Just another angry man WA Final Draft

Young men of Beta Chi, I am here to tell you all how sadly misinformed you are about a certain influential leader in our nation's history. Many of you probably think Martin Luther Kind Jr. is to equal rights as an alcoholic is to shots, but that's only because they both don't know when to stop even when they've had enough. Sure he won equal rights and wasn't violent, yadda yadda yadda, but is he really all that he's cracked up to be? Does he really deserve a national holiday in and a high school auditorium in his name? If we're honest with ourselves, he's really nothing more than yet another angry man with too much time on his hands. Think about it, things are going smoothly along in America, then suddenly this guy decides he's not content with his lot and proclaims himself campus police and busts up everybody's parties. Then he and his buddies decide to walk up and down a street all day until "the man" shuts down your frat house. This guy was like that whiny freshman that didn't like being hazed, so he went and told and got your frat shut down. If you can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen. But Mr. Martin Luther King Jr. wanted to stay in the kitchen, and make you turn down the heat.
Okay, so let's pretend that this man was right, and he did a great thing, leading millions of people out of despair and into freedom. Big whoop. Moses led all of Israel to a paradise, and he doesn't get a holiday. Nor does Nelson Mandela or Gandhi. Heck, God's own son only gets two holidays, and he has to share them with Santa and the Easter bunny. All i'm saying here is, this man could have just made his own frat house and things would have gone fine, but instead he tore down yours and told you how to rebuild it, and all of this with the university's support.

"Just another angry black man"

Young men, I am here to inform you about how sadly misinformed you are about a certain influential leader in our nation's history.  Many of you probably think Martin Luther King Jr. is to equal rights as an alcoholic is to shots, but that's really only because they both don't know when to stop even when they've had enough.  Is he really all that he is cracked up to be?  Does he really deserve a national holiday, and a high school auditorium in his name?  Let's be honest with ourselves, he really wasn't anything more than yet another angry man with too much time on his hands.  Now i'm no racist, but don't you think someone's making mountains out of molehills here?  I mean things are going smooth, everybody could be content, and this guy suddenly proclaims himself the campus police, and busts up everybody's frat party.  Then picture this, he decides to march himself and a bunch of his buddies up and down your street until you guys lame down your party until it's just as bad as theirs is.  This guy keeps wanting more and more rights until he doesn't even know what to do with them all.  He's like a two year old that keeps eating more and more candy until he makes himself sick.  Now he was a heroic man who worked hard for the rights of many millions of American's, but is that really worth a full day in his honor?  He's the only man who has a national holiday all to himself, but is that really necessary?  We don't have a George Washington day, or a Neil Armstrong day, or even a Susan B. Anthony day.  Why does this man causing a fuss and outright disturbing the peace make him better than the countless other's who do comparable if not greater things?  Maybe had he not been killed, January 15th would be just another day.

It began like any other dark, dreary night in downtown Boston. It began with a knock at the door, a story filled with lust, joy, greed, despair, and love. A dame walked in. A pushy type. I smelled trouble on her like sludge on a sewer rat. She stood before me in my office, the office of Smithy Ray Lewis, Private Eye.
Her tale started out like so many others, with a night gone terribly wrong, ending with her waking up in a stranger's apartment, with a dull headache and her clothes strewn all over the floor. That was last night. She'd dressed and ran herself straight here, or so she'd said, with her detestable nasally voice and Boston accent. I wasn't having any of it. She stood there expectantly, awaiting an answer. She waited awhile while I poured myself some scotch and took a drink. I poured myself some more, and drank it again. Twice more I did this. Hardly phased, I strode out of my apartment, grabbing my leather jacket as I ducked into the rain-swept street, with the dame trailing behind.
I walked down the street to a pay phone, and told my partner, Schroder, to meet me at Mel's cafe in half an hour. Schroder is a 6"6 German black man, and damn proud of it. I hailed a cab, and me and the dame rode to Mel's. I got out and walked into Mel's, while the dame paid and caught up to me. There in a corner booth is Schroder, looking for all the world like Morpheus out of The Matrix, with his bald head and black trench coat. We sat down, and the dame tells her story. As she wraps it up, Schroder stands, and beckons us out into the street. He led us to a dark, secluded street, where a girl was kidnapped not two nights previously. Suddenly, he shoved the dame against the graffitied, concrete wall, and pulled out his handgun. I had no time to react as he shoves it under her chin and-
"Freeze!"
Schroder and I froze and turned. A drenched cop stood there, his car parked in a dark part of the street, unseen. A camera went off as we turned back around.
"Put the gun down, and put your hands above your head!"
I glanced over at Schroder, who paused, clearly torn. Pain and indecision wrought across his face like ugly scars, disfiguring his features. What could have made his decision so hard? What had she done to him, or him to her? Was it his apartment she'd woken up in? A single gun-shot pierced the night, sending 6 and a half feet of guilt, despair, and pain crashing into the street.

