December 17th, 2012 (10:21 PM).
Betty Els drove between snow banks on a road with shops, and red and yellow fast food signs on either side. She let her window down, for her wool coat and pants were made for the sunny, below freezing condition outside. On her route to a shop to sell her truckload of furs and meat of beastly, human killing pokémon to a butcher and tanning shop, a line of yellow buses lined one side of the road.
“The elementary, darn traffic,” she said, noticing the line of cars adding to the buses. Red, blue, and green cars and trucks parked before and after the line of yellow. Her speed halted to stop and go as parents parked, picked up kids, and drove away before another car would take their spot.
She stopped for one group of kids crossing in front of her. She smiled and waved, remembering pokémon that hatched under her watch. Then the black truck in front of her white one stopped. A man with a blue stocking hat got out, and ran towards the school.
He parked closest to the school, right beside the middle of the line of buses. She sighed, then looked into the oncoming lane of traffic for an opening. Once an opening five cars wide came in view, she honked her horn and drove around, forcing the other drivers to stop.
Then she sped up to twenty miles per hour while watching for other groups of kids or adults while she wondered if she should have come back later. She looked in her mirror as other cars honked at the truck blocking the road. Farther down the road, she looked back and saw less and less kids entering the buses as they filled to their limit. Then a flash.
Her shoulders tensed up, and her head ducked down as her truck spun out and her windows blew out. Louder than anything she's heard from training, a blast caused her left ear to ring and ring.
“**** the speed limit,” She said, holding her left hand to her ear. Pulling in reverse with her heartbeat shaking her hands more and more, she pushed the pedal down and reached fifty miles per hour. After she dodged a car at a stop sign, she slowed and dialed her cell phone. No windows, just air blowing her hair behind her as glass brushed off her clothes.
“The school blew up! What do I do?”
“This is quite a lame excuse for why you're late to the shop.”
“Shut up, Burton, I swear that a blast just smashed over a hundred kids.”
“. . . And you saw?”
“Flash, me crashing, buses pushed against the school's walls—”
“Hold on,” he said, and she cursed him as she waited. “You're right. Get to Bill's shop, use the telephone there.”
- - -
“So you drove at twenty miles per hour for about fifteen seconds after getting around that truck?” A man said into his cell phone, running into a conference room of pokémon and humans that all wore business clothes.
A blaziken wrote on a paper as Burton talked. “And it shattered your windows. . .” The blaziken sighed and said to Burton it was high explosives. “So he ran into the school, then detonated. But why?”
“Perhaps he's not done,” a lady said, tapping her pencil against the wooden table.
“She says the man from the truck was Günther, the one the lucarios never trusted, the guy we fired. . .” he said, leaning his brown blazer against the door frame.
“How nice to know, we'll send word of this suspect to Sinnoh's police and get this evil punished,” a man at the far end of the table said, tightening up his blue tie. His face showed wet eyes as well as others in the room, for they felt a burden hearing of such quick killing of innocents.
Burton told them he heard a shot in the background of the call, and how Betty noted it was an armor piecing round. Then a police car crashed.
“Just stay inside, be armed and invisible,” he said, then he called for a defense contractor to extract her on his phone after wishing her well.
“Sir, the police blocked our call,” the blaziken said, putting down his cell phone.
“Screw them. Call everyone we know in Sinnoh about our suspect,” the man at the end of the table said. Then every man, woman, and pokémon in the meeting room began long distance calls to friends in Sinnoh and business contacts.
- - -
“Gonna be night soon,” she said, sitting behind a metal desk on a white tile floor. “The TV says a sniper and bomber is out there,” she looked at a reporter on the wooden wall, “but I believe it really is Günther.”
A bald man sitting beside her nodded, his hands were wrinkled as they gripped his pistol. “Just because he had the skill and corruption doesn't explain how he got access to this equipment,” he said, watching the reporter run in front of a cop car's fire. “Sniper fire occurred in separate areas—big fifty caliber shots. No one's seen him carrying the rifle, the media hasn't put his face up yet, and I don't know who would be helping him.”
The reporter stopped, and said the Governor is expected to speak soon. Then he said there were fourteen other police cars burning and melting the asphalt like the one behind him reported across western Sinnoh. Explosive rounds, he said, which killed the pokémon and officers inside.
Then he pressed his finger to his ear, and waited as if listening. He brought his gloved hands quickly up to his face with the mic and blew his cloudy breath on it as he spoke:
“This man is the prime suspect: Günther,” he said, then a picture frame popped open on the upper right. Black hair, blue stocking hat, white face with blue eyes avoiding the camera with a sneer like he hated the photographer. “Lethal even if unarmed.”
