Johnny's Bad Habit

         Johnny walked briskly down the street adjusting his jacket. In truth it was too hot to be wearing his long sleeved leather jacket, but Johnny was a Greaser of sorts, so it was important to his look. Johnny didn't give a fuck that Greasers had no place in Downtown Philadelphia in 2012. He was a rebel, self proclaimed anarchist. He didn't give a shit what was and wasn't popular, all he cared was what he thought was fucking boss, and Greasers were it. So, even if he had to sweat a bit on this sunny afternoon, it was worth it. Johnny took a quick glance at his watch, then picked up the pace a little as he cut through an ally.

         As Johnny approached a dumpster, he pulled his smokes out of his jacket pocket. He struck the match against the dumpster as he passed, lighting his cigarette, then tossing the match in the dumpster. It was kind of a habit. More like a compulsion. Every time he passed a dumpster, he felt compelled to strike up a cigarette and throw the match in the dumpster. Maybe it was because he fucking hated trash. Like all the trash in office, running this fucking town. Fuck everyone of them, they were all trash. If Johnny had his way, he would burn every fucking one of them like the piece of shit they were. He would personally light every building on fire and watch the whole fucking town burn. Fuck every last shitter in office. He glanced back over his should at the dumpster. As usual, it was barely smoking and probably wouldn't catch fire. But, who gave a shit, the shitters were going down today.

         About an hour ago, Johnny received a call from one of his friends telling him the Anarchist Alliance had finally made its move and they were throwing all the shitters out today. They had started three riots downtown, had a large standoff with the cops, tossed Molotov cocktails into the mayors offices, the whole fucking town was coming down. Johnny was in such a hurry, he didn't get a chance to spike up his mohawk, which was unfortunate as it was one of the physical attributes to define the AA from the shitters. If it wasn't spiked, it just lied flat on his head and he looked almost normal. Except for his Greaser clothes.

         Johnny's pocket vibrated, then his phone rang. Pulling out his phone, he saw it was a fellow AA member. "What the fuck Salami?" Salami wasn't his real name, obviously, just a nick-name Johnny gave him. He was one of the younger guys in the AA, closer to Johnny's age. "Is this shit really going down man?"

         "That's what I've fucking heard man! Are you anywhere close to it?  WHOAAA!!!!" Salami was obviously excited.

         "I'm a few blocks away man, I can see some smoke. It’s taken me an hour to get this far, public transportation is at a stand still!"

         "Cool shit man. Hey, let me run man, looks like some shit is about to start on the freeway, I'm gonna hop in!"

         "Yeah, go for it" Johnny went to say, but before he could get it out, Salami had already hung up. He was getting close now, his stomach was rumbling. FINALLY, they were going to do away with the shitters.

         He cut across another alley, hoping this one would dump him in the middle of everything. He tossed a cigarette in his mouth and struck a match on the dumpster, then flung the match into the dumpster. Guess I'll never get over that habit, Johnny thought. He rounded the corner as he exited the ally. WHAM! Something hit him right in the face. On the forehead and down the nose between his eyes. He stumbled back, stunned, not sure what had happened.

         "Hey look, another shitter!" A man yelled back over his shoulder. He turned to look at Johnny once again, stick raised over his mohawk, ready to strike again. Before Johnny could say anything, the man brought the stick came down again. And again. They were coming from everywhere. Johnny was dazed, not sure what was going on. He saw boots flying into his face, and he still felt sticks on his head. THWACK! THWACK! It was a constant barrage. He managed to wipe the blood from his face long enough to see a crowd of mohawks surrounding him. What the fuck was going on, he was no shitter? If only they would stop long enough to listen, he could explain why he didn't have his mohawk spiked. But, they just kept coming.

         "Hey, let’s throw the shitter in the dumpster that's on fire! Lets burn him like the piece of trash he is!" Johnny tried to scream, tried to explain to them. He was no shitter. Infact, it was his idea to burn all the shitters like the trash they were.

         The beating finally stopped, but Johnny didn't seem to think it mattered at this point, he hurt, everywhere. Blood was gushing down his face and he was fairly certain his eye socket was broken and the skin split around his eye, barely leaving his eye in place as it bulged at the edge of popping out. His tongue ran across broken teeth while his ribs felt like they had knuckle imprints all up and down them.

         Two large men with mohawks grabbed Johnny and dragged him toward the dumpster. The two of them easily hoisted up Johnny's scrawny figure and hurled him into the flaming dumpster. Johnny immediately unleashed a blood curdling scream and tried with all of his might to climb out. But, no matter how hard he tried, they wouldn't let him out. Every time his head poked over the top, a dozen sticks rained down on his head, knocking him off of his balance .Surely he smelled different than a shitter when he burned, why were they still hitting him?