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Peaceful Protest










Peaceful Protest

Zachariah Dracoulis

Author’s Note


Now, before you get into all of… this, I strongly recommend that you keep in mind that this is a work of fiction. Much like the wage gap. Also, just in case anyone gets any fancy ideas of tracing my IP address, know this; I’m on the Emergency Call block list, so I won’t be able to call for help.

That, and I know super Jiu-Jitsu, which is like regular Jiu-Jitsu, but super.

So, yeah, watch out for that.


Didn’t see that coming, didja?

But, honestly, this is a very serious subject.


Can you believe that I actually get paid for this? I am an internationally best-selling author, and right now I’m beating a really quite pathetic joke in my big and serious ‘Author’s Note’.

Bleh, shake it off, stick-and-move. I usually get like this when I talk about stuff that has the potential to get me punched. I don’t like getting punched you see, so I prolong it, my point that is, to the point that (hopefully) anyone who’s angry gets bored and goes back to their life of yelling about cross-fit. That’s what the kids are doing, right? Cross-fit?


Anyway, as I was saying, serious subject, you, pay attention.


My name is Zachariah Longanddifficulttospelloverthephone, and I am actually very passionate about this subject. Why? Because I would’ve labeled myself as a Black Lives Matter supporter, right up until the past twelve-eighteen months when it all went to shit.

I understand that it’s not everyone in the movement, but there are a fuck-ton of bad eggs, and they have weapons. They hurt people, they destroy things, they riot, and no-one says a thing because they’re concerned they’ll be the next bloody target. Unfortunately I’ve not got that voice in my head that goes “Hey Zach, maybe not?” because I used to and that guy was a fucking disgrace.

“Don’t play with jerry cans at bonfires!”

“Fuck you boring Zach, I do what I want!”

And now I have a lot of fun stories. And burns. Do not fuck with fire kids, because fire will fuck you right back. Man, I love the word fuck.

“Get back on task!”

“Eat a dick!”

“Maybe later.”

I’m going to stop now, promise. Heh, that was a lie. And you fell for it. You fool.


Back on track, if the Black Lives Matter really hates and finds the type of people who lob bricks at people and try to burn journalists alive, then they should decry them. It’s not that hard, most Christians do it with Westboro all the time, because they’re fucking crazy, honestly, how could they think that the message of ‘Love thy neighbour’ could be interpreted as ‘Love thy neighbour. Unless they’re gay, black, Jews, Muslims, pro-choice, or just generally anyone you dislike. Wing it.’

I get pretty into scripture. That New Testament is fo shizzle.

Anywho, just to wrap all this up in a weird, malformed bow, the popular media has to stop labeling riots as peaceful protests and trying to pretend that the destruction isn’t happening. Why? Because it’s making people conflate the two, hard right-wingers are getting ammunition to shout down the innocent black community more, and, and I love to say this, producing a culture of left-wing idiots who take everything at face value.


There we go, author’s note. I think that went well.

Oh, wait, vote for Trump. Seriously, it’ll be great fun, and it’s way better than having a criminal in office. I know she hasn’t been convicted, doesn’t make her any less of a criminal.

Trump says some pretty dicey stuff, but he’s done well for himself.

“He went bankrupt!” screams the SJW.

No he didn’t, he had several businesses go bankrupt during the recession. You remember that thing? Yeah, sucked for everyone.

“He broke the law!”

No he didn’t. Bent it a bit, sure, but, as he said, it was the best business decision, and he also said that he would get rid of the loophole that he exploited and the dreaded ‘she’ didn’t touch.


There. Perfect. Enjoy.










For David,

There comes a time when one must _][_take a position that is neither safe, nor politic, nor popular, but he _][_must _][_take it because conscience tells him it is right.

— Martin Luther King Jr. —

August 5^th^ 2019. An Ohio Christian School posts ‘#AllLivesMatter’ on a social media platform after a terrorist attack in Belgium.

