The essential thing about Samuel was that he was an anarchist. Which isn’t to say that this is a story about the Spanish Civil War, Mikhail Bakunin, or the American Labor Movement at the turn of the century. No, Samuel was just an inhabitant of that most political of cities—at least as far as political identities go—and he’d picked it up among his hipster friends who neither worked blue collar jobs nor would ever fight in an actual war.

He ate no meat, held no credit cards, possessed no assets, had no TV. He lived by strict rules, the irony of so many anarchists. But he’d been right to do so, for it was the good life indeed that was his undoing in the end. Anarchy was just his last bastion against chaos, which is what this story is about.

It began with Frederick. Just a nice man he’d met at a demonstration against the war; an aging hippie. Or so it appeared. It turned out he worked in high tech. and owned an incredibly well-appointed and charming Victorian in the fashionable Duboce Triangle neighborhood of San Francisco. And he made a momentous decision. Not for him, but for Samuel. He decided to go to Greece for 3 weeks with his new partner, Sven, a charming Swedish post-hippie-era hippie with a penchant for oracles and other mystical and ancient means of supraliminal determination.

Frederick considered getting a housesitter, to take care of the cats and plants. He’d farmed them out in past years, but it got complicated, transferring plants around in the back of his Miata (even ex-hippies apparently have mid-life sports car fantasies. Oh do they ever), and negotiating with the cats who weren’t hip to leaving their domestic routine and familiar territory.

Samuel was an ideal choice. A dutiful lad, reliable, obsessively responsible and rather cute. Like many aging gay men, Frederick shared his largesse with young attractive men in the off chance that one would be ‘easy’, grateful, guilty, horny, troubled or just hot for him. Samuel wasn’t a promising candidate in any of these categories (more of the morose cute boy type—reluctantly, annoyingly handsome), but you’ve got to be present to win as they say in Vegas, and Frederick figured Samuel would be quite a take if he did one day let his guard down. If he had enough setbacks, one on top of the other, he could see Samuel breaking and needing to fuck like a dog with whomever happened to be in range, or whoever offered the needed drugs or alcohol in the right atmosphere. Frederick’s décor, lighting and furnishings were perfect for such a dramatic surrender. His vintages weren’t bad either, and his drug connections were superlative.

If nothing else, the boy would likely masturbate in his bed and even soil his sheets, which Frederick would be sure not to launder upon his return. And he didn’t necessarily figure Sven would last through the trip, let alone beyond (Oh but he did, and with impeccable timing chaos-wise). Either way, gotta keep lining up new options, Frederick would chortle to himself, shaking his weenie off after a pee.

Samuel didn’t say yes right away. Frederick was dangerously bourgeois, and though a friend, Samuel would be the first to denigrate him as sell-out hippie trash to his angry anarchist buddies who prided themselves on their Tenderloin addresses and low incomes. Samuel himself lived on Market St. near City Hall, a boastworthy address for an outsider, living off the grid (the philosophical and economic grid that is—he had hot water, electricity, a gas stove and heat of course). He also had a crack dealer next door who kept late, loud hours, but Samuel was too dogmatic about his poverty or too afraid to confront the other victims of capitalism (the less-educated, less-nuanced and less-Hamletesque ones) to take arms against that particular sea of troubles.

Staying at Frederick’s would be a relief and a downright pleasure. But he’d have to play it cool with such a gig, not invite his friends over or even let them know he was whoring himself to the luxuries of the capitalist scum who were oppressing them all.

“Sure, Frederick, would be happy to help you out.” As if.

First came dinner with the two lovebirds (Sven had lived there all of two weeks) so they could show Samuel the ropes: which plants got how much water, what to feed the cats and other complexities of domestic maintenance.

