Wednesday, August 11, 2010

History's Forgotten Mob

The townspeople came armed with torches and farming implements - pitchforks, shovels, a bunch of seeds, a farmer's love for his horse... The night was black and brisk but their passion burned, warming them, and illuminating their path like a torch. Also, they carried torches.

"Let's kill 'im!" one said. He was the leader, Jed Mobby.

"Yeahhhh!" they all agreed.

"Yeah!" some guy said, after everyone else had already said yeah. He had been chewing a bunch of jerky he made for the trip, so his mouth was full when everybody else said yeah, but then he finished, and then he said yeah.

Old Mr. Moneyhorder was in for a rude awakening. And I don't mean figuratively - like sometimes an alarming realization is called a rude awakening - this is not one of those. It was the middle of the night and he was literally about to be woken up, from sleeping, in a very impolite way, a rude way. So that's why I said he's in for a rude awakening.

"Get out here, Moneyhorder!" Jed screamed. He was pounding on the door, screaming himself horse, scratching his ass. He'd scratch when his hand got tired from pounding. It made it seem like he wasn't a wuss with a weak hand that couldn't handle pounding on things. "They'll think I'm just itchy," he thought. "Just itchy on my ass."

Mr. Moneyhorder woke up, terrified. He'd been having a great dream. It was about hoarding money. Quiveringly, he quivered under his covers.

"We know you're in there!" said Jed.

"Yeah!" Everybody agreed. "...Yeah!" somebody said a few seconds later, mouth full.

"And we're not leaving until we put your head on a stick!" Jed continued. Whoah, that's scary, right? Uproarious applause, even from the jerky guy. He was prepared this time.

It was a good old-fashioned unruly mob.

"Oh," Mr. Moneyhorder said as he quivered under his covers. "Good thing you said that," he thought sarcastically, "That saved you."

"You got till the count of three till we kick down this door!" Jed said. "1, 2..."

"Don't!" Mr. Moneyhorder interrupted. "Great, now they know you're in here," he thought. He didn't really think it was great. He was being sarcastic. "Oh, they probably knew that all along," he thought, admonishing himself.

The mob, for their part, were stunned. They hadn't actually planned on any communication.

"Why not?" Jed asked.

"Yeah?" echoed the jerky guy, way too late, with stuff in his mouth.

"Uh, because. ... I'm sorry."

A hush fell over the crowd. This had become a pensive mob, ruly even. They all murmered with different expressions of "Oh, I didn't think of that," or "Wow, maybe we're the bad guys here."

"Are you really sorry or are you just saying that?" Jed asked, admonishing him.

"I really am! Besides, if I wasn't, you wouldn't be able to tell the difference," Mr. Moneyhorder said. "I shouldn't've said that last part," he thought.

"That's true," the crowd murmered, along with, "Oh, well that's good," or, "Well that changes things," in response to him being sorry.

"You took all our money, and then you hoarded it!" accused Jed.

"I said I'm sorry."

"Oh, I forgot that," Jed said.

The crowd shook their heads at Jed, not in an angry way, just in a way that says, "That's old Jed." You know, kind of chummy. Some of them smiled.

"Let's be reasonable," pleaded Mr. Moneyhorder.

"That sounds good," said Jed. Everyone likes to be reasonable. The mob had become reasonable.

Mr. Moneyhorder had swindled all the farmers off the land their fathers and grandfathers had rightfully stolen from the Indians, and now, through a banking scheme, all their money. They had lived on that land for generations, killing Indians. Sometimes they'd rape some just because they could. Every once in a while they'd call a truce and then break it, just because they were cruel and they liked to see the look on the Indians' face. What shitty people. Still, they were smart enough to form a mob.

"Oh yeah - give us our land back!" Jed said, remembering that part.

"Eh, you made a deal."

The crowd groaned, seemingly agreeing "Yeah, we did. You got us there."

"Could we renege on that?"


The word "renege" sounds like a racial slur.


And that was the last of their exchange. The crowd darned their luck, turned around, and blew out their torches. One guy, who'd been swinging a medieval mace the whole time, stopped swinging his mace, which is hard because once those things get going, hoo boy, they've got a momentum all their own. Slowly, they all shuffled away, knowing that at the end of the day it's more important to be reasonable. Pretty honorable for a mob. Jed said sorry, but they all said it's alright because they were involved too. Don't fall on your sword. This isn't about placing blame. And luckily, they still all got to bed at a reasonable time. And that was the Great Reasonable Mob of 1827.

How do I, Ron Humanton, know about history? I read.

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