Fire exploded from the shattered bottle; flames burst forth like the vomit of a child that’d eaten too much sugar. The light revealed the shadowy forms of riot police, their grim faces concealed by full-head masks, helmets, and the deep-seated insecurity that drove them into a profession that let them work through their middle-school bullying issues. Flickers illuminated the wide eyes of the protesters, not completely compensating for their otherwise deadened, smug gazes. A fire extinguisher screamed its foamy defiance, and in less time than it took for a college student to get offended, the flames turned to steam and floated away, quickly creating distance from its embarrassing defeat.

The civic centurions stomped their feet and struck their shields in unison, rattling the bars of an outdoor cage that formed a large, impromptu day-care center for adult-sized children. The insolent rebels strutted right back, swinging improvised spiked clubs, opening umbrellas, and recording video on cell phones…so many cell phones.

“Disperse now! This is an unlawful assembly! Leave the area now!” commanded the overdriven, robotic voice in the bullhorn. “Failure to follow this direction and leave the area will subject you to arrest, citation, or use of force, including crowd control munitions.”

The protester’s whines emerged from the howling feedback of the bullhorn’s distortions. “Ow! Hey! We’re only ten feet from you! Was that really necessary?”

The bullhorn fell limply to his side. “Oh…right. I was just saying…”

“We heard you the first time!” gushed the mocking retort, followed by arrogant laughter, becoming more forced by the second.

Gloved hands cocked shotgun-mounted tear-gas cannons. Water-soaked bandannas quickly swaddled fragile faces. Opposing glances did their best to look steely and determined. The gruff voice barked again. “Then this is your last warning! Officers, prepare to fire!” The umbrellas raised and pointed at the police, marking their last attempt at defense.

The wall of privileged defiance parted, and without warning, out swayed God’s gift to hormonal male fantasies, wearing less than her parents did on the drunken night they made her. As the startled authority figures gawked, she sauntered into the no-man’s-land at the scrimmage line, strutting and preening fiercely. Without so much as a word, she gracefully collapsed to the ground, rolled back slightly onto her pert bottom, and spread her legs in the air towards the befuddled deputies. In the stunned silence that followed, the loudest sound was reminiscent of the ocean, seemingly yawning from the gaping hole of her lady canyon.

A flickering, uneven light highlighted her lithe and lovely form as it traveled sideways, the most useless possible trajectory ever traversed by a flare. A bullet shattered the Molotov cocktail in mid-air, causing pride to swell in the bosom of the police academy’s firing-range commander, if only he had been there to behold the wonderment. The flaming liquid erupted in all directions, but mostly down upon the suburban Godiva, bestowing the full measure of its warmth and affection all over her. A single gallant knight from either side leaped into action, sporting the bright-red cylinder that commonly killed the fun of civic unrest. White foam gushed from two directions all over the hapless ingenue, her moment ruined as her spotlight was literally extinguished. In mere moments, she was reduced to a shapely marshmallow, just waiting for giant chocolate bars and Graham crackers to turn her into a tasty erotic snack.

The two killjoys faced each other, eyes locked in dagger-sharp glares, even as the fire around them fizzled out. In a heartbeat, the self-styled urban guerrilla raised his bony arms and discharged his fire-free firearm, soaking the cop with sticky foam. A solid peppering of gun reports erupted from the police, their beanbag rounds tearing through the thin fabric of the protesters’ umbrellas, barely strong enough to deflect a bouncing tear-gas canister, much less nonlethal ammo. A cacophony of whines poured forth from the stricken protesters, some falling to the ground in frail agony, others scrambling away as quickly as their prissy feet could carry them.

They executed their escape far more flawlessly than their face-off, scattering through side streets, darting down alleys, and winding through buildings, and before long shook their pursuers from their collective tails, freeing them from the immediate consequences of their ignominious defeat.

A stocky young lady stood among a wild grove of plants in a culvert by the side of a wide road, her head darting nervously back and forth, her ear-length, mousy brown hair poking out from beneath a knit cap. Her dark sweater, festooned with an incongruously sparkling peace symbol, fluttered in the air as she flitted. A sudden loud sound caused her to whirl around. Through the plants tore a scraggly older hippie, his distressed style camouflaging naturally with the chaos of the unmanicured clump of flora. “Kelly!” he panted breathlessly. “Thank goodness you’re OK! Where are the others?”

“Damn it, Fillmore!” she shot back indignantly. “You’re supposed to use my code name! I’m Peacenik, got it? Peacenik!”

Fillmore struggled to catch his breath. “Well, sorry,” he griped. “I guess I’m a little stressed.”

“If we know each other’s names, we might give them up under interrogation!” Kelly declared.

Fillmore remained hunched over, resting his hands on his knees. “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? We already know most of each other’s names.”

Another figure approached at high speed. Kelly squealed with delight and flung her arms around him. “Racer X! Thank God you’re safe!” She relaxed her hold, and he gestured playfully toward her with dual finger-pistols. Kelly glared at Fillmore. “See? He knows how to stay silent!”

“He’s always silent, man,” observed Fillmore. “I’ve never heard him say a word. It’s kind of off-putting.”

