My grandfather's wrapped in a blanket in front of the TV with a case of Coca-Cola, a bag of bear claw's and four bags of chips. 24 hour deathwatch on CNN. Volume at top level, settled back in the chair --
"WHO TAKES THE FALL FOR BUSH?" He screams over the TV as soon as he sees me.
"Stop shouting!"
He rubs his hands, folds them together, then looks at me with a giant smile. I can't hear him over the TV, but he's mouthing the words, "Death to the king."
Even my aunt, usually under a drug haze of doom and despair, is spinning in circles.
I stop her, laughing, "Sue, it's all shit. Even if something does happen, so what? It'll be a sacrificial lamb, nothing bad, Cheney and Bush will stay there, the course will maintain. Revolution, you see, is dead."
She shakes me violently, her smile fading, her face clouding. "One is enough! Anyone is good enough"
Give us blood, give us blood. Just feed it to us. Throw one of your slaves through the palace doors and onto the street. Close those doors and barricade them. Let us creep, slowly, from the shadows and hovels and gutters, and devour them. Feed us Rove! Feed us Libby! We'll take any portrait that has a name, we'll crawl through the dust in our tattered leper's robes and feed on the spleen of Karl Rove.
Such simplicity in the mind of the revolutionary. Sacrifice to us, tyrant king, and you buy yourself your last two years.
Hatred seethed at work yesterday. The American liberals chattering, the news on every computer, hushed conversations in front of the wall-sized window that looks out at the Capitol Building. The dome against the rainy sky, heads bent in the foreground. Work will be at a standstill today. Every breath caught, thin, hopeful smiles, hands shaking over the keyboard as webpages are refreshed, everyone waiting for the one who finds it first. A shout of victory, the cue to refresh, refresh, refresh.