On January 6th 2021, the US Capitol fell. This is the short story of those who were there.
-- == oooOOOOooo == --
Whether a Senator or a House Rep, black or white, Republican or Democrat, The Politician is driven by the unshakeable belief that to be elected into office is to be anointed with divine power. The power to decide on how everybody should live their lives, whether they agree with him or not. He is there to impose his will and whim on every American citizen and nothing can stop him.
Whether he’s 18 or 80, black or white, from the city or the countryside, The Brute is defined by his inability, innate or acquired, to think. He is only slightly more rational than the baseball bat he’s wielding. To him brute force is the solution to everything and anything. The bolstering tweets of the President have filled him with adrenaline. The tweets make no sense, but to The Brute nothing does. To him words don’t have meaning. Words are just triggers which automatically propel him into action towards the preprogrammed goal. And right now, his goal is to crack The Politician’s skull open. He’s got the bat, hence the power, and nothing can stop him.
Whether Capitol Police or Secret Service, black or white, in uniform or plain clothes, The Officer is a man of integrity. He is highly trained. He’s served in Iraq, he is physically fit, he goes to the shooting range weekly. He is very efficient in empty hand and armed combat. He’s had more than one brush with death so he knows how to control his emotions and channel his energy, so that he can still focus on his assignment even in the most stressful of situations. Right now he is in one of those situations. He must stop The Brute from entering the room. It’s his job and he can do it. Fast, efficient, and by the book, and nothing can stop him.
The Brute is about to break down the door. The Politician eagerly looks for The Officer in the crowd. There he is, by the door, his service gun drawn. Feeling safer, The Politician utters a quick prayer, hits the floor and starts crawling towards the emergency exit. But something is wrong, something didn’t belong. What was it? Oh, God! His heart sinks. The Officer’s hands on the gun were shaking.
The Officer knows that his hands are shaking, but it’s not from fear. He’s faced enemies who fought with determination and purpose, he’s not afraid of purposeless zombies. He’s not afraid that The Brute will physically engage him, he can easily take him down. He’s not afraid The Brute will shoot at him, he is prepared for that and he’s much better equipped. So, no, it’s not fear. It’s terror. Terror of something much more insidious, cunning, and dangerous than any enemy he has ever encountered: The Doctrine. The Officer knows exactly what The Brute will do after he breaks the door down. He will put down his bat, raise his arms, and just walk into the room with a smile on his face. That simple, deliberate act, The Doctrine postulates, is The Brute’s metamorphosis from an armed and dangerous aggressor into an unarmed, harmless civilian. And at that point, there is nothing The Officer can do. The use of even the slightest amount of force on him is condemned by the Doctrine as police brutality. Of course The Officer will order The Brute to stop and get on the floor, or else he will be shot. But both The Brute and The Officer know that this is an empty threat, and that The Brute will shrug off the warnings and continue his advance into the room, followed closely by dozens of other Brutes, all with their arms up, all smiling. They all hold smartphones streaming on social networks high-definition videos of their peaceful visit, proof of their innocence. So The Officer will just safely holster his gun and explain to The Brute that what he’s doing is bad. Well, ‘bad’ is probably too harsh a word, ‘not nice’ should be a better choice. The Officer knows that his staunch, determined posture as a law enforcer, as guardian of individual rights and of everything America once stood for is only a grotesque charade that he is legally bound to perform. Today, a five star rating on his performance is more important than protecting the Declaration of Independence. The American system he has sworn to protect has turned on him. So his belief in the system was shaken. So his hands on the gun are shaking.
The Doctrine has been around for a long time, but only in recent years it has shown its fangs and claws. It purports to prevent The Officer from becoming The Brute, but in effect it has molded him into a powerless, pathetic blend between social worker and adult educator. At the beginning, The Officer thought The Doctrine was a joke. Then it became a nuisance. Now it’s sheer terror. He can’t follow its guidelines, because it’s not in the book. Not yet, not fully, which makes it elusive, impossible to grasp. Years ago he tried to understand it, so he looked it up. It turned out it’s part of some sort of a social phenomenon called “cancel policy” and “yoke culture”. Or was it “woke”? He then tried to understand those, so he asked around. The only answer he got was “it’s, um, you know, I mean like, um, you know …”. No, he didn’t know. He still doesn’t. So his hands on the gun are shaking.
The Doctrine is very popular, so The Politician must make it into law. The draft of The Bill is on his desk, almost finished. As he crawls towards the exit he makes an effort to think about it. It works - it provides the much needed distraction from the danger he’s in. It wasn’t too hard to write it, even though The Doctrine makes no sense. But turning senseless policy into law is his job and he’s good at it. After all, it’s just words. Popular words, wrung dry of any content so that they refer to nothing in reality, cleverly knitted into beautifully sounding sentences, rotten inside. It was hard at the beginning, but he has done it so many times it’s become internalized. Now, it’s easy. Very easy...
Too easy…
The Politician stops crawling. The EXIT sign, not far away, is staring at him, daring him to keep going. He won’t. He’ll just let it happen. He hears a loud crack followed by screams. It’s ok, it’s only right. He turns on his back, taking in the gentle warmth of the daylight shining through the majestic Dome of the Capitol building. It doesn’t last long. The large frame of The Brute barges in, hovering above him, grinning. He pins his neck to the ground. The Politician can’t breathe, but it doesn’t matter anymore. The Brute raises above his head a small bronze statuette. The Politician closes his eyes. Boom! The skull yields like tin foil, brain turns to mush, mixing with blood and tiny shards of bone.
