Platora, Nevada waved goodbye like a maiden aunt draped in faded calico.
Caroline went into the kitchen to pour another cup of coffee and lit the last of her Marlboros.
Dorothy chimed in. “These are clearly injustices. If these injustices ever make their way to court, which is doubtful, who knows if the perpetrators will be found guilty. There’s zero accountability. Lawyers sweep away the crimes. I’ve seen them. Bureaucrats sleep through the whole deal. They pay more attention to their pensions than the poisoning. These people whose job it is to enforce the law, they get their chance and the chose not to act.
“I guess this is why there’s an argument to be made for becoming a vigilante. In a way, vigilantism aligns with our values. Then again, you second guess it. You wonder if you’ve been suckered into imperfect thinking. Maybe there’s a little too much passion and not enough reason. Flawed justifications that whistle past the rule of law.”
A warm breeze fell through the open window. Not far off, they heard a yellow warbler chirp.
“Are we like the militias or members of lynch mobs? Probably, although our cause is just. Whatever their cause is, those militia members think their cause is just, if they can think at all. We’ve all got a just cause, don’t we?”
Caroline returned from the kitchen. The rest of them listened. Dorothy didn’t wait for agreement.
“Anyhow, when I get ready to light the match, I blow it out. Actually, Teddy Roosevelt comes along and blows it out and tells me, ‘No man is above the law and no man is below it: nor do we ask any man’s permission when we ask him to obey it.’”
In Platora, Nevada, a frail woman draped in faded crimson calico is dealt a royal flush.
