In the gym, the cops are cheering themselves on, strutting and swaggering with the pride of being themselves. They’re pumped on Monster, slicked in sticky sweat, and swapping stories about the size of their guns and what they can fucking blow away. It’s not a pretty sight, and we know that later they’ll burn down the library just to see all that shit burn, but we all clap along, and the smiling man hands out certificates and nods at their inarticulate grunts. Tonight, on a backroad, they’ll drag him from his car because his face doesn’t look like theirs. But now, let’s whoop like whipped dogs, because this is the future, and money doesn’t grow on the Tree of Knowledge.
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Oz Hardwick
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