Read Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail! for Free Online

the cylinder within.
    â€œTechnically, it’s a delayed demolition device.”
    â€œA what?”
    Field Marshal Raymond, the Panther, jumped in. “Bitch talk like the po-lice.”
    â€œRight on,” co-signed William 5X.
    But curiosity was melting suspicion in “The Chairman’s” mind.
    â€œA delayed … “
    â€œDemolition device. A ‘DDD.’”
    With military precision she ticked off the attributes of the contents:
    â€œTake an empty CO2 canister from a compressed air BB gun, fill it with black powder. You can get it at any gun store. Coat the canister with double-ought shot from a 12 gauge stuck in a composition of silica sand—what’s called ‘fire clay,’” she asided. “Mixed with zinc oxide and using thermoplastic resin as a binding agent and you have a device capable of withstanding the heat of gasoline flames for approximately ten to fifteen minutes … “ The pause was electric. “… just about long enough for the cops to arrive.”
    â€œBAM!!” went The Leader.
    â€œBAM!” went the dame.
    â€œInshallah!” breathed William 5X.
    The realization echoed in the awed silenced room: “We
could finally make them motherfuckers pay.”
    â€œ
How did you … “
    â€œI have a degree in chemistry from Berkeley.”
    The awed silence in the room continued because we were listening to the whistle our minds had blown.
    â€œBerkeley,” it came from Rahid, more awed statement than query.
    â€œBerkeley. While I was there I joined SDS. Kids … “ she disgusted. “Yet there I hooked up with one of them, I won’t tell you who, but he was ‘Weatherman.’”
    Another wolf-whistle bounced and ricocheted off the gray-mattered canyons of our brains. “Yeah … “ the pause hung like all our animation had been suspended, “… yeah, I’m ‘Weather Underground,’ she looked around, “And there’s money in it for you … A lot of money. And all you got to do is pick up a phone and dial 9-1-1.”
    â€œHey! But you went to jail,” interjected the Panther. Pointing at me he added, “‘Second Comrade’ told us you went to jail with him.”
    â€œUnder the name you—and the police—know me as.”
    She reached in her purse and pulled out a flannel sack. In it were several driver licenses and a fistful of credit cards. She took a breath.
    â€œOkay … So now you know. So just what are you going to do about it?”
    â€œOh, sister, you cool,” “The Chairman” ruled. “Shit … All we was doing was trying to make sure … “
    â€œI don’t mean about me,” she cut him off.
    Silenced again.
    â€œI mean … Are you serious or are you playing games like the rest of those New Age hippies that I got busted with?”
    She was right. We were more serious, more committed, more dedicated, more … revolutionary.

    It was a movie. It had to be a movie. I watched in slow-motion sepiatone as the bitch slunk back from the scene, a sly smirk on her mug, and melded indistinguishably into the ranks of the pigs. Vanishing back into the murk and muck, the mud and the mire, from which all such snitches, informants and deep deep-cover agents-provocateurs slink back into only to pop back up again, like a bad penny, at some other time, in some other place, on some other campus, in some other state, to position herself in some other protests of some other movement so as to attract, seduce, allow into her draws and then set up some other sad-sack “mope” seeing in her eyes new visions and new horizons. Seeing not the treason residing in them just past the glint of their gleam. The last words of our conversation banged themselves off walls in the theater that was my mind:
    â€œBut I came and I saw you in jail.”
    â€œYeah, and I was there on the days you were