After a week in the hospital with a mediocre case of COVID-19, the discharging doctor told Sterling he was one very lucky boy.

Yeah, Sterling said, lucky to be able to cover the bill for this capitalistic overpriced flophouse with my old man’s health insurance card.

The doctor remained emotionless.

I mean lucky to recover from COVID, she said. You’re young and fortunate enough to heal from this disease for now. We don’t know if you might get infected again. You might suffer long-term lung damage. Maybe heart trouble.

Sterling smirked.

If you give me a script for opioids I’ll get constipated, too.

The doctor frowned.

Have a nice life, son, she said.

Lighting a joint he bought from an orderly, Sterling hit the road. Now what? There’s no place like home, he thought, remembering the line from the Wizard of Oz, his favorite movie to watch stoned. Spotting a Ford dealership on the corner, he stepped into the showroom. Pointing to the 2020 metallic purple Ford Mustang GT Coupe, Sterling said, I’ll take one of those.

A timeless classic design with the performance to match, the masked salesman said.

Whatever, Sterling said.

Handing over the Platinum American Express card he received on his eighteenth birthday Sterling asked the salesman if he could pay with plastic if he added a $200 tip.

The customer is always right, sir, the salesman said.

Sterling asked another question.

You worried about coming down with the coronavirus?

I try to be careful, the salesman said.

That’s your problem, Sterling said.

By sunset, Sterling was cruising east on Interstate 80, his thoughts racing through empty fields on both sides of the highway.

Ashley did what she had to do, dumping him sick alongside the road. If their paths ever crossed again he’d act like nothing happened. Ignore her. Offer to buy her a tofu burger with organic ketchup. Heading home to propagate revolution and disorder among his neighbors, Sterling missed his boys from high school, the gang from the golf team who bought his weed and whatever other drugs he could round up. His teeneybopper pot business should be easy to resume. Adults love their cannabis, too. No public official in Pennsylvania will advocate legalizing weed, though, because these Pennsylvania Dutch tight asses have enough on their minds working to put prayer back in school.

Ashley’s idea of insurrection did appeal to him. Too girly, though. Burn baby burn made more sense now than the slogan he saw on a TV movie did in the 60s. This is the 20s, dude.  Remember the Roaring 20s? Well, this is the Boring 20s. Shake shit up by blowing shit up.

Anarchy, man.

Laughing uncontrollably, Sterling drove onto the berm of the road and adjusted, overcompensating and almost losing control of the high-powered Mustang. Driving straight through he’d be back in PeeAyy, as people called his state, before morning. Not even sure how to spell antifa let alone carry out a guerrilla operation on the group’s behalf, Sterling pondered his goals. He didn’t have any. What did he believe in? Nothing. To him, nothing defined everything.

Anarchy, man.

All he knew was he wanted to rage against the machine the way those older guys in the band of the same name did only more explosively. Resistance meant graffiti, vandalism to statues and breaking every law he could break.

Anarchy, man.

Boom, Sterling said.

The man, the system, the establishment all had to go.

Sterling planned to just waltz into his family’s dining room for dinner tomorrow night, like nothing happened, asking for somebody to pass the biscuits, please. He’d been gone for two weeks but neither his mother nor father wanted any disruption to their affluent comfort so nobody would ask where he’d been.

The family that strays together stays together.

From now on, Sterling would carefully pick his targets.

Blame antifa. Blame the Blacks. Blame Mexico. Blame Trump. Blame Biden.

See how much damage he could do before he got caught.

He’d show Ashley what rebellion looked like.

Sterling put down the window and shouted into a cornfield.

This is what rebellion looks like!

Then he stepped on the gas. At 128 mph he let up. Maybe he should just floor it until the speedometer blew up. Kill himself. Slam head-on into a school bus. Crash through a McDonald’s drive-in window and, if he survived, order a Big Mac when paramedics arrived to pry him from the wreckage.

Pounding the steering wheel and laughing again, Sterling slowed to the speed limit. Looking into the rear view mirror, he saw the state trooper closing in and pass, eventually disappearing into the dark horizon.

Sterling had an idea.

Maybe he’d just start shooting cops.

Anarchy, man.