Red And Blue States Combative Competition

Hearing screeching Beltway Express luxury locomotion breaks applied, the commuter transportation opened its doors, allowing anyone purchasing a railly good travelling opportunity ticket, safe passage.

“Isn’t it interesting how our city’s name fits inside the enemies?” An enthusiastic youthful image exclaimed boarding a few feet away while flirting with a camera that takes still photographs.

“I know we are going to win the competition,” the friend expressed as the small multi car vehicle enclosed its customers fulfilling a promise,

Listening.  I seemed distracted, putting down the opinion newspaper pages displaying both argument sides. No longer interested in the printed “Star Times Insight Reported” editorial debate, I ventured towards the pair, disrupting a natural social scene.

“Where are you going in those short and jersey uniforms?” A passenger service assistant inquired, seeing the plastic credentials, noting they were important.

“Someone awarded us the best house seats,” I ease dropped detecting an innocent smile emerging from the one holding a cell phone with capturing moving pictures capability.

Identification badges hung from Raymond and James' neck alerting the public ‘give proper clearance’.

“Why are you two crossing over the border inside the beltway?” Politely I interrupted.

“We live in the blue state,” Raymond started

“Invading the red state,” James continued, “describe today’s scheduled confrontation spectacle, document the truth.”

“May I ask you? What you have to with beltway sporting exhibition secrecy events?”

“We are the future,” Raymond agreed.

“And the world is ours,” James emphasized encouraging elder’s retreat.

Soon the line ended conjuring a blared announcement, “please depart and your patronage we thank.”

Getting up, Raymond and James inflicted respectable tones, “nice talk old timer, we appreciated the input.”

Offering one gratitude hand gesture, I watched the aging adolescents disappear, despite being right behind them.  Observing the full landscape, monitoring the boys occupy the platform, performing final presentation rehearsals, only instigated my remark, “Good luck in what you are looking for,” I expressed, “but let me tell you, this is a place you do not belong, the conflict started before both of you were even born.”

“We need to secure our tomorrows,” Raymond defended.

“Yes, the red and blue civil war needs resolution,” James stated when crackling sounds exploded.

“Fireworks? Conflict must be over,”

“No sons,” I corrected hiding the grinding axe underneath my trenchcoat, “gunfire, you really do not need to be here.”

“We got to check it out,” expressed Raymond and James.

“If you change your mind, take the jughandle route. It's a way to get to the return home tracks,” I suggested grabbing an elevator before pressing down.

Feeling like daily stripes were earned, evening beckoned as I sat in the glowing white kitchen with my decade’s committed wife’s starry eyes staring down her oven baking homemade cottage pie.

“Did you grind your axe at what you wanted axe grinding at?” She asked, serving me the potatoes and beef.

“Blue and red states are still having their civil war,” I mentioned adding cholesterol butter to the mashed Irish delicacy, “saw two boys wanting to get answers.”

“Did they get them?”

“I said this is not a place for them when we heard the boom sound special effects but,”

“Boys are boys,”

Seeing the clock reminded me, the war game result radio broadcast show and I activated the tabletop device receiving immediate information, “another dramatic down to the wire day at the park and once again we won,” the unseen voice paused, “lives were lost though, two lads who had the best seats in the house were both hit with foul ball shrapnel and succumbed to injuries.”

“I gave a warning, you do not belong here, you have nothing to do with this embarrassing deadly sight,” sorrowfully I surmised.

“And were you supposed to be there with a grinding axe?” My wife challenged.

“I thought about it and when I heard gunfire, I turned back, came home,”

“The wiser decision opposed to maturing enthusiasm,”

“It was that maturing enthusiasm that built this country’s foundation,” I reminded my wife.

“And today we play games without anyone dying,”

“Except from foul ball shrapnel,”

Changing the subject my wife reminded me of the jazz concert,

“Am I supposed to be there?” I inquired.

“No, you are supposed to be here with me, I love you,” she recounted.

“I love you too.” I agreed ending, my exhausting newsworthy recreational activity interest.