Riot Act

My t-shirt reads, "I am a RIOT survivor." I flip casually through a Vogue magazine as the bus pulls up to my stop. Other passengers eye me as I hop off with a baseball bat into an abandoned district of town. Two blocks down I find the sign-up table and ink-in my name.
"Hello, again, k_sra," says Justin, the friendly greeter. "I see you're back for another stampede."
"Couldn't say no," I smile as I hand him my waiver. "Are the Ruff Riders here today?"
"I think I saw Bill go in already. But it's still early."

I enter the chained-link perimeter of the stomping grounds of this town's one and only Riot Club, where you can break, smash, steal, burn, maul, destroy anything you can get your hands on ... except the other participants. I rub my hands together gleefully and wave at the loyal group of punkers waiting to burn off some teen angst. Next to them is a small confligration of housewives, chatting and leaning on shovels and broomsticks.

I grab a coffee from the snack table. Best to do it now: it's usually not standing by the end of the day. I look critically down the row of buildings and cars available for the smashing. I spot a little gray stationwagon with my name on it. That's why I brought the bat. "Your glass is mine, pal," I whisper over my cup of decaf.

It's gonna be a good day.