August 10^th^ 2019 . Several members of the Black Lives Matter movement storm the school, which has a less than 2% black student body, with automatic weapons. The words ‘Racists’, ‘#BlackLivesMatter’, and ‘Whiteys Gotta Pay’ are spray-painted throughout the school over the bodies of the children.

August 22^nd^ 2019. Black Lives Matter is officially listed as a terrorist organization. Riots ensue.

The year is 2022. The BLM has decimated over a dozen population centers over the past three years.


Detroit is destroyed.

DC burns.


July 11^th^ 2022. Kevin Richmond, an NYPD officer, discharges his weapon at known felon and gang member Terrence ‘TJ’ Jacobs, an African-American father of two, in Harlem after a reported neighborhood disturbance.


America holds its breath as Jacobs clings to life in a local hospital.


July 13^th^ 2022. Jacobs dies.

July 14^th^ 2022. Richmond is found beaten to death in his home. Six hours later police find and imprison five BLM members.

July 15^th^ 2022. Manhattan falls.

July 16^th^ 2022, 2200 hours. The Fixers are sent in.

I nodded along to the southern-rock song that whispered through my team’s black SUV’s speakers. Despite the frenetic pacing and high tempo I actually found it rather relaxing as we tore through the sparsely occupied neighborhoods of East Harlem, the majority of the ‘peaceful protesters’ having moved down toward Midtown.

There were three of us sent in on this. In the driver’s seat we had Hall, tough as nails and quick to laugh, next to him was Kilroy, dead-eyed and merciless ever since he’d lost his family in Baltimore, he was also the only one of us who was former BLM. Then there was me in the backseat, Adrian Dirkwood, everyone just called me Dirk though, like the knife. Well, there were a few who called me Dick, but they weren’t in Manhattan that night.

“We nearin’ the DZ?” I asked as we screeched around a particularly tight corner.

“The what?” Hall snapped back at me as he tried to keep his focus on the road.

“The DZ. Drop Zone?”

Hall scoffed and I started pre-emptively rubbing my temples for the lecture to come, “Yeah, sure, ‘cause we’re in a helicopter. Maybe you think we should keep an eye out for an LZ, too, or do you like confusin’ us ‘Grunts’? Try ‘n’ keep your vernacular on the ground Fly-Boy, you’re gonna get someone killed if yo-”

“Fine!” I shouted, releasing the grip on my head, “Fine, Jesus, how far are we from the objective?” I asked bitterly.

“Dunno; if we don’t run into another dead-traffic blockade, couple o’ minutes.”

“Good, thank you. That’s all I needed.” I said before slumping back into my chair, “And Hall? I ain’t a Fly-Boy anymore, and you’re not a Grunt, Kilroy neither,” I sighed and looked out the window at the burning and overturned cars, “we’re all Spooks now.”

We whipped around another corner and Hall slammed on the brakes, my belt barely stopping me from flying out the windscreen.

“What’s going o-oh damn… Throw her in reverse!” I yelled as I unbuckled my belt and collapsed the center seat, revealing three .45 caliber pistols. I handed one to Kilroy’s waiting hand and swore under my breath when I looked back out the windscreen to see the sprinting gang of rioters coming toward the SUV, “Now!”

“ Ya think!?” Hall barked as he snatched one of the pistols from my hands and looked over his shoulder, “Oh for fuck’s- Hold on!”

He hooked the wheel and we almost rolled as we went back the way we came, a group of Molotov-wielding thugs getting ready to lob their fiery bottles from both corners of the T-section ahead of us.

“Alley.” Kilroy said in a disturbingly calm voice.

Hall nodded, “Got it.” He hooked the wheel again and we disappeared into an alley that was barely wide enough for the SUV, fire splashing across the pavement where we’d just been.

“Fuck!” Hall yelled before slamming on the brakes again.

I looked out the back and silently concurred, another group of rioters were coming in from the other side of the alley, stalking toward us and clattering their bits of metal and baseball bats against the trash-cans and bricks. “Oh come on… I thought this sector was supposed to be clear!?”

