Release The Hounds

The mob surrounded the exterior fence, wielding an array of weaponry, everything from baseball bats and hockey sticks to handguns and automatic weapons. Policy that made a lot of sense when the ire was directed at the liberal elites now seemed short-sighted.

"Thomas, let's see what they think of our dogs."

"Very good, sir."

He'd imported a dozen trained attack dogs from Israel. Not enough to fend off a hundred armed individuals, but he found it hard to believe these peasants were prepared to shoot an animal.

The barks dissipated faster than he expected.

"They came prepared, sir. With steaks."

Crossroads

A skinny young guy, carrying a battered guitar case slung over his shoulder like a cotton picker’s sack, went down to the crossroads to catch a ride. The folks at home wouldn’t ever hear from him again. Rumors took the place of news – that he’d been shot and killed over a gambling debt, that he’d been lynched by a white mob, that he played guitar on the Chitlin’ Circuit with such violent energy that gravestones fell over and broke and that’s why now, every day around dawn, birds resume singing a centuries-old murder ballad specifically for our continued moral instruction.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's newest poetry collection, Heart-Shaped Hole, which also includes examples of his handmade collages, is available from Laughing Ronin Press.

The President Who Never Lied

“If you’re innocent, why are you taking the Fifth Amendment?” asked the President who never lied to whip his followers into a frenzy. His true believers cheered.

“The mob takes the Fifth,” said the President who never lied. His true believers hooped and hollered.

“The Fifth. Horrible! Horrible!” insisted the President who never lied. His true believers waved flags of his graven image.

Then when he was deposed.

“Why did you overvalue your assets to secure loans and undervalue your assets to evade taxes?” he was asked for hours by New York state attorneys.

He took the Fifth 440 times.

From Guest Contributor Todd Matson

Lost

The only time I thought I’d seen a fairy was awakening with a hangover and propped up by the television set playing a Disney channel. But now I’m sober, standing upright, and engaged in talking to one that’s lost her way. She had proved her credentials with a wave of her wand and producing a glass of some mixture she said would quell the aftereffects of over-imbibing, but her wand wasn’t up to the GPS instrumentation. I didn’t tell her that her mob lived at the bottom of my garden. She’s tall and beautiful, and now shacking up with me.

From Guest Contributor Len Mooring

Mob Mentality

Samantha watched the rioters at a distance, curiosity piqued. An hour before, they'd been a united front, marching to the sound of protested chants. The pepper spray turned them into a mindless mass. The desire for destruction and an outlet for their frustration the only apparent bonds.

The police closed in, weapons raised, their eagerness to engage obvious even through their riot gear. The demonstrators scattered like water from a rock, splashing in all directions, following the path of least resistance.

Samantha was surprised to realize she'd never actually been an observer, but had always been part of the mob.