So it's like that, huh?

"I'm sorry it's come to this..." the voice rasps, laden with danger.

The voice came from a handsome mouth, attached to a likewise handsome face, at least it would be if it's upper parts were not hidden behind a black mask. There were dangerously handsome eyes behind the mask, and they were dangerous because even with their handsomeness, they were pissed. The mask was made of a long piece of silk that matched the rest of the speaker's black clothing, including his black sombrero. In fact, the only thing that didn't match the ensemble, was the gleaming silver rapier blade, held in the right black-gloved hand. (author's aside - altho it didn't match it was a purrr-fect accessory) If one were passing by and happened to looked over, one might be inclined to say, "Hey! It's Zorro!"

The attire and threatening blade may have added to the danger-ladenness of the voice which spoke the words, but more than likely it was the tone (which would conservatively be called "icy") was enough to convey the fact that there was something very seriously wrong here. The other matter that might convey this, is where (or more appropriately, to whom) the words were directed. They were, in fact, directed towards a man in a fine, yet rumpled suit. The suit was rumpled, since the man himself (perspiring, and with a wilting moustache) was tied sitting down, to the trunk of a large Oak tree.

Perhaps the reason for the man's perspiration and wilting moustache was due to the icy tone of the words. Or perhaps they were caused by the gleaming rapier blade held by the Zorro-clad individual, which was making small circles about his nose. Maybe it was because behind the Zorro-clad man, stood four men attired in the fashion of desperadoes.

[Desperado - being defined at this moment - meaning only the worst possible meaning of the word. Broken and deformed noses, broken and missing teeth, bad breath, killer's eyes, bandoleers of ammo, filthy from travels, pistols, sweatstained sombreros...by their looks, not a-one of them hadn't raped a daughter in front of her hapless father, and not a-one hadn't knifed a mother in front of her helpless son.]

Or maybe it was because behind the tied-up man in the suit, was a saddled Bay horse running off towards the nearest mesa. It passed the corpse of a man in a uniform which from here might be described as reminiscent of the Mexican Army. Altho, to be honest, it could have been a uniform of any soldier in the 1800's, Mexican, Spanish, French, English, American - hell, who can really keep all those guys' uniforms straight? Well, irregardless, the Bay galloped past that corpse, and past another, and another, and then past a fine carriage, horses foaming with sweat and catching their breath thru flaring nostrils, still attached to the conveyance.

Behind that and scattered towards the horizon, a multitude of soldiers lay unmoving, each with hundreds of yards separating their final resting spots from their comrades. Between them, or even munching contentedly on the grasses next to them, were horses, riderless and masterless, wondering what to do. Two picked their heads up, and galloped hard to catch the Bay that seemed to have a good idea.

Yes, there had been a fight. A battle had raged across the plains, for hours at full gallop. If one had seen the opposing forces at the beginning, one would wonder why the uniformed force would not just turn and fight. If one would wonder that, one was clearly not aware of the force that the four men behind the Zorro-clad man could unleash. But I digress from my narrative - so let me start from the beginning.

Friday stood brandishing his rapier in small circles about the man's face. The face was attached to a body tied to a large Oak tree, with his legs stuck out onto the grassland. The voice rasps, laden with danger...

"I'm sorry it's come to this..."

The blade whistles down and up in a "U" shape, slicing off both sides of the wilting moustache. The man flinches back in horror, only to strike his head upon the rock hard trunk of the oak.

"I believe..." Friday continues in his Zorro garb, "That we entrusted you with the power of GOVERNMENT!"

He stands back for a moment, looking at his extremely dangerous Desperadoes. Thursday (flattened nose, eyepatch, and chipped tooth) hands him a hammered flask. Friday tips his head back, and has a long pull. In a flash, he spins, rapier slashing at the man tied to the tree -splitting open the crotch of his pants. A tiny trickle of blood spills from the cut. The man whimpers.

Friday pours the rest of the flask over the man, and sheathes his sword.

"C'mon, let's go." He says, and walks off. The others looking murder at the man, force themselves to turn and follow in Friday's wake.
"Hey Friday," Tuesday says, as they approach their gathered steeds, "After all that, why didja' let him off easy?"

Friday grabs the silver saddle-horn of his black stallion, and pulls himself astride the beast. He peers down on the gathered weekdays waiting for an answer to the question all of them were wondering.

"Off easy?" He smiles behind the mask. "Didn't you notice at the base of that Oak tree, was an anthill?"

Happy Friday.




There's venom in this one, and here's why. This was before our Great People's Congress this week.

1.) Habeas Restoration
2.) The Webb Amendment
3.) Cornyn's MoveOn Bill
4.) Feingold-Reid

Guess which one passed! Yeah, #3, "the Senate hates MoveOn.Org, I'm not even going to link to it, since it's right there. If you're in the government and reading this, you're tied to a tree under an anthill, and the ants are going to rise up and get their piece of flesh. So says Friday, me, and history will say that too. Until then, I bid those of you intrusted with the stewardship of my fine nation a heartfelt
"Fuck you, Dinks!"

-Tsunami-