Betty looked down at the floor again and played with a pencil from the desk. The door on the other end of the door remained locked as they sat against the wall. True, no shots occurred recently, but if the police could not see the shots coming, then Betty wouldn't take her chance on the street.
The phone in her pocket rang, so she picked it up and said hello as the man next to her looked at her.
“Ah, Betty, it looks like the Governor failed his end of the bargain,” a voice said, with a woman crying in pain in the background.
“I told you to never call me, killer,” she said.
“After I mutilated that ursaring's body for an hour in front of all those lucarios? Ah, ha, quite a dream . . . This Governor will blame me, but I did nothing, I was asleep, you see.”
“You're wasting my time.”
“Just look at the news, Betty, that mother****er is trying to get Parliament to declare war on you, your friends, and every company like the one you work for,” she looked at the screen and indeed heard the Governor blaming the owners and managers of wild lands not under control of Sinnoh's government. “He told me, in a dark office, about his plans for today. Showed me where the bomb and guns were as well, and promised me that tomorrow, some sucker (not me) would use all of it.”
The Governor's words coming out of his aged, desert dried cheeks were furious. They wet his cracked lips and the press in the room listened and wrote notes as fast as he talked. These reporters also noted the “justified” emotion of his anger.
“But you did all of that—”
“Ah, but he is the real bad guy. I am not really me when he gives such a beautiful plan out, you see, I was him.”
The man beside her sneered and looked away from her. “Well then, are you going to help me since you've said all this? Maybe expose the Governor at least?”
“Give me an invisibility blanket. It will get me out of town safely . . . and in exchange I'll give you the audio tape of that night in the office and a video tape of me restating what the Governor told me.”
- - -
A house down the road from the school had the first police officer's car on fire in front of it. Its flames lit the surrounding street but left the blood inside dark. The blood from a man's nearby head soaked the butt plate of a bolt action anti vehicle rifle. Its full weight had crushed the man's skull. Being hidden in the garden, the rifle and Günther's appearance shocked him as well as the sliced throat of the arcanine in the kitchen.
Ground types made a hidden tunnel in the man's basement that extended to the next location. He left behind the rifle since other guns were promised elsewhere.
No one in Jubilife City walked outside at midnight, and even other nearby roads and towns stayed locked in thanks to a provided flying type that escorted him to the out of city sniper nests.
He flew over the lands owned by the hunter guilds and hunters. This group of guilds and persons and pokémon, never belonged to Sinnoh's government. Once sold or given away it mostly came under control of the state in power at the time. There was never enough wealth for the state to assume control, especially since the pokémon and people living in the forests, tundras, and mountains hated the state. Things changed . . . Now these areas gained wealth through logging, fishing, mining, tourism, and future plans for implementing factories like the rest of the world.
Sceptiles, blazikens, lucarios, infernape, floatzel, gallade and more non-violent but also intelligent pokémon may have rights like humans in some regions, but those rights remained unasserted in Sinnoh. In history, these “hunters” (and pokémon) stayed poor. The princes would declare their separation from their rule legitimate only if they lived so that the prince could laugh at them since, to him, they would be a negative to have within his borders. Buildings of bricks and wood instead of sod and sticks occupy the forests where these hunters oversee.
Now, even certain pokémon became hunters and could flaunt it to each trainer in the cities. It happened because of the near total fall of government in a region composed mostly of these hunters. Globalization also enabled wealth to be offshored to this region. The savings piled up there.
“Hunters, human and pokémon alike, have replied to our request for some honest taxes from them with this,” said the gray haired Governor of Sinnoh as he rubbed his nose and looked at papers. “Sinnoh deserves justice for this, and I hope the Parliament meets quickly,” he said, his voice coming out of the thousands of TVs.
Another prince is here. His office is threatened by the increasing wealth of regions without government that also preserve order. What better way to shut out this cooperation in Sinnoh's collective mind by displaying them all as mass child and police killers?
The Governor drank a full bottle of wine that night. For joy, or for his sadness over seeing this happen, one may guess . . .
- - -
“Come on now, Betty, think of the lives to be saved by doing this for me?” he said, then the background got quiet, no woman crying like before.
“I know you, you betrayed me once . . . so look at the TV. That's your answer.”
The TV screen flashed red with BREAKING NEWS then a female anchor with brown long hair said “This just in—”
“You're such a *****, Betty,” he said, then a gunshot went off in the background and the phone went static.
