Enlightenwhat? Episode 3:

Enlightenwhat? Part III: Words of Mass Destruction (Prologue)

"Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than one's fear. The timid presume it is lack of fear that allows the brave to act when the timid do not. But to take action when one is not afraid is easy. To refrain when afraid is also easy. To take action regardless of fear is brave."
— Ambrose Hollingworth Redmoon, “No Peaceful Warriors!” 1991

A man is approached on a dark street by three dark clothed, shadowy youths. His pulse quickens. His heart beats against his lungs so forcefully that he has difficulty drawing breath. He perspires. They ask for his wallet. He fumbled in his pocket and produces it, handing it over with little more than a whimper, hands shaking so badly he almost drops it. In that wallet: eighty seven dollars, three credit cards, four pictures of his family - two daughters and a wife, an unused Subway discount card, his driver's license, two post it notes - one with the number of an old friend he ran into recently and one with a time (9:00 PM) and date (10/2) scribbled across it, his social security card, and several insurance cards. Then, laughing as they pull the pictures one by one from the wallet, they demand his watch. It takes him over ten seconds to fumble apart the latching mechanism. The watch falls to the ground. They tell him to pick it up, and he cringes, but he bends over. One of them kicks him in the face. He falls with a howl. They keep kicking him until pain gives way to blessed darkness. On the other side of the street, people keep walking. They try not to look.

A boy - seven - sits in his living room, unable to turn away from the television. A low quality cable news program plays out on the screen. A thin, whiny voice pierces the room. A story about a sex-offender released from jail, moving into a new neighborhood, trying to find a new job, to start a new life. Outrage pours from the television. A mother of four insists men like this be locked up and never let out, or better yet, be hanged publicly. The monster could be waiting around any corner, every corner, waiting to snatch away her babies. A man, a father of one, insists that if the government is going to let people like this walk the streets, good folks, regular Joe's, are going to take action, start carrying weapons and deal out real justice. The boy slides of out chair to his knees, and crawls toward to screen. A video of the sex offender walking along a fenced corridor toward freedom plays. The boy reaches toward the screen, feels a strange tingle in his fingers as he touches the television, caressing the image of his father. He knows what has been said about him, knows the difference between truth and lies, knows he loves the man so many spit on and condemn to death. The television blinks off and his mother, sobbing, takes him into her arms.

Five men, young and dark haired, yelled and waved some kind of weapon - a razor blade of some type. Fifty or more people sat huddled, terrified, shying away from the dancing blades and the burning eyes. Women cried. Men cried. One passenger leaped up and grappled with a hijacker. The other passengers hid their heads while he was overpowered and his throat was slit. Two hijackers broke into the cabin and slashed at the pilot and copilot with their tiny blades. The stewardesses were already dead. The pilot and copilot soon followed. The hijackers took control of the plane. The passengers huddled, terrified, praying to be saved, unable to move for fear of those menacing knives and the hatred that burned away their courage. They weren't afraid for long. Soon they were all dead.

A soldier, barely eighteen, cowered behind a short sandstone wall. Automatic weapon fire cascaded around him. There was nowhere to go, no possible way to save himself. His friends were dead and dying. His enemies whooped and yelled; joyful. His breath came in short gasps, tears streams past his open lips. His M-16 hung loosely in his grip. An explosion to his left, a death-scream. And the tears dried. There was nowhere to go, no possible way to save himself. The gun-fire seemed to fade away, and he heard the laughter of his family, eight thousand miles away. He gripped his weapon with fierce strength. He smiled at the man next to him. “On three!” One finger. Two Fingers. They stood. Soon they were all dead.

A boy - seven - sits in his living room, unable to turn away from the television. A low quality cable news program plays out on the screen. A thin, whiny voice pierces the room. A story about a car crash. Five dead. A mom, on the phone to a friend - they were talking about the injustice of letting child molesters roam free in a country full of hard working parents and innocent children, the friend tearfully reports - runs a red light and is broadsided by a semi. Mother and four children dead. The truck driver couldn't have done anything, he couldn't have done anything, it happened too fast. She ran the red light, she drove right in front of him. He says it again and again. A nasally man in glasses insists that SUVs are unsafe, and in another, sturdier vehicle this family might have survived. The television blinks off and his mother, sobbing, takes him into her arms.