“Apparently not.” Hall said, his entire body tensing and relaxing, his veins bulging out of his neck, and then suddenly he released, “It’s your call Dirk, forward or do we keep goin’ back?”

I was getting sick of getting stuck with these calls, which ‘civilians’ got to live, which got stuck with the hard end of the SUV, “Shit… I don’t kn-”

That’s when Kilroy opened the sunroof, “Fire escape.” and then he was out of the car and on his way up the rusty metal.

“He’s a freakin’ ape, swear to God.” Hall said as he gawked at Kilroy.

Then a Molotov smashed across the rear windscreen, snapping us back to the reality of the situation.

“Go!” I shouted as I climbed over the back seat and ripped up the space where a spare tire would normally go, “I’m right behind you!”

I flipped through the assault rifles and SMGs in search of what I really needed. Hall begrudgingly accepted the carbine I threw at him, slung it over his shoulder, lifted himself out through the sunroof, and climbed the ladder Kilroy had kicked down.

A brick smashed against the burning windscreen above me and I instantly felt burning bits of laminated glass pepper the back of my neck and shaved head. I knew that the glass was one more hit like that away from caving in. My head was throbbing, but at least the burning had sizzled out.

Then I found it, my custom tactical shotgun, buried at the bottom of the pile. I scooped it up, barely fought the urge to hug it, and stuffed a box of rounds into my leather jacket’s right pocket.

I looked up just in time to see another Molotov hurtling toward me, and barely managed to roll over the seat fast enough to avoid the flames that quickly filled the cabin. The heat was licking over the leather seat by the time I’d mounted the center-console and begun haphazardly climbing the ladder with one hand.

It was not a fun experience.

Things were only getting worse though, especially seeing as my team seemed to have pulled the ripcord on me. I’d almost reached the first fire-escape platform when I felt something smash into the side of my head and nearly fell.

There was blood running from back right corner of my head and down past my ear, a constant ringing piercing my brain while I swayed precariously and tried to hug the ladder.

“Dirk.” a calm voice said from above me.

I looked up, which made my head feel like it was going to fall off, and saw Kilroy with his hand stretched out for me.

“Come on, truck’s on fire.”

My first instinct was to look down, but I managed to suppress the urge and handed the shotgun up to Kilroy while fighting everything in my mind that wanted me to fall into the warmth beneath me. Another brick whizzed by my head as I finally took Kilroy’s hand and let him help me up.

He quickly examined my head and shook his own, “That doesn’t look good. You need a hospital.”

“No,” I said, a process that I’m almost certain nearly killed me, “we’ve got a mission to finish. Exfil’ll have a med-team on board.”

Kilroy stared at me blankly as I struggled to my feet, “Alright, Hall’s on the roof looking for a clear route to Harlem.”

I nodded, grabbed the shotgun off the ground, slung it around my shoulder, something I wished I’d done on the ladder, and started up the stairs, ignoring the roaring crowd and flames beneath us.

Every one of the rusted steel steps rattled through my spine to my skull, but by focusing on nothing but getting up it felt like no more than a few seconds had passed by the time I reached the top of what I guessed was an old apartment block. That’s where we found Hall standing on the opposite edge, staring out over the city like a watchful vigilante.

The sound of the SUV exploding behind us caught his attention enough to make him snap around to face us. “Christ! What the fuck have you done to yourself?”

“Thought it’d be fun to throw stuff into the air and catch it on my head.” I said sarcastically before keeling over onto my side, landing in that weird limbo between conscious and dead.




I woke to the sound of seething behind me. I was propped up on something, a shelf, of which I was surrounded by, and there was something wrapped around my head.

“Ow! Watch it!” an unfamiliar voice snapped.

“If you don’t be quiet they’ll find us and murder us.” Kilroy said.