December 19th, 2012 (3:25 PM).
“This just in, Günther himself reports having been given help from our Governor to do the killings seen today,” she said, her fingers trembling as she placed her nails on the lines of text of the papers on her table. “What does this mean for who will receive justice, Jerry, Susan?”
The channel replayed the whole conversation that Betty had with Günther first then moved the camera towards a man squinting through his glasses while patting down his black hair and business suit. The lady wore a red dress that hung by a strap over her shoulders while her blond hair stayed in a bulb behind her head.
Meanwhile the TV hosted a mini-screen in the upper right featuring the Parliament beginning to talk and move faster as each representative whispered to each other about the streamed call just released.
“The Governor is going to boil,” the man said.
“Now, Jerry, we really are taking this guy serious? He killed children, what credibility does he have?”
“He talked like a sociopath by blaming the Governor, yes, and he is crazy for believing that he was the Governor. It reflects on an actual event, I think the Governor hired this guy to be a domino that causes a war.”
“That's one down,” she said, looking over at the bald man beside her.
He sighed and said, “He has firepower, survival skills, and a mind okay with killing. He wants to kill you, too, I think.”
“He wanted a lot of things,” she said, standing up and sitting on the table. No windows were in this room, and no gunfire for over an hour, so why be afraid anymore.
- - -
At a cabin that night, clear skies on the western foothills, a man wearing a cameo coat and pants and stocking hat blew his foggy breath into his hands. Cold, but he sat to the side of a truck filled with explosives just like what hit that school today. He was different, a sane hunter. Only problem was that some psychic power almost made him get into that truck, and drive it to Parliament's front door. He felt this powerful urge hit him after taking his prescription antibiotics.
“Crazy night, how did this truck get here? Why did my antibiotics make me a killer?” he said, looking at a white pill bottle on the dirt. “Thank Arceus I did not move from my lonely cabin.”
“And that's the problem,” A voice said from behind the truck. “The Governor's dream was quite fun, too bad it only occurs one place at a time. You neglected doing his other dream, it would have been, you know.”
“Well, Günther, I didn't expect to hear you again. . . stay out of my sight, and I won't bother shooting,” he said, grasping his revolver on the ground. “Or call for help.”
“On this fine, chilly, night? Well, I do hate you, but since I hate every one of you hunters and pokémon with them ever since that day, I'm going to kill as many as I can. You can't stop me, but I won't risk getting shot, you're so weak due to that infection anyway,” he said, laughing then the passenger side door clanked as he busted out the lock. The engine started up as he used the keys in the truck's seat (with the bomb trigger being next to it).
“Here's a present then,” he said, aiming for the front-left tire. He shot, the tire popped and let its air out in a large squeak after the bang. He knew the truck's armored door would block his 9mm, so the tires had to be disabled.
The engine heaved forward and the tires spun as Günther shouted “**** you and your friends, pretty boy!” The man with the revolver sat there and watched the truck with its lights speed out of the forest's clearing and go downhill towards the towns.
“Maybe the five years of training made his weak mind insane,” he said, crawling with one hand back to the cabin to call for help from his friends and warn them.
- - -
“Betty, call every hunter you know, he's got an armored brown truck with a bomb and flat front-left tire heading for some location filled with hunters,” he said.
“Nick, you sound worse, but I'll do that,” she said, tapping the metal desk she sat on.
He coughed, then said “Yes yes, get me help when you're done, my meds were laced. Later. I got others to warn.” The phone went out, and Betty sighed as she did one big group text message to her friends and coworkers. Bill never got a cell phone, just a landline for his cabin.
“Another one of those things?” the bald man said, who also sat on the desk with her. “We've already pissed in bottles all night, now this?”
“One of those things can take out the front of a school building. I haven't had time to mourn for the innocents, but I bet I can see to it that he'll be dead soon,” she said.
“A ferry departs for Neroburg in half an hour from Canalave City west of here. It's the Friday before Independence Day for us, and even I was supposed to be on that ferry tonight since it is the cheapest time.”
“They won't have the firepower for this truck, it's armored, I heard?” he said, walking in front of the desk, tapping his black formal shoes on the ground as he removed them. He threw on his brown boots and nodded.
“Indeed, and they're freaking out on my text messaging,” she said, waving how many new messages she got. Many of them expressed how they will have to hide or find their biggest rifle. “It seems no one on the ferry has the needed firepower, should we get a gun, a pokémon?”