Good food and a nice bottle of wine were exempt from judgment among all political movements in San Francisco, just so long as they weren’t imbibed in fashionable restaurants, so Samuel enjoyed his evening and got rather drunk on the ’98 Rappaccini Chardonnay that Frederick had served with halibut steaks, wild rice and a salad of radicchio, arugula and baby Napa lettuce hearts. He was half-stumbling when it came time to matriculate in his floral and faunal responsibilities around Frederick’s enchanted little Edwardian palace. Frederick was carrying on, holding a childish, flowery watering can with a spout pornographic in scale. “And this one…. Give it a full load, ha, ha, ha.”

Samuel smiled cursorily, while watching Sven out of the corner of his eye as he bent over to pick up one of the cats. Samuel’s Adam's apple bobbed like—well, like an apple in a barrel—as he swallowed reptilianly. He’d never met Sven until tonight and though he’d suppressed the thought through dinner, 3 glasses of wine, and now Sven’s butt in the air above the cat, Samuel surrendered with that swallow to the insistent knocking of his libido at the door of his cerebral cortex. His libido was decidedly not looking for a cup of sugar.

“I need to fuck him” it announced in the same tone of expected compliance a cop would employ when requesting a valid driver's license. “Now!”

Sven had that stoned-too-many-times, glassy-eyed sensuality about him. Coupled with his Scandinavian masculine good looks and lithe body, he was a formidable force, slut-wise. Frederick had clearly not realized his recruiting abilities. Or perhaps he had, but dwelling on such a trait would likely have led to the uncomfortable thought that the days of their coupledom were indeed numbered, if not doomed. It occurred to Samuel then that perhaps that’s why they were going to Greece so suddenly, having only dated for 3 weeks. Did Frederick think he could squirrel him away somewhere, cement the bond, protect him from all the other men who not only would be drooling in pursuit of Sven, but whom Sven would likely be seducing, one by one, while Frederick tried to rush through the mundane activities of defecation, sleep and showering, anxiety attacks hot on his tail, knowing Sven could likely fellate half the town in the time it took Frederick to brush his teeth? Greece? Strange place to hide a homosexual. Only someone in San Francisco would consider such a ridiculous notion. Well, it’s all relative, Samuel supposed.

Sven had sat down by then, holding and stroking Frederick’s Siamese cat, Tallulah, his legs spread casually, just wide enough for Samuel to spy a luscious crescent of scrotal skin in a mess of blonde hair on the poorly-guarded border of his briefs. He thought how easy it would be for hundreds of Mexicans to sneak right into Sven’s pants, unimpeded. Fucking Sven thus agreed with Samuel’s politics.

By the time he’d returned his gaze to his host, Frederick was looking back and forth from Samuel to Sven, slack-jawed. But not for long. Frederick did the math, and saw the 10% in it for himself. He stepped boldly toward Samuel and took his hand. Sven was up and by his side as fast as a turned page, and within seconds Samuel was lost inside his own “United Farmworkers” t-shirt as it was pulled violently over his head and tossed aside like universal healthcare by a Republican Congress. Frederick was on his knees momentarily, pulling open Samuel’s belt while Sven furiously French-kissed the lad whose own face was contorted with unbridled lust. Samuel’s cock dropped out of his pants like a bass note as Frederick succeeded in freeing it, and it was soon in the old hippie’s chardonnay-blanched mouth. In no time flat, they had the boy completely naked and on his back on the Oriental rug, kicking like an upended bug. Sven was naked too, though Frederick couldn’t remember how that had happened so fast as he struggled to catch up, pulling off his jeans and socks. (He shouldn’t have been shocked. People like Sven dispense with their clothing like card tricks—a slut’s sleight of hand. They’re not really wearing it. It’s just with them until they can find a place to put it down.)

Sven ended up inside Samuel (Frederick had missed the mechanics of that as well even though it had involved lubing Samuel’s asshole and getting that prodigious uncut Swedish schlong into a condom. Was it possible that Sven was carrying both in his pockets? Quite). And while Samuel worried he’d be compromised into sucking off Frederick, the addled homeowner—clearly distracted by his lover’s bouncing buttocks—chose instead to fuck Sven, so that while Samuel had the substantial weight of both of them on top of him, he only had to taste Sven. Yum!

