I couldn't believe it. The bloody knife slipped from my hand in Hollywood style slow motion. As I watched the blade twist and turn on its decent I noticed reflections of light bouncing around like a disco ball.

The hilt struck the soiled pavement, sending a spattering of red dots outward like a finger painting. I watched as faces of cynicism and jeer turned into looks of horror and disbelief.

Only three days before I had been a member of a group of five bored college students who had decided to drop everything and join the Occupy protests.

We were all failing out anyways. There were so many distractions and it was difficult for any of us to focus on something we didn't give a damn about.

The only reason we enrolled in school was because some lady in a suit told us our senior year of high school that the only financial future we'd have would be going to college.

Little did we know it would only be indoctrination into a corporate playground where the rules only seem to apply to a select few. We all knew the truth and yet we trudged along hoping to make ourselves into something we were not.

For me, the transformation really started when the government decided to prop up a bunch of financial institutions who had failed in their duties. We had been taught that companies who performed poorly should be replaced by companies who do well.

But that wasn't the case with the Bailout. It became clear to me and my associates that we had been deceived and that others were still being deceived.

So, we put our studies on the back burner and decided to blow all our college loans on beer and drugs. This would turn out to be a poor fiscal decision but an extremely wise recreational investment.

I'd been keeping up on the protests long before the mainstream got into the act. But by then the machine had already fabricated the story, like Klotho spinning a web of deceit.

We'd been talking about going for a couple of days but without money or transportation one's political actions can be limited to one's location. Fortunately we were able to catch a ride with a local band going to play at one of the rallies.

We walked into absolute chaos. Pandemonium had gripped the entire event. Cops on horses tried unsuccessfully to herd angry protesters back into line. The smell of tear gas could faintly be detected in the air.

It wasn't hard to find shelter from the anarchy. These people were obviously riled up about something and none of us were in any position to take sides. The band scattered towards the promoter's tent while we casually walked into a nearby bar.

The place was dead. The bartender was a weathered looking woman with despair in her once beautiful green eyes. She subtly glanced up at us, a small smirk coating her lipsticked lips.

"Party's outside... if ya missed it," she noted.
"We thought we might have a little pre-game," I responded, sitting down on a creaky stool.
"You folks don't have any money, now do ya?" she asked as my friends sat down beside me.
"Not a penny in the world." I couldn't lie to her. She had a motherly quality about her that forced my mind back to childhood.

"So what's going on out there," I asked. "Why all the commotion?"
The bartender turned towards the tv and upped the volume. In the background the local news was playing. Kathy, the bartender, poured us all, including herself, shot after shot as we watched the news unfold.

By one in the morning my associates had managed to find a suitable cubbyhole to snooze away in drunker slumber. I, on the the other hand, had found myself in a drinking contest with someone who would not only challenge my sanity but my liver's functionality.

I could tell Kathy was slipping. Her previous words of wisdom had become a jumbled slur of incoherent rants as her tired head slumped forward. A half empty shot of bourbon rolled out of her hand and fell safely to the floor. I threw up on the table.

The curfew the following night did little if anything to dissuade the mounting hoards of people from assembling for a cause they barely understood. Kathy's bar might have been closed at sundown but she stayed open for us.

We couldn’t quite figure out why she was being so kind. She wasn’t making any money right now. The protesters were focused on their insurrection while the locals stayed locked away in their homes for most of the day.

A couple of the guys decided to become a part of the mob while the rest of us chatted it up with Kathy. The bar was in decent shape but we could tell there was some work to be done around the place.

She used to run the bar with her son but he had been killed in Afghanistan a couple of years ago. In exchange for her food and booze we helped her with a few chores that had been put on hold.

“So, why aren’t you guys out there with your friends,” Kathy asked as she re-hung pictures of various sports heroes on the wall.
“I guess because I’m not even sure why they’re out there,” I answered. It was true. At the time, coming to the protests seemed like a great idea. Of course we were all drunk and high at the time and almost everything seems like a good idea when you’re head’s screwed on backwards.
“I did the same thing when I was your age. I was at Kent State when those kids got shot. Didn’t know any of ‘em, but that was the moment when the movement started to fizzle,” Kathy said, staring off blankly.
“So why did you do it,” I asked, sitting down and taking a break from my current task. I took a sip of beer as Kathy walked over towards the table.
She sat down next to me, setting a bottle of vodka in front of both of us. “We were young. We were full of hope and frustration. The world didn’t seem to get us and we didn’t seem to get the world.”
I clinked a shot of vodka and took it with Kathy as she continued.
“I supposed it seemed the right thing to do. My generation was bein’ shipped off to Vietnam to fight an enemy that we knew nothing about. ‘It’s a war against Communism’ they would say. But why were we telling one country what government they should have when our own wasn’t listening to us?”
I just nodded. I liked listening to Kathy when she was relatively sober. She made sense. Her drunken rants were just an explosion of pent up anger. I wanted to hear more.
“But this Occupy... thing... whatever it is. Seems almost too little, too late. Where were the protesters when they passed the Patriot Act? Where were the protesters when we invaded Iraq? Why did it take ten years to get this many people involved? Why did my son have to die?” her last sentence was choked off as she began to cry.
I put my arm around her and pulled her close. “I dunno,” I said, getting misty-eyed myself. “I was just a kid ten years ago. If I could have helped, I know I would have.”
Kathy looked at me and smiled. She wiped her eyes, now smeared with mascara. She then took a swig from the bottle and I quickly followed suit. “You’re a good kid and so are your friends. I think the main problem is, your generation just doesn’t have any martyrs.”

