Red Black Rainbow

As the sun went down on 116th Street that Wednesday evening, Rainbow wondered again who those two men that had shown up were.  
How had the one felt so emboldened that he raised his arm in a Nazi salute without thinking twice?
Then remembering she had pulled the trigger on her useless staple gun without thinking reflected that maybe she just knew how to hate him the right way, right away, and that he was an ignorant jackass who had probably never read a history book or grown up with an adult in his life who told him he was wrong. 

Rainbow flipped the latch on the smoker and jabbed her thermometer in one of the chickens and watched as the little red arrow climbed across the 80s, 90s, through the low 100s, and then settled in the wedge with a cartoon chicken on it. 
She pulled the bird and dropped it into a to-go container, nested in a bed of red and white parchment paper and taped it shut. 

She closed the door and flung the latch, and then over the wooden fence separating her yard from the beer garden at #45, she saw a large block of wood, it looked like a fence post, but what was it doing standing on its own in the middle of their yard? 
“Mind your own business, Rainbow,” she said to the boxed chicken, “those people are trouble, and the more you get involved, the more trouble you're bound to get into.”