04/13/76
You are in the streets, dripping in your own sweat and blood as wind whips dust around the fallen bodies and into your eyes. As you rest on your knees in the middle of the road, your smoking gun in front of you, you look at the utter carnage wreaked upon the city. A war, the most significant one waged on American soil since 1812. And you are the lone survivor of the battle, with nothing to celebrate. For what is there to celebrate when everything is gone? You (faintly) hear a buzzing noise; bombs fall in the distance. Soon they will finish what they came for, making sure that nothing's left. You hope that the explosions will kill you, instead of dying slowly but surely through radiation. You are left with the realization that you are about to die, that there is nothing you can do about it, and that bombs will soon fall all over the country, vaporizing millions and millions of American patriots like you. The dream fought for more than 300 years, coming to an end. There is no catharsis as the play draws to its conclusion. The planes are flying overhead now. You can't hear the buzzing in your ears anymore.