“It’s too soon,” he said. “If we give them freedom now, we won’t live to see the sunset.”
He walked up to the window bars and looked out over his constituents. “They just don’t understand,” he sighed. “It’s a dangerous world, and we’re just trying to protect them.”
He waved his hand at the guard by the gate.
With that, the gas canisters were fired, and the men and women and the children outside the gates pulled up their face covers, expecting the burning they knew so well, expecting the heaving and knowing the batons were coming.
But the batons remained in the belt loops, protected behind the gates. The gas was no longer tear gas that merely burned the eyes and lungs. It was replaced with a deadly neurotoxin. Cheaper this way: no prisons, no trials, and certainly no lawyers or courts.
Four hours later when the last of the protestors had finally dropped dead from the final chemically-induced brain hemmorhage, he waved his hand again. More gas, this time a neutralizer that would clear the air.
As he walked over the bodies later that evening, he picked up a baseball cap, dusted it off, and put it on his head. “Just keeping them safe. Play ball.”