The Molotov Monk

The peaceful protest slowly spiraled into an out of control, small scale riot.

The people pushed against the police barriers like an army with a suicide wish. A water canon roared from the top of the riot control vehicle and the force of water slammed into the rioting crowd, sending people breaking off like feathers in a gale. Chaos and anarchy ran amok as everyone tried to run out of the way of the water canons. Then, the police brought in brute force. The armed and padded soldiers of justice piled upon the protesters with their iron batons, beating and crushing all resistance out of them. Blood mixed with the water and the cries of the wounded were mercilessly silenced by the might of the powers that be.

The Molotov Monk watched the whole scene unfold in front of his eyes like the pages of some freak porno magazine. The ruthlessness and the brutality of the whole fiasco were not missed on him. He put his right hand in his robe and brought out a silver flask, flicking open the cap with one thumb he drank the mixture of herbs and 90 proof Vodka. The liquid burned down his throat like frozen fire and settled somewhere underneath his stomach. He shook his head to clear the visions and started to walk, straight into the heart of the dying riot.

The policemen watched the robed figure walk on the bloody road. Their batons stopped in mid swing as they digested the scene of one figure walking calmly into the riot zone where people still lay broken, bleeding and dying. The water canon moved to target the monk; the policeman hefted their batons for another easy hit and the injured just stared. The policemen followed the monk and converged on him like vultures on a dead animal.

At a safe distance from the wounded people, the monk stopped. The policemen grew tense for a second and then the monk cleared his throat, his voice heavy with the burden of alcohol, and he spoke, "You are all fucked." As the words left his mouth he exploded with the heat and the power of a mini nuclear blast. The group surrounding the monk evaporated in confusion of physics, chemistry and death.

From the burning wreckage of the riot trucks and the dead policeman, the figure of monk slowly rose and lifted a silver flask to his lips.

They didn't call him Molotov Monk for nothing.

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For those not in the know a Molotov is a homemade explosive, basically, a glass bottle, petrol and a burning rag stuffed in the mouth of the bottle makes it a Molotov Cocktail. The riots in Cambodia last year had a lot of Monks facing the ire of the police, makes me wish the Molotov Monk was real. The news are here and here.

P.S- A new beast has risen on the horizons of blogsphere, The Fucked Up is a blog which yours truly and Impressionist from Immortal Echoes are collaborating on. Have a look, slightly Not Safe For Work and very very fucked up.You have been warned. :)