Mr. Lucky Lip Saves the Salt

It probably could use more, but this will do for now...
***This is a work of complete fiction***

Mr. Lucky Lip cringed and coughed and looked up and laughed. His tall frame stood scarred and strong as he mounted his extra-cycle, a truly noble transport, and made his way to the Den of Ill Repute. It was there he played the delicate beautiful instrument with bow and heart. Drop-jawed they watched and wondered who this stranger was. They wondered if it was he who wrangled a tattoo-throated fisherman with a belt, or if it was he who served them drinks with a loud laugh at the lounge with hookahs, or he who sold them books with a smile. They couldn’t know that he would set in motion a chain of events leading to the downfall of the local elite, The Church. And no, I am not speaking of the fairly descent band from the golden age of hair rock, the 80s, but of the institution of a faith run by white men and their little clones.
He played until the sun came up and those who snaked around at night tightened their ties and polished their shoes and kissed their clueless wives goodbye to spend the day packed into a cubicle. They played at being bad, thought they were kings, but it was they who were the ones to act for appearances. The poor little yuppies couldn’t sleep, so they quietly crept out of the house and into the bars and showed off that tattoo they got when they were nineteen of a dragon on their upper arm, yes, that would make them look bad and cool. Those people were blind to their contributions to the churning Church machine, those poor saps, he would have save them from themselves.
Mr. Lucky Lip, or Chris, as he was known to most, began his quest by going home. He plugged in his weapon and it hummed, no sound sweeter. He loaded it with a blank white page and began to type. He would write his truth, a manifesto of epic proportions. It was all clacking and dings for seven days he didn’t stop typing. His fingers cramped and bled and still he typed. Page after page, his heart poured out as inky lines, each letter pounded with purpose until he was finished. He signed the end with a Pac-Man ghost.
He made his way to Temple Square and began handing out his truth to anyone who would take it, which wasn’t very many. He stood in front of the Temple of Doom and tried the same with similarly poor results. He decided to make large posters of each page and paste them to the sides of the light-rails. They were taken down almost immediately. Feeling slightly discouraged, he went back to the Den of Ill Repute and left a few of the manifestos on the bar for people to take as they wished. He downed a pint or two before returning home.

A shifty looking man whose name I can’t recall happened to take a copy of Chris’ truth that night and took it with him to the office the next day. The stapled pages made their way around the building within hours. Copies were made and taken home to show the wives and to be passed to brothers and fathers to take to their places of employment. A few weeks after Chris left the stack on the bar, he began to see graffiti that looked remarkably like his Pac-Man ghost signature. It was everywhere, trains, buildings, windows, pavement, and he could swear he saw a tattoo or two. He caught a guy handing out copies of his manifesto and asked him what it was all about. He was told through a hoarse voice to come to a meeting that night deep within the bowels of a local bookstore where he happened to work. Masquerading as a book club, the meeting was led by Zach, a guy who became passionate about the truth within the manifesto. He told them all of his plans to take down the temples.

“Clearly, doing this nonviolently is not going to work. We need to do something a bit more extreme.”

He paused for a minute, judging the feeling of the room.

“Bombs.”


Chris went along with it, fuck it, he figured, why not. A sultry dame wiser than her years told him it was a terrible idea and that it would change nothing, but he didn't care. So someone said they knew a guy who knew a guy who could get them what they needed and they started to plot the downfall.
Around a month or two later (no official record can be found) forty-five or so black clad figures surrounded the temples ready to rig the blasts. They crept with shadowed accuracy to the sides of the buildings and set the explosives with a timer. They went up Capitol Hill for the show.
Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six… Chris’ breath quickened, his eyes widened.
Five. Four. Three. Two… With a large intake of air, he held his breath.
One.

Nothing happened.

“Oh, what the fu-” and before the ck could leave his mouth, BOOM! He felt the sound in his chest, it looked like fireworks lighting the night sky. They did it. He swigged his flask and laughed.