The Art Of Malice

Alex Jones walked into a poetry slam.

The place was crowded. Not quite packed; there were still a couple of tables available, and a few scattered chairs against the walls. It was not a very large café, but it bustled with vibrance and activity. Jones scowled as he signed in and made his way through the rabble to a small table. He sat, sipped a Fresca, and waited (impatiently) for his turn.

On stage--if one could call the modest, floor-level performance area a stage--a rapper-poet completed her soliloquy to polite applause. As she exited, a white man dressed in a football uniform walked solemnly to center "stage" as a guitarist played "The Star-Spangled Banner." The ersatz quarterback knelt and bowed his head. A black woman in a police uniform approached, looked on, and then knelt beside him as the anthem played out. The guitarist, the quarterback, and the cop stood, bowed, and left the stage, arm-in-arm.

Some in the audience tsked. Some signified approval. Jones' lips curled in disgust.

On it went, a brief parade of rainbow celebrants and dissidents alike, professing, protesting, dreaming, creating. Jones was restless, eager for his turn, his moment. He had suffered long enough.

The spotlight was figurative, but it fell on Jones as he finally took his place before this...this. He became animated, alive, as his words tumbled forth in free-fall. Some would say he was frothing at the mouth, and some would say he merely seemed as rabid as his malice. Conspiracy!, he raved. Race war! Child sex rings in pizza parlors! Fabricated school shootings! He was nearly out of his body. The lies of the media! Fabricated school shootings! Fabricated school shootings! THE TRUTH, I give you. Sandy Hook was a hoax! They will take your guns and start a race war! THE TRUTH! His words carried a palpable aroma, the worm-eaten odor of pages torn from Mein Kampf and The Fountainhead, the stench of a beer hall putsch, the acrid smell of burned books, burned crosses, burned bodies, of hatred given physical form. Jones believed. That may have been the most unsettling thing of all. Or maybe it would have been even worse if he didn't believe his own vile nonsense, but merely exploited the blind, stupid fears of the hateful and ignorant.

Perhaps a few in the café secretly agreed with his rantings. If so, they were struck silent by the sheer ugliness of his discourse. The rest of the assembled patrons angered quickly. The chorus of boos and catcalls grew louder.

One middle-aged man sat at a table, ignoring his espresso and feeling his knuckles tense and tighten. His mind flashed to memories of his grandfather: that haunted look that never quite left his eyes, the cruel image of the numbers tattooed on his forearm, the awful resonance of that word Juden, and the determined resolve of one phrase above all others: Never again.

The man rose from his seat. His voice was soft, yet somehow loud enough to be heard over all distractions and buzz around him. He sang without humor:

Where have all the führers gone
Too long passing?
Where have all the führers gone
Too long, I know?
Where have all the führers gone?
Gone? They're still here, every one
When will we ever learn?
When will we ever learn?

The crowd erupted in applause for the man, all standing in support. Jones was ignored for a moment, then hustled away from the stage. The café's owner told Jones to get out, and to never think about returning. The crowd applauded this as well.

Jones protested impotently. My rights!, he whined. This is censorship! This is....

The café owner cut him off. "It's not censorship, you asshole. It's business." The café owner paused for a second before adding, "I gotta admit the fact that you are such an asshole does make it easier."

Jones found himself on the street, the café's door shut behind him. He gathered his hatred, his delusions, his simmering resentment and bruised sense of entitlement, and went off in search of a fresh forum. We can't stop him. We don't have to help him. For every cross burned, a candle lit. For every mind closed, a light that shows the way to reason.

You disagree? That's your right. But I'm not giving you a goddamned soapbox either.