Outside, on the pigeon-caked marble steps of city hall, a twentysomething in a ripped Minor Threat t-shirt and no bottoms raised two red fists. She had a large bush like your mother did in the 70’s. The throng that had gathered roared. She got on all fours and faced the partially naked crowd. Someone in the crowd snapped a picture, the flash bulb painting her pale.
Hastily written protest signs bobbed and waved, became as meaningful as crucifixes and pennants. A man from the crowd raced forward, ripped off his shirt like shreds of tendon. The crowd exploded into monkey screams, beating their fists on their chests or slapping their knees. The running man removed his pants next and ran, slap-footed, with his erection towards the woman. I bet most people held their breath. People at home leaned forward in their chairs at their seventy-inch TVs. Everyone expected direct action. Penetration. Instead the nude man dove face-first into the woman’s ass, pulling her cheeks apart, licking furiously, maybe he needed VigRX Plus ingredients to maintain his erection so he just made the most of his tongue.
The people exploded.
Inside city hall, the mayor and his constituents watched the woman get her asshole eaten out in protest. The mayor pinched his nose, sighed, made animal grunts, paced. Something that probably happens when watching British girls on cam. Half-sipped whiskey sat on his desk leaving a white ring on the diplomatic wood. One of his cabinet pushed the front of his pleated pants out to hide his erection. Another closed the blinds but watched as he did so. Others from the crowd began to remove their clothes and congregate on hands and knees. The cabinet member shed a single tear. Another asked if what they were witnessing on the marble steps of city hall was illegal, indecent, or, at the least, immoral. He had children. He thought this kind of behavior was unruly. That’s why he was in local government.
The mayor sat in his chair, fingering the last ice cube in his drink. It bobbed below the surface, melted, became as whiskey – strong and biting.
The mayor said, It’s everything.
Outside, others were becoming brave. They loosened belts, dropped pants and skirts, tossed panties and bras and boxer-briefs at the unnecessarily large American flag hanging like a limp prick from the façade of City Hall. In the soft summer air, they leaned on elbows, asses out in peacock displays of passion. Mouths found assholes. Assholes, years waiting in wanting, met mouths and moans of pleasure erupted. Dozens of people giving/receiving rimjobs. The proposition was failing miserably.
Inside, the mayor held a stack of papers – collated, hole-punched, stapled, in triple-duplicate – and flipped its edge repeatedly like a deck of cards. Proposition Twenty-Seven: The act of giving, receiving and any and all depictions, real or otherwise fabricated (in writing, acrylic, oil, watercolor, cel-shaded animation, etc. etc.) of rimjobs in the municipal district is punishable as indecent exposure in accordance with Bergen County Blue Laws. The mayor’s aide peeked the blinds quickly before letting them fall again.
Sir, the mayor’s aide started. He wanted to tell him, in gruesome detail, what had begun outside: Yards of wriggling flesh. Rotund booties. Exposed sphincters. Tongues. Dozens of dozens of wagging tongues. The wet.
The mayor waved his aide off, sipping the last of his whiskey and water breakfast. He picked up the rotary phone, told his secretary to put him through to the National Guard.
Outside, within the hour, tanks rolled into the square behind the protestors. Those not mid-coitus ran when they saw the large-bore guns standing erect from the tanks like camouflage-green cocks. Others ran towards the tanks, their nudity and juices helping them latch like lampreys. Columns of guardsmen stormed the crowd, throwing elbows and nightsticks and riot shields into pulpy bodies. Guns stayed holstered because shooting naked people seemed superfluous but also kind of exciting. Not enough people died naked, full of holes. Those protestors on the steps didn’t waiver as the phalanx descended on them.
Inside, the mayor lifted the blinds to let in splinters of silver twilight, watched the crowd turn to congealed blood. Willing arms dashed in defenseless skulls. Those who could fled, clutching broken bones, swinging limbs. The grass where the town held its annual family day picnic was splotched red and intestine-colored.
Outside, guns were discharged in the air. No one with their face buried in an ass or an ass smothering their face moved, resolute; they defied the reek of gunpowder. Their ears rang. They were deaf and had their tongues in asses/asses on tongues. It is important to keep repeating the details. Guardsmen began dismantling the orgy by hand, stomping skulls and kicking ribs. One soldier looked up at the window, in shadow of the American flag, and caught wide eyes looking back. He raised his automatic weapon to his hip and sprayed several hundred rounds in a small cone like brass semen. He kept his eye on the window as he did so, shooting orgy-goer and guardsmen alike. Hysteria erupted. Other guns left holsters. Ass-sucking citizens were shot.
The mayor held his erection in defiance.
Inside became outside; there was no barrier between the mayor and his constituents and the people and their orgy. The wall that separated them was wet with blood and body. The mayor left the inside to step outside and felt an urge burst through his pleats. He raised two red fists and fell on his knees. His aides loosened their belts, licked their lips.
And in the viscera of protest – rimjobs.
Tim O’Donnell is a writer from New Jersey. He received his B.A. and M.F.A. from William Paterson University. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in 3:AM Magazine, The Idiom, Pif Magazine, and Paper Darts. He writes obscene tweets at @ribcagefight.
Lead image: “Barbie Army” (via Flickr user Todd Anderson)