Whether he’s 18 or 80, black or white, from the city or the countryside, The Brute is defined by his inability, innate or acquired, to think. He is only slightly more rational than the baseball bat he’s wielding. To him brute force is the solution to everything and anything. The bolstering tweets of the President have filled him with adrenaline. The tweets make no sense, but to The Brute nothing does. To him words don’t have meaning. Words are just triggers which automatically propel him into action towards the preprogrammed goal. And right now, his goal is to crack The Politician’s skull open. He’s got the bat, hence the power, and nothing can stop him.
Whether Capitol Police or Secret Service, black or white, in uniform or plain clothes, The Officer is a man of integrity. He is highly trained. He’s served in Iraq, he is physically fit, he goes to the shooting range weekly. He is very efficient in empty hand and armed combat. He’s had more than one brush with death so he knows how to control his emotions and channel his energy, so that he can still focus on his assignment even in the most stressful of situations. Right now he is in one of those situations. He must stop The Brute from entering the room. It’s his job and he can do it. Fast, efficient, and by the book, and nothing can stop him.
The Brute is about to break down the door. The Politician eagerly looks for The Officer in the crowd. There he is, by the door, his service gun drawn. Feeling safer, The Politician utters a quick prayer, hits the floor and starts crawling towards the emergency exit. But something is wrong, something didn’t belong. What was it? Oh, God! His heart sinks. The Officer’s hands on the gun were shaking.
-- == oooOOOOooo == --
The Officer knows that his hands are shaking, but it’s not from fear. He’s faced enemies who fought with determination and purpose, he’s not afraid of purposeless zombies. He’s not afraid that The Brute will physically engage him, he can easily take him down. He’s not afraid The Brute will shoot at him, he is prepared for that and he’s much better equipped. So, no, it’s not fear. It’s terror. Terror of something much more insidious, cunning, and dangerous than any enemy he has ever encountered: The Doctrine. The Officer knows exactly what The Brute will do after he breaks the door down. He will put down his bat, raise his arms, and just walk into the room with a smile on his face. That simple, deliberate act, The Doctrine postulates, is The Brute’s metamorphosis from an armed and dangerous aggressor into an unarmed, harmless civilian. And at that point, there is nothing The Officer can do. The use of even the slightest amount of force on him is condemned by the Doctrine as police brutality. Of course The Officer will order The Brute to stop and get on the floor, or else he will be shot. But both The Brute and The Officer know that this is an empty threat, and that The Brute will shrug off the warnings and continue his advance into the room, followed closely by dozens of other Brutes, all with their arms up, all smiling. They all hold smartphones streaming on social networks high-definition videos of their peaceful visit, proof of their innocence. So The Officer will just safely holster his gun and explain to The Brute that what he’s doing is bad. Well, ‘bad’ is probably too harsh a word, ‘not nice’ should be a better choice. The Officer knows that his staunch, determined posture as a law enforcer, as guardian of individual rights and of everything America once stood for is only a grotesque charade that he is legally bound to perform. Today, a five star rating on his performance is more important than protecting the Declaration of Independence. The American system he has sworn to protect has turned on him. So his belief in the system was shaken. So his hands on the gun are shaking.
The Doctrine has been around for a long time, but only in recent years it has shown its fangs and claws. It purports to prevent The Officer from becoming The Brute, but in effect it has molded him into a powerless, pathetic blend between social worker and adult educator. At the beginning, The Officer thought The Doctrine was a joke. Then it became a nuisance. Now it’s sheer terror. He can’t follow its guidelines, because it’s not in the book. Not yet, not fully, which makes it elusive, impossible to grasp. Years ago he tried to understand it, so he looked it up. It turned out it’s part of some sort of a social phenomenon called “cancel policy” and “yoke culture”. Or was it “woke”? He then tried to understand those, so he asked around. The only answer he got was “it’s, um, you know, I mean like, um, you know …”. No, he didn’t know. He still doesn’t. So his hands on the gun are shaking.
The Doctrine is very popular, so The Politician must make it into law. The draft of The Bill is on his desk, almost finished. As he crawls towards the exit he makes an effort to think about it. It works - it provides the much needed distraction from the danger he’s in. It wasn’t too hard to write it, even though The Doctrine makes no sense. But turning senseless policy into law is his job and he’s good at it. After all, it’s just words. Popular words, wrung dry of any content so that they refer to nothing in reality, cleverly knitted into beautifully sounding sentences, rotten inside. It was hard at the beginning, but he has done it so many times it’s become internalized. Now, it’s easy. Very easy...
Too easy…
The Politician stops crawling. The EXIT sign, not far away, is staring at him, daring him to keep going. He won’t. He’ll just let it happen. He hears a loud crack followed by screams. It’s ok, it’s only right. He turns on his back, taking in the gentle warmth of the daylight shining through the majestic Dome of the Capitol building. It doesn’t last long. The large frame of The Brute barges in, hovering above him, grinning. He pins his neck to the ground. The Politician can’t breathe, but it doesn’t matter anymore. The Brute raises above his head a small bronze statuette. The Politician closes his eyes. Boom! The skull yields like tin foil, brain turns to mush, mixing with blood and tiny shards of bone.
-- == oooOOOOooo == --
The Politician opens his eyes, gasping for air. The Brute is lying next to him, pink gunk gushing out the hole the bullet has pierced into the side of his head. He is still grinning at The Politician. The hideous grin, frozen on his face, is daring him to keep going. He will! He will finish The Bill tonight! It will be the crowning jewel of his career. It will finally obliterate the last standing obstacle between his skull and the bat of the next Brute. Because to The Politician too, words no longer have meaning. For the longest time, he’s been nothing more than an intellectual Brute.
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