They came as fast as they’d commenced the rut, and Samuel was glad of it. He didn’t want any complications with Frederick going into this gig, and figured if the sex was quick and unconscious, he could dodge whatever intimacy might come up. Only a faggot could kid himself into such nonsense, but Samuel was a faggot, and an anarchist faggot to boot, and as he rushed into his clothes and grabbed Frederick’s spare keys off the entryway Victorian end table, claiming he was late for a friend’s (10:15 pm on a Wednesday night? He hadn’t mentioned it earlier), he convinced himself they’d all have more or less forgotten about it by morning. And since Frederick and Sven would now be gone for 3 weeks, they’d certainly have little or no recollection by the time they returned just so long as he didn’t linger. If you kept it to dick, and dick alone, you could figure your dick would get lost in the 3-week’s worth of dick most homosexuals would accidentally indulge in or chance across, and yours would be lost in the crowd like just another common thief. Such was Samuel’s logic.

Sounds kind of anarchist. Why not?

He moved in the next day, lugging his army dufflebag, stuffed to bursting with his Dickies, t-shirts, William Burroughs and Noam Chomsky tomes, cds, and other sundry hipster necessities. To celebrate, he made himself a latte with Frederick’s Krups espresso machine and read the just-delivered copy of the New York Times.

At some point, midway through section A, he realized he hadn’t even put on a cd to listen to. It must have been the silence. Back on Market Street at the Allen Hotel, Samuel had to play his music top volume, not so much because he liked it that way but as a defense of soundwaves (a sort of low-level missile defense system ala Star Wars. He’d never use such an analogy. Oh well.) against the rap bouncing through the walls from the crack dealer’s next door.

He flipped through Frederick’s cds, but not being in the mood for Annie Lennox, Sade, Diana Krall or Andrea Boccelli, he opted for the radio. He then made himself another latte and prepared himself a bagel with sliced organic yellow tomatoes and pickled red peppers. Sweet Frederick, the bourgeois pig, had left the fridge well-stocked. Samuel belched and browsed through the wine rack, picking out a vintage for later.

He hadn’t figured on anyone just walking by as he turned to lock the door on his way out.

“Dude, what are you doing down here?”

It was Hari, as in Om, an ex-Krishna who’d grown out his hair and eschewed non-violence for revolution 6 months back when he’d deserted the commune, absconding with enough rice, curry and tofu to get him through the two weeks it took him to get back on his feet.

“Uh… just feeding the dude’s cats. What are you doing here?”

“I just got a job at the coffeeshop around the corner,” Hari said cheerfully. Too small a town, Samuel thought, gets you everytime. Hari was eyeing the keys as Samuel shoved them into the pocket of his tight black punk-style jeans. “Why don’t you just stay here? You got the keys,” Hari inquired, furrowing his brow, unable to understand how someone could fail to take advantage of … well, pretty much anything.

“Uh, well, I think someone else is moving in in a day or two.” He was right in fact, though he’d be the last to believe it just then on the street talking to Hari. Especially being that Hari was the very person who was moving in. He was the first anyway.

“So Samuel, you know we’re planning something kinda big for the demonstration.”

Samuel chewed his nails—no easy task as they were chomped to the stubs, and at any given time 3 or 4 were painfully hangnailed. He winced. “Yeah, I heard. What’s the plan?” It was the 512th anniversary of Columbus, and a big march was planned, but Samuel hadn’t heard any specifics.

“Dude, man, they’re planning to blow up a bunch of Starbucks.”

Samuel felt the second latte rumbling in his stomach as the caffeine it had released zinged through his tortured skull. Why was he feeling tortured you might ask? No reason. He always felt that way.

“Anyway, tons of people are coming down from Eugene. ELF people, all them.”

