“We’d like to urge you to please do as we say. We have no desire to use violence, but we might need to pelt you with flowers and seeds if you do not cooperate.” Antoine shouts this for what is probably the eighty-sixth time in his life. All of said shouting being a product of his role within this radical organization. He’s been the ringleader of the Millennial Terrorists for about two years now, and, honestly, it’s all been much more violent than he could have possibly expected. Especially since his predecessor, Miguel, had assured him that it was a cakewalk, requiring no forcefulness whatsoever. And yet, here Antoine was, raising his voice to a perfectly innocent lackey who had nothing to do with Burke & Co.’s biochemical evils.
He was a shill, not a co-conspirator. Could Antoine really be expected to harm him just because he was unprincipled enough to work for the meager alms offered by Burke & Co. to barely keep his family afloat? But this driver, Akimoto, had no family. And he was about as godless and nihilistic as it came. He would’ve driven a truck filled with Jews into a concentration camp if it meant a paycheck. Antoine, of course, couldn’t know this, foolishly preferring to give middlemen in these situations the benefit of the doubt regarding their involvement and complicity. His fellow Millennial Terrorists, Zwan, Tapenade, Orange and Devlin, were much warier of trusting this type, knowing full well that the guile was just as much contained within this “courier” as within the corporation itself.
Yet despite the warnings of his “humans in peace” (in lieu of “brothers in arms”), Antoine could not be bothered to proceed with caution when it came to his contact and communication with the surly and sneering Akimoto. Akimoto, indeed, knew precisely what he was transporting: two highly bruised and battered animals that, tomorrow, would be slated to be fused together as one entity in Burke & Co.’s bid to test out their latest high-tech mutation equipment. If they could create one new breed of “monster,” then they could create another to “mate” with it (non-consensually, of course)–thereby creating their own private reserve of livestock that didn’t require a dependency on any other outlets, least of all farmers.
That was the grand plan, anyway. But Burke & Co. failed to account for the awesome non-force of the Millennial Terrorists, outfitted with bodysuits that could release the scent of Rosé Rush by Paris Hilton with one pull of a handy, interconnected string (yes, millennials had clearly made much better use of the string since their baby boomer forebears, who could only think to use it for two “telephoning” tin cans). One whiff of that and Akimoto would be paralyzed long enough to allow them access to the back of the truck. The Baader–Meinhof Group this was not. For they hated the idea of harming “secondary figures” in the orbit of the bigwigs they were really trying to get to.
The best way to go for the jugular of said bigwigs was to take what was theirs. To save two innocent creatures from a fate certain to be worse than death (and, in fact, the Millennial Terrorists had even tearfully discussed putting the animals down–with eco-friendly syringes, to be sure–over ever allowing them to reenter the clutches of Burke & Co.). Antoine and his humans in peace could simply not permit this. To do so would cause their own insides to be tormented and experimented on, thinking of the cow and horse they had named Monica and Rachel, respectively. It made the mission have even more weight if the animals could be ascribed with personalities that could only be made real with monikers. So it was that instead of slashing the lock open, Tapenade tried to gently coax Rachel (Rachel was more of a pushover than Monica, and everyone knew that) to ram the door open herself with those strong horsey hooves and that stalwart horsey build. Alas, Rachel was trauma-laden, looking like a scared little foal crouched in the corner shivering, as Tapenade could see through the pathetic air holes. Monica, meanwhile, was bellowing and grunting, affronted by the entire affair, but unwilling to break open the door any more than Rachel.
It was as such that Akimoto was given the chance to re-collect his bearings after being pummeled by the odeur of Rosé Rush to kick Antoine in the face, take out the automatic rifle that was resting–waiting–on his front seat and aim it with precision at Antoine, Zwan, Orange and Devlin. They were obliterated in seconds. Ah, how unjust it is that it takes no time at all to ruin something that was months, years in the making. Unfortunately, during all those late-night sessions planning every detail of the animal-napping, one thing they failed to note about Akimoto was that he was a selectively apathetic Gen Xer. They never stood a chance against him in their non-fight. Their non-war against a system that tittered at its non-violent activism. For any boomer–and shit, even Gandhi–could tell you that for activism to make a point, it had to facilitate a bit of carnage. Otherwise it was tantamount to sending French soldiers into battle during WWI with their bayonets against the Germans with their well-supplied machine guns.
Tapenade was still trying her best to ignore the very patent facts in front of her. She was unarmed, left as the only one alive who might be able to carry out the mission as originally planned. To stall for time, she started to pull the string on her suit to release what was left of the Rosé Rush–tantamount to pure, undiluted millennial pheromones that all other generations found abhorrent. But Akimoto was prepared for it this time, plugging his nose as he fired. Luckily for Tapenade, he wasn’t a very good marksman with one hand, giving her time to, much to her dismay, tear the animals out of the back of the truck even though she so wanted them to emerge of their own volition. She screamed at them to move, to go, to get the fuck away from the area. At first, they were as complacent as humanity itself, but after another jarring round of shots fired by Akimoto, they were spooked enough to start scuttling along, heading into the darkened woods located off the shoulder of the road and disappearing.
As Tapenade could feel what were potentially the final moments of her life ticking by, she knew she had to do something that went against every fiber of being a millennial. And therefore, a worthy member of the Millennial Terrorists. Even so, she didn’t want to die, even if for a noble cause. She wanted to live and keep fighting. Actually fighting. It felt good. It felt liberating. Fuck, it felt real. So she pulled out from a secret pocket in her ensemble a grenade, plucked the clip from it and heaved it in Akimoto’s general direction. She turned and ran without looking back, having no idea if it would actually rid her of her adversary. She ran and ran until she was sure her face had turned purple. That was the night she never looked back on choosing to employ violence. A tenet she incorporated into her reworked version of the Millennial Terrorists, gathering new soldiers to help her do the dirty work that no other millennial would.