Sudetenland Tales by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Sudetenland Tales

Page 285

Meanwhile, the conga line morphed into a synchronized protest musical number, featuring spontaneous choreography, questionable rhymes, and a fire juggler who definitely wasn't booked.

It became clear that this was no longer just a protest recruitment. It was a full-blown happening, a surreal rite of passage where grievances meet glitter and absurdity reigned supreme, as good as any BLM event.

Frank Jenkins, stoic bus driver, veteran of six community parades and one regrettable book club, squinted at the cranberry juice union forming in his cooler. The juice had crafted surprisingly articulate demands using celery sticks dipped in peanut butter as ink. "We, the Juicy Collective, hereby demand fair refrigeration, a transparent mixing policy, and freedom from pulp tyranny."

Frank blinked twice, adjusted his cap which read "Drive Like Nobody's Watching", and addressed the liquid insurgents with weary dignity. "I once quelled a sandwich riot back in '89 with nothing but a thermos and a firm tone. I'm not about to be intimidated by produce."

The Union responded. A ripple spread through the cooler. A representative blob, named Cran Barry, gelatinous and vaguely