Pickets & Pitchforks

It was a quiet afternoon.  I was sitting in my chair watching TV when I heard an excited murmur outside.  I went to the window and peeled back the curtains and saw an angry mob of protesters filing down the long walk to my front steps.  They bore cardboard banners with all sorts of angry slogans; some of them even had their faces painted for war.  I met them at the front door, and the leader at the head of the herd just screamed a bunch of garbled noises in my face.  I shrugged and waved my hand through the door, inviting them all in.

I led them through the front rooms to a door off the side of the kitchen which led down to the basement.  I pointed the way and told them they’d find the people responsible for all the problems of the world down there.  A forceful growl roared through my kitchen.  They all stamped their feet on the tiled floor, rattling the silverware in the drawers and the pots and pans hung over the stove.  The leader rallied them all to the cause and they all went stamping down the basement stairs behind him.  When the last one had gone through, I shut the door behind them and then propped one of the kitchen chairs up under the doorknob.  Then I went back to my chair to watch my TV.  I could still hear their angry rumbling in the basement, but it either faded away as time went on or I just eventually got used to it.

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