Giant Men and Violent Women

Guess Who?

ASHLEY

News cameras surround it, helicopters hover over it, and firefighters hose water into the subzero air. Ice on the ground is forming, salt trucks have been called in to battle it, and firefighters have bandaged ankles from fallen. Fiddle Street, which is in the heart of a neighborhood that Bostonians call Rich Row, is on fire. A row of brownstones, populated mostly by executives, has been the target of what the national media is calling hate crimes. Why? Because St. Abe's Army has purposely targeted a group of people due to their financial wealth, assuming that they are in possession of the greatest number of prison workers, working as housekeepers, nannies, valets, and gardeners. And they are right. But that gives them no right to attempt to finish anyone's life.

I button the top collar of my coat as I make my way out of my truck.

The night is cold. Freezing. The streets in the city are filled with people. The looting hasn't started yet, but God has just fallen asleep. There's no telling what can happen. It's two in the morning, but with the crowd, you'd think it was a little past noon. Metal garbage cans are filled with fire. There isn't a person with hands who isn't holding a sign—some for The Prison Work Program, others against it.

Chanting drowns out police sirens as officers scream through intercoms that everyone must go home now. Mandatory curfew is now in effect. And, if the citizens of Boston fail to abide by the rules of this curfew, they will go to jail. It's a lie. There aren't enough jails to hold a metroplex of four and a half million people, and that's how many people seem to be out on the streets right now. Everyone. Everywhere.

Police dogs are attempting to charge at the crowds of activists from St. Abe's Army, who toss cans and trash at officers in riot gear. Store owners have boarded their windows and doors with slabs of woods, the words Small Business Owner spray-painted on some in block letters. Hopefully, the rioters will have mercy on them, but most likely, they won't. There are no rules in guerrilla warfare. Just ask the members of Rebels for the Revelation. Sometimes, the smallest armies from the smallest New Hampshire towns trump an army twice its size. That's the fun part about war; you just never know.

The fire department stands at attention, holding water hoses, as though they were rifles. I've already called Chap about that. He needs The Mayor to call off the fire hoses. Spraying people with water in below-freezing temperatures is bad press. And trust me, the press is covering this.

I walk across the street.

The national media has helicopters over the city. The local media has trucks on the streets. Journalists are touching their fingers to their ears, speaking into mics, interviewing people on the spot. Angry people. Scared people. Those for slavery carry signs that say, Bring Them to MA. Those against slavery hold signs that say, No Slaves in MA. Friend against friend.

I walk past two opposing groups who shout at each other, disparaging each other's views, belittling each other's thought process. Such is the joy of being an American—the freedom to choose, the freedom to accuse. Media cameras surround the opposing parties, circling them, as if they were boxers or dogs, gearing up for a fight. The sirens are blaring. The protestors are screaming. The police are yelling. The hounds are barking. The police lights are spinning. Red. Blue. Red. Blue.

I walk into the Legacy Building.

It's dark in here with just the faint yellow glow of overhead lights. Industrial furniture in wood and red leather are strategically placed around. A counter with a sign behind it that says, Sign Up Here, is off to the side. Stacks of paper sit on the counter. The door eases closed behind me. The deafening noise becomes muffled and gives me a welcome relief.