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Paragons

The Patriot. As American as as they get. As American as apple pie, chevy, tea dumping parties, Remington bolt-action rifles.

Part John Wayne. Ronald Reagan, not the actor, but the bastard who tore down that damn wall. John Elway, 98 yards in 98 seconds. Elvis before the pill popping busted that gut.

Every chick wanted to screw him. Every guy wanted to be him. Or screw him. Or both.

Sure there were haters. The ones that wanted to beat him bloody with their bare fists. Grin as the blood splattered. Feel the bone crush under their knuckles. Wipe that cocksure smile right off. Just like every winner has a hater. Every champion, repeat, three-peat dynasty has got to be despised. So popular to hate the guy on top.

Especially now.

Every generation has it’s day. That moment we can all remember where we were. Who we were talking with, how we heard the news. Who we were screwing at the time.

For my pops it was JFK. And it wasn’t my mom he was with, asshole. J fucking K, his brains splattering across the trunk of his Lincoln Continental. Red blood. White clouds. Blue sky. His wife sprawled out gathering the ichor of her dead husband.

Why does it always have to be the brains? Jesus Christ.

For us it was the day the Patriot dropped from the sky. The gasp of the crowd. His head exploding on the concrete like a ripe watermelon. Blood flying. Like a Gallagher show, but without the raincoats.

Without the warning.

Now everyone’s a cynic. A hater. World’s gone to crap they say. It’s all fucked up. There ain’t nothing we can do about it. They’re all the same.

Bullshit.

The poor bastard screwed up. Broke his contract. Violated a clause. Voided the terms.

Shut down.

Break out, break through, freak out, gene joke, origin chaser, spark party. Norm. Paranormal. Paragon. Parachute.

Stupid fuck should have had a parachute. And then everything would have been all right.

Right?

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