Monthly Archives: June 2015

Adventure, Crime, Music

An Alpha Male Hot-Rods Through SJW-World

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SJW=Social Justice Whiner.

I’ve never taken drugs but I understand that pushers often hand out the first fix for free in order to get somebody hooked. Cunning strategy, sez I.

So starting today, the E-Book of Shadow Hand Blues will be free on Amazon for a few days.

Deke Jones debuted in Fast Cars and Rock & Roll, where he learned some lessons about women, and people in general, while playing in a band and racing in a “One Lap of America”-style campaign.

This  time it is his private investigator creds which are put to the test.

The purchase of a vintage electric guitar leads Jones into a 40-year-old cold case murder mystery involving an enigmatic blues man, swindling record producers, hop-head disc jockeys, and dead prostitutes.

To dig through all that, Jones has to temporarily set up shop in a bizarre hippie town seemingly caught in a time warp. Meanwhile Deke encounters some of his old friends, a sweet country girl and an intriguing older woman…just to name a few.

Suffice it to say: there’s a lot more that comes to light than just clearing up the murder.

 

Politics/Current Events, Socio-Sexual Studies

The Wussification of the American Male

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There are too many trends on too many fronts, pushing toward the demise of this nation, for me or anyone to document thoroughly. I pay attention most to our financial and political suicide. I virtually ignore the foreign policy disasters engineered in Washington (arming and funding radical Islam; provoking Russia toward war after weakening our military more than anyone will admit and utterly neglecting–if not scuttling–any tenable defense of the home land; etc.).

But there are even more fundamental causes for why life as we know it is coming to an end. While our constitutional republic is dismantled before our eyes, basic human characteristics like our intellectual capacity, our moral compass, the nuclear family and the very gender laws of nature seem to be on the ropes.

One of the cancers eating away at us has focused on masculinity itself. First it confused us about what manhood even is; now it’s poised to eradicate it altogether. When young men and boys are being bombarded with the message that Bruce Jenner is the model of courage, only the depraved can deny our state of depravity.

Of course femininity has been nearly eradicated in this country as well–among females, anyway. But I don’t speak female, so that’s for a woman to address. A real woman, that is.

But while good men did nothing, these attacks were launched long before most victims were old enough to vote. They were launched through the culture–and pop culture specifically.

For decades, only one side showed up to fight in the war for our culture.  The efforts of guys like us at Virtual Pulp, the Puppies, and others might be too little/too late, but as for me…I’m going to at least put up a fight.

Sneak Peek/Sample Chapters, Socio-Sexual Studies, TEOTWAWKI

Who Gets Blamed Automatically For Domestic Violence?

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7

Y MINUS FIVE

AMARILLO, TEXAS

Joe Tasper pulled his boots on while his girlfriend continued to rant. His headache was getting worse.

He had to raise his voice to be heard over her tirade. “You don’t need any more jewelry, Crystal. And I sure don’t need to run my credit card up any higher.”

“If it was something for your car or your stupid computer, you’d put it on your credit card!” she said, spittle flying from her mouth.

She was about five-foot-seven, had multicolored hair and piercings in various places. When he first got with her she seemed normal and was attractive. Since she’d been with him, her persona had grown more and more bizarre; she grew overweight; and she started fights all the time about nothing.

“Why does it have to go on the credit card anyway?” Crystal demanded. “What have you been doing with the money that you hide from me?”

“Paying bills,” he said, tying his work boots. “Like the electric bill that’s more than doubled since you moved in. And the phone bill, since you insist on exceeding your minutes every month.”

“Oh, don’t you dare blame me for your money troubles, Joe! It’s not my fault that your job is for losers. Maybe if you’d have gotten an education, you could have found something that pays decent.”

He finished tying his laces and stood. “Oh, like your fancy college degree is doing you so much good? Go buy your own trinkets if your education is so great at generating money.”

