The wrongness of it all took his breath away.
You just had to study history, just had to watch the news. The wrongness was there as plain as the nose on your face and everyone knew it. And people complained but they never did anything. Didn't even vote third party though what difference that would make was hard to imagine.
``Its wrong,'' he'd say.
``You know its wrong.'' And people would turn away from him.
One of his teachers worried enough to call his parents.
``He's a troubled young man.''
``He's a sensitive boy.''
``He does not participate.''
``He wants to work for a better world.''
``He strikes me as dangerous.''
But the teacher did nothing.
The boy knew he had to do something. But what? Shoot someone? Would that help? Perhaps. Hack into sensitive government systems and leave cryptic messages? He didn't know how.
Bomb the freeway accesses and exits to big cities? That sounded good, but he'd need a group and he didn't have one.
There had to be something.
It seemed to him that creating uneasiness among the rich and powerful was the way to go. No blood on the gym floor or the order line at the fast food cafe. Just unease. Just an escalating nervousness graduating to fear and paranoia among the nation's leaders.
``A symbol,'' he thought.
``A symbol painted on their gates.''
But what symbol? The black cat of the Wobblies now seemed to belong to a lumber business. The sabots of sabotage were forgotten.
He decided on a target. A target with three bullet holes close to the center. He tried to hand paint them, but they just didn't look serious. Color copies cost too much. In the end he went to Kinkos and did a hundred red and white targets with black bullet holes and a thousand in black and white.
At the end of his junior year he took off hitch hiking across the country, taping his targets to the doors and gates of the influential. Or the gates of their closed communities.
By the time he reached DC he was dumpster diving and out of targets and no money to make more. He stuck his last red and white target as close to the White House as he could get without someone arresting him. Then he went home.
After dinner one day his mother was watching a news-entertainment show. An announcer with a mellow voice reported a certain unease among the influential of the land. A target sign had appeared at their gates and on their office buildings.
They feared for their children.
Target stores indignantly denied any knowledge of the signs, but now it seemed the targets had been a publicity effort by a band called the Cod Pieces. They had a CD coming out called Target. One of the Cod Pieces even allowed herself to be interviewed.
``Damn!'' the boy muttered from the kitchen door.
``Something less subtle next time,'' he thought.