The room was silent for awhile after that. Kathy went back to hanging pictures and I continued trying to fix a wobbly chair. I thought about what she had said. Kathy had lost two Kennedys, MLKJ, and Malcolm X. We’d lost Kurt Cobain, Anna Nicole Smith, and Princess Di. It was at that moment I knew what must happen next.

Gargoyle Angels - Part II

The next day I decided to go outside and mingle with the others. The cops had become even more on edge as the numbers of Occupiers swelled. There seemed to be a news crew on every other corner.

The crowd had broken up into several camps. One group seemed focused on the economic disparity between the 99% and 1%. Others chanted slogans of social equality and civil rights for all citizens. And there were those who campaigned against the wars overseas and the military-industrial-complex that profited off of death.

I managed to find the stage where our ride was playing. They were actually pretty good. I wish I’d had a chance to see them play before but such is the hand of Fate. Throughout the day I made sure to have great conversations with all my buddies and we all reveled in the sights and sounds of the political circus surrounding us.

The sun began to set behind the steeple of a large, Gothic style church. As I hung up my phone after chatting a bit with my family, I could have sworn I saw the two gargoyles guarding the church’s entrance smile at me.

The night’s curfew was about to begin and I had no intention of abiding by it. As nightfall approached the news crews had become fewer and fewer. There were still a small number about, mostly camera crews taking exterior and landscape shots.

A small group of protesters were camped out a few yards away in a small park. I could see a reporter talking to a young woman dressed in nothing but a wrapping of cling wrap. Off to the side were a group of six officers, just waiting for the sun to finally set so they could make their arrests.

I slowly approached, hearing only the last few phrases from Cling Wrap Girl.
“...and so we’ve gathered here to stand up against the corporations and their government cronies! We the People make up this nation, not a bunch of multinational corporations with nothing but profit in mind! I stand here in a petroleum prison of YOUR design!”

“And how’d you hear about this,” I interjected. “Did you get an email on your cell phone? Who made that tent you’re sleeping in? Who’s bottled water have you been drinking these last few days?”

The camera quickly panned towards me. I strode forward with a confidence and faith I’d never felt in my life. “If you want to change things, you can’t be such a hypocrite. This entire Occupy movement has been built on the backs of corporations, yet you condemn them for producing the very things that have made this possible.”

I could see the reporter’s wheels turning behind their captivated eyes. I knew a questions was forming but I continued on before they had a chance to sway the conversation into their predisposed talking point.

“This shouldn’t be about us. This is about those we’ve lost in the perceived defense of our right to speak. How many of us tonight are willing to die for life, liberty, and justice for all? I tell you tonight that I am willing to make that sacrifice.”

With that I pulled out a chef knife I had swiped from Kathy’s kitchen. I plunged the point deep into my neck, making a quick jerking motion to the right.

I couldn't believe it. The bloody knife slipped from my hand in Hollywood style slow motion. As I watched the blade twist and turn on its decent I noticed reflections of light bouncing around like a disco ball.

The hilt struck the soiled pavement, sending a spattering of red dots outward like a finger painting. I watched as faces of cynicism and jeer turned into looks of horror and disbelief.

As crimson vitae poured from my self inflicted wound I found myself in a universal balance of pleasure and pain. I wanted to laugh but no air could pass from my lips.

My eyes dilated in stark contrast to the camera’s focusing lens. The cacophony of screams slowly transitioned into a symphony of angelic voices as I felt my mind slowly separated from my body.

Two smiling gargoyles flew in circles beside me. Like a beam of light they took me into the sky, charting a path that would become my next adventure in this never ending cycle of existence.

That was a great short story. Kept my attention and ended really good. The flow through out the story connected. It interested me all the way through. Love it