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A quote: “In the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.” ~~ Martin Luther King, Jr.
I’ll start with a story …
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I was guarded outside as they emptied my apartment … the goon who “accidently” tripped while carrying a box of china … but I wouldn’t get mad. It was like old stage plays back in the day when they were allowed. There were roles to play. This time for an audience of neighbors who stood just the other side of the uniformed Committee members. Wide-eyed, hands over gaping mouths. This was for them.
But I wasn’t playing *my* role of State’s Enemy. I wasn’t angry or pleading – I stood calmly in my pajamas, smiling at the crowd, making them remember.
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Now, it’s your turn.
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. featured image, cropped, Adobe Stock standard license.
Sheila Garrett says: I walked up to the scene, FBI ID on my chest, earbud threaded down my back. They had two men by the suspect, an elderly woman. I nodded and told them that she was supposed to be brought in now, too many witnesses gathering around. They nodded and let me take her.
I gave her an apology and an envelope of cash when I released her in a new town where she said she had family.
I don’t know how much longer I can do this.
Joe R. says: Start with a less Stoooooopid quote from MLK. Sounds like total bullshi7 memory problems.
If MLK’s “friends” were “silent” the evil satanic-communist (D)NC would have had their way with him (worse than they did) and his progeny would be back as property of said (D)NC and picking cotton or tobacco.
If MLK remembered the words of his enemies, and instructed his followers and the rest of us to do so, then all would better remember that he still has the same enemies, and that they are laughing at all of us for having MLK’s followers blame Conservatives, Republicans, and Capitalists for their problems and for everything the evil satanic-communist (D)NC has foisted upon their race.
I mean, they regularly sell their babies’ aborted body parts to fund their campaigns. WHEN DOES THAT SINK IN????
Dupin says: Hmmm…I think we have another Russian troll here.
Navig8r says: “Bit early for trick-or-treaters, isn’t it?”
“It’s some kind of scavenger hunt. They have a list.”
“Well, make some of it and hide it for them to find. Not too well, though. Such cute costumes.”
“It’s so much fun to watch their expressions when it and our simulacra all vanish.”
“Remember, not in front of any cameras.”
“Won’t we be in trouble with the ministry of magic for messing with muggles like this?”
“Eventually. It’ll be worth it, though.”
“Just wait til next semester when we learn remote viewing and can watch them trying to explain it to their bosses.”
Greg Horn watched his colleagues swarming the crime scene, examining the wreckage of the bus for clues to the perpetrators and their backers. Although he was still wearing the NASA jacket from his undercover mission, all of them recognized him, didn’t hassle him to move on.
Everything had been going so smoothly. The community had done half the work for him, isolating Elaine so she was longing for a sympathetic ear. Her friends had all ghosted her, and her parents had cut her off from anyone who could offer an alternate view to the relentless demand that she regard herself as ever the least and the lowest in any crowd.
And then someone cooked up this false-flag scheme, right as he was getting ready to roll things up. In theory his rescue of the girl moments before the explosion should’ve secured his image as her hero — except for one miscalculation. The one mistake that led him to hand her off to his worst enemy.
In retrospect the error was obvious— in the chaotic situation he’d simplified the crowd to wolves, sheep, and sheepdogs. When Gruzinsky had clubbed one of the terrorists with a pistol butt, that had read as “sheepdog” in Horn’s overwhelmed mind and he’d shoved Elaine into the man’s arms with instructions to take her to safety.
And Gruzinsky had taken Elaine to safety, all right. The safety of the Sharp Resistance, on the other side of the country. Now Greg Horn had reason to believe he would soon discover what it felt like to be left alone and friendless, assuming he even kept his job.
Dupin says: “Intros concluded. Clark Kent in position. Speech commencing.”
I snorted. New president’s code name, his choice. Only a little hubris, eh? Granted, he did resemble Christopher Reeve.
I scanned the crowd slowly. No unusual movements there. All quiet from my position.
“Move to position,” crackled through my earpiece. What the—
“Natasha in position,” came a woman’s voice. There were no women on this detail.
“Clint here,” came a man’s voice. “Thanos acquired.”
I froze. This was no Marvel movie.
“Acquired,” came the woman’s voice.
I moved, my counterpart sprinting, too.
“Fire.”
Clark Kent’s head exploded before we could get there.
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