“Find one of the rifles used by the killer, no sense in sending a pokémon to die against him.”
- - -
Betty placed her hands on the cold metal of a burnt out cop car while looking only on the car's hood, not inside. The bullet hole had to be near the engine block on the car's body. She walked over to the other side while being lit up with the headlights of Bill the bald shop owner's car.
“Holy crap, like a two by four went straight through,” she said, finding a hole in the side of blackened car bigger than her arm just behind the front wheel well. No exit hole erupted from the other side due to the explosive bullet, but she looked around at the houses and pointed at one. “The door there is open, smashed window.”
“I'm getting unnerved by the smell of burnt flesh . . . get the weapon, please.”
She nodded, and ran towards the gray house in the moonlight. Once she stepped inside, her boots noticed the carpet froze with blood. A man's legs and pants reflected the moonlight but left her squinting for the differences between light and dark in the house.
What she thought was a bloodspot near his knee turned out to be the buttplate of a one and a half meter long bolt action rifle, with a bi-pod.
“Ammo . . .?” She said, looking away from the dead man's face as she lifted up the rifle with both arms and rattled the magazine. Taking it outside with her as she felt frozen blood melt on her fingers, she undid the bolt, saw bullets under it that were greater than the length of her palm, and closed it back up. “Chamber's unloaded, but it's got enough.”
“Man, that's going to mess up my seats,” he said, opening the back door.
“Shut up, Bill. My gosh, I think I stepped over the arms and legs of some poor kids on the way to that house, we're a block away from the school,” she said, then she jumped into her seat and Bill got in and sped up. Bashing the backend over a speedbump, they drove west.
- - -
“Like the blockade?” a man wearing puffed up green wool pants, coat, and a forest disguised stocking hat said. “Oh, wow! That'll help,” he said, looking over a truck's cargo hold in the back. Betty ran through a hip-wide opening between the three trucks blocking the road.
“He'll be here soon, get to a high floor on the ferry,” she said, jumping onto the opened back of a blue truck. Bill and the wool clothed man jumped in next, then, as they rode towards the lit ferry in the darkness, they saw the outlines of cars and trucks blocking every entrance to the ferry terminal. After a ten second drive, seeing more empty cars and trucks parked in the ferry terminal's five road lanes, they stopped at the ferry's dock where another blockade stood at the bridge to the ferry.
It was level with the ferry's car loading area, but the ferry, a green and white steel boat seven cars wide and three stories high, remained docked.
“The engine died on it, as a bonus, many people are waiting at the rocky beach,” he said, pointing to the opposite end of where the lanes' white lanes stood in the moonlight. It was a dark area, but they saw the moving heads and flashlights of people snuggled close to the small crashing waves. “They don't trust us, fifty hunters onboard, you know.”
Betty jumped off and walked to the green metal stairs in front of the blockade of trucks to board the ferry. Bill followed and made sure the rifle avoided smacking metal poles.
“Hurry up,” a blaziken said, waving from the passenger floor of the ferry. “Phil, turn on that spotlight, I'll need light on the upcoming bastard.”
Then a ray illuminated a circle with the radius of a car out to two hundred meters. It focused on abandoned red cars sitting in the parking lot behind the rocky beach.
“Can I shoot that?” the blaziken said, throwing his brown wool shirt out as he pointed at Betty's present.
“Mr. Firo . . . yes. It fires fifty caliber explosive rounds—be careful where you take out his truck,” she said, handing it over to his claws.
“You know, this seems too easy, I think he wants us to kill him,” Bill said.
“Of course we want to,” Firo said.
“Stop the truck, only kill him if someone's in danger, Firo,” she said, and Firo nodded, feeling that he'll likely kill him by the end of the night anyway. “Phil, you got a low caliber bolt action?”
A man squatted over their heads on the roof of the passenger deck. Phil said, “Yes, mine. But I'm better at shooting, so what do you suggest I do?”
“Shoot his lower legs or knees if he gets out of the truck. We're going to arrest him,” she said.
Phil took out his cell phone and typed his thumbs away on it. What was he texting out, she wondered. Then he stood up and said. “Being one of the two chosen snipers tonight by the other hunters, I like your plan, but as for the others . . .” he waved his finger in the air, then looked at his phone. His white face lit blue due to the screen, as did his brown hair sticking under his black stocking hat. Then he said, “I'm wasting your time, but, seriously, I want this loser to be shown in a public execution to the families of the killed parents and children . . . in daylight.” He put his thumb up.
