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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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These Shoes Are Made For Walking
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He was mean. Hyperbaggy jeans overlapping his trendy Vans
slapping against the sidewalk, hopping over the cracks and drifting
off into a payphone jutting out the brightly lit city street. Lifts
the receiver, up to the ear, flat dialtone. Fingers racing across
the keys, ringing in the ear, pounds a few more keys, kerchunk.
Buzzing. Rings of dark unfulfilled sleep encircle his
fluorescent blue eyes. Pushes bits of bleached blond hair back
and pops in his headphones. Dark, brooding, violent music. Slips
out the door into the musty day, bookbag hunching him over, loaded
with the weight of information.
The bookstore is spread out. Cashier behind the counter,
picking nose or doing something else perhaps even less trivial.
Vans slap carpet, walls of information adorn the environment. Steps
into the computer section, flip, flip, flip goes the pages of the
book, remove tag, drop in bookbag. Spin around, dash out the door.
Down the street and into the pizza parlor. Smells of grease
and baking bread. Goes for a coke and a slice of pizza. Police car
creeps by, brown haired cop, dopey and beady little eyes masqueraded
behind a pair of thick black lenses. The bridge of his nose slightly
offsets them, permanent scowl resides on his face. Gun comes out of
his pocket, fires off a few rounds, no one notices in the big city.
He walks out onto the streets, eyes darting from side to
side, paranoia sweeping in like mad. Runs like he's on fire down
the street and hops right over and into the barrel of an awaiting
officers gun. Down on your knees and hands behind your back. Stiff
kick to the ribs, belted across the face with a pistol. Nose bleeds
profusely, fear, oppression, anger.
In the cruiser, down the street, into town hall. Walks up
the marble steps, slipping and crashing down on his knee. Jeans
tear. Vans slap across the floor of an entirely mundane building.
Electric sensors strapped to his body, questioning begins.
'2+2 is 4.' False. Zap. '2+2 is 4.' False. Zap. '2+2 is 4.'
Fuck you. Crunch, cheek bone plastered by the barrel of a gun,
caressing it in a not so friendly manner.
'Accept our truth, don't look for your own answers. No
more problems, no more knowledge, ignorance. Understand, accept,
love the system. Fortune is yours.'
Fuck you, deep scowl from he who wears the vans. Bullet
in the eye to suppress the man who could bring the end to the lie.
Shoes sure look battered.
Knowledge is power, keep them ignorant, keep your power.
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