They arrived within 10 minutes and saw the roadblock and the rows of policemen standing by with billy clubs at the ready. If push did come to shove those patrolmen will take the first blows. Some of them were nervous, fingering the leather flaps of their holsters while others were calmer than still water. These were probably the more levelheaded ones he thought. After all if things did go wrong they could just fire blanks in the air and whack a few heads open and they would probably scatter like rats. Speaking of which… He sent his own patrolmen to join and them himself went towards a small crowd of higher ranking police. They were mulling by the hood of a car, smoking cigarettes and flicking the butts in the direction of the sidewalks. Wiggum noticed one of them flick their butt, it flying towards the sidewalk while another followed suit, his going a couple inches closer to the sidewalk than the person before. He saw them laugh and cheer while the one whose lost dug out a couple of bills from his pocket giving them to the one who had won.
“Jim, Bob,” nodding to the friends. The two he referred to nodded back to him.
“Heya Frank,” said Jim. ,”How’s it going?”
“Good, good. How about you Bob? You get a girl yet?” raising his eyebrows and smiling.
“Funny Frank. But anyways what do you think? Rumors have it that this black mob might actually resist the NYPD.”
“Well that’s what they just are Bob. Rumors. Nothing more. People from my precinct have already started a betting pool as how long the mob will last. I got my money on 45 minutes until they scatter.”
“45 minutes?” said Jim,” How about you minus 25 minutes there and you got yourself a chance,” he said ginning widely.
“Maybe. But we’ll see soon enough won’t we? Say I’m hungry. How about we go get something to eat and drink?”
“Nah. Some of these people are crazies. Bob and me went over to that bar over there? The barkeeper thought we were newscasters or something from Ethiopia. Us newscasters.” They burst out laughing.
“Yeah and he then went on about a battle to the death between me and Jim. Funny right? And that he already booked a stadium or something. Can you imagine? Us? Fighting to the death at Fenway Park?” They burst out laughing even louder at that.
Suddenly they heard a noise. Like a marching band that haven’t practiced in years and everyone playing a different song.
“Ooh I guess the party is here. I guess its time to get into ranks.”
“Remember Frank. Change your bet to less before its too late!”
With that they went their separate ways. He himself went to where the rest of his squad was assembled, near the left end of the wall of cars forming the last line of defense if members of the mob made it there. Or it was to get a quick getaway to lunch once this was over.
“C’mon guys. Get in a line along with the rest. Get your clubs at the ready. Check your guns but I’m sure it won’t have to come to that. And here they come. Let the fun begin.” They were quiet during his final check yet none looked sullen. Instead they were in the height of spirits, all with a smile on their face as if they were born and ready to beat the hell out of these rioters. He retreated behind the line of patrolmen along with the rest of the captains and lieutenants. The rioters were marching towards them yelling phrases like “Down with the government” and “Black power.” Black power huh? He thought. Must be a new rallying phrase. Well we’ll see how they will rally once we’re on ‘em. Some held crowbars and metal pipes but for the most part the rest seemed unarmed. Then again the mass of people was so great that he couldn’t tell for sure. They were getting closer, merely about a half a mile from the line. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes have passed since he had first heard them.
“You know I actually think that they are looking for a fight,” proclaimed someone. “Even better. Haven’t had a good struggle since university.”
“Quiet kid,” Wiggum snapped back. “No need for unnecessary violence.” But he was right. These people were marching mighty and proud. They were even closer now. Within seconds they would be upon the line. The noise coming from the mob was deafening, louder than any other rallies and mobs he’d been sent to before. “Get ready boys!” he yelled even though he knew that they were and even if they weren’t, they probably couldn’t hear him. The mob was a few feet away. He noticed some people at the windows of the apartments. Probably there to watch the show he thought.
“GO!!!” he heard someone from the line said. With that, the entire line surged forward, clubs raised above their heads, ready to crash on another’s skull. He too went forward, his club smashing into an arm of a rioter and again to the side of another. I must admit, he thought. This sure is fun. Soon the street was filled with bloodied rioters, some lying prone on the ground and others trying to run back. Police injuries were minimal. But still the mob came forward. It was if there was an unstoppable hose just spraying out people. It was 10 more minutes before they were able to disperse with the mob, some retreating to the alleys and others running from the direction where they came.
