Pacific Coast Highway
“One shot, two shots, three shots, EIGHT SHOTS OF NYYEESSSSSSPRESSOOOOO,” yelled Johnny as he flagrantly waved his scepter in the air. Dozens of emancipated Howardsvillians gathered around the self-appointed king as he poured shots of espresso into the mouths of each member of his coup d’état. Johnny had a golden mane that was in a constant state of excitement and could never be contained no matter how much you brushed, conditioned, gelled, creamed, combed, padded, swooped, or smoothed it; it always maintained an erratic sense of determination. Howardsville had just undergone an overthrow. The security cabinet, headed by Johnny Womack, had decided that they were tired of spying; they no longer could tolerate being a means to someone else’s end; the cabinet devised a plan to make the general public of Howardsville distrust and disdain the powers that had been. Fueled by ungodly amounts of caffeine and power bars—the country’s main exports–the security cabinet forced the non-abiding parliament members on a plane and shipped them away to the remote island of Guam. Without needing to exploit the overly caffeinated public’s paranoia by much, the security cabinet of Howardsville convinced the submissive public that they were, in fact, the ones their government thought to be threats to civilization, and that every move the public made in their private homes were being watched so that the parliament could maintain control—the public was outraged and the government was dismantled within three hours. To celebrate the recent mutiny, Johnny Womack ordered a celebratory riot to immediately take place in the town square. Howardsvillians, without any need of further incentive, flocked from all over the 50-square-miles of shopping plazas, man-made parks, and suburban jungles.
“Let us be vile! Let us be gluttonous! Decadent! Rambunctious and rude! Free of pleasantries and manners! For we are no longer being watched and liberty is ours!” yelled Johnny, from the top of a long white van with useless window impressions. Dozens and dozens more Howardsvillians continued flocking to the town square, greeted by chocolate, peanut butter, caramel power bars and a constant flowing supply of high-quality top-of-the-line caffeine. Howardsvillians began removing their clothes, telling each other to have a terrible day. People began looting shopping centers, grabbing anything they could fit in their arms. One woman smacked another woman’s breast and told her she looked like a horse. An older gentleman shook a child’s ankle, telling the child to suck an egg, and that the child would probably grow up to be a great long Santorum. Johnny stood in his power stance, on top of the white van, scepter in hand, crown delicately cocked to the side, and royal cape blowing in the wind. Ahhhh, chaos. Let the chaos ensue; let it spread to the far corners of the Earth; fuck authority. Where is the bathroom?
The eight shots of espresso that Johnny had drunk were now gushing through his urinary tract and exciting his power bar filled colon. Johnny jumped off the white van and ran to a nearby construction site where he snatched a bejeweled woman, mid stream, from a port-o-potty and with an invasive swift shove, pushed her away from the portable shitter, taking his place on the plastic blue thrown. After Johnny ended his long falsetto, expressing his satisfaction with the act that had just occurred, he reached for the toilet paper but was greeted with brown cardboard disappointment. While Johnny sat pondering his next move, the displaced urinating woman, had organized a few other displaced and vengeful Howardsvillians. Including one whom Johnny had shoved while snatching his patriarchal attire from a party supply store and another whose white van Johnny had commandeered to transport his cabinet to the town square. The congregation charged one side of the port-o-potty and watched in satisfaction as the blue box slowly reached its tipping point. Johnny yelled, “Shit!” The satisfied woman yelled, “Fuck you, Johnny!” and ran away, middle finger triumphantly pumping into the air.
The other displaced and pissed off port-o-potty tipping enthusiasts began mimicking the raised bird motion and ran about the square throwing the gesture in as many faces as they could. The contagious gesture spread to every Howardsvillian as it accompanied all the heinous acts that ensued. Children were flicking the elderly off as they kicked liver spotted shins. Birds were being thrown while the elderly blocked traffic crossing the street. Cars on roadways were getting abruptly cut off as middle fingers poked out of passing windows. While all of this appendage hubbub was occurring, beneath the town square a creature was rustling. The unintentional mass ritual of bird flicking had caused a creature as old as time to rise from its cryptic sleep. The red-feathered creature, with a 200-hundred-foot wingspan, exploded through the brick ground of the town square and soared above the rioting impolite vagrants. The hell creature looked around with its hungry eyes and began taking out each Howardsvillian one-by-one. Johnny oozed out of the port-o-potty door, covered in feces and used toilet paper, his hair matted to his head. He looked up and yelled “Shit!” right before he was snatched by the demonic fowl, playfully thrown into the sky, and then eaten alive.