The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.
– Albert Camus
The old man finished cleaning his AR-15. Extra magazines, thirty cartridges each. A bump stock. Still legal. Wanted to wear a couple of bandoleros crisscrossing his chest, but thought that might be overdoing it. Sixteen-inch carbine barrel, .223 cartridges. Ammo cheaper than dirt these days. He had made the suppressor himself. Out of an old Toyota Corolla coffee-can muffler. Thought purchasing a silencer online be too much a red-flag for the federales.
Memorial Day really pissed him off. Big HoopDeDoo at the clubhouse. Look at me, look at you, look at you look at me. Most these people never served a day in their life, running around in red, white and blue. The entire neighborhood decked out in bunting like a small-town parade in Blue Velvet. Way he was brought up, you served and shut the hell up about it.
Can't pretend there wasn't a war and a draft. Never spent a day in the stockade, came home with a honorable discharge. Some good soldiering right there, I don't care who you are. Didn't spend three years, eleven months, twenty-three days, eighteen hours and thirty-two minutes doing shit didn't want to be doing - most of the time - somewhere didn't want to be. Hell, yeah, most of time. That's why it's service. And when it's over, you feel good about yourself, your self, and you go on about the rest of your life. You did your duty. Cannon fodder.
Freedom ain't just limited to the shit you like. I served so I don't have to listen to Lee Greenwood sing some smarmy bullshit crap about how much he loves America. Jesus, you people. It's not about the songs, the flag, the symbols. A symbol not the real thing. Until now.
The old man took a knee.