They were too overwhelmed by the sight of decaled media vans and fiending paparazzi rising up the hillside, one cocked elbow at a time.
A man from Hong Kong, along with a woman from Denmark and a teenager from Paramus, New Jersey all watched the spectacle from their cell phones as they each spent one more minute never meeting one another. Satellites broadcasted live from outer space, and every channel, in between penis-enlargement commercials, and celebrity pet programs, would give updates of the enormous procession.
The cemetery was covered with thousands of plastic roses donated by the “Make Dying Smell Better” charity, the pathways were swept clear by drug dealers chained in orange jumpsuits, holders of faith and stocks were all gathered round, huddled masses of low income tenants and mansion butlers, and online poker players, and orthopedic surgeons, all whispering gently into each other’s atmospheres, making small talk seem even smaller, as the movie stars waved their way around the VIP section.
Over the loud speaker, Bill Gates thanked everyone for coming, while translators raced to get the words in on time, prayers were read by local churches and temples but mosques withdrew in protest. As the coffin was lowered into the ground there was to be a 21 gun salute, but picketers in the parking lot held signs and marched in loud volume, ordering the firing squad to stand down, yelling “GUNS KILL PEOPLE! STOP THE VIOLENCE!” A man and his son perched up in a nearby olive tree leapt from the line of fire as thundered shots sounded under the skies, the little boy hitting his head unconscious against a gravestone marked JAMES MARSHALL 1810-1885.
Watching this, Michael Moore saw a chance and climbed onto the podium, ranting to the crowd about how hypocrites only made money, and that the joint chiefs of staff, seated in the front row, were poisoning the country with patriotic injustice. While he continued to rowdy the crowd, Dick Cheney gave the go ahead to a sharp shooter waiting at the top of the hill, and a bullet tore into the side of Moore’s face, knocking his loosely held Ebay hat into the outstretched arms of the mourners. Women and children were trampled on, and kicked to the ground. People simply disregarded caution as they wrestled for a piece of the brim that was later sold for $10,000 on Amazon.com.
Medics tried to pry in between bodies while an older lady searched for her glasses and grandchildren. Lovers and workers, observers and writers, protestors and patriots, all melted together into a dancing evil of chaos, begging mercy from a sun that had already set. The air grew dark as the clouds began to cry thick droplets of salt and acid, forming oceans on the ground, drowning out every last hopeless scream.
And far off in the distance, stood the ghost of George Orwell leaned up against the crotch of a Maple tree, watching the horizon crumble before his eyes, chuckling to himself as he spit another diluted wad of blood and phlegm from his still burning lips.
About the Author:
Michael D. Rosen is a pop-culture writer/musician, originally from New Jersey. He has performed all over the United States, and is currently living in Los Angeles, California where he is enrolled in the B.A. program at Antioch University. He was a winner of the 2006 University of Buffalo Poetry Contest, and his music has appeared on several compilation anthologies throughout the east coast.