“Thirty minutes Captain. Guess you lose that bet,” said the bookie.
Suddenly a “ccrracckk” sound ripped through the air. One of the patrolmen was suddenly on the ground, his innards spewing out him. The others went over to their fallen comrade and formed the defensive ring around him, pistols raised. They were starting to drag him back to the wall of cars. He heard screams as he ran over.
“What the hell?” he whispered.
Suddenly he saw that the very members of the mob that dispersed were back. At least he assumed they were the same. Four men were at the head of the mob, all of them standing holding something by their side. Only this time they were holding other things than pipes and crowbars…it took him a split second before he started screaming.
“MP-18’s!! Back to the wall!” he screamed at the people still standing outside in the beating area. They looked at him and then ran back. Although some did not know what an MP-18 was, they saw the looks of fear on their commanders and followed orders. By then however, it was too late. Four men holding the MP-18’s opened fire, the barrels spewing fire toward the backside of those running to the cars. Wiggum had barely made it to the other side of the cars and turned around when he heard the smack! of bullet hitting flesh. Another patrolmen fell, surrounded in a pool of his own blood. More smacks! ’s followed, some from further down the line and some from his own section going down, some merely a few inches from safety. Father of two, loving brother, the memories ones that had fallen haunted him. He glanced down the rows at the people hunched down. Some were familiar to the sounds of the MP-18’s some were not. They were the ones who were exultant in the beginning and now begging for salvation from this now hellhole.
Soon, like others, he kneeled and started firing his pistol at the mob emptying it quickly. With the mass of people he was sure he had hit someone. The rioters were falling in droves yet with each one that fell another one joined the ranks, accompanied by a rifle. They were now starting to fall back to barricades that seemingly appeared out of nowhere. He hit someone again, this time one of those wielding a MP-18. But those rifles…Mosin-Nagants they looked like he thought. The look of it was familiar to Wiggum as they were commonplace when he fought in Russia during the Revolution. Now where the hell would Negroes get Mosin-Nagants? he thought and fired again and started to load bullets. He was running low on ammunition. Looks on the others faces said the same. Soon they would have to retreat. He saw a metal ball suddenly fly to the right. “Grenade! Run!” he yelled to the ones that would be closest to the blast. They couldn’t hear him. The grenade landed in the middle of the group behind a car and blew up. Wiggum turned away before he could see the blast. When he looked up again the side of the car and ground was completely red, some spots of the car charred black but for the most part covered in blood and gore. This is enough he thought.
“RETREAT!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, “RETREAT!” The survivors did not need a third reminder. They started to stream to the other cars parked up the street, behind the wall, all crouched over as they ran toward their escape. He got into a car and slammed the door. In the driver’s seat was a patrolman, his head bloodied and clothes streaked with blood.
“Drive Kordo drive!” The ignition started and they sped away from the killing scene along with a handful of cars. He looked back toward the wall and saw one of them rise up on the car raising his arms above his head, a rifle in one hand, proclaiming victory. He looked at his watch, the glass now cracked. However he could still see the time. 12:54. Exactly 45 minutes since they got into ranks.
Meanwhile, back at the scene of such bloodshed, someone was looking down at the scene, clutching a camera, his face frozen solid. He had just witnessed one of the great moments of history, the start of the Riots of 1934. And he was here, with a camera that seemed to not run out of film as he took picture after picture of the shootout. Oh my God, these pictures will be worth hundreds! Maybe thousands! By golly if I don’t make money off these pictures than my first name isn’t Titus! Maybe the MI6 will even want these pictures! I might even get hired! I always wanted to become an agent…The people down on the street started firing their guns into the air and- bang! One of the bullets hit Titus’ camera, the square box shattering in his hands. “No…no!!!!” screamed Titus. “Not the camera!!! Thousands of dollars worth of pictures are in there!!!” He fell to the floor grasping the broken remains of the camera. “Aaarrrggg!!!! Just my luck! Damn you Fate! Damn yooouuuuu” his screams echoing throughout the room.