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Patsy Hockstetter rammed the garbage truck at upwards of 20 mph. The empty child's seat shot across the parking lot into a shiny new SUV. Patsy smiled as she chased it down and ran over it twelve times. Cackling with glee, she fired several slugs into the air. The protest, which had been going full steam since noon, abruptly halted. The freckles and peach fuzz leader hitched up baggy pants and wiped his nose. He had been dreading this moment since breakfast, when he had learned Patsy was going to be heading up the riot squad. Once again, he would have to report failure back to his comrade Ian, who was first-among-equals.
Now out of bullets, he pulled out his straw and spit wad, and coolly signalled his companions to do the same. Warily, they advanced a step and then stopped and waited for his mark.
Taking a swig from her water bottle, Patsy slammed her palm down hard on the horn for a full minute, the last warning she'd give them. She couldn't believe they'd brought guns - that was a 'boy howdy' she thought. Feeling her rage, she backed the car away from the truck, revved the engine to 6,000 RPM's, and popped the clutch. The front end leapt into the air like a metal rearing stallion for just a minute before hitting the tarmac at a screeching 45 mph.
Leader Boy yelled 'Nooooo' in that long-drawn-out-slo-mo-way, then ducked behind a Piper Cub. The protesters scattered, but not before Patsy nailed several of their number. Encouraged by the display of fear, Patsy cranked the heavy metal on the stereo.
"You're enjoying this?" her little voice dared to ask.
In response Patsy twisted the knob as far as it would go until Aretha Franklin dictated the movement of every air molecule within a mile. Her little voice went into vibrate mode - there would be no more protest of the airfield - there would be no more airfield. She turned her eyes lustily on her rocket launcher.
