Wall Street

Just been doing some research on the 1920s. I happened upon the Wall Street Bombing of 1920. Holy hell, the nation was in a bit of a pickle back then. You had Bolsheviks versus arch-conservatives, locked in a struggle for the nation's soul. In most cases, the socialist threat was overstated.

Except, of course, at Wall Street. This is a fictional take on those proceedings. They happen a little before the start of my story, but I feel like it was too interesting a time to be ignored.

It was a 500,000 share kinda day on Wall Street, to the delight of capitalists everywhere. Their eyes pored over investments, selling here, buying there, trying to keep just a step ahead of a market that could make them kings or paupers. Some made wild speculations while others took educated guesses, but the result was always the same: They gambled everything for just a little more. The rich grew richer by inches and miles, while the poor retained the inheritance of the meek, a promise of otherworldly comeuppance that never came. All the while a statue of President Washington looked down on all the commerce, lamenting what his America had become. Had he not fought for a land where all men were created equal? Had he not striven for an American where the boots of the big were not planted on the backs of the small?

What happened to his dream?

At 12:01 PM, the Second American Revolution began. It wasn't fought by minutemen or rifles, by violence or declarations, but a minute timer that moved far too quickly for Bradal Kir'Feidlimid's tastes. As the seconds ticked by, Bradal looked back sadly at his Lori. She was still strapped to the wagon, still blissfully unaware. It was for the best. She was a beautiful specimen, a chestnut mare who never gave him a day's trouble rain or shine. He was loathe to give her up, but he had sworn life and limb for the revolution.

He could give up part of his heart for it.

When he turned the corner, the fuse lit, and everything went to hell. The street filled with a terrible roar, a flash of fire and the smoke that almost always follows. One hundred pounds of dynamite propelled five hundred pounds of sash weights into flesh, bone, metal and stone. Wagons were splintered, Model-Ts were tossed, and disarray became the order of the day. Lori never stood a chance.

Neither did the seventeen others killed outright. They were runners and stenographers, secretaries and clerks, men and women who had only served prestige, but never supped of it. They were on the periphery of power, but that was their value. They lay in the streets with torn limbs and unseeing eyes, given up for a greater purpose. Their bosses looked down from ten stories above in terror. Those responsible for strike-breaking, for wage-lowering, for every crime of modern America were safe and snug in their offices, protected by the best security money could buy. 

The sight below was the only thing the American dollar couldn't protect them from. They had received their message loud and clear, planted deep in the heart of commerce. Capitalism wouldn't be allowed to stand, no matter the price. Entrepreneurs might be able to call down the Army, but their opponents weren't defenseless. They were faceless, they were legion, and they could strike without warning. The dead and dying were only promises of things to come, the first volley fired in a coming war. 

Capitalists rushed to their telephones with unseemly haste.

It was a 500,000 share kinda day, to the delight of Bolsheviks everywhere. Their eyes pored over the carnage, and they knew the revolution had started on American soil. No longer would men bow to capitalist kings, those who hoarded oil and wheat as they conducted backroom deals. Mankind, human and inhuman would rise up, joining the brotherhood of workers and strive for an age of equality. The future was bright.

Maybe that's why Bradal Kir'Feidlimid tugged the black cap over his eyes.