The cure for Detroit

 

Ol' Remus

It's late evening in Detroit. Here and there we see the first flickers of random arson, the pale yellow flash of gunfire, the glint of moonlight off copper and aluminum as it's spirited away. In the distance a pack of feral dogs barks. Nearby we hear the happy trash talk of a gang rape in progress. The murderometer totals up at a somewhat more urgent pace. Detroit is settling into its lunatic nighttime routine. 

Tonight will be different. A low rumble seems to well up from the ground, dishes dance in the cupboards as heavy aircraft approach from every nation with wit enough to save itself, menacing and ponderous, arriving in waves from horizon to horizon. The ground erupts in marching ranks of explosions, continuous concussions roll across the land, buildings and bridges and streets disappear outward and upward. Later, teams with flamethrowers and bulldozers crisscross the ruins. Then, quiet. Beneath the acrid ground fog not one brick stands on another. Dawn reveals a far horizon in all directions, ready for farm-fresh, Too Small To Fail homesteaders. Detroit has found its rightful destiny, and only a little sooner than if unassisted.