I’m in my house enjoying a cocktail when I hear a loud commotion coming from outside. Upset, I groan and hurl my cocktail across the room. The glass shatters dramatically against the stone hearth. Cautiously, I saunter over to the door and gently part the curtains just far enough to see outside. There, on the front lawn, bathed in floodlights, a group of people are rioting.
What could they possibly be rioting over? I wonder.
It doesn’t seem to be a race riot. They are all predominantly white. All ages seem represented, as well. An old lady uses a chain to strap a teenager, sprawled on the ground and howling with pain. This could get ugly, I think. Better try and calm them down. I figure a folk song is just the thing.
With my acoustic guitar, I drift elegantly out onto my front porch. After the first chords, I have their attention. Now is the time to placate them with my soothing, dreamlike words. I start singing, the voice of an angel, but the words are coming out all wrong. I’m spouting hate, goading them. The guitar playing becomes driving and frantic.
Within a minute, they are back at it, harder than before. The old woman goes back to lashing the teenager, her mouth twisted into an angry snarl. Confused, I hurl the guitar out into the crowd where it takes out a toddler-sized girl. I retreat into the house, locking the doors and waiting for the first rock to come through the window.
