The Warrior Awakened

He's been in a funk.  Not knowing what to do next or if he had anything more to do.  And out of the blue comes a letter from his prep school, Mercersburg Academy. They announced the completion of a 2-year "investigation" into allegations of improper sexual conduct by former faculty.  One of those faculty was his teacher and friend.  Allegations made 7 years after his death. No defense accorded him, no police involved. But they conclude allegations of activities that allegedly took place in the '90s are legitimate and strip this long dead man of his honors for his many years of service to the school.  He's a nonperson.

Now he has a mission.  Get the school to retract what they've done.  Period.  So he's gone to war.

A Flourish of Razors

by Boz Baker

1.

RRRRRRRRRRooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!!!!!!! Omigod, I’m thinking, feeling this Harley noise under my all too soft and thoroughly unprepared butt, I’m going to die, right here on South Street, before I get word one of this Great American Cultural Movement on paper. Screeeeeech!!!! Oh Jesus! Did I say Cultural Movement? Did I even think it? No, this is nothing less than cultural war, and that’s kultural with a K, the way almost everything’s spelled with a K by the punk bands of Philadelphia. K for kayo and K for kill and, now that I mention it, K for kamikaze, like this feeling I’m having right now on the back of a deathbound chopper that’s being piloted by an honest to God madman who calls himself Johnny Dodge. And then we’re perpendicular to the ground and the Harley wheel is pawing the air — I’m staring straight ahead at a baby blue heaven that has preempted my horizon and all thoughts of such minutiae as the connotative difference between cultural with a c and kultural with a k — and Johnny is wailing like a banshee above me, a frozen mountain climber dangling from a chrome precipice of handlebars, my hands clawing and digging into his almost nonexistent gut, and I have this sudden instantaneous revelation, lasting no more than the split second of motionlessness at the apogee of our wheelie, of what this punk thing is all about and why I haven’t been able to get the hang of it till now.