The moment you’re murdered is a huge shock. For anyone. You’re just minding your own business one minute and the next, curtains.
My murder was a total fluke.
It was a hot day and I was walking to work. It’s about a two-mile trip and for part of it I cut through a convention center parking lot. It’s usually empty, but on this day the leader of a right wing political party was in town for a pep rally. I’d heard about it in the news, but figured five hours before the event it would be fine. It wasn’t.
So I’m just passing through the lot where people were tailgating with flags of rebellion, beer, and generic 3-chord country music playing when out-of-nowhere this monster truck pulls right in front of me into a space. Nearly hit me. I stood there in shock as a massive mulleted man in a sleeveless flannel shirt jumped out from behind the wheel and slammed his door. “You got a problem Mufasa?” He said locking eyes with me. He then opened the small back door of the truck, pulled out a confederate flag, and mounted it in a flagpole sleeve welded to the top of the cab.
I was stunned. Frozen. Scared to death.
Someone nearby recognized my new friend and called out, “Hey Barry. ‘Bout time, son. Get your ass over here.” Barry stepped toward me and did a quick-flex to get me to jump back. Then he pulled up the front of his shirt to reveal a pistol tucked into his jeans. “You just get your little socialist ass off to whatever little job you do. Boy.” Then he turned to join his friends.
I don’t know why, but I was suddenly overcome with a surge of courage. I adjusted my backpack and said, “Look, I don’t know who you are or what you people are doing, but you have no right to treat others this way. And I have no idea what showing me the gun is supposed to do. Scare me into submission? You’re going to murder me for walking to work!? Really!?”
Barry turned and nearly ran over to me then said through gritted teeth, “It would be one less liberal around to vote.”
“Fewer”
“What?”
“One fewer liberal around to vote, you neanderthal.” I said, pushing the glasses up on my nose.
Barry reached into his belt and in one graceful motion removed the pistol and pulled the trigger as the barrel crossed in front of my face.
And that was that. Like I said, a shock. But I always did say that grammar was a hill I was willing to die on.
***
