American Anarchist

*This is an excerpt from an upcoming novel for preview purposes only.  The title “American Anarchist” is mine as well as the following characters.

Chapter 1

The moonlight cast a subtle light on what could pass for a decrepit prison cell wall. But it’s more likely it was an abandoned garage of some sort. Graffiti and deep cracks showcase this was at some point the sign of vandalism. The most notable act of graffiti is the large anarchy symbol in bright red paint, appearing seraphic in an otherwise black-and-white atmosphere.

A man’s voice is heard coming from the room. It’s an almost sadistic voice superseded by the self-efficacious intent of heroism.

“You deserve every bit of this.”

There are various noises indicating light human torture. Spitting, cringing, and moaning are heard from another voice. Metal objects, perhaps weapons, begin to make noise. The tortured individual speaks. It is the voice of another man.

“I’m sorry! Please don’t do this.” The man yells out a slight fearful scream. Nothing has happened to him yet, but he fears the unknown.   The other voice replies.

“Don’t ‘please’ me. After all that you’ve done.”

The other party spits. It’s the kind of spitting sound one would hear if he was hit so hard in the mouth, he’d have to spit out a wad of blood, or perhaps a tooth. He replies soft-spoken, making sure not to get on his torturer’s bad side. If he wasn’t there already. “What…what have I done?”

“What have you done?” The other voice replied rhetorically. “What haven’t you done? “

“I just don’t understand,” the other voice replied, scared, lost, and discombobulated. “I don’t know what you want. Just please…please…”

“Please?” Replied the voice. “Please? You have the audacity to ask me ‘please’? How do you respond when others tell you ‘please’? Do you show them any mercy?” The voice asked vehemently.

“What are you talking about?”

The owner of once of the voices is now revealed. It is that of a police officer, in his blue uniform. He looks to be a police officer for a number of years; he isn’t a youth, but he’s not quite close to middle-aged. He is sitting on the floor, by no choice of his own of course, while each of his hands are individually handcuffed to a bar above him. A tad of blood decorated his mouth. His eyes appear puffy and watery as if he hasn’t slept for days. The other voice, however, still remains unknown.

“Answer the question,” the voice replied savagely. I’m sure you have heard the word ‘please’ many times throughout your career. I’m willing to be many people throughout your career have asked you for mercy, apologetically, for you not to cite or detain them. And, while I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt and acknowledge you may have honored your victims requests in a couple isolated incidents, in virtually all of them, you have not. Yet, you turn to me, begging me for mercy, to honor your pleadings, to grant you clemency, when you have rejected those very same requests from others.”

“But they broke the law,” the officer responded. “It’s my job to keep bad people off the streets.”

“They broke the law? Exactly to which laws are we referring? The objective, natural law inherent to all human beings? Not at all. The ‘law’ of which you speak is the law created by legislation – by men in suits. In objective reality this law does not exist; but it is merely a concept created by men who wish to impose their idea of morality onto others; and if others choose to not participate in these men’s idea of morality, you penalize them for it, even though natural law allows for them to be a free people. They become victims in a world without choices. They are forced to abide by the impositions of someone else. Do you understand this, officer? And then you say ‘bad people.’ What defines a bad person? On what standard-of-morality scale are you using to set the criteria for defining a good or bad person? For if you say it is the objective standard of morality that was perhaps hardwired into the human mind through millennia of evolutionary process, or even if you suggest that a deity of some sort has built this standard, I may be willing to hear your ideas. But this is not the criteria you or your kind use for determining one’s ethical labeling. The standard of morality you use is relatively recent, created by men of your nature, and exists in a handbook at the local police station.”

A small table of weaponry is in view. There is a metal wrench, a gun, and a piece of rope tied in a noose.   The voice continued, “You see officer, by using your own logic, I could justify my own actions by punishing you, and you can’t say that I’m wrong. I am acting accordingly with my own standard of morality, and I feel that you need to be punished. I am a lot like you, see? I created a standard of conduct I deem ethical and you have broken the law according to my code of conduct. Objectively, it’s no different than what you do.”

The hand up the voice picks up a metal, rusted wrench.

“Oh God, no,” cried the officer. “Please don’t. I was just doing my job.”

A glimpse of the unknown voice is now revealed. In full frame, is a man in a wannabe super hero suit. To call it a super hero suit is perhaps an overestimation. It appears to be a greyish, slim-fitting long-sleeve sweatshirt with a matching grey pants. A self-made logo appeared on his chest that read “AA” in plain letters. His face is not revealed.

“And I’m just doing mine.”

Faint screams are heard in the black-and-white room before evanescing to blackness.


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