Hall chuckled at what I guessed was the uncomfortableness of whoever Kilroy was tending to, “You’ve really gotta get better at your bedside manner.”

I wanted to call out to them, but I decided to get my bearings first. There was the smell of crappy food and, though a good distance away, gasoline. That, combined with the dodgy looking sunglasses rack in front of me and the shelves I was against, put me in a gas station.

“Hall? Kilroy?” I said in a raspy voice, clearly I’d been out for longer than I thought.

“Just keep pressure on it and you’ll be fine.” Hall said in as comforting a tone as he could.

“He’s lying. At this point it doesn’t matter what you do. I give you a fifty/fifty chance.”

“Stop torturing whoever it is you’re torturing and help me get up.” I groaned after a failed attempt at standing.

Hall was the first around the corner, “Whoa there, maybe you shouldn’t be getting up just yet.” he said as I finally wobbled to what felt less like feet and more like marbles.

Kilroy came around the opposite end of the shelve shaking his head, “The worst thing that can happen is he passes out again.”

“Absolute ray of sunshine as always, Kilroy,” I said after getting used to the fact my feet did in fact exist, “where are we, and who’re you guys talking to? We’re not even supposed to be here.”

Hall shrugged, “Gas station in south Harlem. We were stuck, Dirk, and you weren’t exactly easy to move around. And him?” he said, pointing in the general direction of the heavy breather on the other side of the shelves, “NYPD, first responder. He cuffed a looter, who’s here too, before catchin’ a bullet. He seems stable now, though. They were here when we arrived.”

“Anyone else in this party of yours?” I asked condescendingly.

He waited a few seconds, his face contorting in some weird mix of constipation and annoyance, before going to answer, and getting interrupted by someone on the other end of the gas station.

“I guess the other man in black is up.”

It took me a second, but I eventually got it, “Oh… Oh no. Don’t tell me it’s a…”

Hall nodded, “Blogger.”

The hipsterific pain in my ass came up behind Hall, “Another suit here to silence the black man’s voice.” he said with his arms crossed across his horrifically drab tan shirt.

I scoffed and gestured at my clothes, “What suit? And I’m black!”

He scoffed back, “Yeah, doesn’t change the fact that you’re fighting for a racist government.”

“I’m not fighting for anything other than to stop this before New York becomes another Detroit. And all my ‘racism’, comes from statistics.”

“Whatever you say, Uncle Tom.”

That’s when Kilroy decided he’d had enough. A single footstep and a heavy crack later, and the blogger was on his ass.

“Every city I go to there’s another one just like you; entitled little coffee shop trolls who like to preach about peace and harmony while hiding with the rest of us.” Kilroy said before squatting down in front of the dazed blogger who was rubbing his jaw, “Did you know I was BLM? I was all for it; marched in the rallies, chanting with the other protestors.

Then, on April 7th, 2017, my family was killed on their way out of a protest in Seattle that was getting out of control. Mum, dad, my younger sister, she would’ve been 21 this year, they had gasoline poured in their windows and the doors kicked in when they tried to escape. In case you couldn’t guess, it wasn’t the cops, it wasn’t by racist employers, it was the people who we’d sided with, the people who’d we’d been fighting for our rights with. Bet you can guess how it got covered on the news. ‘Peaceful Protest Turns Violent When Riot Police Attack’. Think about that the next time you decide to call one of us ‘Uncle Tom’.”

That was the most words I’d heard him say in a year, and the most he’d shared about what happened to his family ever. I told myself that something must’ve happened while I was out, and then quickly decided it’d be best to just breeze past it.

“Right,” I said after letting the blogger stew for a few seconds, “how far are we from the target?”

“Two, three blocks.” Hall blurted out as Kilroy disappeared around the shelves, “But there’s no getting there. A group of ‘protestors’ are patrolling the street just outside. We barely got you in here in the first place.”

It must’ve been the head injury, but I finally asked, “How do they know who we are?”

Hall shrugged, “No idea, but they can spot us in a second.”