Her face beet red, she stepped forward, poking her index finger toward his face, and called him a few unflattering names. “You would belittle my education, you pathetic moron! You’re so threatened that I’ve accomplished more than you have; that I have a degree…”

He stepped around her, pushing her finger out of his personal space, and strode for the door. “You wanna give me something to feel threatened about? Get off your ass and find a job. Bring home some money to help with the bills for a change, instead of just spending it faster than I can make it.”

“Oh, you think you’re a ‘real man’ because you go screw around with your buddies all day and get a paycheck for it?” Crystal asked, shrilly. “I bet Jordan doesn’t mind buying his girlfriend something nice once in a while. I’ll bet…”

The rest of her words didn’t register. He was blown away by the idea that she believed his grueling, dead-end blue-collar job was “screwing around with his buddies all day.” She made it sound like he was at some fun party six days a week, instead of working himself half to death. Was she really that delusional?

The distraction of this thought must have slowed his stride, because she raced past him despite the weight of her flab, and barricaded herself in front of the door.

“You’re not going to walk away from me this time!” she declared.

He rolled his eyes. “You’re complaining about how I don’t have enough money to buy stupid shit, so you’re gonna keep me from going to work? How much sense does that make?”

“It’s not stupid! You want to know what stupid shit is? It’s spending hundreds of dollars on a stupid pickup truck you don’t need!”

“Oh, I don’t need it?” he retorted. “Like how we used it to move all your crap over from your mom’s apartment?”

She was ready with a remark, as always, but changed gears when he picked her up and set her down over to the side so he could open the door. She screamed out as if she’d been injured, and screeched obscene insults while flailing wildly at him. One of her clawing hands caught his shirt and tore it right down the front.

Joe felt himself losing his temper, and had to get out of there. He stepped through the door and slammed it behind him, which at least muffled the volume of her tirade. Now he had to show up for work wearing only a partial shirt. He wasn’t sure how serious a reprimand he’d get for that, but he knew better than to go back inside and try to get an undamaged one with Crystal on the rampage.

He got in his car and started it, itching to take off right away but not wanting to strain the engine before it warmed up. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, he saw he was bleeding from scratches under his eye inflicted by her fingernails when she clawed at him.

He heard a door slam and craned his neck around toward the source of the noise. Crystal was charging toward him. She had taken his baseball bat from inside his closet and wielded it like a weapon. He rolled down his window and shouted, “That’s mine, Crystal! Put it back where you found it and calm down!”

“Calm down?” she repeated. “You want me to calm down?” While hurling more insults, she swung the bat with all her strength into his windshield.

The glass was shatterproof, but the blow cracked it into a spiderweb pattern.

Now he was pissed. He got out of the car and stalked toward Crystal.

She held the bat cocked, threatening to smash his head with it. He grabbed it and yanked it out of her hands.

“Listen, bitch,” Joe said, straining to control violent impulses, “get the hell away from me; get your ass back in the house and keep your big damn mouth shut! We’ll deal with this when I get back.” He tossed the bat in the back seat and began to open the car door again.

He wouldn’t have guessed she could act any crazier, but she went completely berserk now. All she heard was the word “bitch,” and she became a windmill, trying to punch and kick him repeatedly.

He caught one wrist as she was trying to hit his face. She swung with her other arm and he caught that wrist. She kicked him in the groin and spit in his face. Reeling from the pain, he let go of one wrist and wiped the spit off. She took advantage of the opportunity to slap him.

She’d slapped him several times in these stupid altercations since they’d been together, and he’d never retaliated. All his life he’d heard it was wrong to hit females, so he put up with a lot because he had no choice. But at that moment he stopped caring what he’d been taught.

He slapped her and she went down, wailing, gasping, staring up at him in horror.

He spit on her, got in the car and drove away.

Joe had almost made it to work when the cop car pulled up behind him with flashing lights.

Great. Now he was going to be ticketed for the windshield, which was going to make it even harder to scrape up the money to replace it. And it would make him late for work. He had already missed several days at his job due to Crystal’s unlimited supply of personal crises, and was probably close to getting fired.

