September 23, 2017:
My role is to distract the security guard.
In a perfect world I'll also remove the Vice Principal from play. The guard though is my primary target.
Easy-peasy. He's a dumbfuck, easily infuriated when humiliated or when his god-given adult power over teenagers is threatened — a skill I've mastered over multiple verbal encounters which have left him red-faced with embarrassment and rage. This time I want him removed from the lunch court — the about-to-be scene of action — and I don't want to be marched to detention. 'Cos I do want to be present at that scene when the moment comes.
Right now as classes change he'll be watching the girls emerge from gym. He likes the ones with wet hair the best. It's his thing. I climb onto a roof two dozen yards away where he'll never suspect me, and with the excellent arm I've inherited from my dad the minor league pitcher I bean him in the back of the head hard with a raw egg, which splatters on his thick skull and drips down his collar. You can hear his sputtering, "Who did that!" echo through the halls as he runs in circles grabbing innocent students one or two at a time. The egg was well-calculated: it'll keep him glued to the spot until his rage cools; then he'll be too embarrassed to be seen in public until he's washed himself and changed clothes. He's neutralized.
I grab my camera, run to the lunch court, sit down on the grass to wait. The action goes like this:
The newly-elected student body President, a really nice guy but a squarepants Young Republican who could not possibly have commanded the necessary votes on that campus at that moment in history, is waylaid by a posse of students in Groucho glasses and long coats, who tie him securely to the flagpole. We're Groucho Marxists — see what we did there? We like Lennon a lot, too. A sign reading "FASCIST TOOL" is hung around his neck. A speech is declaimed: The election was stolen! This politician is fraudulent! We, the Revolutionary Committee for the Liberation of Student Government, hereby execute justice upon him! May God or Groucho have mercy on his soul, whoever meets him first! His face is then covered with whipped cream. I snap the photo below. The squad of people's soldiers marches off just as the Vice Principal reaches the back of the watching crowd, hands in pockets, looking very defensive and Republican in his educator's uniform of on-sale jacket and tie from JC Penny's. Leaflets, actually serious, are distributed among the crowd by students who are not in Groucho glasses. A few minutes later the local FM radio station dedicates "Street Fighting Man" to the now-notorious RCLSG.
My first and only experience of Italian-style direct action, modeled on the Red Brigades. It was the '70s and all. The film is here.