Wedding Day: The Bride

Oh my god. What a beautiful cake. What an incredibly beautiful cake. It's pink. I'm soooooo excited for this. I'm married! I hope I made the right choice in Bradley. He's cute and all, but we did kind of rush into this. I couldn't say no when he proposed though! Then I was going to tell him I maybe wasn't ready to get married, but I never got around to it. I'm sure everything will be fine. He's a great guy. With his grace, charm, and sophisticated beauty. Plus his great taste in jewelry. And cakes! It's magnificent. I wonder what it's like to be a cake. Probably boring. Yep, really boring. And dead. Cakes are dead. Oh, but here's the first dance! Aw, look at Bradley, he's nervous. Actually, I'm pretty nervous too. These high heels are so hard to walk in, I hope my hair looks okay. Oh, but here we go. We dance, we twirl, we fly, to the beautiful jazzy rhythms of the band Bradley liked. Actually, he was kind of domineering while we planned our wedding. But no matter, I'm sure it's not a sign of anything. It's just the stress. I love him so much. At least I think I do. Oh my! They're bringing out the cake! That beautiful, pink and white cake that Bradley liked.
"Oh Bradley, don't lead me to the cake so fast, or I shall trip on my heels!"
"Not to worry dearest. They look lovely. As do you."
"I love you ,Bradley."
"I love you , dearest. Pass me the knife, Dearest, I'm going to cut the cake now."
"Yes, Bradley."
And he cut the cake. Past the pink and white frosting, into the rich, lovely white interior. That must hurt if you're the cake. Like having a chunk of your leg carved out of you. But I sha'n't think such thoughts. Oh, he's feeding me cake. It's good cake. Bradley was right. He's always right, he tells me so. Oh, now they're taking the top layer off the cake. That must hurt if you're the cake. Like having one's head plucked off one's body with a giant hand. It would kill you too. Now that cake is very much dead. Oh bother, Bradley tells me never to think that way. He says it's unhealthy. And Bradley is always right, he told me so........

A Wedding Story

Born from heat, from fire, my segments are left to cool. I am put together, one part on another, until my complete body is clothed decadently with white, pink, clothing that sticks to my flesh. It covers me entirely, my sight obscured, I can only hear sounds; running, smashes, stressed voices shouting. I smell nothing but sweet stickiness, now I hear nothing. I sit, wait, anticipating something. Or anticipating nothing. Is this my existence, to sit, to wait, to ponder? No, voices come, I am moving (what am I on, how do I move?) toward sound. Melodies, exciting, bold, joyful. Loud. For once I am thankful for my clothes, muffling the noise. Others, too. Talking, moving, (with the music?) singing. I feel looks, taking me in, looking at my clothes that someone put on me. Music stops, people group around me. Voices talking, people pressing in, closer. Temperature rises, what is happening? There is excitement, tension, joy, lots of joy, hope, and something else, deep, boundless, new, exciting. What is it? There is plenty of it, and it is the source of the joy, the hope, the excitement. I can't sense it, can't articulate it. And I can't feel it myself, though I am aware of it. But I'll leave it for now, I can feel a small group of people nearing me, full of this indescribable feeling. Pouring it out to each other, giving it, receiving it in plenty. How long can two people keep it up, this relentless outpouring of emotions, freely pouring out this thing to each other.
Everything is quiet. Mysterious clicks accompanying painful flashes out light, even through my clothes. The two people are next to me, next to each other. More clicks, more painful flashes, then my world is turned over. An incredible, indescribable agony on my bottom segment. Like a piece of my body is being carved from my whole. Something cutting through clothes, through my flesh. Then scooped cleanly away. It is over, this pain, though it lingers, helped along by a multitude of loud clicks, pops, claps, and flashes of light. More people come, smelling like my clothes. They talk, they gather around me. Next, with an almighty wrench, they are trying to pluck my head cleanly off my body. They fail, my head falls with a squelch and a plop, back onto its resting place. But they grip me again, and with a painful wrench they-

