This man, the artist, the revolutionary, the soldier (of sorts), who only ever gave his name as “Chaos”, quickly picked the lock for the train yards, doing in a matter of seconds what young graffiti artists and punks had spent their whole lives dreaming about. But this was just the beginning, perhaps even the easiest part, inside the yards–where the numerous rows of sleeping trains were kept for the night–was a fairly complex system of guards and alarms. Our man donned the mask which covered his face in black, to match the rest of his outfit, becoming a dark spectre of the night.
“No one can break into the train yards!” The man in the suit said nervously, taking a large puff of his cigarette as they sat in the cafe.
“Sorry, I thought you were here to give me specifics of the job, not tell me your view of logistics.” Replied Chaos, relaxing in his chair.
He knocked out one guard with a single punch to the back of the head. The man, quite literally, would never know what hit him. Chaos leaned down and took the keys and electronic pass-card from the man’s belt. He wasn’t actually in the trains yet, but he might as well have been. He looked at the unconscious man before moving on; one more victim of the revolution, he thought. There would, sadly, have to be more before the populace woke up.
“So, you
really
think you
can do it?
I mean,
I’ve heard good
things about you, but
I’ve never done this guerrilla–”“So, you really think you can do it? I mean, I’ve heard good things about you, but I’ve never done this guerrilla–”
“No! I think ‘Anarchy’ can do it, the power of the masses.” Chaos insisted.
“Right.” The nervous man replied, almost loosening up as he laughed slightly, “Anarchy.”
You can’t just sit around and be free, thought Chaos, you have to want to work for it, to fight for it; he maneuvered through the motion sensor with the precision of an ice sculptor. Freedom is art, not the other way around and he was the artist. Another guard fell down with a strike to the head, his body hitting the ground with a thud. Chaos used the stolen pass card to get through the last two gates keeping humans from the trains.
“The train are the veins of the machine. They herd the people through the Metropolis, herd them into the state’s reality, keep them calm and in order. That’s where we strike.” Chaos proclaimed, unable to control himself.
“Right.” The man said, barely able to contain his laughter as he lit another cigarette.
He was in. Inside the front car of the first train. The command center. He dropped his bag to the ground and began unscrewing the front panel of the PA system. His name wasn’t Chaos. He was chaos. He removed his tools and wires from the bag and went to work: cutting, trimming, and splicing.
“You’re SURE this will reach them?” The wide eyed man asked, taking another puff.
Of course it will reach them, but more importantly maybe it will wake them up, Chaos thought, hooking his unit into the trains system. It had taken about five minutes and the first train was almost done. But there were dozens more. It would be a long night.
“We’ll shock the masses” Chaos insisted.
“But connect with our audience too–” The marketer insisted, taking one last drag.
“And the city will know, that they must fight–”
“That they must buy…”
‘They must buy Xtreme Toothpaste: Because it’s fresh and new and exciting’. Chaos checked the tape before leaving, making sure it worked. He moved on to the next train. And then the next. And the next. And tomorrow morning the city officials would be powerless to stop the words from spreading and the huddling masses of the city would know, would understand, would finally see the message that Chaos had dedicated himself to sending, the cause that this artist, this revolutionary, had now given his life to fighting for: Xtreme Toothpaste will help you get girls.
Have you considered Subscribing to all of this madness?
Here, in the beginning was the word. And the word said 'here' and here he was. He knew not why he was here (do any of us?), but he was here and there was nothing else here, only darkness--though lacking even the quantity called 'darkness'. And though there was not yet loneliness, terror, or cold; the being found himself terribly lonely and cold. Before the being could utter a magic word or a command, light raised up to the sky and illumination seeped onto the earth causing the being to smile for a moment, but then again he found himself crying because the light had only further lit up and revealed the full extent of nothingness.
The old men of the village had their eyes firmly focused on politics again. And the economy. And property values. And sports. But not their wives; their wives were safe at home now--safe and unlooked on. The candlelit dinners and music, the awkward dancing and even more awkward reading of poetry had stopped when the young men left. No need for it anymore. Yes, the old leaders of the village no longer had to watch their spouses like hawks--even though they sat at home all day, bored. So, though there was a war going on, the elders were all noticeably calmer than during peacetime and the council meeting had a relaxed air to it.
"Liberty Univer..." Mark stopped. It was the first time either of them had said that, the word "kill". Madison Square was completely dark now except for a few people at the enclosed dog-run. 
Kyle thought as he went for a better arrangement of the list. His structure still seemed off and taking it out of alphabetical order hadn't fixed the problem. He scribbled down on his notepad again: Homosexuals, blacks, Aisans, lesbians...
Both the young teenager and the old officer were terribly embarrassed as the Police cruiser careened through some of Wilson's earliest paved roads. 
There was nothing that crazy about the nickname; Americans are a practical, simple, right-to-the-point kind of people: And quite simply, practically, that's what it was good at. Well, of course, planes are, first and foremost, good at flying, but this one was particularly well suited for killing Arabs. It was untraceable on radar, could effectively dodge either a bullet or a missile--while it's own projectiles were effectively unstoppable, and so precise that, according to one Army pilot, they could take out a towelhead without disrupting a hair on his goat's ass (his words, not mine). This was the fear of God, or Allah, or whatever.
Summer in the city. The grid is lit up like a dirty grill, hot and red, caking on the filth and the remnants of last night's meat. It's the weekend, but who cares, we have places to go, the atoms say, stretching apart, thrown together, brushing up against eachother's agendas. A week ago, a crane fell and killed two and we stood on the cool breezy street, talking and complaining to absolute strangers, calling for Mike's resignation, for action, for bureaucratic blood. Now the papers report that a crane operator had been bribed and, so long as the AC works, let's bribe him some more and move, move, keep moving, the city is swell, though it feels like hell.