Hopefully, this is the last time I have to upload this chapter. Lord have mercy. Okay, y'all, I'm back! AND BETTER THAN EVER!
So are the character, but they're not mine. Except the waitress. Nice lady.
"And in conclusion, my fellow HOMO SAPIENS, it would be unnatural to suppress the anger that we feel toward those of another BREED. This is not a war against far-distant and easily recognizable enemies. This is about people who look like us, act like us, and live WITH us, but are GENETICALLY different from us! We are not biologically beholden to anyone but our own, noble species, and the time for tolerance . . . is over."
Graydon Creed, Jr., paused a moment to catch his breath and wipe sweat from his forehead. Damn these Nashville summers, how could anyone stand to live here? He had to smile, though, for despite the discomfort of a Nashville summer day, quite a number of enthusiastic people had turned out for the demonstration. They just kept trickling in; police had already rerouted traffic to protect the boisterous crowd that was quickly spilling over the street. Americans knew the truth, and they followed those that spoke it. If they spoke it well.
He continued: "We are justified in our anger! Do we not, as humans and Americans, have the right to protect ourselves from danger? Are we not justified in bearing arms against those that threaten our well-being? MUTANTS—ARE—DANGEROUS!! I count myself as a proud member of the species of Homo Sapiens, and I declare myself a "Friend of Humanity." I am human, and as such, I reserve the right to PROTECT MYSELF, AND MY FAMILY, AND MY COMMUNITY FROM MUTANTS!"
The crowd loved him. Screaming, chanting, angry citizens gathered around him, reaching up to his platform. The people (few as they were) standing on the edge of the crowd, holding mutant support signs, had better get moving, he thought. These people were looking for someone to hate.
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Only a few blocks down, a tired waitress in a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop sat down in the back room to rest her feet, listening to the echoes of the speech that rolled from down the street. The door dinged, and she got up wearily to greet the customers, hoping for a generous tip. Her hopes sank when she saw the two young men not more than nineteen, in torn jeans and wifebeaters, who had seated themselves in a corner booth. Young guys didn't tip tired thirty-four year old waitresses.
Putting on a pleasant smile anyway, she walked over to the two friends, who were bantering back and forth good-naturedly. "Now, Henri, I had you pegged as a blonde kinda man, but you, you didn' give dat sweet girl last night more'n one look . . ."
"No, you got it wrong, Remy. One dose of your rugged charm, and she didn' give ME one look."
As she neared, they both turned to smile up at her. The one named Remy had sunglasses on, but then, the booth was in a late afternoon sunbeam. "Ya know, we do have other booths. Ones in the shade," she offered.
"Dat's all right, chere." They both fixed her with dazzling casanova smiles. Remy continued, "But you sure look beat. Why don'tcha sit down and take a load off while we decide what we want"—he glanced at her faded nametag—"Sharon." He scooted to the end of his seat, pulling a bundle over with him. A coat.
"Not that Ah'm not happy to sit"—she suited actions to words with a sigh—"But isn't it a lil' warm out to have a coat?" She was sweating a little now, since the ancient air conditioner was threatening to break down again.
They both studied the menu, and Henri answered distractedly, "It not so warm here. It's nothin' compared to N'awlins."
Remy continued, "We jus' got here, and we be movin' on soon. 'Sides, ya don' see me wearin' it, do ya?"
"Sorry. It's just a little odd for July 'round heah." Straining for another topic to hide her discomfort at sitting with customers, she went on, "So are you from 'N'awlin's?' Y'all got the crazy Cajun accent."
Henri looked over the menu smugly and said to Remy, "See? All de women like de accent."
Remy just smirked. "It be just a drop in de bucket, mon ami." He turned to Sharon. "'Sides, you ain't wit'out an accent yourself—what part o' the south you from?"
"Why Ah was born and raised right here in Nashville." She smiled at them. "That doesn't mean we don't get the odd traveler from the 'Big Easy' up here." Despite her best intentions, she found these two boys to be quite charming. She rose, asking " So, what can Ah get y'all?"
At that moment, though, the demonstration down the street picked back up. "Not another speaker," she groaned wearily.
"Dis been goin' on all day, chere?"
She looked out the store window at the approaching crowd, absentmindedly deadheading the petunias in the hanging pot. "Seems like all week. Don't know why they cain't just be quiet."
Henri was in the seat facing towards the demonstration. His menu lay forgotten on the table as he watched the crowd storming down the street. From the window, Sharon heard only a quick, low argument from the boys' table, then the ding of the door drew her attention as Henri abruptly left. She turned questioningly toward the booth and was surprised to see Remy standing behind her, holding out some cash.
"Here you go, chere. We're sorry to waste your time. But maybe we drop in anoder time, neh?" He gave her a roguish grin, then the door announced his swift departure. Only then did Sharon look down to see the twenty-dollar bill in her hand.
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Once outside, Remy had little trouble finding Henri back. A circle had formed around an unfortunate bystander with a purplish tinge to her light skin and dark hair. She looked just odd enough for Remy to assume her a mutant. (There was that, and the shouts of ""Kill the mutie!" to infer from.) Remy saw a flash of Henri's blonde hair across the circle, as the fool swiftly kicked the knees out from under a particularly brutal spectator. I guess we can be glad de streets aren't cobblestones in dis part o' town, Remy thought, But where de hell are dey gettin' all de rocks?
He had just enough time to see a big man whirl and punch Henri's stomach before Remy was elbowed out of the way. Almost immediately, the crowd turned on Henri, thinking he was a mutant supporter or something. Remy was too busy scooping up the forgotten girl to notice. He sprinted and dodged back to the coffee shop, to where Sharon stood frozen in the doorway.
"Take care o' her, please?" He asked, and he ran back into the crowd.
Finding Henri this time was a little harder. He could be pretty badly beaten by now, and since he couldn't see his signature mop of blonde hair above the crowd, Remy had to assume they had him down. Thinking fast, Remy picked up a small pebble from under his feet. He held it in his fist and closed his eyes for a few moments in intense concentration—he was an odd counterpoint, a pensive island in a savage sea of protesters. In a few seconds, he turned and hurled the stone (which was glowing redly, though none in the crowd saw it) down the street. BANG! A blast like a grenade took a large chunk out of the asphalt twenty yards down, the shrapnel giving a few bystanders minor gashes and bruises. As many in the crowd rushed down to examine the smoking hole, Remy slipped in, hiked a battered and bleeding Henri up to his feet, and (heavily supporting him under the shoulder) ducked into an alley, staggering as well as they could back towards their hotel.
"Merde! Ya jus' had to be chivalrous to the bitter end, eh Henri? What happened to de ol' 'Look-out-for-number-one' philosophy? " Remy muttered as they limped along.
"I notice you stopped t' help de fille before comin' back to get me," Henri mumbled thickly around a split lip.
"Yeah, well, anyone who does anyt'ing dat stupid deserves what's comin' to him."
Henri managed a chuckle, but winced. "Ooh . . .gotta watch dose ribs . . ."
