Flagwavers - a fable

“I’ll tell you how,” Dick said. “The three of us will go to everybody in town, and ask them to fly a flag on their house or business. Don’t tell them about the contest. Just appeal to their patriotism. Tell them it’s un-American not to fly a flag during wartime. We’ll soon have this town covered in red-white-and-blue. It won’t be so bad if we spilt up the work. George, you take the East Side. And remember, that’s where the main road into town is located, so it’s the road the judges are most likely to take. Karl, you take the South Side, and I’ll take the West and North. We’ll meet back here in a week to see how we’re doing.”

IV.

The following week Karl could hardly contain his excitement. “You guys won’t believe this. There’s a flag flying from every building on the South Side, even the empty ones, and Coney Blair covered his entire front lawn with American flags. And he ain’t even an American citizen!”

“I ran into a little resistance,” Dick stated. “But when I told those hold-outs that they either get with the program or Jan Koultere might write some nasty stuff about them in the local newspaper, they soon saw the light.”

Karl laughed, “Nothing like the power of hatred and hypocrisy to get things moving.”

“And to get rich,” Dick added.

Suddenly the two men noticed that George had been uncommonly silent. “What’s wrong man? You haven’t run into any problems have you?”

“Well, one,” George awkwardly replied.

“What is it?”

“It’s old man Murphy. I tried to convince him to fly a flag, but you know him. He’s stubborn and says he ain’t gonna do it.”

“Oh well, that’s just one out of a whole town,” Karl mumbled.

Dick’s eyes flared angrily. “One nothing! His house is on the main road. It will probably be one of the first things the judges see. There’s no way we’re gonna win that contest unless there’s a flag flying on Murphy’s property.”

“I guess he has the right,” George responded. “After all, Dictator Bush keeps telling us we’re fighting for freedom.”

Dick slammed his fist on the table. “Free doesn’t mean free. It means free to buy big screen televisions and computers, eat fast food, play video games, drink beer, and watch sports or reality shows on TV. It doesn’t mean that a person should be free to think for himself. If everybody did that, there would be nothing but anarchy.”

“Wait a minute Dick,” Karl said. “Maybe there’s another reason. Old man Murphy isn’t very well off financially from what I can see. Maybe he just can’t afford a brand new flag.”

George nodded. “That’s a thought. Maybe he’ll fly it if we buy him one.”

Dick slapped both hands on the table and stood up. “Well I suppose an investment of a few dollars is worth it if the tradeoff is a hundred grand. Let’s do it. No time like the present.”

V.

Karl’s knuckles had barely tapped on Murphy’s screen door before the hinges screeched open. The old man stepped onto the porch and eyed his three callers suspiciously. “What can I do for you fellas?” he asked.

“Mr. Murphy,” George said. “We bought you this American flag so you can fly it like the rest of the town is doing. It’s actually made in China, but the fabric is real soft, great for blowing in the breeze. The pole is solid steel, so you won’t have to worry about it breaking in a high wind like a wooden pole would.”

“I thought I told you I wasn’t interested,” Murphy replied.

“You know we’re at war old man,” Karl responded.

“I read the papers. And I’m old enough to know that war ain’t no game or way to get rich or famous while others are dying.”

Dick grabbed the flag and approached Murphy angrily. “Look buddy. What you’re saying could be construed as un-American. Maybe you ought to think about that.”

Without a word, Murphy turned to reenter his house. But, before his hand could reach the doorknob, two dull thumps, in rapid succession, resounded across the porch.

“What the hell did you do that for?” George asked, as Dick removed the bloody flagpole from Murphy’s shattered skull.

Karl reflexively leaned down to take Murphy’s pulse. “He ain’t dead. But he’s hurt pretty bad. We gotta do something about this. I didn’t agree to this scheme to do time for attempted murder.”

Dick smiled. “Hell, nobody saw us. Besides, accidents happen all the time. Karl, why don’t you get that can of gasoline from the back of my truck. And George, why don’t you get the hose and wash off the flagpole. And make sure you don’t get any of Murphy’s blood on the flag. After all, we wouldn’t want to break the law by violating the Constitution’s flag desecration amendment.

Epilogue

“So what do you think happened here sheriff?” the deputy asked as they sorted through the still smoldering remains of Murphy’s home.

“Well, old Murphy was a smoker. He probably fell asleep with a lit cigar in his hand.”

The deputy nudged a small metallic box with the toe of his shoe. “Here’s something that isn’t burned,” he said. “Want to take a look inside?”

The sheriff nodded. After several minutes of clawing and prying, the lid of the box reluctantly fell open. “Well, I’ll be damned,” the sheriff muttered.

Taped inside the lid was a faded photograph of a smiling young man in a military uniform. Inside the box was a yellowed newspaper clipping telling the story of how a soldier named Andy Murphy prevented an ambush by fighting off several enemy soldiers single-handedly. Underneath the clipping, resting inconspicuously in the blue felt lining, was the Medal of Honor.

David R. Hoffman
Legal Editor of Pravda. Ru.,
Copr. 2006.

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