During his time with Malorie, Hatchet frequented many of the bars and nightclubs lax in identifying minors. The old affections he once held for the younger spirit had left long ago and these ignorant misguided children had become nothing more than irritations he endured in the hours leading to yet another attempt at loosening Malorie's inhibitions. Most of them claimed to be artists or academics, spewing regurgitated opinions on politics or entertainment or world affairs. In no time at all, he grew to hate most of them. He kept his mouth shut and nodded until on the rare occasion when asked to offer input, he stated in single words the subject in question, Yeah, Israel.
One night, soaked in the spray of disco lights, a young woman from Malorie’s civics class sat across from Hatchet explaining her views on the failure of Russian Cossacks during the October Revolution with the use of a bizarre wadding motion of her hands. As this display dragged on, the young beast of a fellow seated next to her tempted Hatchet's attention. He looked familiar. The tattoo wrapping the length and breadth of his massive arm looked familiar as well. The familiarity seemed mutual. The young man had been sizing Hatchet from the moment he and Malorie had joined the party. He had the motionless eyes of an ape.
Well, a man older than the others but younger than Hatchet interjected on the girl's thought, what it boils down to is that revolutions are rarely a good thing; they open the doors for totalitarianism, like in Russia and China and a whole slew of Latin American countries. Co-opting interests, Hatchet said without looking at either of them. Pardon me? Resistance to co-opting interests is what failed in those cases, not the simple act of revolution. The man gave him a quizzical sneer. And I suppose you're for all of this Occupy business spreading across the country. Occupy will fade but I’m all for it; I'm for the little man standing up for his rights. And what rights have been stepped on here? Pick one. Are you employed? What does that have to do with it? Do you pay taxes? Okay, I'll play, Hatchet caught an expression of distaste slither across Malorie's face as he leaned forward, I am unemployed by choice and I haven't filed taxes in over ten years; your turn. Holyshit. Nice play, Gretzky. Why not pay taxes? It's called protest, civil disobedience; ever heard of Gandhi? What kind of protest is not paying your taxes? Remember when a bunch of people started a revolution because they didn't want to pay their taxes? good times. A collective chuckle rushed through the group.
I believe it was because they were tired of being overtaxed. I believe the phrase of the day was, no taxation without representation. But you do have representation, unless of course you don't vote. Why would I vote? Holyshit, you can’t complain when you don't take part in the democracy. Are you telling me what to do? why participate in a government that refuses to serve my interest? Well, it must serve some interest; you do live in this country. Are you saying that every North Korean should support his government simply because he happens to live there?
Marcus. Malorie tugged at his shirt.
Wait, if you had filed your taxes then you would probably have gotten money back, the man pointed at him, where's the protest in that, letting them take out the withholding and not filing? You're not listening to me; I refuse to participate in the system; if they feel the need to steal my money, they have the power to do that, obviously, but when I had an hourly wage job, I committed a crime every time I didn't file a return; I refuse to participate; it's called a protest. I'm listening; you just don't make any sense; you're not a protester; you're a sympathizer. Define protester for me.
His opponent sat for a moment in disbelief, a moment too long for Hatchet. Here, I'll do it for you, protester, a noun, a person who voices an expression of objection or dissent, most of the time against something that person is powerless to stop. Well, I pay my taxes and my loans and my life is just fine. Is it? Of course; I do my part; all I see down there at these protests are a bunch kids who mommy and daddy are paying the bills for and a bunch freeloaders who are sucking the system dry; there are plenty of jobs out there for those people; anyone can get a job at McDonald's; it may not be the job they want but—. McDonald's? tuition costs in this country have more than tripled in the last three decades; there are fucked-in-the-head veterans down there whose GI bills aren't enough to pay for the books they need for college and you wanna throw McDonald’s at these people? listen to you;I have facts; what do you have aside from emotional reactions to things you don't understand? I do my part; I pull my weight! You do your part to keep those who control you in power; they own you; they've left you just enough entertainment and luxury to keep you pacified while they steal your freedom and your money. What do you think taxes pay for, man? They pay for wars that kill people and subsidize industries that rape you every chance they get; they subsidize governments in other countries and welfare paid to their corporations; they bailout a banking industry that kicks this economy in the nuts. What about American infrastructure and all the expenses it takes to keep this country going? What about it? our electrical grid will be a worthless pile of junk in ten to fifteen years, every sewage and water system in this country is on the brink of failure if it hasn't failed already. See there; we need to pay for that stuff. But they aren't, are they? You've got it all figured out, don't you. I've got you figured out. Oh yeah? You're not mad because I don't pay taxes; you're mad because you do.
