SmackDown: Back to Our Roots

Round 2: Martin Luther King Jr. - @TEBramble

Martin Luther King Jr.

by TEBramble

It all began that day. April 4, 1968. Our last hope for peace died with the king. Sometimes I wonder if all those speeches all those he spoke so eloquently of equity and dreams, all those beautiful marches... was it really all it was cracked up to be?

This I thought as I stared up at the poster. Martin Luther King Jr's bloodied face plastered front and center. The words 'fight for him, fight for justice, fight for his dream' in big blocky letters below it. I stared at it as best I could as rain started to pour down from grey skies above. I began to wonder if the heavens could weep. I would weep in their place.

I moved on. Such an intertwined web of irony the death of an icon, fuelling outrage. The wrong action taken here or there and suddenly everything loses all meaning. I had to hold back a cynical laugh. A man who voiced his opposition to a war becoming the face of another. Oh how anyone would weep at that.

The rain poured ever heavier. I quickened the pace and tilted my head forward. To my right, a park of leafless trees all shed and ready for the winter. To my left, empty shops stripped of goods and ready for the end. Ahead, I wouldn't dare gaze upon what was ahead lest despair strip me of my soul, reading me for my end.

I took a left around a corner. To my right, now, were sandbags, guns in the hands of casual clothed rebels. Their clothes coloured green to resemble some manner of camouflage, the elaborate black eagle showing on their clothing. The New Union they called themselves as they tore our country apart. Their emblem, a comical parody of the original bald eagle the United States was always so fond of.

It was as if they mocked the very idea of a military. Children playing dress up with toys they should never have. More ironic is the mere mention of that criticism would get me beat or killed... and they say they fight for freedom. Bah!

Keep your head low and move on. That's how you live. So that's what I do. I move on. I keep walking. Nevermind what remains behind, focus on making your forward. Soon this will pass and all will be well.

I straightened my hat so it hid my face better and made my down the street into my neighbourhood. I saw empty houses branded with the images of their former residents who were named, shamed and driven out in the name of civil rights. "For what reasons?" you may ask. I wouldn't dare ask the New Union trooper lest I too earn their ire. The irony seemed to soak every facet of the world.

I kept pushing on. Through the street I trudged, huddling against the pouring rain, my coat getting soaked, my legs growing tired. So cold. Soon I find my way to a familiar house. I open the gate, walk through the front yard and up the stairs. Each old wooden edifice somehow still creeking with every footfall amidst the storm.

I walked up to the front porch, I stopped and stared at a patch of pale beige amidst the dusty brown marking out where once was a lovely chair. Moving onto the rotting wooden door I searched my pockets for my keys with hands going numb from the cold. I fumbled to get them out and they thudded against the floor in a loud rattle.

Sighing I bent over reaching to pick it up but froze as I heard the rumble of an engine. I turned, fearing the worst, only to find a man driving along on his own. I released a breath of relief and turned back to the door and was about to unlock it when I froze again. This was mine to be sure but inside I knew there's nothing left for me here.

I turned around and made my way back to the street and carried on, soaking up the rain. So few of us left now that most houses remain empty. Streets once bustling with life now run nigh empty, left to die and rot. "For equal rights" they said. Perhaps an equal right to die is more like it. Damned be it all, there's little left to care about now.

So I carry on, brooding in my melancholy. Walking through the rain, walking through this empty dying city. I hear the sound of amplifiers blaring a man's voice all over the place in the distance. I never listen. It's why I stay where most disappear.

I came up on another corner. Turning left on it I see more struggling shops, some separated by alleyways. I walk on, passing into another street. Then I hear swearing, panic and a man runs out of the alleyway in front of me before a gunshot screamed through the air. The man dropped dead, a bullet blown the back of his head open.

Hands in pockets, I peered into the alleyway. It was dark, dry and covered by overlapping roofs. In the back I see a rather large copy the Martin Luther poster in the usual blue and white. However over the word 'dream' was spray painted in bright red the words 'Orwellian nightmare'. Below it stood three militiamen.

One of them takes aim at me with his rifle as another starts tearing the poster down. I stepped over the corpse and moved on. Hmph, America, 1979 and one would think it were Germany, 1942. Damned black eagles. Gotta keep moving. I walked on, paying no heed to the world. No one would have thought things could come to this. Funny how we can be so wrong.

I hunched over as life moved on with me. The rain clears up and the smell of coffee brewing catches me. The promise of warmth irresistible, I followed it to its source and found a cafe. I see the black waitress, a stressed woman almost running to make the rounds. A pot of hot coffee in her hand. I check my pockets.

A few dollars spare, a meagre handful to run on. I hesitate but that smell, strong and striking as it filled my nostrils. 'Gotta keep moving' my instincts urged. I could use the energy. Coffee it is. I take my first few steps towards the cafe as the waitress disappears into it. With coffee on my mind I paid no heed to the name nor the decor as I moved in.

I look ahead and froze. A cafe for the militiaman freaks. I shiver as the cold bites into my spine hard. My mind raced as confusion and panic flooded my system. I looked around, there may have been thirty or forty, something like that many all packed in there, armed, talking and drinking.

I took one shaky step back and stumble, falling onto my back, groaning in pain as I hit the concrete. The bustling cafe goes silent as I feel dozens of eyes fall on me. My mind goes numb as the world pins around me in a dizzying blur. Focus eludes me as I rummage through my broken senses for clarity.

I soon look up and see my hat not too far off. I reached up and grabbed it and slapped it back onto my head in a wet embrace of soaked materials, tilting it over to hide my pale complexion. A feminine hand was offered to me and I took it, being pulled up onto my feet.

Struggling, squinting and shaking my head I looked around I find all eyes on me. The waitress from before saying something. I didn't know what nor did I care as those cold dead stares struck into my soul. Dozens of pairs of eyes staring into me. I panicked and I backed away. One among them shook his head and came to me.

I froze as he laid a hand gently but firmly on my shoulder and said something about the absurdity of the situation. Something I agreed with through my surreal daze. He offered his dark skinned hand and I shook it. I walked with him, light headed still filled with uncertainty. Soon I was placed on a chair with a cup of coffee in front of me.

Are these the real Black Eagles? It did not matter, the coffee was all I could think about. I sniffed it, relishing the smell. Then I lifted up the coffee in a fantastical moment, muscles shivering, heart thumping, mind racing as I pulled ever closer to my mouth. Suddenly it hit me, coffee pouring into my mouth warm and strong. A moment of divine solace in the desert of reality.

I smiled. Nothing else mattered now. Not even the militiamen sitting around me, filling my ears with talk. Not even the jarring exemption they were. Not one tiny bit. I was, at last, comfortable, content, caffeinated.