I rubbed my eyes in frustration, also partially to hide the fact that I was struggling to keep them open, “So what’s the plan? We can’t just stay here.”

“Well,” Hall said with a smile, “I’ve been thinking about something that just might do it.” He looked at the blogger, who still hadn’t gotten up off the floor, “We go out there and they’ll kill us on sight, but if we had someone else draw ‘em in for us…”

I chuckled as I looked at the almost crying blogger, he looked about ready to wet himself, and I knew we were in for a good bit of fun.




We pushed the blogger, now dressed in the officer’s gear, out the front door and quickly disappeared behind the first of four lines of shelves.

“You sure this is gonna work?” Hall asked confidently.

I nodded, “It’ll work,” I said as picked up my shotgun and aimed at about where I thought the door would be, “worst thing that can happen is he gets himself killed and we duck out the back way in the chaos. Now go help Kilroy with the cop; perp’s not worth the manpower.”

Hall hesitated, but then the blogger nervously shouted out, “NYP-P-D! Get on the ground!” from the street, and he ran off with his carbine to his shoulder.

My head throbbed in time with the blogger’s approaching footsteps, the sound of the protestors drawing closer and closer as he desperately ran for the door. They were trying to scare him with their rhythmic marching instead of just chasing him down.

I pushed the muzzle to the shelf as hard as I could and continued to wait, my breathing slowing with each passing second. Then the blogger came crashing through the doors, stomping on the mat in the process, smashing the bottle of rubbing alcohol and letting the puddle grow toward the barely lit cigarette on the floor beside it.

It wasn’t until the blogger had run past me, almost screaming, that I finally pulled the trigger, splintering the plywood shelving as the pellets flew toward the pumps, tearing a hole in the side of one and letting the strong smelling gasoline pool toward the fire.

I didn’t wait around for the incoming explosion, and instead made a break for the back door, the screams of the few protestors who were unlucky enough to be near the station seared into my brain as they burned alive.

By the time I got outside Hall and Kilroy had already taken down two protestors who’d been unfortunate enough to be there when my team had come out, “Dead?” I asked Kilroy who was struggling to keep the cop on his feet.

He shook his head, “Hall choked them out.”

Hall smirked and continued to scan the almost completely empty carpark, “I say we jack that car,” he said while aiming at a sedan, “let the cop and the blogger get out of the city.”

I nodded and started leading the group over, the sounds of fire growing in intensity indicating to me that we weren’t far from losing the ground under us, “Better than getting pinned down with ‘em.”

“How’re we supposed to get out of here?” the blogger asked impatiently, “Your goons have got the bridges locked down.”

We reached the car and Hall put the butt of his carbine through the passenger window, the lack of an alarm making me nervous as to whether it’d actually run, “Get to the Triborough Bridge,” I said as Hall got to work hot-wiring, “you’ll meet a group of MPs. When they ask ‘Where’s the milk?’ you say ‘Butterscotch and syrup’ and they’ll let you through.”

“Butterscotch and syrup?” the blogger asked right as the sedan thrummed to life.

“Yep, it’s not supposed to make sense. Everyone could get across otherwise.” I said as I ushered him into the car, “You’ll be taken to a tent and debriefed, you let them know we sent you.”

He went to respond, but Hall slammed the door shut and banged on the roof three times, “Targets at your six!” he bellowed, his finger hovering over the trigger as I spun on my feet to see the protestors approaching.

“Get out of here!” I shouted without facing the car.

The wheels squealed and Kilroy joined my side with Hall, “We should run.” he said flatly, “The targets are back that way, and this pipes under our feet are about ten seconds from turning this whole block into a crater.”

I wanted to take them out, hit the ones in front in the knees and let the other protestors handle them, maybe even get to safety. But that wasn’t gonna happen.

“Make a bee-line for the target, do not open fire.” I said before lingering behind just a few seconds after the others had started running; a force of habit from Afghanistan.

