The hot sun bakes his tan skin and optimism.  He squints because he forgot to wear his sunglasses.  The grey in his hair shows experience, and the wrinkles on his skin show a man with a life lived.  His shirt glows bright white in the sun.  It’s made of cheap cotton and bears the slogan “Feed the Hungry.”

“We are here today to help!  So let’s not wait any longer and get started.  These people need food and water, and proper clothing.”

The crowd cheers in unison.  They all wear the same one-size-fits-all “Feed the Hungry” t-shirt.  They all have that sly look of young educated activists.  They wear trendy shoes, branded denim, and hipster accessories, but their hearts are in the right place.  They are all good people trying to make a difference, or taking part so they can say they did, either way they’re helping.

“They might seem standoffish, but don’t worry, you’re helping them.  Keep that in mind if you have to use a little force.  It’s for their own good.  They don’t know how to live a life like we do.”  He shouts through his cupped hands to amplify his brisk voice.

Hanging high in the sky, menacing, the sun dries the streets they walk on.  The crowd disperses.  They work with army-like tactics and force, holding people down, shoving food in their mouths, making them chew, making them drink the fresh water they brought for them.  Some fight, but only briefly because they’re too weak, too malnourished. 

The food that’s being forcibly crammed into the locals is a basic protein vitamin blend.  It’s very bland, and sloppy, and ends up covering their faces, and the hands of the activists.  The water is flavoured vitamin water, doubling as an ad campaign for a ‘socially responsible’ whitewash for some water company.  It’s not important, it’s only important to give these individuals the nutrients they need to sustain life.

“Feed the Hungry” shirts run through the streets now drenched in sweat and pride.  From afar they look as though they’re raping, pillaging, but under a microscope you can watch them helping, breathing life back into people.  Together they grab those in need.  Those who have their dark skin wrapped taught around their fragile frames.  Those who have the look of Pez dispensers; big heads with no bodies.  Those with eyes that look so sullen, so lost, so hungry, that they’re about to fall out.  Those who look like walking corpses, skeletons with clothing salvaged from the local dump. 

“We’re running out!  The food’s almost gone!”

“Feed as many as you can!  Don’t Give up!”

These shouts arise from the chaos.  Other shouting erupts from mouths half full of food, but it’s indiscernible. 

After an hour long blitz of force-feeding the activists return to their muster point, a large tent near the beach with tables filled with water bottles.  Various people that were helped, or attempted to help come to collect some water.  They drink it, they rinse the food off their faces with it, they try to wash the stains off of their clothes with it.

“Today we made history!  We’ve saved lives, people!  We did it!  Together!”  Tears of joy wash his cheeks as he looks down to his accomplishment. 

The crowd cheers and bystanders look on wearing sneers

“I’m suing your ass!”  Hisses a woman from the back.

She pushes her way through the crowd in hostility.  Her heels click, click, click as she takes each angered step.  Her fried unnatural blonde hair is frazzled, and her trashy glittering shirt is stained with dry food paste.  The makeup on her face is half off and makes her look like a twisted monster from an unpopular horror film.

“Do you know who I am?!  Do you know who my dad is?!  I’m getting my lawyer!  Every one of you is going to pay out your asses!”  She snarls.

“Don’t worry!”  He attempts to calm the crowd.  “This is just irritability from hunger!”

“What the —— are you talking about?”

He reaches into his pouch and grabs the last two packages of protein mush he has.  His eyes focus on her.  In him she can see his seriousness, his strength, and his pending thoughts.  He grabs her around the wrist and wrestles her down.  She is on her back kicking and screaming as he has her mounted prying at her mouth.  Like a wild animal she spits and snaps her teeth and roars unnatural sounds.

“We need to feed her!  It’s for her own good!  Somebody grab that little dog out of her purse, I can only imagine how hungry it must be.”

The crowd cheers as they all dump the remainders of their gruel into the snarling mouth.  To the side, away from the commotion the rat-like dog joyously licks up any remaining food from empty packets on the ground.

Under his brute strength the woman stops fighting.  The kicking stops.  Her hair is clumped with protein mush; her face is covered in the same.  Tears of agony smear black makeup down her face.  She silences and as the crowd dumps more and more paste onto her face she begins to eat, and swallow in-between sobs and quivering breaths.