Micheal rolled down his window as his shiny new Volkswagen passed by the town hall, where a crowd of people stood together holding signs and chanting their dissonance. There were a lot more people in attendance than Michael first thought, but it only gave him much more of a challenge.
"Look at all those fucking crybaby bitches," Michael chuckled to himself. The three other individuals that rode with him agreed in their own unique way. Broderick Fuhrmann, a tall guy with curly, blonde hair, began making jokes about liberals. Anderson Lee, a heavy set teen with long, mouse-brown hair, guffawed at his comrade's jokes before proceeding to create his own, which leaned more towards racial and economic routes. Julian Dubanowski II, a smaller and much skinnier guy, just simply nodded his head in affirmation before observing the crowd a bit more closely.
"Not my president! Not my president!"
Michael pulled the car over in front of a quaint little cafe that had just opened months before. The four of them got out the car simultaneously. "Dude, it's so goddamn cold out here," Anderson called out. "You sure we can't just do this from the car?" Michael shoved his hands in his pockets, his teeth clattering away as the reality of the brisk air punched him in the face. Yeah, it might have been 23 degrees outside and the wind is blowing. But if they can stand outside for three hours and protest, so should they.
With the signs held snugly in their hands, the four of them marched begrudgingly onward to the an intersection, where individuals were shouting their mantras. With a michievous smirk on his face, he motioned for his friends to start declaring their own beliefs, words that counteracted the opposing crowd.
"Build bridges, not walls!"
"Make America Great Again!"
"Love Trumps Hate!"
"Down with the jihadis!"
"Hillary for Prison 2016!"
Micheal sighed as the first wave didn't effect other people; they were so determined to get their voices heard. His hands were hurting from the cold, and he couldn't feel his feet due to numbness. It was only a matter of time before the brisk air would make his lungs burn.
Suddenly, a flash of green sped past Michael and into the crowd; Anderson Lee tackled one of the protestors to the ground. "What the fuck," he exclaimed, as he hurriedly crossed the street. Anderson's fist connected with the teenager's face repeatedly and it took four guys, not counting Michael, to get the enraged guy off of him.
"Fucking bitch," Anderson screamed, as he was being dragged back over to Michael's car by his friends. "You better glad your demiqueer friends are there to save you, you piece of shit!" Picking himself back up, the victim flicked off his attacker. "And you call us snowflakes," he yelled back, his Southern accent emphasized by his anger. "I'm not the fragile one, getting hella offended over a goddamn protest!"
After shoving his crony back into his expensive car, Michael looked back over at the protest. Despite having a bloodied lip, the wounded teen looked fine. He seemed to be tended by his colleagues and fellow activists, who ranged in both age and racial backgrounds; with all that was going on, he wasn't paying attention to the fact that the innocent guy was black.
"Guys, I - "
"Shut the fuck up, Anderson. You're such a fucking meathead."
"I'm not racist, but that boy needed to get taught a lesson."
Annoyed, Michael shook his head as he pressed the button, making the car roar to life. "I bet we're gonna go back to school," he grumbled, "and there will be somebody that saw you pummel the goddamn kid. You better be glad we're leaving before he presses charges."
"Let's be honest, Van Buren. You really think he can afford to get one?"
"Dumbass," a hoarse voice in the back giggled. Anderson and Broderick had a good laugh in the back seat together while Julian and Michael simply remained quiet. The car pulled off and sped down the street on the way to the local country club to dress Anderson's bleeding knuckles with bandages and to be comforted by the strong smell of money and expensive leather.
"What's wrong witchu, baby? Do I need to come up there?"
"No, Grandmomma. I'm fine."
The last thing Taye wanted was to lie to his grandmother, but he didn't want her to panic about what happened at the protest. His head still ached a little from being forcefully knocked against the ground, but the nurses at health services were certain that he didn't have a concussion.
"I know you not telling me no story," his grandmother warned. "You're never too old to get the switch to your behind, Mr. Wilson."
"Grandmomma," Taye interjected. "I'm fine. I just got a lot of work to do. I'm fine." It wasn't a lie; he did have a paper to work on. That answer seemed to ease his grandmother's mind slightly, although she was a bit concerned about her younger-than-average college student. After a quick prayer, Taye hung up with her and held his head, now pulsating from added stress. "Fuck," he muttered. "Better take an Aleve or something."
It was almost midnight. Michael lay in bed next to his two newest boy toys who were fast asleep next to him, their naked bodies providing him with a bit more warmth. He wished that he could sleep as soundly as them, but he had so much on his mind. To be more specific, he had that protestor on his mind. He wasn't doing anything but expressing his mind, and he got punched as a result.
He continued to stare at the blank ceiling, the dark room enveloping a blanket of curiosity on him. He wondered about him, that mysterious teenager who was pushed to the ground by a 200-pound animal. Why didn't he fight back?
It wasn't soon after that the numerous thoughts flying across his mind became like flocks of sheep, counting and answering many of them before dozing off into a deep slumber of his own.
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