“Cool,” Samuel replied dryly, trying to sound appropriately casual and angry in a politically-sophisticated way.

“Well, we’ll talk about it later at the meeting. I wanna ask you something.” And he pointed his double cappuccino pointedly at Samuel as if to impress upon him that he really meant it. Like something specific.

The meeting he was referring to was planned for that night at the New School. Samuel planned to skip it (he thought violent rioting cool generally, but didn’t want to get arrested when he had the cats and plants to watch after and all this great food in the fridge) and stay in with a bottle of wine and some Cadinot French porn now that he had a TV and VCR to use (TV at 850 Bryant was only available to long-termers besides). After that, maybe he’d head out and spend the porn-induced hard-on up some speed-addled cute young thing’s ass at the Detour. Bourgeois homosexuality was just so great, and San Francisco had it down pat, like a mall or a superstore; like one of those places with a permanent ‘SALE’ sign out front. Samuel didn’t think of it that way of course. He thought of sex as chaos, and his participation as a politically radical act. In such a universe, what he didn’t consider—that Jim Bakker and Jimmy Swaggart are sooooo hip for instance—couldn’t upset his tenuous political and mental stability. He truly was an anarchist, inside and out.

Truly, no one was in charge.

Rap, rap, rap! Samuel heard someone knocking way too hard on the stained-glass door windows.

“Who the fuck is that?” Samuel raised himself, mid-stroke, still sliding in and out of the twink’s well-lubed asshole (‘fuck me, fuck me,’ the boy went on annoyingly) as he perked up his ears to see if he could pick up the voices he heard conversing beyond the door. They must be Frederick’s friends, he figured, diving tongue-out back into the boy’s hungry mouth, and pelvically slamming into him with all his might.

“Samuel! I know you’re there.”

Just as he came, the image of Hari’s unattractive face entered his mind. Sex could be such a drag that way.

The stained glass shattered.

“Fuck, dude, are you cut?” It was Hari’s friend Femo’s voice.

Meanwhile, the twink moaned with narcissistic delight as globs of his own semen splattered across his chest. He giggled. “I’m uncut,” he answered, making a joke of what they’d just heard outside. Not funny considering, Samuel thought. And now that he’d cum, he wasn’t interested in putting up with this boy’s bullshit.

“Goddammit,” and he pulled his cock out with a pop.

“What’s the matter?” The boy unself-confidently queried.

“Someone just broke the window—didn’t you hear?”

A sultry, self-satisfied look crossed the twink’s dimwitted face. “I was cumming cuz your big cock was in me. I didn’t hear anything but ‘are you cut?’” And he giggled some more like the cheap tart he was.

“You gotta get the fuck out of here, dude,” Samuel not-really-reluctantly informed him.

“What, am I not your type?” The boy’s low self-esteem reared its ugly head, which was not only gelled, but dyed a very unflattering auburn with blond highlights.

“What?” Samuel responded impatiently, peering down the hallway from the bed. “Dude, I got a situation here. Sorry. Here’s my fucking phone number.” And he dug one of his cards out of his jeans, his half-mast cock still shrouded in muddied latex. “We’ll do it again.”

A real charmer, that Samuel.

He yanked off the condom ruthlessly, tossed it into the ficus tree’s pot, and grabbing a bath towel, ran toward the door.

“Hari, you fuck, you broke the window,” Samuel shouted, approaching the front door.

“That’s not a window. That’s a fucking crime, dude. It cut my hand. This bourgeois fuck cut my hand!” Hari had never met Frederick, but accusation by economic or class association was plenty good enough when indicting a homeowner, so no reason to sweat details.

Hari was clearly drunk. And bleeding. God, they fall hard when they leave the cult, Samuel thought irrelevantly. Hari’s pal, Femo (as in easier to work with than traditional ceramics), was spilling excuses like one of the 10 beers he’d probably just imbibed. “He insisted, man; he really needed to talk to you.”

“Thanks, Femo,” and he pulled Hari in and slammed the door in Femo’s face in one fluid motion.