“My people, I have returned!” boomed an arrogant voice. Kelly and Fillmore sighed as they turned to watch Mr. Ripple strut up to them. “Quiet!” Kelly scolded, stopping him in mid-brag. “I suppose you think that’s better than never saying a word?” she accused Fillmore, who only shrugged weakly.

“Base!” a woman’s voice suddenly announced. They jumped and stared, wild-eyed, at the unsettling presence of the smug lady that had appeared behind them, undetected. Fillmore complained dejectedly. “Damn it, Sonja, you scared the crap out of us!”

“That’s Red Sonja!” she corrected. “And consider it an impromptu test of your situational awareness. As usual, you failed.” She spit as she stared angrily at the ground. “I don’t even know why I bother to join forces with you klutzes. You’ll get one of us killed some day, mark my words.”

“Why the hell are you Red Sonja, anyway?” Mr. Ripple chided. “You don’t even have red hair. In fact, you’re bald.”

“My hair was red,” she shot back, “before it all fell out — the result of a terrible, life-changing trauma…” Her voice fell to a whisper as she stared into the distance. “The memories of which chill me to this very day.” She looked up suddenly. “You’re asking me about that just now?” Mr. Ripple stared back wordlessly.

Interspersed with heavy approaching footsteps came a warbling sort of melody, which proceeded in fits and starts, not aligning with any discernible pattern. A large, hairy man stepped into the clearing, an audio recorder pressed to his lips. “And what is that supposed to be, Bruno?” Kelly retorted.

Bruno sullenly pulled himself away from his tweedling. “I’m recording my musical impressions of tonight’s events! I found them very inspirational!” He went back to his improvised vocalization.

“That’s not even in the right register for your instrument!” Red Sonja seethed.

Bruno sighed heavily and leveled his gaze at her. “I’ll transpose it to the proper key later! Right now, I’m just expressing what’s in my heart!” He snorted derisively. “None of you know a damn thing about music.” He went back to his rhythmless beatboxing, turning away from the others and cupping his hands around his audio recorder.

Kelly winced as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “OK, OK, enough. Let’s stay focused. Everyone has made it back now, except for Lamb, Saint, and…”

“Frosty’s here!” chimed a jocular voice. “So glad to see you all, don’t ya know.” He raised a paper tray to eye level. “And I’ve brought coffee, eh!” He began to hand them out. “Hemp creamer for Fillmore, black for Red Sonja, decaf for Bruno, cream and sugar for Racer X, espresso and chocolate for Mr. Ripple…” With a flourish, he turned to Kelly. “And for our stalwart Peacenik…pumpkin spice.”

Kelly began sipping the hot coffee. “I’m grateful, of course, but why did you stop to get coffee? You were supposed to meet at this rendezvous point as quickly as possible.”

“But there’s always time for coffee!” Frosty quipped. “Besides, I’m not even the last one here.” He looked at his cardboard tray. “What am I supposed to do with these last two?”

“We’ve seen no sign of Lamb or Saint,” Kelly mumbled nervously.

“Oh, wow,” Fillmore interjected. “I don’t want to be the party pooper, but I saw someone that looked like Saint on the way here…face down in an alley.”

“What?!” Kelly retorted. “You didn’t check?”

“Hey, you said our highest priority was to get to the rendezvous point!” Fillmore protested. “Besides, I was really hoping it wasn’t him.”

“Well, lead the way!” Kelly commanded. “Where did you see him?”

“Only a few blocks away,” he related.

Several nervous meerkat faces peeked out from the bushes, as if emerging from their prairie holes after a summer squall. The chaos and tension of earlier that evening were nowhere to be found; the city street at night offered only the occasional taxi and a few stumbling drunks. Fillmore led them two blocks down the street, then turned right into an alleyway. “Somewhere near the middle,” he recalled.

Flashlights danced across the pavement as they approached the spot, finding a crumpled figure. Kelly and Racer X ran up to it as the others cowered at a disreputable distance. Working together, they managed to turn it over, and Racer X pulled up the mask. Saint’s lifeless eyes stared back at them, his face and mask soaked with blood. Kelly let out a short shriek as Racer X rushed to comfort her.

Kelly turned back to the others. “Well, don’t just stand there! Help us pick him up! We have to get him out of here!”

“Are you crazy, man?” Fillmore whined. “I’m not touching a dead body!”

“Are you crazy?” Kelly shot back. “We can’t just leave him here! He’s our friend!”

A siren in the distance gradually grew louder. “The jig’s up!” Mr. Ripple yelped. The group scattered down the alleyway into the darkness.

“Cowards!” Kelly yelled after them. “You heartless bastards!”

Kelly gawked at them as Racer X perused them sanguinely. She turned to look over her shoulder as a fire truck drove down the street, siren blaring, as it passed the alleyway and continued down the road.

Kelly stared wild-eyed at Racer X. He merely shrugged. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” Kelly blurted, before both ran away. Kelly’s voice choked with sorrow. “Poor Saint. What are we going to do?”

Some time later, a bedraggled ingenue, covered in a thin film of sticky residue, and naked except for a soiled blanket, with the wet hair and morose glare of a kitten that escaped its flea bath, stomped down the sidewalk, detesting the sudden and unwelcome redefinition of “walk of shame”.