“Honey, these steaks are the best. You got ’em from Montana? They’re beautiful,” swooned Jake over the marbled slabs of meat on the grill in the outdoor kitchen.
“I’m ready. When will they be?” asked Rita.
“Just a few more . . . Wait. Wait. What’s that? What? What? Thunder?”
“It’s voices, yelling. It’s people.”
“What the hell?” shouted Jake, who abandoned the grill and headed inside to the game room, unlocked his gun safe, and reached for an assault rifle. He paused, deciding between the AR-15 and the Bushmaster ACR that Rita had given him for his birthday. He decided on the birthday Bushmaster and pulled it out.
Meanwhile, Rita ran for her purse in the foyer closet to retrieve her 9mm Smith & Wesson pistol. She met Jake in the marbled atrium, where they could hear the rumbling outside, increasing in volume.
“It’s time, Rita,” Jake pronounced solemnly. They flung open the front doors and marched down the grand staircase to the terrace below. Their mouths dropped open.
They saw hundreds of people — or was it dozens? or maybe thousands?—marching past their house toward a nearby park, shouting, banging on pots, playing music, and carrying signs about freedom, equality, peace, and justice. Jake and Rita stood frozen on their terrace pointing the weapons at the passing throng.
As the marchers saw them standing sentry, a few walked over to Jake and Rita, who ordered them to stay back, get off their property, don’t come any closer, and, of course, halt!
“What the hell?” asked one of the Black marchers rhetorically. “Guys, you don’t need to be fascistic. This could get outta hand.”
“But wait,” responded Rita. “we’re not bad guys; we like you people.”