Dear Mr.President (Take 2)

Dear Barack Obama,
Congratulations on your election to the highest office in this land. Your campaign has brought hope and inspiration to millions of Americans, both young and old. However, you have been given possibly the most difficult position of any president before. The issues, both foreign and domestic besieging our great nation are overwhelmingly urgent. We have a energy crisis, multiple environmental issues, including global warming and a rapidly eroding ozone layer, a collapsing economy, an ongoing war in Iraq, the growing threats of Iran, Russia, and China, a massive federal deficit (to be paid off by my generation), a trade deficit with China, ever-present terrorist threats, and the ongoing military presence in Afghanistan. These are but a handful of the issues that you, Mr.President, must deal with efficiently, and effectively. To ask this much of a man is too much, some would say, but this is exactly what you will pledge to do when you take the oath of office.

The entire world will be watching you as you try to deal with these varying and difficult issues. No matter what decision it is that you make, there will be critics who have been waiting for their opportunity to lash out at you. You will not be able to please everybody, and sometimes it may seem that what is "right" is impossible to tell. However, one thing that you can do to help solve these problems, is encourage transparency in your government. A former White House aide said in an interview, that there were very few meetings that could not be televised for the entire world to see. Doing this would include and engage the people in the decisions being made, and the problems being faced. We could empathize with you, and encourage you as you lead us through some very dangerous waters. Will you allow for us to help you? Or will you deal in secrecy, with a veil over the workings of our government, excluding us from decisions, trying to lead the world all by yourself?

It's up to you, Mr.President. You have the hope of millions riding on your shoulders. People are desperate for the hope and change that you have promised time and time again. You have the opportunity to be the greatest leader this country has ever had, the man who opened up to the people, who bounced ideas off of us, who allowed us to have a say in the decisions that directly affected us. You can be a man known for his honesty, for his clarity, and for his openness. All you have to do is allow your government to show a little transparency.

The grim faced man lay on his cot, in his bright orange jumpsuit.  He stared, unmoving, at the ceiling, listening to the whispers and sounds of his fellow inmates in adjacent cells.  Separated only be thin walls, he could hear the goings on of the state prison.  The janitors sweeping up the day's dinner of fish sticks, and the cries and moans of fellow prisoners as they talked in their sleep.  It was his first night in the joint, with countless more to follow.  His cell was sparsely furnished, with a toilet and a sink in one corner, and a broken A/C unit sitting alone and forlorn in the dead, still, Georgia air.  The entire cell was solid grey concrete, save for the formidable iron bars of his door, pillars of oppression blocking any hope of escape.  he wished he was Peter, from the Bible stories he'd learned by heart in his youth.  Peter was imprisoned for his beliefs, but God freed him with a powerful earthquake.  if only that would happen to him now, imprisoned for preventing a white man from stealing his car.  The argument had escalated, until the man lay dead, killed in the conflict.  He had hoped then for a fair trial, but no he counted himself lucky he was merely beaten by the cops and not lynched by the mob.  He dreamed of it often, the light of the torches flickering, reflecting off of the shards of broken glass, fragmented over the dead man's head.  His bloodied hands tied, the noose around his neck.  The hate-driven crowd gesturing angrily at him, urging the violence on.  He would always awake then, into an even more hopeless situation.  He awoke now, sweat dripping from his face (sploosh! sploosh!).  He clutched his thin, rough blanket, though it provided him no comfort.  Everything had deserted him, his hope, his God, his very sanity.  With a great heave he tore his blanket in half, chest rising and falling with rage.  He fell back into his cot, great sobs escaping his cracked lips.  His life was over, he had nothing else to look forward to, not his family, friends, or his church.  He was going to die here alone, after living out his life in seclusion, alone.