You're a lowlife! And you're a slave. Fuck you! Fuck me.
The man shot to his feet and his chair sailed into the boiling dance floor behind him, scattering the bodies. Violence? Hatchet said, violence is a sure sign of stupidity, pal, but if that's the way you want it, I'm the dumbest mutherfucker in this room.
The young ape of a man across from Hatchet gave the cringing Malorie a fat toothy grin. The group sat stunned, waiting for the angry fellow to make his next move but his date grabbed him by the arm and ushered him through the spongy fog pumping from the edge of the deejay booth. No one said a word. Malorie had lowered her head, staring at her feet in the shadow of the table. Hatchet eased back into his seat and swallowed the remainder of the whiskey and ice he had been nursing. The others began to relax, trading relieved glances that struggled to navigate the dark rainbows oscillating between them.
I cannot believe you just did that, Malorie's voice only audible enough for Hatchet to hear. You can't believe I set that stupid hick straight? She unhinged herself from the table and dodged her way through the Saturday night crowd and went through the blacked out front doors. Hatchet caught up to her halfway across the parking lot. I guess I embarrassed you? he said, stepping in front of her, their steaming breath mingling between them. What do you think? I think I spoke my mind and that asshole didn't have any ammo to fight me, that's what I think.
She swept past him. Just take me home. Fine, he tossed her the keys, warm it up and let me get my jacket. He jogged back through the doors and reached the table. Wonderful evening, folks, we should do it again soon. They barely acknowledged him as if he was a busboy and he grabbed his jacket. Turning to leave, he noticed the big tattooed kid had disappeared. Hatchet made a quick lap of the club but decided it futile to find him if he intended to hide in the chaotic darkness of the place.
One night, soaked in the spray of disco lights, a young woman from Malorie’s civics class sat across from Hatchet explaining her views on the failure of Russian Cossacks during the October Revolution with the use of a bizarre wadding motion of her hands. As this display dragged on, the young beast of a fellow seated next to her tempted Hatchet's attention. He looked familiar. The tattoo wrapping the length and breadth of his massive arm looked familiar as well. The familiarity seemed mutual. The young man had been sizing Hatchet from the moment he and Malorie had joined the party. He had the motionless eyes of an ape.
Well, a man older than the others but younger than Hatchet interjected on the girl's thought, what it boils down to is that revolutions are rarely a good thing; they open the doors for totalitarianism, like in Russia and China and a whole slew of Latin American countries. Co-opting interests, Hatchet said without looking at either of them. Pardon me? Resistance to co-opting interests is what failed in those cases, not the simple act of revolution. The man gave him a quizzical sneer. And I suppose you're for all of this Occupy business spreading across the country. Occupy will fade but I’m all for it; I'm for the little man standing up for his rights. And what rights have been stepped on here? Pick one. Are you employed? What does that have to do with it? Do you pay taxes? Okay, I'll play, Hatchet caught an expression of distaste slither across Malorie's face as he leaned forward, I am unemployed by choice and I haven't filed taxes in over ten years; your turn. Holyshit. Nice play, Gretzky. Why not pay taxes? It's called protest, civil disobedience; ever heard of Gandhi? What kind of protest is not paying your taxes? Remember when a bunch of people started a revolution because they didn't want to pay their taxes? good times. A collective chuckle rushed through the group.