“Harsh,” was heard, courtesy of Femo, while Samuel dragged stumbling Hari down the hall to the bathroom.

The twink, more or less dressed, and just then primping her gelled hair, furrowed her brow and whispered as Samuel pushed Hari past him, “not cute.”

“Bye, uh… fuck sorry, what’s your name?”

“Michael. I’m sure. It’s not a hard name to remember,” he offered bitchily.

“No, you’re right,” Samuel answered, “but since one in three people use it, it’s easy to misfile.”

Strike two, Samuel. If he’d only told the boy to shut up while he was fucking him, he would have scored a perfect 3 strikes. But gay sex wasn’t baseball was it? Nor was it a crime any longer. So just what the fuck was it? Bowling? Badminton?

Hari was now crying and bleeding all over the bathroom. “Hari, sit on the fucking toilet!” Samuel commanded.

“He doesn’t give a fuck about me!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Veebee.”

“Who?”

“The guy I’ve been seeing. Samuel, I’m really hurting…”

“I know, honey, sit down.” Hari dropped like a bag of groceries onto the toilet lid and Samuel lifted the boy’s arm up in the air to staunch the bleeding. He then rifled through the drawers, looking for first aid supplies, and while doing so, his towel dropped off.

“Dude, nice cock.” And it was in Hari’s hand before Samuel could defend himself. “Taste?” Hari’s eyes had perked up, his tear-stained cheeks suddenly losing their flush as his lips quivered.

“Fuck off, Hari.” Samuel yanked his cock away, picked up the towel and re-secured it around his waist.

“Harsh.”

He then wrapped Hari’s hand in gauze and sighed deeply. “Ok, now, you gotta get the fuck out of here so I can clean this mess up.”

“Dude, you can’t throw me out; I got nowhere to go.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I gave my place to some ELF guys at the meeting.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“Hey man, the movement.”

“Well, where the fuck are you supposed to sleep?”

“I don’t know man, but you gotta be hospitable to guests. They came all the way down from Eugene.”

“Sure, but you still gotta sleep somewhere.”

“Well, Veebee….” Samuel rolled his eyes, nodded. “And I just figured I could stay here.”

“But, I told you I wasn’t even staying here, Hari!” he retorted incredulously.

“Yeah. What’s that about?”

“Well, I’m not. I was just leaving.”

“You don’t’ look like you’re leaving. Come on, be a bro, Sam, let me crash on the couch.”

Samuel looked at Hari and thought how pathetic he was, resolving that a drunken moron on the couch was not that big of a problem. He’d be far easier to throw out in the morning than now.

“Alright, but you’re going to sleep right now.”

“Cool, cool, cool,” and he nodded his head repeatedly. “I’m drunk anyway. I’ll just go to sleep,” he nodded cheerfully. “Less you wanna do something?” he added. And a truly moronic and lecherous grin (if such a thing can manifest on the face of a 23-year-old. Amateurish lechery is the worst kind) animated his visage.

“I just got through fucking somebody. No thanks.” Which reminded him. Where was Todd, or John, or whoever?

“Hey, … dude.. you still here?”

He heard voices. “Shit, Femo’s still out there,” Samuel muttered to himself.

He yanked open the front door. “Yeah, he’s really cute too!” It was Michael’s voice and he was chatting with 4 dogmatic-looking young men dressed in black. “Anarchists,” Michael enthused, “aren’t they cool?”

“Get the fuck out of here, you stupid queen!” Samuel barked at Michael, venting all his frustration on the poor little tramp.

Michael glared bitchily back. “You’ll never fuck me again!” (Why would a boy in San Francisco think such a statement carried any weight?)

“Fine!” Samuel shouted cruelly back, shocked to see he was literally holding the door for the 4 anarchists, who were now loading their gear in, bag by bag, muttering ‘excuse me,’ and ‘on your left, dude.’

“What are you guys doing?” Samuel asked.

