Stay For The Encore: Act One
The riots had began earlier in the night.
It had started when the cops showed up and shut down a punk show at the The Tsunami Arcade, a bar in the shit part of town. Well, the whole town was really a shit show, but this district was trash incarnate.
The punks had been thrown to the streets, and with nothing better to do, their aggression built as the cops herded them out onto the street. They moved at a slow pace past many shops that ran along each grid-like street. It was late, and most were closed, and there was nowhere left to go.
Police brutality had become a hot topic after a few incidents had caused an uproar a few months back, even more so when no officer had been convicted in any subsequent trial. The punks and cops never got along, and now it was at a boiling point.
The cops waited, and listened as the crowd began to build, and then the first sound of breaking glass came into the fray, lighting the fuse of the volatile situation.
The riot squad was on their way, but the patrolmen on duty had to hold off the raging horde. Shop windows were shattered, and stores were being looted.
One punk, fresh out of the bar, heard the sounds of the chaos. He figured he could try to snag something, bring a little bit of fun to a night cut short, especially since the club had been shutdown right before the headliner, Gutter Brothers, had come on stage.
With his black denim battle jacket loaded with patches, pins, and spikes, the punk started heading towards the riot. He saw that there was already a big crowd, and could hear the shouts of sweet chaos just ahead. He pulled out a green ski mask, with a black anarchy symbol spray painted on the front, and put it on. He had gotten it at the show, where the second to last band, Crime Monger, had thrown them out to the crowd. They had a new song called "Rob The Banks, Rob The Rich", and they had made the masks as a DIY promo. The punk had managed to catch one as they were thrown into the crowd, and now it had some use.
He came around the corner and was ill prepared for the scene that played out before him. Police cars were parked at nearly every alleyway or exit from the block. Punks were throwing whatever they had at the cop cars, and the cops were standing by.
Something felt wrong, but he ignored it as he saw a broken out window in a convenience store. His hungry stomach convinced him it was the place to go, and he bolted towards it, as did a few others in the fracas.
He was used to being in the pit, so he threw some elbows and pushed through. He found some deli meat, and a six pack of brews, and decided that would do. He looked around for a few more items, but this hesitation would turn out to be a mistake. The cops had reached their limit, and it was time to flex their authority. Fatally.
The officers at the scene were simply waiting for the call,and Sergeant Romko made it. He had been asking through a megaphone for those involved to cease their unlawful assembly, and had waited long enough. The riot squad had pulled up and had given him the signal they were ready to engage.
"Gas 'em boys!" Romko shouted.
Tear gas canisters launched into the crowd, exploding with loud booms. The crowd retreated, but the police had blocked every exit.
The punk heard the booms and dropped all he had and took off. He leaped out of the window, his shoulder catching a hanging shard and sending a flare of pain with it. He tried to find a place to get away, but the cops were swarming, and the gas was starting to drift his way.
The punk followed a few others, and they began to try to push past some officers blocking an alleyway. The police resisted the movement, but the crowd became overwhelming. As the rioters pushed past, one officer opened fire, with three rounds blasting into the tightly packed group.
The punk's ears were already ringing from the show, so the gunfire only half startled him. What had him panicked was the sudden metallic taste in his mouth.
Blood.
He reached up and a felt a sticky wetness on his mask. It was then he saw the bits of brains dripping from the exit wound of a man that was in front of him, held up by the crushing force of the crowd.
The punk was in shock, but managed to keep moving as the crowd now surged past the blockade, some stopping to throw blows on the downed officers. More shots rang out in the struggle.
He ran down the alleyway and darted though the dimly lit maze. He could see the lights of another street, an escape.
The punk ran out into the street, trying to ascertain where he was. A bright flash of lights caused him to stumble and he had no time to react as the Crown Victoria slammed into him. His body rolled up the hood, crashed into the windshield, and sent the punk spinning in the air.
His body hit the ground in an atrocious manner. The cop car had skidded to a halt, and two officers got out and surveyed the punk as he laid on the ground.
"Bastard! Must have been one of the rioters from F Street. Look at that mask, this guy came prepared." One officer said. The punk was stirring slightly, his body a symphony of pain.
"Drag him into that garbage pile. No one will notice over there. We can just say rioters threw shit at the car, everyone's getting that one tonight." The other officer said.
The two policemen dragged the punk and dropped him in a large trash pile that was sticking out of the alleyway. The punk reached his trembling hand up, a plea for help.
"Listen, you fucking guttersnipe. You got what you deserved, and if you wake up tomorrow, you think on that." The officer then pulled out his baton and struck the punk once in the face. The punk went limp into the bags of trash.
"Let's go Blake, we gotta go back them up on F Street. Leave the trash." The other officer said. The two got into their squad car, hit the sirens, and drove off.
Through the pain, the punk felt the cold like he never had before. It dug its claws into his skin, and all he could hear was the officers words to him swirling in a dream-like state.
Guttersnipe. Maybe that's all he ever was. He'd always wanted to be an artist, or a musician. But now…he was dying in a pile of trash.
His breath was visible in the cold, but the puffs got slower, and less powerful. One last breath vaporized into the cold night, and then there was no more.
A few hours later, the same car that had hit him drove down that same road. Officer Blake looked out of the window at the trash pile where they had left the punk.
"You see? Those damn bastards never die. Fucking hell man." Blake said as he shined his flashlight over the trash pile. He lingered a moment and then sped off.
There was no body. No blood.
The Guttersnipe had risen and left the scene.
STAY TUNED FOR PART TWO TOMORROW
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