cabaretic

part one of short story.

if you want to read this, you'll have to take the part I posted yesterday and put it on top of this draft.

sorry about that, but SG journals won't let me edit.

The annual conference of young adult radicals came together, officially, in an undisclosed location in the southwest. I, being in the know, can tell you that it was somewhere in the mountains of northern New Mexico.

The processions were meant to be filmed but plans were iced midway through after one of the participants pointed out that several people being filmed were wanted by the government for shuttling immigrants across the border into Canada. This is the least of their offenses and I know it, but say nothing.

The woman who called me on this point is the lust interest of most people in our tight-knit organization. She has a zest for taking out her aggression on raw vegetables, carrots especially. She looks to be the love-child of some disgruntled GI and a Cambodian refugee. Her never-ending collection of synthetic fabric thongs protrude rather prominently from the waistband of her olive green cargo pants.

As N. is a professional dominatrix by trade, I often picture her torturing her clients with a cat-of-nine-tails or a long slender cane.

She scares me shitless. I know she could kick my ass, so I steer well clear of her. One of my partners in crime was lucky enough to be dragged away into her bedchambers and developed quite an ego as a result. He has nothing really to brag about, considering the fact that for a week he couldnt sit down without wincing.

I am politely referred to as an outside agitator, although truthfully, I prefer to be called a shit stirrer. My only true talent is being able to get incensed enough that they throw rocks through plate glass windows.

Some people are here for the cause. I respect their opinions, but Im really just here for the sheer love of the battle. Revolution for the hell of it is my motto.

One of N.s little puppy-dog minions is an androgynous looking creature named Gavin. None of us know for sure the exact gender of Gavin and have been far too polite thus far to ask. Gavin is currently chopping garlic to make our vegan breakfast. I never really took to the diet and consider it akin to eating gravel. So as not to make a scene, I will quietly sneak off to my tent and cook some fried eggs and bacon.

Shopes, my good friend from Minnesota, idles up to me while Im trying to light the Coleman stove.

They got three of em yesterday--Young, Grogan, and Smith.

This is news to me, but Im not that surprised. The three in question no doubt learned how to make their own napalm at age seven. We used them when we needed shit blown up to make a point. They werent told of the greater plan because they didnt need to know. I couldnt stand to be around them. They were fine for shock troops but ordinarily they were drooling Neanderthals who set their methane excretions on fire and roared with laughter. And they broke things.