Matt and Imamu looked at themselves in the floor-length mirror. “Now we look like proper Jihadis,” Imamu said with a hidden grin. “Let’s go, the funeral’s almost over.”

Covered in black cloth from head to toe with only a small strip to see through, the two looked like they just stepped in from the desert locales where all the videos came from. All they needed was the AK47. Matt looked up at his mentor, larger and older than himself and thought they looked dark and dangerous, powerful. He liked the feeling.

Imamu owned and operated the laundromat where Matt’s mom used to do their wash, before she got her own washer and dryer. He loved his Moms; she had worked so hard, overtime every day, to save up enough for that little luxury. Matt was glad because he had to help her carry the wash down the street from their 4th floor apartment and then back again. He met Imamu at the laundromat one afternoon when the man was maintaining his machines.

Imamu took an immediate shine to the young boy and Matt, fatherless, responded in kind. Also a cleric for the local mosque, Imamu spent much time initiating the boy in the teachings of Mohammed, liberally salted with radical politics. Matt’s mom, a staunch, practicing Southern Baptist who took Matt to church every Sunday, didn’t care much for Islam but thought it was important her son be allowed to make up his own mind about what to believe. She trusted her son. Matt, basically a good kid, wasn’t ready to convert to Islam but he did find it interesting. He didn’t mention the politics to her because Imamu said not to, she wouldn’t understand.

A lot of people were on the street near the church where the funeral of another black victim of horrible police brutality was coming to a close. There were many signs, from home made jobs—cardboard and magic markers, to professionally printed placards with big red letters. “No Justice, No Peace!” most of them said.

The two black clad men went into the crowd. “Ahh, over here,” Imamu said and they went over to a group of others similarly clad as themselves. He saw Femi, one of his best friends and another of Imamu’s erstwhile disciples.

Imamu was in animated conversation with another adult in black clothing. “All we have to do is get it started,” the other said. “Then sit back and let it play out.” The man pointed to a drug store down the street. “Station some men down there,” he said. “and have them throw some bricks through the storefront windows when I give the signal.”

Imamu collected Matt and Femi and they began to make their way down the street. They passed animated protestors who faced grim, stony faced, armored police, palpable tension on a slow boil. Demonstrators shouted a cacophony, together and at random: “No justice, no peace!”, “Don’t shoot!”, “Black lives matter!”

They were almost to the drugstore when Femi said, “Hey, Matt, isn’t that your moms?”

The moment Matt looked to where Femi was pointing, he saw that it was his mother and, in the same instant, she locked eyes with him. She can’t know it’s me, he thought, not in this costume. He was wrong.

“Matthew Johnson Davis! I know it’s you!” she said as she rushed up to him like a charging bear. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She slapped him ‘upside his head’ and grabbed at his hood, trying to pull it off. She shot a glare at Imamu, “You did this,” she scowled fiercely, “I know what you’re up to and I won’t let you get away with it!” Matt had never seen his moms so angry and was afraid.

Imamu only stared back. She couldn’t see the quivering smile behind his mask.

She slapped at her son again, “You get home and get that hateful clothing off right now!” she nearly screamed. “Get moving or I’ll kick your black ass the whole way! MOVE!” This she did scream at the top of her lungs.

She harried him down the street, away from the demonstration. “I didn’t work my ass off my whole life so we could live decently, so we could have some peace and quiet, some small happiness, some kind of future, just so some moron kid can go burn it all down. What the hell are you thinking, Matthew? I thought I taught you better. I thought I taught you the important things. You’d better get your priorities straight, kid!” She went upside his head again.

Imamu watched them as they left the scene. That woman’s trouble, he thought, I’d better stay away from her . . . and her kid.