The lines outside the stadium disappeared. The munilot wasn’t empty, but it certainly had less Browns fans. Well… that was only partially true. Most people working ground zero were Clevelanders. The smoke had stopped billowing out around the Wednesday after the bombing. The entire waterfront district was now home base for construction and fire crews. The muni lot was the graveyard. Victims were lined up alphabetically by last name. Didn’t matter which city you were from. The bodies looked oddly like the food you cook at a stadium tailgate. The homebodies were all together. Before the bomb, they wouldn’t be caught dead next to “a stupid Steelers fan”. They actually WERE caught dead, next to Steelers fans. Brown and Yellow and Black and Orange. Mashed up like a steel-town guacamole.

The police mobilized the streets and instilled a curfew. As far as Strongsville, Ohio, you weren’t allowed out after 8PM. It was a new time. There wasn’t any patience for law breakin’.

Shortly after the bombing, the militia arrived. Trucks, Guns, Flags. The trucks were America realized. They, frankly, didn’t like Blacks, nor Jews, nor ISIS. They didn’t seem to like much or anyone unless they were a true blooded (and white) American.

Day by day, downtown Cleveland gained more and more rural “volunteers”. They helped out. They laid the burned bodies on their asphalt graves. They moved food and medical equipment around with their trucks. They produced enough electricity to light a medical camp 5000 yards long. No one asked them to. They felt compelled. Someone hurt America. They were sad, and they were grieving, and they were pissed. Downtown Cleveland looked like Jason Aldean’s 10th anniversary concert.

The loss was so great that most Clevelanders couldn’t go to work without seeing a person or two missing. That missing person was in that inferno. You might show up to work, but your eyes were stuck to your cell phone.

What was the latest news? What does The New Yorker think about us? What does Colbert think about this? What does Glenn Beck have to say? Howie Long? What about Snoop Dog? Does Dana White have an opinion? Neil DeGrasse Tyson? Did they publish the names? Will they publish? Which one of my Facebook friends is still alive?

The city didn’t have much else going on. You had to be at home at 8pm. No CYO basketball practice. No band practice in basements. You didn’t go out at night, ’cause playtime was over. The only thing Clevelanders could do was inhale the taste of fear.

The rednecks. The police. The survivors. The volunteers. The widows.

The fans. The construction crews. The news crews.

The fire crews. The doctors. The military.

The FEMA workers. The FBI agents.

The ESPN camera crews.

They could feel the

splash of future

tunneling to

a slight

end.