“I'll slap you later, Phil.”
He disregarded her and waved at someone behind him, then he pointed at the spotlight and then the ferry terminal's entrances. “Quiet streets . . . no police?”
“They're dead or hiding,” Betty said, fitting her stocking hat on tighter.
“I think that's him, aim there!” Phil yelled, and the hunters behind the glass windows of the passenger deck crowded to Betty's end from inside. Phil dropped to prone, and took out a twenty five caliber bolt action with bipod and aimed at a truck now being flashed on. It had no sparks coming from the front-left tire. One of those plastic tires inside a tire, Betty thought, as Firo said there was no rubber on one tire.
“He's going fast,” Firo said, seeing the truck and Günther going down a hill towards the terminal's entrance closest to the lanes. Stores and restaurants stayed on either side, and Firo heard the engine growl from that distance of over two hundred meters.
He smashed into the blockade, two rows of trucks. Firo fired on the now slowed armored truck. The tables of a sea burger restaurant outside bounced from a red blast.
“Firo, aim lower. Damnit, he's speeding up and turning wildly,” Phil said.
A clank from the bolt, then Firo fired again. The front of the truck spun away from the sniper due to the shot's blast. Then it drove again and headed back towards the ferry. It's front-right tire blew off, and the truck rode on with sparks erupting off burned asphalt as that corner dragged along the road.
Phil shot twice at the windshield, making it turn into a white crust. No bullet got through. Firo clanked the bolt again, and fired.
What engine? Firo replaced the hood with sparks and flying flames. “Take this, Betty,” a woman said, throwing her a bolt action three O eight magnum with thermal sights. Then she closed the door behind her into the passenger deck as Betty aimed at the new target a hundred fifty meters away.
Door opened, then a shoot went through the searchlight. Bill ducked and ran into the passenger deck where he then shot each overhead light there. Exclaiming how the lights make it easy for him to see them. Betty focused on the truck, then she saw him running to cover at a truck in front of his. He held a rifle in his arms as he ran. Betty shot him in the chest while the two boys around her could not see him.
A clank reported from her shot, he fell backwards, his rifle flew to his side. Then he jumped back up. Body armor, she thought, then she saw his foot under the new truck. Another shot, he fell onto his face.
“Now this is pitiful,” she said, still looking through the sights. “He's limping towards us. Unarmed.”
She waited for him to get closer, then once he fell down again, she shot his other leg.
“Ok, get everyone out there and take him to jail,” she said, lowering her rifle now that she could see, in the night, that his body laid still except for crawling. “Actually. . .”
She fired again, hitting his back. An explosion flared out from him, and flipped over a car behind him while shoving others away and shattering glass. Then the truck he had exploded and caused everyone outside to duck and cover their eyes as glass flew into the air and fell for ten seconds. A fifty meter radius without cars marked the now blown up truck's effect. It had even blasted two trucks closest to it into the sea, and left a fireball lighting the night for twenty seconds.
“I would have died if I fought him,” Firo said, lowering the bloody rifle.
“So that's it, that was all because of the Governor?” a man said, having run up the stairs from the rocky beach. His scarf waved in the sea's wind. “You're not killing us?”
“No, I'm more social than that,” Firo said, holding out his claw to the man.
“I'm going to be suing . . . him, then . . .” he said, turning around with his hands in his pockets as he walked back down the stairs. He mumbled something about how betrayed he was and how he'll get his money's worth out of this whole incident. Firo shrugged and put his claw to his side as he threw the bloody rifle onto the ground. Must have been the bloody claw that stopped him from shaking my claw, he thought.
December 20th, 2012 (12:41 PM).
Btw, Akiyama only truly cares that you've read the story. That counts the most for me.
Part 3, the After Effect
“Honey, wake up,” a woman said,in a tight fitting black dress perking up her breasts. Her husband, grayed haired with wine bottles beside his bed grunted and opened his aged eyes at her. “You're toxic,” she said, slapping his wrinkled face as she patted her fluffy white hair and got off his bed.
Two police officers with three arcanines walked up the bed and handcuffed his wrists behind his back. The Governor looked around over and over again as he thought wait, I was just partying last night, what is this nightmare? Then the female officer, the blue haired Officer Jenny type, lifted him off the bed and pushed his face into the sheets.
“You're under arrest for a to be determined amount of first degree murder, abuse of government property, conspiracy . . .” she listed his charges and said he had the right to be silent at the end. But he spat at the male officer's blue pants and yelled at his brown haired head:
“This is what I was elected to do, you see? People wanted the lands, just didn't want to kill for the resources,” he breathed faster as he said, “I simply nudged them to do what's necessary! I'm innocent, the citizens did it—it was their dream!”
