Gunshots ring across the city square.
Bread is tossed in the air.
A pickle flops from its jar onto the ground like a foundering fish.
They’re down; and covered in brains; and bleeding for their lives.
Out of the dust steps a woman wearing crosshairs and pointing, not at the dead and dying, but at herself — as the fouled object of derision and disrespect — and she’s unfathomably angry not at the shooter, but at the rest of the world.
She quits and claims leadership.
She claims she’s been blood libeled in the still-wet blood of fallen others.
Will she ever wipe the blood from her jaw?
Or will she continue to bite her lip to smear false libel across her teeth?