They were having none of it and neither was he.
He tried to keep his composure, first by clenching his ever tightening fists, nail bitten fingers digging into his palms, then by gnawing at his tongue until blood was drawn, and then by the sweat that was trickling down his forehead and stinging his eyes, at which he would dab with the filthy handkerchief kept in his shirt pocket that probably hasn't been throughly washed since his beloved wife, Margie, passed away four years ago. He tried his best to keep his composure.
But they were having none of it and neither was he.
The crowd was growing ever angrier and the shouts of "death to the tyrant" were growing ever louder, ever more solidified until it sounds were of one, aweinfrightening noise.
He knew why he was angry and now he had a proper audience to show just how angry he was.
It didn't matter that he couldn't express in proper speech why he was so angry. It didn't matter that they had no idea what he was capable of.
They would consider him a hero! Hell, if he was a Muslim, God forbid, he would be a martyr!
The walls of the high school auditorium, usually filled with unsettled teenagers only half willing to participate in the endless barrage of pep rallies and motivational speakers, were now filled with much older versions of themselves, each with an opinion solely his own and yet unsurprisingly indifferent to those around him.
One after another, the individuals in the crowd, barely audible among the death chant, began shouting questions to the fearful Congressman standing on the podium before them.
"Why are you lying to me?"
"Why is he sending people to our door to ask us how we want to die?"
He had questions of his own.
Who were they to call him crazy? Who were they to label him with the endless barrage of labels... of birthers and deathers and teabaggers?
He knew these people. These were kind hearted, salt of the earth people.
Jim Peterson down the road would look, night after night, after his neighbor Charlotte when her husband was killed in Iraq, even drove her to the hospital when her water broke. And ol' Sammy worked two jobs for some forty odd years just so he could make sure his kids had a proper education and had enough money to go to a good private school.
These were good people and he'd be God damnned if he didn't see these folks right.
The shouts were almost deafening now, and the local law enforcement which the city had invested to keep the crowd under control were growing ever more concerned, their eyes darting from one person to the next, warned that at anytime someone could be provoked to do something just outside the wishes of the crowd.
They were having none of it, and neither was he.
His hands unclenched.
He felt a wave of calm wash over him. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his hands this time and ran his hands down the outside of his soil stained jeans. These jeans were a symbol of what it is to be a hard working American citizen! He'd be God-damned if he were let those damn illegals stain their jeans with the same soil that this God fearing free nation was built upon!
His right fist bore into the right pocket of his jeans. He stood up and, pulling his hand out of his pocket, joined the crowd.
"Death to the tyrant!"
His arms extended in front of him, a symbol of true freedom lay in his hands, he was instantly tackled by those that he trusted, those he related to, those that he was fighting for and those that he knew he was trying to save.
As his head crashed into the linoleum floor, which smelled of lysol and after market footwear, and as those around him grew ever weary of his intentions, each wanting to be the one that ultimately wrestled him to the ground, each fighting for a piece of story that they could head home to tell their grandkids, he was sent back.
He was now on the floor of his childhood baptist church, writhing at the words being shouted toward him from the congregation.
"Hallelujah!"
"Please Lord, save this child!"
"The Holy Ghost is in him!"
He struggled to join in, every sound uttered from his mouth a litmus test that he was speaking with the Lord. Every sound uttered an attempt at proving he was indeed speaking in tongues, indeed having a one on one with the Savior. Part of him felt he was. The other, which he'd never admit to those close to him, wasn't so sure.
They would have none of it and make sure that neither would he.
And he was back.
The crowd was now able to detain him, not that he put up much of a struggle. They tightened their grip as he loosened his. The shock of being betrayed by those he knew needed enlightening was enough to keep him at bay.
And he was sent back.
Now he lay on the floor of his bedroom, shared with older brother, his father's knees embedded in his chest.
"Why'd you do it boy? You knew better!"
The back of his father's left hand came down hard across his left cheek.
"This is for your own good boy!"
The back of his father's right hand came down hard across his right cheek.
His father would have none of it and would make sure that neither would he.
And he was back.
The few left in the crowd that still had ahold of him put up a bigger struggle than he was giving in order to display how courageous they were to apprehend the man who had displayed such a horrific act of speech. The symbol of freedom now lying on the ground, a child rushes over to witness the commotion, to grasp onto what the man had left behind. His grandfather was right behind, grabbed the child, first by his hand, and then pulled him in close, whispering, "You don't want to hold that my boy. That's a toy only grown ups understand."
The few left in the crowd still grasping the man, now led him to the local law enforcement who were more than willing to put up a bigger struggle than he was in order to display an act of courage, and to tell their wife and children at home just how horrific this act of speech was.
He was cuffed. He was thrown in the back of the patrol car. He was sent back.
They were having none of it, and as much as he tried, neither was he.
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