There he was on a stage in southern Florida matching wits with student survivors.
Our 2018 version of the fable quickly became convoluted.
He was there to collect on our defaulted promissory note. How our signatures came to appear on the note is a mystery.
As a country band plunked “rats rats rats,” the big screen flashed scenes of rats with labels like NRA, Citizens United, a couple of 600-pound rats wearing crowns and Koch Brothers silk jackets.
I woke in a sea of sweat. “Deliver us from evil,” I prayed.
As the Pied Piper danced off stage, he laughed, “I will now collect the collateral for the defaulted note.” The big screen once again lit up with scenes of babes clinging to wailing mothers; playgrounds falling deathly quiet at the sound of 30-round clips entering AR-15s; the jingle of coins thrown by Judas.
The end.
Peter Maki
Mancos