Politics and Poly
Prologue
A wave of irritation hit Rus as his rideshare arrived downtown. He already regretted paying for the expensive trip from campus, but it was certainly a lot quicker than catching the city bus, paying for the transfer, and still landing on the far edge of nowhere downtown.
Normally, there wasn’t much excitement downtown and certainly not too much to do other than check out the oddity stores or stop into a restaurant.
He was still a couple of months away from twenty-one, so that kept him out of all the bars and clubs worth going to anyway.
Those that didn’t card or allowed eighteen and up tended to be overcrowded and underwhelming.
When Rus spotted the people chanting their disgust, it left him unsettled.
His confusion twisted into rage and discomfort and secondhand embarrassment as the driver stared at the flock of protesters.
They’d lined up across the street from Rus’ destination.
Since it was a single-lane one-way road, there wasn’t much distance between Rus and these unwanted picketers.
“Thanks for the lift,” Rus said in a deep, gravelly reply as he slipped out of the car and headed toward the indie bookstore.
The frigid winter breeze tousled Rus’ thick, messy brown curls.
His hoodie suddenly seemed so flimsy, completely incapable of shielding him from the cold.
He wrapped the hood over the left side of his neck, protecting his new tattoo from the chill.
He also tugged on his sleeves, keeping his hands warm, and covering his wrist tattoo.
While Rus had plenty of tattoos, none of them ignited his frustration quite as much as the one on his wrist.
It read off a date, a remembrance, an acknowledgement that Rus should’ve willed himself to forget.
Valentine’s Day had come and gone this year, but he still clung to the emotion connected to that day.
He rubbed his thumb over the date inked across his wrist, glaring at the protesters.
What in the hell were these people even protesting?
Their signs infuriated Rus, spewing their hatred with every word, using tacky one-liners to spout lies, and chanting bigoted phrases that drew the attention of anyone unfortunate enough to walk down the street.
Cold air slapped his face, and the heat boiling inside him simmered a bit. Only a bit, though.
He really hadn’t anticipated the campus Pride Club hosting a small event at a bookstore would garner this much hatred. Personally, Rus only made the trek downtown to support his friend Daysha. She’d organized the event to spotlight historical queer Black figures during Black History Month.
“Please consider stopping inside.” A Pride Club member stepped over to meet Rus, handing him a flyer to the event he already knew about.
Considering how flushed her pale face had gotten and the way she huddled tight in her large winter coat, Rus figured she’d drawn the short straw of greeting bystanders to encourage them to drop by the event. A task surely made all the more difficult by the assholes right across the street.
“What the fuck is up with these people?” Rus asked, cupping his hands to spark a cigarette.
He didn’t need the smoke, didn’t particularly want it, but he did want an excuse to linger outside and gawk at the bigots across the road.
“They’re here because of the Drag Queen Story Time,” the Pride member replied.
“Wait, I thought today was…” Rus looked at his half-crumpled flyer and read the details.
Yeah, it was Daysha’s event.
“The previous event was over a month ago, and they’ve been coming in droves every few days to protest the bookstore.”
Rus scoffed, puffing on his cigarette. “Doubt any of these morons can even read. Sounds like they could use a little story time help, fucking idiots.”
The Pride member gave Rus a weak smile, then encouraged him to step inside, but he gestured to his smoke and took a deep drag.
One of the protesters shouted something, and the next thing Rus knew, an empty soda can hit the Pride member on her shoulder. The can clinked against the concrete, and Rus whirled around in a rage, absolutely offended on her behalf.
“It’s fine,” she lied, tugging on Rus’ hoodie. “Go inside. Warm up and cool down.”
Rus almost grinned at the humor in her poor attempt to settle him.
It almost worked, too, until Rus spotted two more cans kicked off and hidden by the corner of the bookstore.
One of these assholes had used this girl, handing out flyers to an event they knew nothing about, as target practice.
They used her timidness to continue pushing and poking and provoking.
But Rus was never one to let an insult go unchallenged, despite how provoking a confrontation often led to more trouble.
“Wait,” the Pride member called out as Rus flicked his cigarette to the ground, picked up the empty soda can, and bolted across the street.
“One of you assholes dropped this.” Rus held up the can, eyeing each and every one of them.
There couldn’t have been more than a dozen or so people. A few smirked at Rus, gloating, but others averted their gaze, clearly uncomfortable to be challenged.
“It’s mine.” A much taller man with a huge gut stepped forward. “What’s your problem?”
He looked down at Rus, overconfident and under the misimpression that Rus would hesitate since he barely stood at 5’6, and this man had nearly a foot on him.
“First off, you need to apologize,” Rus said, turning the can in his hand so the bottom sat snugly in his palm.
“Fuck off—”
“Secondly,” Rus interrupted. “You need to work on your aim, dipshit.”
Rus flung his arm upward, giving a demonstration on how to hurl a can. In a swift motion, Rus slammed the soda can into the man’s chin with such ferocity, he crushed it flat and sent the man tumbling back into the crowd.
Another man swore at Rus, swinging his sign. All Rus saw was red. He braced his arm to lessen the impact, then snatched the sign away and went to punch the man.
Rus unloaded all his pent-up fury, wrapped in a whirlwind of chaos as protesters screamed and shouted and ran away.
Some stayed to fight. Things turned into a cesspool of destruction.
Rus kicked and punched at people every which way.
He raged and roared. Someone blitzed him from behind, but that didn’t stop Rus. It only further infuriated him.
Every time someone struck him, he reached out and swung back. Rus didn’t give a damn. He wanted to beat the ever-living hell out of the entire crowd. He kept swinging until sirens blared around him.