The night the Rhymer went whack
Chapter 42

42

Many impoverished communities across the globe were developed with governmental assistance, and that led to resentment, and that led to joy.

Though the pilot and co-pilot had given their lives while attempting to land the plane safely, including Straffe, twelve passengers had survived the crash. Two were hobbled with broken legs but most of the others were fairly intact. “Where the hell are we?” yelled a young soldier, still a little distraught while pacing nervously.

“France, Northern France,” someone answered.

The shelling still continued as they heard rapid gunfire in the distance. Straffe looked at the smoldering plane and the smoke reaching high in the air and grasped that the scene could put them in danger. “We gotta get out of here. We gotta go. Quickly!” No one moved and they all looked at him, up and down with disrespect and contempt.

“Who is this guy trying to be in charge?” the young soldier questioned. Straffe realized he was outnumbered and stepped back allowing them to work things out amongst themselves, but he heard the shelling getting more intense and the gunfire approaching more closely. They began arguing amongst themselves but soon stopped after noticing that the gunfire was becoming more intense.

Now near panic, they agreed. “He’s right, we gotta get out of here, but where,” another soldier interjected as the situation was getting more tense by the second.

“If it’s like back home, there’s probably nothing but pandemonium in the streets. And you can hear it,” he added, sparking Straffe’s memory as he thought of Newark and how peaceful and joyful it was. Some of the troops must’ve seen it too.

“Not everybody’s going crazy, remember Newark?” Straffe reminded everyone. “Remember the singing and all the happiness? Remember that?” he questioned, looking at everyone, searching for a supportive face. A couple soldiers shook their heads no, but the ones that had experienced it nodded in agreement. “Yea,” one added before chuckling, “and I was like, what the hell? They were all singing and dancing while everywhere else all over was crazy.”

“Exactly,” Straffe agreed, keeping the conversation going. “Exactly. We need to replace the Newark of France. Somewhere where the people would appreciate all this shit.”

“You right,” another soldier yelled in agreement, “you right!” They needed answers.

“Does France even have ghettos?” someone asked, lightening the mood a little and bringing a few laughs because he was kind of serious.

“Northern France does, they have a few. That’s where we are, right?” They all nodded in agreement. “Ninety-three,” Straffe struggled out, trying to remember. “Department Ninety-three I think. That’s where we need to get to. That neighborhood is probably overjoyed with relief.” He paced and rubbed his head, further thinking, “Seine. Seine Saint Denis. That’s it, that’s it. I remember. That’s the real name. Someone look it up, we gotta replace it.”

They all scrambled but no one’s electronics worked. With no phone or satellite communication they felt lost but one of the troops had a few maps. “For moments like this when you have to resort back to the basics. Army training. They think of everything,” he added while pulling them out and discovering that they were less than ten miles from where they needed to be.

***

Department Ninety-three was rejoicing. As soon as Lubanzi began his speech they took to the streets with cheer. Some say before because President Lubanzi and many of the other leaders had family in Seine. A lot of family, and they may have been tipped off to what was about to take place. A haven to foreigners, The Seine had fallen on rough times. Between being ignored by the French government and ridiculed, spat upon and maligned by the native French, most of its citizens barely left their homes and rarely went to other cities. They were close knit and took great care of each other and their exuberance at the unfolding events, like every other forgotten city, was indicative of their struggles against the elite. Just like Newark, they sang and danced and overjoyed in the streets.

And just like Wall Street, Paris began burning with rampant looting as Parisians fended for themselves. The world was collapsing. So goes the citizens, so goes the nation, thus the world and its powers were now shattering. Department Ninety-three had nothing to lose, but in America, the rich tried to invade Newark to access resources desperately needed—and they failed. But where the rich Americans failed, the citizens of France succeeded in destroying Department Ninety-three.

They didn’t want their monies, banks and resources; their attack was predicated on pure hatred. They knew the residents were close to the nineteen and thus assumed them to be complicit in what was taking place, so while bedlam set in, they set their sights on revenge and destruction and The Seine was their relief. The police led the onslaught, killing indiscriminately while encouraging the townspeople to join in. They targeted the women and children, leaving the men with no choice but to shield them for protection and in the end, all was lost, all were dead.

And this was the scene Straffe and the others set upon when they reached Department Ninety-three. Total destruction. They proceeded cautiously, guns drawn, not knowing the root of the evil they were witnessing, but Straffe had his suspicions as he inspected the smiles on all the dead people’s faces. He paralleled them to the joy he had seen in Newark and could only imagine the festivities and excitement of having witnessed comeuppance before dying with pride.