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He stuck out like a sore thumb, a 40-something businessman in white dress shirt and navy pleats, sipping gingerly on a virgin tomato daiquiri like a fawn from its mothers teat. Shaking my head at the foolishness of either topic, I noticed a lone man standing in the middle of the room.
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I strolled in nonchalantly, passing a row of tables, each filled with local youth discussing post-secondary education and the medicinal merits of marijuana. Truly, if any place were open to new ideas, this would be it. The colorful locale was bustling with activity, young minds extolling diverse opinions over flavorless vegetative beverages. The place I had in mind was a fair walk from here, but I would gladly go to the ends of the earth and back for the cause.Ī few hours later, I arrived breathlessly at the University District's Natural Carrot Juice Bar. Having no vehicle to speak of, I inhaled the sweet stench and strode forward, a man determined in his course. As I headed out the side-door, I was greeted by a blast of fresh air and the scent of burning diesel. On my way down I encountered a fellow tenant, but kept my gaze forward and coldly away from theirs the easiest way to garner suspicion in a place such as this is to get too familiar with the locals. My door, though crooked, was still standing, as were my convictions as I headed down the hallway to the stairwell. I grabbed my jacket off of the old wooden coat rack, a gift from the government upon my rental of their facilities, and headed out the door, the left hinge detaching as I went. No, it was time to recruit, and I knew just the place to start. I, although a brilliant orator, could only do so much myself, and the workings of my mind are far too important to be distracted with tasks such as distributing fliers and raising funds. It was now time for action, but I knew I could not do it alone. The days of solitary confinement were over. The low hum of the refrigerator should be drowned out by the ceaseless toil of a photocopier, diligently printing controversial pamphlets for the common man to distribute amongst themselves in hushed tones, reverently digesting the strange new ideas that have been absorbed into their minds. I should be surrounded by the bustle of anarchy, motivated young men toiling away at producing rebellious liberal propaganda, a think-tank of able bodies compiling ideas, working together for a common-goal: freedom. So as I sat alone at my workstation, fluorescent bulbs buzzing erratically above me in my DiMeo Street Housing Projects high-rise, I knew that something was amiss. The Liberal Crime Squad is no different: we are here for the people, and the people alone, to provide knowledge and enlightenment to this self-destructive society. No movement has ever gained ground without followers, for followers are the true hands of any future-minded vigilante. As any revolutionary figurehead will tell you, the support of the people is everything.