of fuse. The girl made it about two steps and then collapsed. “!Ayudame!, Ayiii…” She said between coughs.

“Madre de Dios!” The older woman yelled. She then switched to English and yelled at a nearby man. “Alex, its Gata! She’s hurt.” He pulled out a cell and dialed 9-1-1.

Arnold Raymond got back in the car. He drove out of the parking lot in a panic. He stopped a few feet away and tried to get himself back under control. It hadn’t worked. The chlorine had mixed with the acid in the Star-San. A little girl had opened the fermentation jar and now the gasses would leak out and there was no way he could get close enough to light the fuses and cook the bomb off. That didn’t even get into the problems he would have since the engines were inside the flask and the fuses were no longer attached to the stopper mechanism. He left and hoped nobody would go to work on finding him.

It was a year later and Raymond had learned exploitation in The Peoples’ Incarceration Facility. The other prisoners either ignored him or hated him and wanted him dead. The ones with children that knew why he was here were the latter group. The “Hacks” as the Corrections Officers were known had two sorts false consciousness. One type involved them enforcing Euro-Phallo-Centric dominance in such a way that proletariat was forced to remain docile. Ironically, these sorts of exploiters were why Arnold Raymond still converted O2 into Carbon Dioxide successfully. There was also another sort of hack. These people used the incarcerated proletariat to generate surplus value by selling narcotics and cigarettes. Anything could happen once these hacks made a deal.

One day it finally did. Raymond had discovered that lifting weights while in the stir served two purposes. It killed time and burned frustration and it demonstrated a certain physical vitality that would discourage people from taking one look at him and declaring him a seminal vessel to be filled at will. As he grunted and strained to bench a plat and a quarter, two large hands came down on the bar. “You look like you need a spot.” A large shaven-headed black man told him as he drove the bar inexorably down towards Raymond’s neck.

“Help me!” Arnold screamed. Two hacks turned and walked out of that section the gym.

It wasn’t a hard wrestling match for the burly and powerful convict to drive the bar into Raymond’s scrawny neck. “This is for the children.” The man said. He then leaned forward and propelled 185 Lbs of metal downward with a force far greater than the gravity that usually made the bench press a challenge.

Tags: fiction, SJWs, terrorism