November 9, 2012 Death to the Great Alarm.
You catch a glint of sunlight on the kid’s wrist as he walks by, and, with lightning speed, your hand snaps out and grabs him, jerking his hand into your view.
“What is this?” You demand loudly, flushed in uncontrolled outrage.
“It’s my fathers watch!” the shocked student meekly replies. “He gave me, for, for Graduation!”
“How dare you bring that thing into this center! Look at this everyone! This dumb ass punk is wearing a WATCH! I bet you even have the ALARM set!”
A crowd starts to gather. Faces twisting with rage and disbelief. Still hot from smashing clocks in their last class, some larger kids, ex-jocks, the types who didn’t make college teams after High School and now claim they wouldn’t play sports that used clocks to time the quarters of the game, shove forward. Meaty faces grimace threatening looks at the terrified kid.
“I’ll take it off,” he stammers, “Just leave me alone!”
“Oh, you’ll take it off alright,” You scream imperiously, jerking him to his knees. You look like some old stone image of pharaoh smashing to death the conquered king. The crowd surges around you, tearing at him, pelting his face, kicking at his ribs when he balls up on the ground.
“Tear his arms off like a clock!” cries one of the scrawnier ex-jocks. Conditioned by the clock destruction, the crew grabs his arm and place their feet on his shoulders, neck and rib cage, and start tugging at his arm. It flops out of joint. They stamp and kick at the wobbly flesh until it starts to tear from the stress. It takes a while but they manage to rip the arm off, hoisting it victoriously above their heads. The crowd screams with self delight.
“Death to the Great Alarm. Death to the Great Alarm!”
Waving the purple limb like a flag they parade as an army.