Or, where I pinpoint my geographical location for all to see, and out my sympathies for BLM, wrecking any pretense of unbiased journalism
Walking out the metro, you already feel the high-voltage around the park; witches and queers and pinkos in a massive swell of cooped-up impotent rage. The long arm of the law has decided that the best tactic here’s no tactic; take the bastards at their word, and hope they stay fenced-in at the park. They know the angry masses are a fucking bear; when it’s hibernating, it’d take a goddamn atom bomb to wake it up. Once awake, though, it’ll chew your goddamn face off if you so much as poke it.
Before we join the masses, me and my train loiter half-way between a group of Dirty Commies, leaflets and all, and a coven of black witches hexing at the cops. Speaking of which, one high-school dropout, yellow vest and ersatz penis at attention, gleefully skips our way the second I take a drag from my 11th smoke since stepping out into the sunshine. I already got my “relax-es” and my “sorry officer-s” circling my tongue when the coven explodes in porcine noises; a tall one in the center just starts demolishing Mr. L’agent. Before you know it, he’s regressed fifteen years, and “yes-ma’am-ing” all the way back to the rest of the gestapo. I tip my smoke to the sorceress, then follow my folk to join the human ocean occupying the center of Emilie-Gamelin plaza. There’s someone giving a speech, somewhere in the park; I can’t spot where, who, what, because there’s a giant fuck-off cargo container smack-dab in the middle.
Now, I’m thinking we’re all here for a… stand-up protest? Whatever the fuck that is, and whatever the fuck that can accomplish; but as we stream past the cargo, there’s folks taking to the streets. That kind of craziness is my favourite part; you know the cops expect it, but having them run ahead to block streets and corral us is still funny. Like all marches, slogans and chants and placards abound; the goal’s to get noticed as a unified group. Ironically, what I’m seeing from the ground couldn’t be more disparate; along the BLM true believers, the red n’ black flags, you got a bunch of sunday-mornin’ liberals- to them, this is a family outing. You can spot them real easy: whenever someone chants “tout/le monde/deteste la police,” they’re the only ones not singing. They do serve to swell the numbers, and that’s great; I got no ill-will towards these folk. I just think “they’re so close to gettin’ it, yet so far.” But, really, who cares? I’m of the opinion that no one should take any of my opinions seriously; I am a bitter, jaded queen, hell-bent on maintaining a teenaged anti-authoritarian posture.
For about three hours, we zigzag along; only excitement came when I spot some of the Sturmtruppen putting on their Sunday finest. I shove my bag in the arms of Friend Gerta, with a bit of rant as spice:
-Goddamn…hold… yeah, fuck, the fucking police, la-bas, they getin’ ready, moi aussi, goddamn…
All the while switching my PPE mask for a good ole’ P100 filtration mask; I know it deals with metal dust, can it stop tear gas? We’ll find out.
Now, false alarm there; being in an anti-police protest, surrounded by the vultures at every corner, a guy’s bound to be paranoid. Case in point: some fuckwit douchebro you’re-not-my-real-dad type shoots off a firecracker at hour 2; I jumped ahead 2 meters, pulling at Friend Gerta and Friend Helga like I could shield em from bullets. Once everything dropped, I see the fuckwit and resume the march.
Finally, the destination is revealed to us: city hall. Good- knock the fucker’s door down, burn the flag, destroy the financial district. We sit at the sidelines for a bit, knackered and all, and we watch the holiday marchers turn tail towards the suburbs. As we’re having a snack, some kind of pure-aryan french-canadian conspiracy-buff type just explodes at a group of marchers, and that’s it for me. Too much bad blood around here, and I can see the footsoldiers of Capital closing in, 2 blocks away.