“Slut! Your cock sucks!” Michael was now screaming from the street.

“Wait a second you guys, who are you?” Samuel persisted. They didn’t answer, just smiled. “Femo!” But Femo was already in hot pursuit of Michael.

“Michael, where are you going?” Femo inquired softly. Oh brother.

Once inside, the 4 black-clad insta-boarders relaxed somewhat.

“We really appreciate this man. Where’s the basement?”

“What?” But it was all falling into place. Hari had likely met them at the meeting and offered the place. Or was it Femo? He’d never know now. Femo was gone, bent on sloppy seconds with the tart.

Samuel slammed the door, sending a few more shards of expensive glass flying onto the front porch, and marched back down the hall. “Hari!’ he shouted. Hari was curled up in the bathtub. Samuel thought of turning the shower on him, but realized the less conscious Hari was, the better.

He turned to see the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse disappearing down the basement stairwell to the garage.

“You guys—hey you guys, this isn’t my house.”

“That’s actually better,” one of them reassured him.

“At least tell me who you guys are and why the fuck you wanna sleep in the basement.”

“Didn’t Hari tell you?” They all looked at each other.

“Hari’s a fucking fool. He didn’t tell me anything. I’d like to help you guys out, but this isn’t my house so I can’t offer it to you guys. I’m not even supposed to be here.”

They continued down the stairs, and reaching the basement, one of them looked back at him blankly. “It’s better if it’s an anonymous location. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry?” Samuel was exasperated. “Dude, I’m responsible for this place.”

The same guy reached out a hand. “Vic.” He then motioned with his thumb at the others in rapid succession: “Dean, Tree, Poison.”

“What’s all that stuff?” Samuel then asked worriedly as Poison began unloading a black canvas bag full of brightly-colored plastic rectangles in yellow, blue, red and green, and placing them all over the hood of the Miata. “And, uh, could you like not do that on the car?”

Poison picked them up cautiously and carried them carefully to the workbench and gingerly placed them one next to the other.

“What is that?”

“It’s for the action tomorrow,” Tree informed him. “We’re not telling you anything else. No offense.” And he shrugged his shoulders. “We really appreciate you letting us set up here.”

“I’m not letting you set up here.” And Samuel looked at Tree, who looked at Dean, who looked at Poison, who looked at Vic, who looked briefly at Samuel and said:

“We’re here man. Be cool.”

“We thought you were an anarchist,” Dean chimed in, which stabbed Samuel momentarily in the gut.

Samuel collected himself. “Of course. When are you leaving?”

“Around 9 tomorrow morning. Is there a back door?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think you can get out through the backyard.”

“We can hop the fence.”

“Whatever.” Samuel was calling it a day.

He woke up to a deafening din of Helter Skelter. For a moment, he thought he was back at the Allen Hotel. But no, it must be Hari.

“Hari, turn it down!”

What he heard next was not Hari. It was a bullhorn informing them to ‘come out with your hands up and there won’t be any trouble. We have the house surrounded.’

Samuel’s eyes bugged out. Oh fuck. His first urge was to run outside and turn himself in. But he had to assess the situation, and consider the implications of his actions politics-wise. As he attempted to kick the covers off, he noticed an enormous lump at the other end of the bed. He poked it with his toe and felt flesh. He grimaced. That fucking disgusting Hari. The lump stirred, and an arm threw back the cover, revealing Sven.

“Sven, what the fuck are you doing here?”

Sven flashed the same just-stoned Cheshire grin that he’d probably wear if he were on board the listing Hindenburg. Which isn’t as far-fetched an analogy as it seems. Just you wait. He smiled inebriatedly. “We never even got on the plane. To hell with Greece, I couldn’t get your ass out of my mind.”

Samuel was not in the mood for seduction. He furrowed his brow, flabbergasted at Sven’s non-chalance. “Where the fuck is Frederick?”

