I stood up from my after-school meditation, because today's practicum via Fox.org gave me a migraine. Hybrid high school wasn't the same after the White Plaque. Coronavirus was so yesterday, because the vaccine worked well and I got my shots just two weeks ago for the four times a year recommended dose. But, the White Plaque truly was something else. It gave me chills for three days, yet milder than the CoVid19.
Outside felt right just now, so I took my Street Paddle elongated to its five feet maximum length with a rubber bottom. Passive enough for a toy, but as aggressive as the Shaolin Kung-Fu Wooden Stick. I grabbed my granola cubes and pistachios packets and put them inside my shoulder pack. I took my longboard and turned on its anti-gravity button, and shoved the remote in my pocket. I stood on it, and it synchronized with my street paddle. I opened my bedroom door and flew downstairs to bid my farewells for the afternoon.
"Dad, leaving. Need time for myself. I'm going to see, Rambo," I told my Father.
"Don't stay out too late. By 7, the sirens will come on in our zone. It's Denver, and not the country side, so check the time," he said.
Rambo lived with his sister near the old Five-Points, now labeled as Zone 5, where the emancipated orphan youth were allowed to live independently. He never knew what it felt like to wear spray deodorant. I tried it on when I was five, but it wasn't anything special.
Flying by Colfax was like a mall. Everyone had their hoods on and their masks with protective goggles. The White Plaque attacks the cornea and could lead to blindness. Crap for some homeless folks, most became blind and they never received their indigence benefits due to no permanent address.
My stomach growled and my granola cube was out of reach, so I took my pistachio packet and ripped it apart thenemptied the content into my mouth. I lived in Capitol Hill, because Father was the surgeon for Banner. Since they transformed into a Socialist Hospital, their logo became a blue flag with a red cross in the middle. Father told me that it was our justice.
By the time I got to Rambo's pad, his bike was not there. He must be on a walk somewhere. Emancipated youths won't go far on foot, because they have no vehicle license until they turn 21. Crap kept happening, and it was out of control since the White Plaque. But, Rambo was special. He survived with his sister, because he told me that he had the grit of a slave and a desire like a pirate on alcohol. Rambo will never die, and I will make sure he lives forever. I felt a revolution was brewing inside me....and I needed Rambo. Where could he be?
Just write.