Eventually I spun on my heels and hugged my shotgun to my chest, and sprinted after my teammates. We were in for a Hell of a fight.




The explosion had rocked us to the core, despite the fact that we’d managed to get a full block away before the pipes went up, didn’t stop us from running though.

We eventually found ourselves taking a knee in a building across from the one we were about to hit. It was nicer than I’d expected; sure, it was covered in graffiti from the pavement on the first floor to the damaged gargoyle that sat on the roof above the third, and there was a dodgy looking car on cinderblocks out the front, but I’d seen worse neighborhoods.

“What’s the plan, Dirk?” Hall asked between cautious scans of the street.

“I’m still workin’ on that, we were ‘sposed to have a Hell of a lot more firepower…”

Kilroy rolled his shoulders, “This is making me anxious. I think we should leave.”

Both Hall and I looked at him utterly bewildered, it wasn’t like him to be anxious… or admitting he has feelings.

After I got over the shock, I straightened up and returned to trying to get a view of the targets through a window, “If we don’t hit these guys New York falls.”

Hall sighed, “A’ight,” he checked his carbine’s mag, “what’s the plan?”

“Hard and fast.” I said without missing a beat, “I’ve seen the same seven guys three times now, I guess we were meant to be more caught up with their little ‘peace squad’. I got… Fuck, six shells. I’ll breach the front entrance, Hall, you take the rear. Kilroy, see that ladder in the alley? You head up top once I’ve breached and don’t let ‘em get the stairs locked down.”

“Sir.” Hall said while Kilroy simply nodded.

I took a stress induced deep breath and quickly tried to hide it with yawn. “If this takes any longer than fifteen seconds I will personally get your sorry asses on bridge duty.”

Without saying another word we crept out the door, ran across the road, and got in position. I planted my foot on the front door near the handle and waited for nothing in particular.

‘This is it,’ I told myself, ‘kick it in and end this shitty night.’

That’s when I heard Hall scream.




Barely a burst from Hall’s carbine later and I was already through the door.

“Hall!” I shouted after I pushed my back to a doorframe on my right, the 9mm rounds flying out the front door as a trigger happy guy in a basketball shirt emptied his clip from the stairwell.

I popped around the corner at the sound of the clip clicking empty and caught the clumsily reloading idiot in the chest with a hefty load of buckshot.

Everything in my body cried for me to make a run for the stairs and finish the mission, but I suppressed it just enough to get the back door, an emergency exit with a very broken escape sign flickering above it.

I kicked through the door and found Hall’s muzzle aimed right at my forehead while he clutched the wound across his thigh that was absolutely spewing deep red.

It took him a second to recognize me, and when he did he dropped his gun and went back to putting as much pressure on his wound as possible.

“They had someone patrollin’ the yard,” he jutted his chin in the direction of a bullet-riddled ‘gangsta’ on the ground near the door, “didn’t even see the fucker comin’ ‘til the last second.”

I jogged over to him, set my gun on the ground and kneeled next to his leg, “What happened?”

“Machete, fuckin’ animals… Got me right to the bone.”

I lifted his hand to get a look and silently prayed that he’d exaggerated. Almost instantly I pushed his hand back down, “Heh, well you weren’t kiddin’.” I said in an effort to lighten the mood.

He looked woozy, and definitely wasn’t far from passing out, “Hey, hey, stay awake. Shitshitshit… Hold on…” I pulled off my pistol holster and wrapped it as tight as I could just above his wound, “That should ease up the bleeding and…” it took me a few seconds to accept the fact, but I begrudgingly pulled off my jacket and put it across the wound, “Right… Now just… just keep it elevated and you’ll be fine.”

Hall nodded, “I know you gotta go, just hurry it would you? And send Kilroy down when you’re done.”

Without saying another word I swapped our guns, I figured a shotgun would be better for door lockdown, and went back into the building, dropping two more of the guards before making my way up the stairs.

