A spread out mobile assistance line of people passed word of shots fired. Medical supplies were discreetly fed back up the mountain.
Therefore ALL creatives are considered queers. It was unreal that this was read aloud as directive. Unreal, too, that the injured were just civilians and trapped in a bloody shoot out on a friggin' mountaintop.
"Tell me a story," the injured person said but with a gurgle. A grandma crossing the mountain to pick up grandchildren ordered the athletic-looking person be propped up slightly and ten minutes knees up like this. Others had already bled out.
One unsolved crime had led to a serious crime scene being overlooked. One real commitment "to love" no matter what had floated through the drinking crowd like an ember in a haybarn. "Was it a political statement?" An authority asked a person just staring at the dead toast maker, person, in a chair. The killing had happened quickly. The chaos of getting the hell out of here snarled all traffic in both directions.
"Think we'll look back and laugh about these days still?" The paling person nodded weakly. Lifelong friends and neighbors in America share the sentiment of we have to try.
Special friend was older than us. But not fogey. All the way back to New York special friend didn't write us off. Once when a spontaneous gathering of motorcyclists from both coasts suddenly bloomed as a sea of metal and edgy energy and we got sort of pinned in and called scrawny special friend totally stood up for us. "So? I'm scrawny too. Whaddaya gonna do about it?" That prompted a buncha girls more her age to get tough and in silent movie fashion "the girlfriends" stilled the chaos long enough for kids my age to beat it.
Scram mous ah, one kid remained a kind of magical wizard of chaos and hate when he got tall enough to hang with the girlfriends and not be detected as one of us. We'd hear adventure stories of "fighting almost broke out" and "cops din't even have to show up". But the girlfriends weren't really sure what made such surfing in culture possible. Even though most of them were real smart.
"HATE IS NOT A CRIME," the man stood almost taller than the doorframe of the restaurant. And that was true, so his message had heft. Especially to the "neo-nazis" not in their "uniforms". His words were like ghost guns. Crowding-in people seemed to be strengthened by the reminder. Like getting enough hate onto the thin crust of civility could overwhelm the normal day. Could seem a victory. Just to exist, and by just existing could "shut them up!" People who didn't hate.
"It didn't seem to be political so much as just the opposite."
"The opposite of what?" The authority asked a person in nice clothes with a fine spray of human blood like spray paint across pants and shirt. "We'd just come in to use the restroom," a woman explained.
"Is there video?" Another authority asked a server. Apron stuffed with dinner cheques and pens. Crossed arms and head shaking no. Mouth saying, "I don't know. I don't know."
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