re: Confederate Monument Potest in NOLA.

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It was a muggy August day in New Orleans, overly hot for the season, but not uncommon to the locals. The air hung heavy and damp as Skronquavious finished mugging his third tourist of the day. A fine haul of 43 dollars, an iPhone and some jewelry had been well worth beating the middle aged New York native about the face with his pistol. He left her whimpering in the alley as he grabbed the front of his sagging pants and walked away. He overheard the sounds of the local news through an open window. Apparently the city council had voted to remove the Confederate statues in the city, to a raucous applause from the assembled natives. Skronquavious mused on how the city was finally doing something to combat the terrible problems of New Orleans, and rounded the corner with a golden smile flashing across his lips.

He stood in the looming shadow. The sun no longer reflected across his grill. He raised his gaze slowly across the grey-green boots. The trunks of metal legs. The oxidized overcoat.

His brown eyes beheld a bronze beard a foot above his head. Metal eyes met his gaze, empty and unfeeling, silently judging him. His own grew wide with confusion and fear, followed by anger. His gun came up perpendicular to the sidewalk and his mouth formed into a sneer as he grabbed his crotch with one hand and fired his pistol into the obstacle in his path, each report accompanied by curse from his lips.

The bullets tore through the figure, punching neat holes through the first layer of metal skin and rattling around as they struck the other side, their velocity not enough to carry them through.

The mouth never moved. The eyes never blinked. Skronquavious's sneer turned to a trembling of lips as the golem swung its sword in a terrible arc. The blade made thick, wet sound as it sliced through his neck in a font of blood. His dreadlocks fanned out in all directions as his head rolled into the gutter, like dice in a back alley game.

The General stood sentinel straight, the red gore dripping from his saber. Seems he had his work cut out for him. But after all, it was they that had wanted him to come down...

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James Patterson, is that you?

Glorious

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, you could get 30 people together to run out the neighborhood drug dealers, reduce shootings, improve the school systems, etc.

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You do know that this happens all the time. Multiple organization have held serval stop the violence/ peace protest in crime riddled neighborhoods and cities. Just because it isn't on Fox News doesn't mean it never happens.

Funny stuff. Not sure if this can be turned into a great novel or if it would just be a joke that ran too long.

Oh no, it would get old. Tell a story too long and it's just tedious