I jumped back to the wall when I got one flight up as someone empty their clip down the middle of the stairwell. In all honesty, I wanted to stay right where I was, but the time limit on our mission had just been accelerated, and I wasn’t in the mood to fart around on the stairs. I popped off the wall and sent a burst up between the guardrails. A black face flew backward in response as three small holes split through his head, and I restarted my ascent.

I was about to check the second floor, but then I heard six shots from the roof, one after the other from the same gun, and I started skipping floors. Either Kilroy had shot the three remaining in each of their eyes, or their knee-caps. He was concise like that.

When I reached the roof I discover it was the latter; two men similar to the others in the building were sitting with the feet outstretched in front of them, as well as a portly woman in slightly more expensive clothes, her brown hair tied back in a tight ponytail that went down to her lower back instead of the stock-standard fluffy pigtails or cornrows. I’d only caught a glimpse of her once when we’d been across the street and figured she’d just sat down or something.

I gestured at her with the carbine, “She’s the one?” I asked Kilroy, who was pacing over the confiscated weapons.

He nodded.

“Good, good. We don’t need the other two. Finish up and get downstairs to Hall, he’s leg’s fucked, then you’re on guard duty.”

Kilroy skipped the nod, and quickly blasted the two guys’ brains out the back of the skull before they could scramble away. He then ejected the clip from his pistol and stuffed it in his pocket before scooping up another from the ground and disappearing past me down the stairs.

Throughout all of this the woman hadn’t so much as twitched, “I take it you’re used to all this?” I said as I walked over to the front of her, “People dying for your bullshit cause.”

She looked up at me and sarcastically smiled, “Course you’d think that, you’re on the whitey’s payroll.”

I scoffed, “Yep, and I’m sure you don’t get a penny from any anonymous benefactors.”

She bit back the urge to say something else, I was right, and she knew it.

I took a deep breath through my nose and looked out over the slowly rising sun, “Welp, I’m done. So you’re gonna tell me somethin’ I’ve been dying to know; how’d you know we were here?”

A defiant grin spread across her face, “Never know who you can trust. Not those teammates of yours, not your mother, Cassandra, right? Hell, not even that sweet ol’ hubby of yours up in Alaska. What was it… James?” She saw that she was getting to me, whether or not she knew who she was fucking with was anyone’s guess though, “That’s right, Jimmy Dirkwood. You really think he’s safe up there?”

I wanted to hit her, make her hurt, really put the nails to her, but I knew that wouldn’t get me anywhere, so instead I just said, “Right, time to die.”

I grabbed her ponytail and started dragging her across the roof toward the gargoyle. To her credit she hardly made a sound. Once we reached it, I tied her hair around the stone guard’s neck.

“Any last words?” I asked.

She tried to jerk her head away from the gargoyle but only became more tangled, “I’m not the only one, and you’ll never reach the others. The second you came through the door they had orders to go to ground. The BLM will never be-”

I got tired of the monolog pretty quickly and decided to cut it short with a hefty push, didn’t even bother to look at the wreckage as the gargoyle and woman both crashed on top of the car below.

A glint of sunlight temporarily blinded me as it reflected off of a building, and I pulled out my brick-like-mobile and dialed the only number it could.

“Operation file number 00096. Jezel Meckle. Eliminated. Six additional on site. Eliminated. Mission accomplished.” I waited for the static to start before getting connected to the evac crew, but instead there was a pop and the sound of a radio tuning.

Revvlbluuurp… –nd we’re joined live from Boston by Black Lives Matter spokesperson, Daniel Gregson.” said a female voice.

“Thanks Kelly, glad to be here.” a thick male voice responded.

“So, what can you tell us about what’s going on? From what we’ve seen, it appears that the BLM has started several peaceful protests across the country, any particular reason for the sudden return?”

Before Daniel could pull some bullshit out of his ass I whipped the phone off the building. I had a friend on the ground bleeding out, I was about eighty percent sure as I rubbed my head wound that the next time I went to sleep I wasn’t going to wake up.

