The war was now into its third day. The protesters had gained ground, it was common knowledge that they would reach Liberty Square within another day if they continued with the same progress. Marchers from all the surrounding townships were in the streets, an estimate of over 10,000. They had no weapons, just their will. To help keep their strength and motivation, they had taken to singing. The sound of their voices could be heard from miles away. It appeared to be a cry of happiness for finally banding together to end the suppression and isolation that had plagued them for nearly 30 years.
It was just after eight in the morning on Wednesday when one group of activists entered the neighborhood where the Mayor’s mansion stood in its proud and stately manner. As was the case of the other places in D.C. where the demonstrators were making their way to a destination, these people were also singing. When they came within reach of a four block radius, they saw military men ahead.
“Stand back or we’ll shoot!” One of the guards shouted through his voice cone. Another man repeated the warning.
“We’re cautioning you, we have orders to shoot. Stand back, you thugs.”
The singing continued, the decibels increasing with each warning. They marched, full of fear, but beyond the capability to respond to any logic that would normally induce them to halt.
“Stop in the name of the law. We are within our legal rights to fire our arms!”
The marching continued, the singing grew in intensity.
One of the men in charge of the White army signaled to his front men and they began whirling canisters into the crowd.
The song turned into screams, people wiping their eyes to take away the sting. Those with bottled water poured the liquid into the injured marchers’ eyes. The demonstrators had turned away and were running, the weaker ones were trampled.
A young man, Tommy was his name, stood facing the heathens, the hatred inside him filled his gut. “Pagans, that’s what you are, you’re all a bunch of Christian hating pagans!” Raising his rifle, he aimed. He didn’t care if the order hadn’t been given, he knew it had to be done. These people needed to learn their lesson, they needed to go back to their ghettos so he could have his life back. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face, but he stood strong, proud to be helping to save his country.
Tommy fired, a popping sound emitted from his weapon. He fired again and again.
Others around him assumed that the order had been given and they fired their weapons.
The screaming bodies began to drop. The sting from the gas was no longer their biggest problem. They ran to escape, but the gunmen marched toward them, shooting as they approached the runners.
Screams, yelling, helter skelter was heard in the streets. Then it happened, the final kick that ended the bloody battle at the Mayor’s mansion.
Tommy pulled the safety lever off a grenade, and tossed it into the crowd. The explosion wiped out the people near where it dropped. He continued to march toward the people, pulled another grenade, and launched it into the crowd.
Within the hour, the battle was over. Bloodied bodies lay in the streets. The marchers that had fled had been captured, and now they were designated to dispose of the corpses. The residue of smoke filled the air, the smell of death choked those who lived.
The Mayor’s Mansion Massacre was the deadliest battle to date in the D.C. area. The war had escalated to heights that were out of control. Hate was at an all-time level. But Tommy was a hero to his White comrades. Life was out of control, the country was in trouble. Finally, someone had taken a stand to stop these thugs. Finally, they would be able to stop these heathens and get back to their serene, prosperous life.
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