V is for Violence Against Visitors

You know it just begged to be done. Visitors and V for Vendetta. Some liberties taken, London instead of New York. It isn't quite long enough, but…


It was November the fifth when the ship descended from the blue sky to hover above the British city.

As the message came forth from the lips of the overly friendly seeming woman with a persuasive woman flowing cloyingly like a honey-baited trap, there were those who listened.

For the residents of the British Empire it was too much. They had only recently been freed of one set of oppressors through the self-sacrificial machinations of the mad masked man V. They would not tolerate another tyranny, be wrapped in black velvet glove or naked steel hands.

Throughout out the city, black capes and white masks with lips of the crimson red were passed into the hands of the common citizen. As had happened once, it would happen again.

In the minutes counted down to the hour marked by the passing of most silent time, hushed forms of monochrome marked by the stain of blood red lips appeared. The figures moved with implacability and disciplined silence. With a minute remaining for the answer to be given, the mass of purposeful wraiths stood waiting, before the site of the previous sacrifice. They were not disappointed. From within the ruins of toppled power stalked forth, a graceful, grim specter.

Before the eyes of a masked nation a hand raised, and a voice spoke. "O vivacious voice of vibrant vociferate, thy vibratory votive of veiled vermeil villainy, I stand vexed, in vibrant view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished, a vesuvian student of a vibrant vanquisher now vanquished in this most vexatious of places.

"Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose, so let me simply add that it's my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V.V., the very own student of V." a feminine voice of high alto delivered in a vaudeville style.

"With velleity, thou wouldst place the heel of thy boot in the very same resting place oh so recently left unfilled by the corrupt government that was toppled from this land? More than four hundred years ago a great citizen wished to embed the fifth of November forever in our memory. His hope was to remind the world that fairness, justice, and freedom are more than words, they are perspectives. And so we must impart the wisdom and deed upon thee as hath been exampled a year ago today on the tumbled and fallen walls of this wicked place of Parliament."

"In Verity, it seems to be so."

The verbosity ended, and with it the flowing sands of time granted by the Visitors in their desire for an answer. And so, an answer was given. The mortars roared from emplaced palisades veiled by crumbling casement in the harrowed Parliament grounds. From the outside limit of the city came the missiles concealed within earthen berks so tediously concealed by the spiderlike manipulations of former corrupt politicians and courtesan generals of days past. The nuclear artillery shells, stockpiled against a possible Ragnarok of civil war so feared, were unleashed to deliver Armageddon upon a ship so serenely sailing through the autumn sky.

With a backdrop of explosions, multiple nuclear warheads, and military fireworks V.V. stated in a stentorian manner, "For this is the Fifth of November, the Day of Gunpowder Treason and Plot, left to us by Guy Fawkes, a Day that should not be forgot."

And with that, V.V. walked off, the Visitor's chariot falling in cinematic theme to stately crash, violent corsage to lie on the breastworks off the London Walks.