For my Spanish delinquents
Imagine you are a store owner, and you see hundreds of naked Sevillans break through the glass. They don’t call for revolution nor for a commune. They call for those cans of peanut butter you have in storage. They tear your sockets apart for those t-shirts too big or too small for their own children. They take the rifles and knives for sale to barricade around the ribs and frozen chicken nuggets. You see heads of your employees chopped from makeshift guillotines because he won’t hand they won’t surrender the freshly baked bread. The donuts are the first to wiped clean from the store. The meats and vegetables are the second to disappear. All the clothing, undergarments, and lingerie are worn as their battle armor as they mutilate the managers. Cash registers remain closed, but all the cash is burned. The Neanderthals satisfy themselves and parade out of the store with their new, galvanized clothing. The store becomes quiet, but you hear the windows of your neighbor’s store crash.