And the mass media cunts were going to play it off as another peaceful protest.

I climbed onto the ledge and looked down at the pavement below.

There was no point, they’d already won.

We were dead men giving the BLM ammunition.

I hung my foot out over the street.

Fuck the bloggers.

Fuck the rioters.

Fuck the BLM.

Dead cops in the street.

White teens getting stomped in the street because of their ‘privilege’.

Cars burning and small businesses destroyed.

They knew what I was.

They knew who I was.

They knew where my husband was.

But day in and day out they were protected by the media, by college kids, by SJWs.

Fuck them all.

“Dirk!” Kilroy yelled up from the ground in something not unlike excitement, “Medivac’s inbound for Hall, but we’re moving onto Boston. They found him Dirk! They fucking found him!”

I waited there for a while, my foot still hanging, but out of shock, not defeat. We still had a chance.

I snapped out of my trance and made a run for the stairs as the sound of chopper blades cut through the air.

That was it.

We were finally going to hit back.


Right-Wing Terrorists Incite Riots:

Forces Pacifist to Attack Peaceful Protestors


By Marvin Smith


It was a cold night in New York when the government turned once again on the black community, sending their spooks and pigs to brutally assault peaceful protestors.

I’m still shaking from the PTSD caused by the so-called ‘Fixers’ as I write this article, who barked orders and forced me at gunpoint to help them kill some people who only want the world to hear their voice. I only wish I’d been strong enough to resist their orders, but they’d already left one falsely and illegally detained protestor to be burned alive.

But that’s what the government does, isn’t it? Send in their little soldiers to kick up some false controversy and spin some narrative about how evil these people are. It’s always the white men who throw the first stone, since they first invaded this country and stole it. It makes me so sick that people like this can continue to exist.

It’s 2022, not 1950! Grow some decency.

You know they won’t though, they’ll always spit down on the minorities and silence those who try to speak out against them.

I was so lucky to be able to escape my captors, and I even saved a cop as well! That’s right, no matter how bad these people are we’ll still be the better ones! The sicko Fixers just wanted to leave him.


Black Lives Matter is a peaceful movement, and anyone who says differently is obviously a fascist, racist, (and probably sexist) bigot.

[More Works By
**]Zachariah Dracoulis


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Peaceful Protest

Peaceful Protest covers the events of the night of July 16th, 2022, wherein the now terrorist group known as Black Lives Matter (BLM) launches an attack on Manhattan after a black man is shot dead. A group of 'Fixers', a government sanctioned force used to quell riots in a tactical and surgical manner, is sent in to eliminate the person in charge before the situation gets any worse. August 5th 2019. An Ohio Christian School posts ‘#AllLivesMatter’ on a social media platform after a terrorist attack in Belgium. August 10th 2019. Several members of the Black Lives Matter movement storm the school, which has a less than 2% black student body, with automatic weapons. The words ‘Racists’, ‘#BlackLivesMatter’, and ‘Whiteys Gotta Pay’ are spray-painted throughout the school over the bodies of the children. August 22nd 2019. Black Lives Matter is officially listed as a terrorist organization. Riots ensue. The year is 2022. The BLM has decimated over a dozen population centers over the past three years. Detroit is destroyed. DC burns. July 11th 2022. Kevin Richmond, an NYPD officer, discharges his weapon at known felon and gang member Terrence ‘TJ’ Jacobs, an African-American father of two, in Harlem after a reported neighborhood disturbance. America holds its breath as Jacobs clings to life in a local hospital. July 13th 2022. Jacobs dies. July 14th 2022. Richmond is found beaten to death in his home. Six hours later police find and imprison five BLM members. July 15th 2022. Manhattan falls. July 16th 2022, 2200 hours. The Fixers are sent in.

  • Author: Zachariah Dracoulis
  • Published: 2016-11-05 14:35:09
  • Words: 6015
Peaceful Protest Peaceful Protest