This is based on the song Know Your Rights by The Clash.

1. You have the right to not be killed.

Blood oozed from the wounds. Bullet holes. Nasty. Painful. The crime was committed by an officer of the law. A corrupt individual. One of those bad cops who give all the good one's a bad name. The pitiful creature on the ground groaned. Attempted to move. Attempted to speak. But all that happened was a small gurgling sound and blood passed the lips, dripped down the face, and landed on the ground. Helping the growing, sticky, red puddle grow faster. Limbs shuddered as Death approached on its pale horse. The pathetic individual tried once more to move. No doubt to beg for help but the person was only greeted with the cold laughter of the man in blue. He had nothing to worry about. After all, all he had to say was that the dying person had come at him. With a gun. A knife. It didn't matter any weapon would do. It was self-defense. A cop could do no wrong. Yet still everyone hated the police. Groups wrote songs call "Cop Killer" and "Fuck Tha Police". Why? Men like the one standing over the new corpse was a savior. He protected. Served the people. Cared about the people. He cared alright. About the people who could pay him off. The rich people. Surprisingly he was one of the unbiased cops. He could care less about poor people, white, black, Latino, or any other ethnicity. Money. That's what was important. Cold, hard cash. The murder...cop was a man just like any other. He had habits to pay for. Women to seduce with promises of riches. Women to use and then discard. Maybe he'd find a nice, younger woman tonight. Have his fun with her, knock her around, and then leave. God Bless the Law Enforcement.

2. You have the right to food-money.

The little girl could barely climb into the large dumpster. Her emaciated limbs were weak. Shaking. But she knew if she didn't do it. Didn't propel herself into that filthy mass of trash. She wouldn't eat yet again. If she missed a few more meals, she'd die. She knew that. Starvation had wizened her beyond her years. Not many years had she been alive. She wasn't even into the double digits yet. But like any other child if you asked her how old she is, she'd shyly hold out her fingers as she told you. But who would ask her that question. Very few people saw her. Even if she was right in their path, crying miserably at the hunger gnawing at her stomach. She was by virtue invisible. Well fed people in suits, with nice polished shoes, could pay her any mind. She didn't exist. Not in this day and age. And by noticing her they would have to acknowledge that the world was far from perfect. That hunger and starvation still existed. That a little girl had to dumpster dive just to survive. That a little girl would probably never become a pre-teen. And the few that did notice her? They stayed away. Anyone who would eat trash that other's had thrown out would willing without a thought attack an innocent person. It was just the way of life. They didn't like it but it was the truth. The truth of our broken society. So the little girl was left to fend for herself. There were no shelters in this city and if she were to try and get help she'd need her mother. Her mother was strung out. Begging money and then using it for drugs. Even if she was little she didn't want people to see her mother. It was embarrassing. So she rummaged through the trash bags. Occasionally finding a little morsel of half rotten food to shove into her mouth. The food no doubt festering the growth of all types of bacteria and viruses. What a perfect world?

3. You have the right to free speech.

Loud. It was loud with all the people chanting together. "War is wrong." "No innocent blood." And other recycled yet still meaningful saying, slogans, and propaganda. The protesters were passionate. You could taste their anger on the air. Drifting in the wind towards the men with guns, masks, and shields. So far they didn't have to move. Didn't have to do anything. But their fingers were itching. They wanted to go down in history as stopping a riot. They wanted to be brave. But the protest was far from a riot. People were standing right where they were supposed to, not hurting anyone. Just peacefully protesting. Suddenly the crowd fell silent. One person came from out of the crowd. They headed towards the men with guns. There was something in the persons hands. Something the men couldn't make out as the person kept it behind their back. They "shouted" to the person. Told them to stop. But they still kept coming. The crowd was silent. The guns were raised. Warnings were shouted. But shouted in an incomprehensible way. The approached continued. Hands still hidden. Finally the person was close enough. There was no way to tell who fired the first shot. A barrage of bullets went towards the protester. Some hit their mark. Other's went into the crowd. Innocent protesters were killed. The lone protester who had been so foolish as to advance fell to the ground. Flowers from the bouquet in their hands scattered to the ground. Sprinkled with bloody dew. No one would know what the person had the flowers for. Maybe to mimic the protests of old and put them in the barrels of the guns. Maybe. But who would ever know now?