I believe it was because they were tired of being overtaxed. I believe the phrase of the day was, no taxation without representation. But you do have representation, unless of course you don't vote. Why would I vote? Holyshit, you can’t complain when you don't take part in the democracy. Are you telling me what to do? why participate in a government that refuses to serve my interest? Well, it must serve some interest; you do live in this country. Are you saying that every North Korean should support his government simply because he happens to live there?
Marcus. Malorie tugged at his shirt.
Wait, if you had filed your taxes then you would probably have gotten money back, the man pointed at him, where's the protest in that, letting them take out the withholding and not filing? You're not listening to me; I refuse to participate in the system; if they feel the need to steal my money, they have the power to do that, obviously, but when I had an hourly wage job, I committed a crime every time I didn't file a return; I refuse to participate; it's called a protest. I'm listening; you just don't make any sense; you're not a protester; you're a sympathizer. Define protester for me.
His opponent sat for a moment in disbelief, a moment too long for Hatchet. Here, I'll do it for you, protester, a noun, a person who voices an expression of objection or dissent, most of the time against something that person is powerless to stop. Well, I pay my taxes and my loans and my life is just fine. Is it? Of course; I do my part; all I see down there at these protests are a bunch kids who mommy and daddy are paying the bills for and a bunch freeloaders who are sucking the system dry; there are plenty of jobs out there for those people; anyone can get a job at McDonald's; it may not be the job they want but—. McDonald's? tuition costs in this country have more than tripled in the last three decades; there are fucked-in-the-head veterans down there whose GI bills aren't enough to pay for the books they need for college and you wanna throw McDonald’s at these people? listen to you;I have facts; what do you have aside from emotional reactions to things you don't understand? I do my part; I pull my weight! You do your part to keep those who control you in power; they own you; they've left you just enough entertainment and luxury to keep you pacified while they steal your freedom and your money. What do you think taxes pay for, man? They pay for wars that kill people and subsidize industries that rape you every chance they get; they subsidize governments in other countries and welfare paid to their corporations; they bailout a banking industry that kicks this economy in the nuts. What about American infrastructure and all the expenses it takes to keep this country going? What about it? our electrical grid will be a worthless pile of junk in ten to fifteen years, every sewage and water system in this country is on the brink of failure if it hasn't failed already. See there; we need to pay for that stuff. But they aren't, are they? You've got it all figured out, don't you. I've got you figured out. Oh yeah? You're not mad because I don't pay taxes; you're mad because you do.
You're a lowlife! And you're a slave. Fuck you! Fuck me.
The man shot to his feet and his chair sailed into the boiling dance floor behind him, scattering the bodies. Violence? Hatchet said, violence is a sure sign of stupidity, pal, but if that's the way you want it, I'm the dumbest mutherfucker in this room.
The young ape of a man across from Hatchet gave the cringing Malorie a fat toothy grin. The group sat stunned, waiting for the angry fellow to make his next move but his date grabbed him by the arm and ushered him through the spongy fog pumping from the edge of the deejay booth. No one said a word. Malorie had lowered her head, staring at her feet in the shadow of the table. Hatchet eased back into his seat and swallowed the remainder of the whiskey and ice he had been nursing. The others began to relax, trading relieved glances that struggled to navigate the dark rainbows oscillating between them.
I cannot believe you just did that, Malorie's voice only audible enough for Hatchet to hear. You can't believe I set that stupid hick straight? She unhinged herself from the table and dodged her way through the Saturday night crowd and went through the blacked out front doors. Hatchet caught up to her halfway across the parking lot. I guess I embarrassed you? he said, stepping in front of her, their steaming breath mingling between them. What do you think? I think I spoke my mind and that asshole didn't have any ammo to fight me, that's what I think.
She swept past him. Just take me home. Fine, he tossed her the keys, warm it up and let me get my jacket. He jogged back through the doors and reached the table. Wonderful evening, folks, we should do it again soon. They barely acknowledged him as if he was a busboy and he grabbed his jacket. Turning to leave, he noticed the big tattooed kid had disappeared. Hatchet made a quick lap of the club but decided it futile to find him if he intended to hide in the chaotic darkness of the place.
Edit 12.24.2018