“We need to come together!  We need to unite under our beliefs and become brothers!”  The fuzzy voice through the megaphone rattles.

Sceptics and believers listen as the heat of revolution hangs in the air. The energy is building.  This has been too long in the making.

“We must shed these uniforms of sheep, and become the wolves we are!  They believe they are God, but they are not!  We must burn down their sanctuary to prove it!”

The crowd begins to grow more charged.  Energy drifts from man to woman to man to woman as they get caught up in the mob mentality.  Naysayers are beginning to see the light, and those who already see it are seeing it with even more definition.  The crowd is a simmering pot ready to boil over.

“If we stand together they cannot stop us!  We are the future!  No longer can we blindly follow!  We need to question!  This is the time for answers, for the truth!”

People cheer and praise in a frenzy.  Some begin to fear the damage that may be done, and their anxiety runs high.  The others, the proletariat, know what needs to be done.  It will not be a crime for shock value, it will be a statement for basic human rights, a riot against those who hold the keys to the social hierarchy.

“For too long have they brainwashed us with their beliefs and virtues!  We are the righteous, and only the true God can judge us!”

As a perfect showman he moves violently.  His body screams the words with a power his mouth cannot.  He has the crowd in the palm of his hand.  At this point, they will do anything he asks of them.  If he were a lesser man, he could sway them to do evil, but he is virtuous.  He lives for his cause.

“Rise together!  Rise together!  Rise together!  Rise together!”  He chants in a guttural voice.

The crowd begins the chant.  They shout it, they scream it, they believe it.  From atop his altar the leader throws the megaphone to the ground.  Like regimes of old it shatters.  He reaches behind him and hands large pipes to the chanters in the front row.  They accept his call to duty.  To bring the crowd to an even higher level of maniacal angst the leader produces three large red jerry cans.  Inside them the smell of real revolution, as they glug and glorp into the hands of followers. 

“Rise together!  Rise together!  Rise together!”  The crowd bellows in unison.

The leader makes a motion with his arms, and the men with cast steel piping crash into the translucent windows.  The glass spiders, and with a couple more blows crumbles into nothing.  Above the savage mantra sirens ring out.  They don’t have much time.  The leader fights his way inside.  He raises his red can of gasoline above his head, and lets it shower over him.  The others spill it across merchandise, tables, chairs, shelves, craven false idols, and everything else that keeps them under the Christian thumb. 

The aroma of gasoline, the fuel of change, fills the noses of the followers as they run back outside the building.  The leader remains inside.  He stands in a puddle screaming inaudible words to those who watch.  The veins in is neck bulge as his mouth gapes.  Gasoline flies off of his thin lips with each enunciation.

“Rise together!  Rise together!  Rise together!”

With the sirens ringing and the crowd in an uproar the leader focuses.  This is his chaos.  This is his legacy.  He reaches into his pocket and exhumes his lighter.  It has a dull lustre, but has always been faithful.  He thinks about how good one last cigarette would be, and flicks the lighter open. 

Sparks, sparks, sparks, and flame.  Perched on the lighter is an innocent flame waiting for destruction.  The leader pauses, amazed that the fuel has not ignited yet, and holds the lighter out before him.  His eyes stay locked on the orange flicker dancing before him; those young tired eyes.  He can see in the distance black vans screeching to a halt.  Men in black masks begin to beat the crowd.  A gun rattles and empty casing drop to the ground.  It’s time.  The lighter drops to the floor.  Thick red flame consumes the inside of the building.  Heat and power radiate off of the leader as he too is devoured.  The crowd backs away.  Black smoke billows into the air out of the shattered windows.  The smoke is so thick that as it exits the building, you can no longer read the blue letters above the entrance.  All that is visible to the world is WA-*—RT.  The riot police continue to batter and bruise as the flames torch the supercenter.