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As Quinn scrutinized the decorations, she noticed that, oddly enough, nothing seemed to date beyond the early 2000s. It was like time had stopped for the Eatery just after the turn of the century.
As if your generation gives a fuck about us. Everything was better way back when, but when we try to tell you how things are now, you don’t want to hear it.
“Stop actin’ like you’re children. You fight and fuck and drink. You are not children. You grew up too fast.” He paused. “Maybe that’s the cause.”
“But convincing the town that we needed to cull was not as hard as you’d think. I mean, we didn’t say it right away like that. You can’t say it all yourself. It has to seem like their idea.
Even in your insane way, you pretend to care. You’re all so worried about what’s wrong with the kids, when you’re the ones selling us guns, telling us times were better when men were men, pretending that global warming is a hoax, and turning hate into a team sport. I mean, yeah, you have taken it all a step further, sure, but it’s not like anyone over the age of fifty has ever really given a shit about us. You guys may be homicidal lunatics, but, hey, at least you’re being honest about how you wish we were dead.”
His body couldn’t take this, but he also didn’t want to freely climb the makeshift gallows. There was a landing, then a turn, another half set of stairs, and then they would be out on the catwalk with the noose, the position chosen to spotlight Cole’s hanging body. Madness. Hate. Insecurity. Tradition. The American Dream.
The fact that history bent toward progress, no matter how hard the assholes tried pushing back.
