CIVIL OBEDIENCE

PART IV

I didn’t just walk out. I strutted like a man who had nothing left to prove to anyone except maybe his eighth-grade civics teacher, who once said, “Someday you’ll understand how democracy works.” Well, Mrs. Whitman, I do. It’s a farce wrapped in a badge sitting behind a desk watching a citizen commit an act of civil obedience and doing absolutely jack shit about it.

But I couldn’t leave without giving them one more chance. One final little olive branch of existential dread, tied up with a bow of polite sarcasm.

So I stopped in the doorway, turned, and said—loud enough to carry past the fluorescent hum, past the flickering flat-screen tuned to whatever bootlicker news network they preferred—

Rook: Officers. Hypothetical question.

Now that got their attention. Not enough to speak, mind you, but I saw heads lift. The primal twitch of prey animals realizing the predator isn’t done with them yet.

Rook: Let’s say a million people do exactly what I just did. Not all in one place, mind you—we’re not trying to give the National Guard a panic attack. But one by one. Day by day. In every city, every town, every dimly-lit office where the words “Serve and Protect” have been turned into wall art with the moral clarity of a Live Laugh Love sign.

I let that hang.

Rook: Would it work?

A silence thicker than courtroom carpet.

Rook: I’m just wondering. Would that be enough to defeat fascism? To choke it out, not with violence, but with presence? With truth? With citizens showing up, calmly, relentlessly, refusing to be afraid?

Still nothing. One guy shifted in his seat. Another cracked his knuckles like it was code for “I’m emotionally constipated.”

Rook (final beat, dry as ash): And is asking that question against the law now?

They didn’t answer. Of course they didn’t. Because any answer would’ve been a confession.

I smiled. The kind of smile that makes fascists flinch. And then I walked out.

This isn’t the end. It’s the blueprint.

And if you’re reading this, wondering if you should do the same — well, ask yourself:

Do you need permission to love freedom?

Or just the courage to say so out loud?

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