perfectly pressed pink pantsuit

As I sit here in this dusty and depressing Texas School Book Depository I currently find myself in, I go over the events about to follow that I have planned and replanned with careful precision and set into motion just a month and a half ago during that trip to Mexico which lasted only six days in and out of the Cuban and Russian embassies, but in that eye opening time was able to change my life and give me a singular purpose and power during these long, mundane months I had endured just to get here on the sixth floor with a rifle in hand. Before I had devoted myself to this current task at hand, I had another mission in life and a job I owed to society. Communism is a rather taboo subject in this so-called “land of the free” however, I myself am a more refined and self-proclaimed Marxist.

Down below I notice movement and hear the sounds of a parade drawing closer and louder by the second. Everyone cheering for these “gods” they’ve placed on a pedestal. Fools obsessed with their celebrities in their pretty white palaces while they themselves have to struggle, blind to the power they too could hold. Gods too must one day fall.

How quick we are to romanticize and idolize this class system and society that is force fed to us from birth. I myself served this nation under the false pretense of being “indivisible by liberty and justice” as a US Marine and citizen of this godforsaken country, one of my few regrets as I now stand over these pathetically unknowing sheep. Justice will today adorn a new meaning. Killing another man is a small price to pay for the salvation that will follow.

Leaning out the window slightly, I peer below as the parade is now just six stories below. Moving myself into a more optimal position for the task I am about to complete, my fingers shake against the 6.5 mm Italian carbine rifle and its trigger, begging to be the deciding and altering factor in the timeline known as history. Never did a weapon possess a man the way it did me in this moment.

Only the glimpse of a child, a younger version of myself, tries to stop me from furthering down this road, the way I did the others. Paths that I never doubted until such a pathetic, weak side of me would decide to rear its head. “Question these actions! Would those you loved and lost want this for you? Would they be proud of where you’ve gone in your life?” it would say. Rightful of him to ask, though that won’t stop me from my mission now, nothing will.

Steadying my hand, I observe a careful aim, refusing to let the adrenaline rush to my head as I pull the trigger, nothing but pure excitement in my heart and soul. Two bullets leave my barrel, one to the back and one to the brain. Utter chaos descends while the “precious” first lady holds her husband as his metallic, crimson ichor leaks onto her perfectly pressed pink suit. Velvet turns to Scarlet as it seeps into the streets, leaving me giddy. Writhing and almost wiggling with excitement, I must do everything in my power to contain a laugh. Xanthic faces passed me in curiosity and anxiety, only fueling my satiation.

Yells of pain, despair, and desperation fill the air and thus my ears, which in turn allows me a moment to let out my painfully withheld laughs while the summer breeze whips against my clothing. Zipping through bystanders and back alleys, I run — no –sprint with no intentions of stopping until I know this society has learned what’s inevitably descending upon them.

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