Exclusive field reporting by Blaine Dabbley, embedded guerrilla journalist in the Occupy movement’s twelfth brigade and sophomore student in Film Studies at Emerson College, writing for the Vagrant Voice.
Fire blazed across the screen of my Mactop pro early Friday evening as black-masked hooligans marched into lower Manhattan carrying torches and wielding Molotov cocktails. Calling themselves the “99% Spring” in honor of communist truther Van Jones, the Black Bloc anarchists were putting some stiffness into the al dente spines of those who had lost their previous stand-off with the 1%. The resurgence of Occupy was on, and I wasn’t going to miss it for the world.
I packed my gear into a second-hand rucksack to return to my parent’s house on Long Island, not the coziest of pads but considerably adorned with accoutrements to warrant getting away from the stale liberal arts college campus. A big screen in the basement, all you can eat Combos — what more could a bachelor want? Besides, who wants to watch his loser roommate suck face with his hot girlfriend all weekend? The lovebirds always watched the most idiotic rom-coms and never allowed me any privacy. All the more reason to jet out of that cramped hell-hole for the weekend and stop by the city for a little anarcho-socialist action.
Street cred was vital. My “Twelfth Brigade – Occupy Wall Street” shoulder patch was clearly visible on my good will store attained Army field jacket, and underneath, a classic Che tee shirt blazed with the slogan “If you want to make a capitalist omelet, you’ve got to break a few eggs.” I jumped into my Chevy Volt without so much as texting any of my Facebook friends on my iPhone, and headed into that vast unknown beast called New York City.
The danger in the air was palpable. The blacktop roads slinked ahead into the darkness like a slick, shiny snake whose raised head was poised to inject her lethal venom into the one-percenters. Crossing over the George Washington Bridge into the city, my stomach was filled with a sick anticipation that tonight could be my last. I was ready to die for my cause, I resolved while listening to Cold Play’s “Paradise.”
Arriving on the scene, I was overjoyed to see the pigs were already there. Some hipsters were cheering on the Black Bloc anarchists, and the cops, in riot gear, were standing there like a bunch of dumbasses. Hurriedly, I parked my Volt in a side alley next to a bike rack, grabbed my handheld mic set and digital camcorder, and ran out into the wild streets. Tonight could be the night that YouTube made me a star.
If there was a time to strike for the cause, it was now. Equality was something everyone in the 99% should be willing to fight and die for, as I wanted to show the morons on the right. Filming this experience, displaying the structural injustice of the hierarchical system, was footage I planned on saving for when I applied to the elite J-school at Columbia.
I rushed into the fray, caring not what mischief lay ahead. A wall of policemen stood before me, their backs presenting a formidable line. Before them, the anarchists were standing menacingly, like demi-gods brought down from the mountainous shoulders surrounding the city to draw a line in the sand: No further shall you Wall Street banksters pass.
Now was the time to put up or shut up. I rushed into the fray to join the mob, and was greeted by dozens of stunned Guy Fawkes masks. Their admiration for my moxie instantly won them over to my side. I pulled out my handheld mic and started asking questions.
“So what brings you to lower Manhattan this fine evening?” I asked the first rioter I could find.
“Mmmmmph,” was all I could get. I instructed the man to take off his mask and the dollar bill taped across his mouth so we could start the interview again.
“F***ing pigs die!” the man screamed in primal rage, belting out a war cry to shame the Celtic king Brennus.
The man took the brick in his right hand and fired it at a police officer, who deftly blocked it. Moments later, a tear gas canister plopped down next to me. A man in a Guy Fawkes mask grabbed me by the arm and instructed me to run. So I followed him. We ran to the street corner with a Starbucks. Man, was I really thirsty, and could go for an iced frappucino.
“What are your demands?” I asked one of the rioters, but wasn’t sure if it was the same one who had whisked me away to safety.
“We believe in healthcare, education, and sexual equality,” the man yelled before hurling a steel ball at the Starbucks window, shattering it. He entered the building, so I followed him, mic in hand. “So we want the government to pay for everything, or else nobody gets nothing. They can start by paying for everybody’s condoms, drugs, and hookers.”
“Condoms, drugs and hookers?” I asked incredulously.
“Right, you’ve heard of the GOP war on women?” he replied as a Molotov cocktail splashed its ghastly blue flames up the coffeehouse wall.
“What?” I asked, mortified by the violence and destruction. Someone grabbed a chair and began smashing up the joint.
“The War on Women, remember?” he prodded. I nodded in affirmation and gulped. “Well, we believe that all men and women should have equal access to sex, so we want state-financing of hookers. Same for pot, blow, crank… whatever floats your boat. The point is that there is no government as long as everyone gets and can do whatever he wants. That way, no one is really being… governed.”
Behind me a bullhorn blared, “This is the police. Come out with your hands up and lay down on the sidewalk in single file. We will not ask you twice.”
“So you’re an anarchist and you support all these government programs?” I asked. “Does that mean you are with the Occupy movement?”
“We’re not not with the Occupy movement,” the man as he snatched a biscotti off the counter. “Anyway, you can’t have political hierarchy when everyone’s equal. You ever read post-structuralism?”
A man on the counter was emptying a cash register onto the floor and the rioters were snatching up loose change.
“Yeah, class hierarchy really sucks. Ever since my rich banker dad cut off my trust fund, I’ve been ruminating about the capitalist system of exploitation…”
“Little dude, it’s time to go!” he yelled while making a mad dash for the back door.
Just then, police stormtroopers rushed through the front door and broken window, creating the surreal impression that we were in a real war. Moments later, fuzz filed in through the back door, snatching several of the protesters by the collars and zip-tied them on the ground. I was grabbed by my pony tail and thrown onto the wood floor, which smelt faintly of cranberries and jasmine. I plan on suing the department, even though I scampered away unnoticed after the officer cuffing me was hit in the back of the head with a bottle of Naked Tea.
Rushing out into the night air and past the scramble of goons and guerrillas, I joined my Occupy Wall Street brethren, who recruited some of the Black Bloc anarchists in the meantime and were shouting slogans like, “Obamacare Now!” and “No Justice, No Peace!” When a particularly nasty brawl broke out, a chant of “Give Peace a Chance” seemed appropriate.
Interviewing these brooding warriors at the class struggle’s frontlines, I found out that radical leftists, progressives, and anarchists see eye-to-eye on many important issues, including: universal healthcare, free education, and even sexual rights. These issues are so obvious to intelligent people, even pyromaniacal anarchists and common street criminals can figure them out.
Author’s note: The above is satire. It is a fictionalized account intended to elucidate certain ideas and principles by taking them to absurd lengths. It is not intended to be taken literally.
Kyle Becker blogs at RogueGovernment, and can be followed on Twitter as @RogueOperator1. He writes freelance for several publications, including American Thinker and OwntheNarrative, and is a regular commentator on the late night talk show TB-TV.