Blood of Tyrants

Blood of Tyrants

By Ben Bova

The committee members, half of them chatting with each other, sit at a long table in the front of the room. Brockhurst is sitting at the witness’s desk, reading from a prepared text. Hansen sits beside him. The visitors’ pews are completely empty, and a uniformed guard stands impassively at the door.

“Mr. Chairman, since the inception of this program, juvenile gang violence has decreased dramatically in five of the six cities where we have placed rehabilitated subjects. In one city, gang violence has dwindled to truly miniscule proportions. The boys are being rehabilitated, using Job Corps and other OEO facilities to train themselves for useful work, and then takig on – and keeping – full-time jobs.”

Brockhurst looks up from his text. “Mr. Chairman, if I may be allowed a new twist on an old saying, we’re beating their switchblades into plowshares.”

Interior, Danny’s apartment

Danny is pacing angrily across the room, back and forth. Three abject youths sit on the bed in the corner. At the table sit Marco and Speed.

“He nearly blew it!” Danny’s voice is not loud, but clearly close to violence. “You stupid assholes can’t keep your own people happy. He gets sore over a bitch and goes to the cops! If we didn’t have a man in the precinct station last night, the whole plan would’ve been blown sky-high!”

Blood of Tyrants. Photo by Elena

One of the boys on the bed says, miserably, “But we didn’t know…”

“That’s even worse! You’re supposed to know. You’re the Prez of the Betlers, you’re supposed to know every breath your people take.”

“Well… whadda we do now?”

“You do nothing! You go back to your hole and sit tight. Don’t even go to the can unless you get the word from me Understand? Le the cops tumbre to us because you’ve got one half-wit who can’t keep his mouth shut, every gang in the city is going to be after your blood. And they’ll get it”