The truth, the real tragic sorrowful wisdom of the time that reels with the past time-binded expressions of fixing the unbalanced nature of civilization, North American, resides in the lack of fresh food, really. Health care, the dismal plummet into the abyss of pharmaceuticals- all of them tragic indeed and all of them relating directly the terror of the terrible beasts of man-eating steel as they slam down the arteries of space-- bringing the deepest and most frozen and most horrible forms of malnourishment to it’s cells. What's the cure? Bomb the freeways. So Michael sets off from his modern home in hopes of bringing about change. Why do we need it? The heavy freight transportation industry killed my best friend's sister and my other friends' little brother for a load of packaged frozen poison for a fast food restaurants filthy fast buck. The driver said he never saw them. Didn't have to. The bullet sees not the hand, nor the trigger. Its being is the process of killing, with such, the bullet would sell roses or something else? With another form the truck would simply cease and the number of deaths related to the hurtling of tractors, double tractors, road-trains could fail. Never again! Helps on the way now. The savior will be the self-dependency, when the regions once serviced by these horizontal monoliths of skull crushing, body maligning, poison bearing artifacts of a vain lust for the re-distribution of wealth, from us to them. They make their bullets. I'm going to destroy their triggers. The freeways. I'll bomb them. Tear them up. Michael explains to his heart. Those trucks, they have no business here. Those freeways and the death they bring. The teamsters will have to go back to pimping and selling crank cause I'll be happy to tell them to turn their rigs around, the road is blocked. They peddle death, and their food scientists and their polymer fabricators and their product managers and their ill advised governing counterparts will wonder what to do with themselves. And what’s the cost, jobs, their lives or more? So Michael sets out and steals a ton explosives from the mine and whatever else dangerous looking he can scare up. He packs it tight in the pack he stows in the trunk of the ride-share he scores on the internet and halfway out of town he takes a whiz and doesn’t come back. Timing. Smiling. Walking home, momma, don't worry. You can grow some tomatoes now, they're gonna have to grow everything here now. They’ll teach farming in the schools. Everything will have that great garden flavor. Fresh food, real sugar, fructose, sweet with flavor, just like in the old world. They won't be bringing their chemical stench this way. They won't be killing any more kids on the freeway today, they won't have to set up their shacks of boxed up shit to sling. No way. They might come. But they won't get through. It's over… all of them. If the factories can't be removed fast enough, and the shoppers can't be reasoned with, I'll show them they can just be squeezed a little bit. The blood can't flow around every clot. I’ll do them all, he whispers. Eventually all the roads will just be rubble. There won't be a death toll for commerce on the freeway. Roads aren’t for the people, not for the proto-military consumptive powers of compulsive distribution that know well enough the bullet only kills because it's there. Doesn't matter who fired it, or from what kind of gun it was, only the bullet kills. Now go to sleep, it’ll be quiet soon.

Dross Comics: Anarchist Adventures in America© Sep/2010 Contact Dross