As the two officers and the orange haired arcanines led him away to the police vans outside his white painted manor. His ramblings continued all the way outside as his wife sat in a chair beside a window as it let the morning sun in. She took out her cell phone and asked for one last press conference for her to address the public on the massacre. For twenty more minutes she sat there, waiting with her high heels on the bleach white carpet. Her thoughts orbited around the promises her husband made.
More land for Sinnoh, more resources, more taxes for public school, and more relating to the hunters of the wildlands. She figured her husband was wrong, and so were many in the public. She picked herself up and walked over to the manor's press room once notified.
“Good morning,” she said, stepping in front of a blue screen and behind a podium. “I will now urge the next governor to do as I suggest . . . hold your questions, please,” she said, looking up at the room packed with dozens of female reporters and cameramen.
“My husband attempted to control hunters, or, politely to say, the owners of land outside the power of Sinnoh, and now five busloads of kids won't get their first job, won't become trainers, and won't marry,” she said, looking down as she wiped her eyes. Then she looked up and continued, “Sinnoh expects the wrong things from these people. Throughout history, we and other regions have suppressed their wealth. That ain't working anymore. We have lost much, and will continue to if we expect to force these people to fund our schools and healthcare.
“False flag attacks and real disasters being used by politicians for power grabs has led to this day. Politicians love to control people's lives, I heard so in private many times, and I thus urge everyone to set their moral compass off of what the government does. Questions are in my mind now . . . do morals end an unmoral policy, and what are these morals . . . I will much consulting with Arceus over the coming years,” she said, taking off her ring and setting in front of her.
- - -
I wrote this in response to the awful shooting last week on twenty children. I am insulted by Obama's tears because he never cared about the children killed in the Mid-East due to his orders, or the drones. He doesn't cry for brown people, he cries purely on a nationalist basis.
I ask you, did you care about 500,000 children killed in Iraq due to sanctions in 1991? More questions are below. . .
I hear reports every now and then of terrorists being caught due to a sting operation, caught because they accepted the deal to take a bomb and blow people up, for example. Now, governments can do bad things . . . so I thought maybe they convinced some poor man with aspergers to go kill his mom and shoot up some school. But the goal wasn't to fake him out, and arrest him, it was to let it happen.
Because what if America's dream is to want control over their lives by such a centralized power for safety. But to do it required pushing them to accept it. Isn't it obvious? You want to be controlled, you just need a justification offered for why you should be. Or perhaps that's absurd.
But even if things in real life are not false flags . . . then I still see the humans of America pretending that school is supposed to so safe and that more should be done and all that. I mean, the adults of the school tried to stop an armed man. They were unarmed, so what if public schools allowed employees to carry?
To be straightforward on another matter related to murder, have you considered what video games you like? Did you love Pokemon Conquest? Have you considered what the ideas presented there have done to you? You were the warlord to unify the kingdoms. You killed to do that, that's what warlords do. But then again, you likely play on Modern Warfare later on.
What do those ideas do deep in your mind? Do you agree that unity, or coming together, is necessary for a nation in a time of crisis? Yeah, time for ___ control, you say, and your subconscious has passed Pokemon Conquest or mainstream media memories through you at the time. Mainstream ideas suggesting a quick fix with drugs for illnesses may have also affected your thinking by implying quick fixes are good for other things, too.
Then you look at American troops overseas, and you think, gee, honor the troops. No, it's war, each troop kills and occupies the land. The response may be “Yeah, but that's our government,” which reflects on Gunther and the Governor's words after the bus bombing which brings to mind what does honoring these people do? Does it play a part in inspiring mass killers (who are already whacky)?
What does Adam Lanza and Jacob Roberts (two recent mass killers) wanting to join the Marines mean?
What about that one guy who killed a village of Afghans by himself (he wasn't allowed to, but did it anyway)? What did it do to you? Did you accept this as your identity? You're American, so is he, that sort of thing . . . What did the Governor's arrest mean to Sinnoh? Hopefully you maintain a moral compass that disagrees with the government, as the wife said.
Questions are important, they help you think. By the way, dump all bread from your diet, it makes your head foggy.
And finally, by the Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported license, do what what you want with this story. Just cite me, please, and go spread word of your (possible) outrage of this story on Twitter or something since I have so used a recent event to write a story and afterword.
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