Violent Protests
Juan arrived at Phoenix’s Sky Harbor International Airport early on a chilly December morning to pick up his son Carlos. With nothing to do while he waited, Juan contented himself by watching CNN playing on one of the big overhead screens.
“In an announcement that is sending shockwaves around the world,” the breathless commentator reported the breaking news, “President Joe Biden has announced he will sign the bill that increases the Supreme Court from nine to thirteen justices…”
“So much for MAGA,” a familiar voice announced behind him. It was tinged with disappointment, “It’s over.” Juan turned to see his son standing morosely in his Marine service uniform. He looked out of place, unkempt, with a shadow of a mustache and beard on his unshaven face.
They embraced. “It’s good to see you again, mijo! So Good!”
“You too, Dad.” Carlos reached down and hefted a very heavy-looking bag to his shoulder. “Too bad about the imposter posing as our Commander-in-Chief.”
“Ah,” Juan said with a groan. “Politics is just dirty business. It’s all about the money.”
As they headed outside for the truck, Juan thought, I should be proud that I voted, even if my guy didn’t win. But in his heart, he felt discouraged and disappointed with the whole process.
The network of roadways that ran into and out of the Sky Harbor airport was comprised of twisting ribbons of one-way and two-way streets, access roads, and highways with onramps and offramps. Even though Juan flew to visit family in Mexico nearly every year, navigating these streets always made him anxious.
“Dad, look out!” Carlos shouted, raising his hand to Juan’s shoulder in a futile attempt to restrain him.
They were entering a narrow corridor where the one-way exit lanes were separated from the one-way entry lanes that led to Terminals 3 and 4. The streets were separated only by a narrow median with desert landscaping.
Juan slammed on his brakes. An enormous flatbed truck pulling a long trailer loaded with pallets of bricks was crashing across the median headlong into oncoming traffic.
Juan glanced at his rearview mirror. A long line of cars and trucks was screeching to a halt behind him. He thought for a moment that he would get hit. “What the hell is that guy doing?” he shouted. The road on the other side of the median was straight, and the traffic speed was supposed to be slow here. There was no reason for the driver to crash like this.
“I think he’s doing it on purpose, Dad,” Carlos yelled again, “Look!”
Although the desert landscaping was flat gravel with only a few small, scattered cacti, there was also a long row of low wire-screen gabion fencing filled with decorative rock. From the angle of the oncoming truck, it looked as though the driver was intentionally aiming for the fence.
“He’s trying to flip his trailer!” Juan screamed. He slammed his pickup into reverse, but the vehicles were piled up too close behind him. There was nowhere to go.
The distinct crunching sound a vehicle makes during an impact is indescribable. Yet you know when you hear it that something horrendous has occurred. Something that will be life changing. The flatbed driver succeeded in flipping his trailer, and the truck’s cab was on the ground too. The pallets of bricks were shattered and scattered across both the incoming and the outgoing lanes of traffic.
Mercifully, it had landed on the road in front of Juan and skidded to a halt, stopping just before colliding with his pickup. Juan’s head snapped towards his son, “Are you OK, mijo? Are you hurt?”
“I’m OK, Dad,” Carlos replied. He was trying to loosen his seat belt. It looked like his neck was sore. “What about you? Are you all right?”
Juan’s attention returned to his own body. Everything seemed fine, except he had to mentally force himself to let go of his death grip on the steering wheel. “Yeah, I’m OK.”
Instinctively, both Juan and Carlos opened their doors to rush to the aid of the driver of the overturned truck. Juan was just getting ready to step outside when Carlos grabbed his shoulder and dragged him back inside. “Wait, Dad. Get back in the truck. Get back in and lock your door. Now!”
There was so much authority in Carlos’ command that Juan complied instantly. He looked around in confusion, trying to figure out what Carlos was saying. Then he saw it. Dozens of men were climbing out of their pickup trucks. They were armed, with pistols prominently displayed on their hips, and they were inserting large red, white, and blue American flags into holders mounted on the back of their trucks. There were also bright yellow flags with a picture of a rattlesnake and the words “Don’t Tread on Me” emblazoned across the bottom.
Within minutes, all the inbound and outbound lanes to the airport were choked with protestors for a half mile in either direction. It was a terrifying spectacle.
“We’re in trouble.”
What Will Juan Do Next?
Choose Option 1: Call Maria
Choose Option 2: Discuss the Danger
As much as people who mistreated Trump, probably deserve jail time, I think a better way, after exposing their evil, is to end it by making it impossible for them to ever hold public office again and move on to the future so a trump can carry on the business of the county.