The high school was empty except for the auditorium, where the lights were too bright on the stage where they sat. Any of the rooms were available for them (a high school is, after all, a public place) but the stage seemed more official for their business. This group of four men was laying grounds for executing another man the next Friday morning.

Bob led the discussion. He was a simple, balding man in his mid-forties. He had a plain wife and two plain children. His job was in a plain insurance office as a plain manager. Bob thought his life wasn’t too bad. Stanley was also a part of the discussion. He was a short gym teacher, with glasses and a large mustache. Stanley was on wife three, which added a whole slew of step-things into his life. Bill worked as a janitor at a hospital. He was a single man and enjoyed living by himself. Rounding out the discussion was Roger, an accomplished graphic designer. He thought in colors and shapes. All of these men agreed that something needed to be done, and that someone needed to die.

Bob, being a manager, initiated conversation.
“So umm, what exactly are we facing here?” he said, with little emotion. Bob wasn’t always the most clued in to problems, but he could try to lead.
“Well, I’m not sure, but it sure as hell needs to stop. We can’t let them keep destroying our land like this. I live in a nice part of town, but every day it looks more and more like the ghetto. My wife is getting anxious again, and heaven forbid I have to deal with that.” Stanley breathed this all at once, like he did most of his sentences.
“Is that the issue then? What exactly are we facing? Is it teenagers with spray paint? Is it gangs? Is it a bigger issue: corporations, the Wal-Marts’ and McDonalds’ of the world,” Bob asked skeptically.
“It’s all three! Listen, our air is getting polluted, and my gym classes complain about running outside. This used to be a small town, and now it is getting bogged down by businesses and teenagers and garbage and mass transit. It isn’t long before the gangs start to appear. Just yesterday I saw fresh spray paint on the side of library. This has got to stop.”
At this point Bill decided to pipe in.
“Yes, these are all concerns. But what is the root of this problem? I mean, yeah, this stuff is all coming in, but where from? Wherever that root is, THAT is what we have to stop. And I’m willing to do what it takes.”
“But does that really warrant murder?” Roger was vocal now. “There have always been different problems in our city, but does the fact that it is growing give us the right to execute a man? It’s not good, guys. We don’t want our hands tainted with red.”
“You’ve seen how it is though, with evening news, with revolutions,” exclaimed Stanley, “blood is what speaks to people! Would you rather have it be the blood of our children, shot in some drive-by. We gotta stop this influx of people, man. It’s bad for our system.”
“That still doesn’t make it right though.”
“But it’s the only way.”

“Alright, that is enough,” said an exasperated Bob, “we seem to have reached a stand-still. I myself don’t see how this warrants murder, or even who is responsible, but this is two against two so we’ll have to look at both sides.”

So they did. Through the night they debated. It was decided that Jeff, a congressman with three kids and a pretty wife was the cause of the problems. He was the one pushing for a bigger city. Jeff was letting these developers, these adolescents, these anyone’s move in. Jeff was the one that could probably help stop this, but he did nothing. In the end it was Bill, Stanley, and passive Bob against designer Roger. Roger, seeing in colors and shapes, didn’t feel the need to take a life based on ugly things like sidewalk space or money. But, being tired, and not liking Jeff anyways, he rationalized it. At least, if nothing else, red would add a splash of color to his dull days.