Chapter 11
The Monster had, like Ruby had predicted, eaten itself to such an extent it couldn’t even smack its own lips. The media strip-mined the last gasps of umbrage and outrage. Like an inflammation not quite tamed, the rash flared again when April’s print version of The Advocate reached reader’s hands, with more complete coverage of the picketing, plus a new, scathing sidebar editorial. It included that blasted photo of me with drive-through teeth and one of Oliver Argyle I had never seen.
But the siege really telegraphed its end when the opposition dispersed. June PRIDE needed planning. There were women’s rights to deprive. All that was left behind were paint stir sticks once affixed to placards and the debris of my livelihood.
Labor Day’s arrival meant it was time to pull those l