“Well, I lied to him and told him that I was going to meet him over there next week, that I had some sudden business come up. Actually, I don't even have a legal visa, I can't leave the country, or I won't get back in. Anyway, I told him to just get on the plane. Who knows if he did.” Sven smiled.

“How long have you been here?” Samuel inquired, baffled.

“I came back last night, around 3 a.m. I wanted to fuck you so bad, but you were so tired, I couldn’t wake you up. You kept slapping me.” He chuckled and reached for Samuel.

“You have 15 seconds!” the bullhorn roared.

“Jesus, Sven, we gotta get out of here.”

“Samuel, I can’t risk dealing with the police. My visa, all that. We’ll have to find another way.”

“Dude, we’re surrounded.”

Sven lunged, pinning Samuel down and ravishing him with his tongue, driving his pelvis into Samuel’s crotch.

“There’s no fucking other way!” Samuel heard Vic shout from downstairs.

Struggling to push the big Swede off him, Samuel exclaimed: “Let’s get the fuck out of here, Sven. They’ve got fucking bombs downstairs.”

Oblivious, Sven cooed: "I want to plant my bomb up your ass.”

There was a burst of automatic gunfire, and Samuel instinctively lunged for the floor, pulling Sven with him.

Police started shouting. “They’re firing! Hold your fire, hold your fire.” The gunfire was coming from the basement.

“We’re fucking dead,” Samuel announced. Sweet surrender—the one Frederick had prepared for. But Frederick wasn’t there for the surrender.

“Fuck me, Sven.” Yay, Samuel, true to the cause. He’d go out in a truly anarchic chaotic orgasm of cum and violence. Sven mounted him, not bothering with a condom as they had no viral, bacterial or any other kind of pathological future to worry about.

There was more sporadic gunfire, more announcements from the bullhorns, mounting threats from the Feds. Samuel wondered about Frederick, where he might be as he watched Sven’s enormous marbled tool plow him like an apple corer. He felt close to cumming. Things began to shatter—a vase, a mirror; leaves tore off the ficus tree. Samuel imagined he and Sven holed up like Bonnie and Clyde, blasting away, cum and bullets flying all around them. He had a vision of Frederick rushing past the police line, professing his love for Sven, while Samuel squeezed off a round and watched the sorry hippie trash pirouette into a rhododendron bush and collapse into a heap.

The bullets came right through Sven’s back—one, two, three—splattering blood and muck across Samuel’s gaping mouth and orgasming face, his own semen interrupting the path of the lead projectiles that whizzed over his head into the TV, which instantly exploded with a pop. A cat screamed. And then he felt himself lifted. Lifted, with Sven’s motionless heap of a body collapsed on top of his own, rising, rising. This must be death he thought, rising, rising—but then he felt his back tearing, and an unbelievable, searing pain filled his no longer blissed-out mind. He held on to his still erect cock as the only morsel of security he had left.

Hari’s dull-visaged face watched from the street, wrapped in a police blanket, his jaw dropping so precipitously that he looked stupider than ever—even stupider than Femo.

“Woooowwww,” he uttered slowly, “Hari fuckin’ Krishna.”

At first, in the initial police barrage, most of the windows had been blasted inward, and several of the cornices had been reduced to splinters and powder. Then suddenly, all the remaining windows had come flying out in the opposite direction like they’d been punched out from the inside. After that, the house rumbled and then sort of belched and lifted off its foundation a few feet, before settling back down and then collapsing like a cake, the top floor into the bottom, and the bottom explosively outward in all directions in a gust of chalky dust and colored planks. A huge plume of white smoke ascended, and when the house finally reappeared, it was a pile of burning rubble with a siren soundtrack, and a well-insured owner on the sidewalk with his hands on his cheeks.

Samuel ended up on t-shirts (cute as Che the boy was, sans beret) and is remembered as a hero among many. He died a radical anarchist. He died for a cause. He almost died smiling.

 

© 2004 Trebor Healey - Contributor's Bio