The end of the Westboro Baptist Church and the beginning of real hate

Remember those psychotics in the Westboro Baptist Church? Well they get a brief cameo appearance where they come to a fun end in my new book Power Games. Here’s an excerpt:

…When the 21 gun goodbye blasted off, she was the only one in her circle that didn’t jump. The melody of gunfire inspired her more than any Bon Jovi song. Her rage ashamed her, but not enough to forgive. Not by a long shot. She thought she knew what hate meant, but then came something that made her lust for vengeance seem mild.

Those Westboro Baptist Church nuts were at the cemetery, but she hadn’t even noticed before. A curtain of bikers and other volunteers kept them separated from normal people. That was until the ceremonial shots rang out. With the cordon momentarily distracted, the freak show somehow slipped through that human wall and stampeded towards the soldier’s funeral. The four psychopaths waved their anti-gay and anti-American signs like battleaxes as they charged into the grieving family.

There were no cameras around. Too much going on all over the state for the media to be everywhere at once. Maybe that’s what drove these protestors over the edge. The church members didn’t just enjoy attention, they lived for it. Perhaps they didn’t feel so insane when in the spotlight. Or maybe it wasn’t even as complicated as that–they weren’t exactly stable to begin with.

At any rate, they halted around the coffin and screamed incoherently about how “God hates fags” and this poor boy was somehow going to hell because of it. No one stopped them immediately when they began spitting on the casket, because no normal person could have ever imagined such a scenario. The fallen soldier’s father recovered first from the shock. He released his nearly apoplectic wife and ploughed a meaty fist into the face of the closest freak.

A female protestor looked aghast. “You can’t do that! This is freedom of speech!”

Another Westboro member unzipped his pants and pissed on the coffin. “Yeah, that’s assault! You’re going to jail. You have to respect different opinions. We’re going to sue you people for all you’re worth! Fag loving Satanists!”

The last semblance of civilization left the assembled friends and family. Even the bikers hung back in fear. For a few minutes, that cemetery turned into Rwanda.

An old uncle yanked the peeing man back and slammed him head first into the ground. Others ringed him, kicking wildly. He wasn’t even unconscious when the sweet young widow of the desecrated soldier snatched his fallen sign, yanked down his pants and literally shoved the thick wooden post up his ass.

From grandmothers to teenagers, everyone got in on the action. Even the minister whipped his cursing, elderly Westboro counterpart upside the head with a thick leather Bible. Almost no one’s hands were bloodless…or feet, for that matter. Of course, it was a different story when the police arrived. A hundred witnesses swore the four unarmed, mutilated bodies had attacked them.

Obviously, a simple case of self-defense. The two cops first on the scene saw the crazy signs and remembered when they tangled with these assholes before. They both shrugged, took statements and let everyone go. The cops had far more pressing matters to attend to.

Sophie took careful note of the whole thing. For years, no one had ever been able to do anything about these insane religious fanatics. More than a decade of lawsuits, court injunctions and physical threats only emboldened them. But with a little direct action, these people permanently removed that thorn in the ass of humanity. Unfortunately, that was the only lesson she learned this day. But she learned it well.

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