He had to get her out of his life. He was a fool for ever letting her in.

Two cops got out of their car and walked up to stand at both Joe’s doors. He rolled his window back down.

“Is your name Joe Tasper?” the cop nearest him asked.

That was weird. Usually they asked for the driver’s license and registration first before they let on that they knew his identity. Joe confirmed who he was and the cop rattled off his address, asking if Joe lived there. Joe confirmed again.

“I need you to get out of the car, Mr. Tasper.”

Joe complied, asking, “What’s going on, officer?” as he stepped out.

“Face your vehicle and place your hands on the roof, please,” the cop said, with a hard ugly look.

“Whoa, wait,” Joe protested. “What’s going on?”

“Just do what I said, Mr. Tasper.”

The cop nearest him had handcuffs in his left hand, his right hand resting on his gun butt, thumb under the holster snap. The other cop was circling around to sandwich Joe from the other side, something black in his hand.

“Are you arresting me?”

“We are placing you under arrest, yes.”

“For a busted windshield? It’s my own car; and I’m not even the one who did it.”

“You’re under arrest for aggravated assault,” the cop said.

Joe groaned. Crystal again. The gift that just kept on giving.

“Listen, officer, if there was any assault that happened today, it was against me. I was kicked in the groin; slapped in the face; my clothes torn up; windshield smashed… You can see my face is bleeding, right?”

The cop coming up behind him said something, but Joe only caught part of it: “…You get for abusing…”

“No, you listen,” the other cop growled. “I said turn around and put your hands on the car!”

Again Joe swallowed his anger. There was nothing he could do right then to avoid getting arrested, so he spun in place and began leaning forward. But before his hands made contact with the car, two sharp objects pierced the skin in his side. He had time to look down at the source of the pain and form the word “tazer” in his mind, then he was on the ground, flopping like a fish.

###

There are supporting characters in False Flag who play a significant part in the story–partly because they’re just normal citizens in worsening circumstances. Joe Tasper is one such character.

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

###

The Kindle version of False Flag is on sale for 99 cents for one more day.  After that it will likely jump to a price point that is around $4.

CORRECTION: Price will remain $2.99 for two weeks.

The paperback will probably stay at its current price for a long time. As lengthy as the novel is, it can’t really sell for less and be profitable.

###

Espionage, Politics/Current Events

Chinese Hackers and the Inevibility of War

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The latest cyber-attack by the Red Chinese is being compared to Pearl Harbor.

The Washington Post reported that this is part of an ongoing strategy by which Beijing is gaining unprecedented digital power over the American people by “building massive databases of Americans’ personal information by hacking government agencies and U.S. health-care companies, using a high-tech tactic to achieve an age-old goal of espionage: recruiting spies or gaining more information on an adversary.” Rich Barger, chief intelligence officer of the cybersecurity firm ThreatConnect, based in Northern Virginia, said, “They’re definitely going after quite a bit of personnel information. We suspect they’re using it to understand more about who to target.”

It’s a little like the trick-or-treating strategy employed by street bullies: Rather than do the hard work of going door-to-door collecting the loot, let someone else do it for you and then simply steal it from them. With U.S. government three-letter agencies conducting intrusive surveillance on the American people, the shortest path to that data is to hack those databases and steal it. And it appears this is exactly what China is doing. This is precisely what groups such as the Electronic Frontier Foundation have warned about as part of their opposition to the blanket surveillance conducted by these overreaching agencies.

 

In the late ’90s, intelligence sources reported that the Chinese High Command considered a war with the US inevitable within 30 years.  After the treason committed by the Clinton Administration, our strategic assets were compromised and Red China was handed technological parity to go along with its overwhelming numerical superiority. Meanwhile, the “American leadership” in Washington continues to weaken us in every way possible, except when it comes to a war with the American people that they consider inevitable.

It only makes sense that our foreign enemies would seek every possible advantage in preparing to destroy us. True, politicians are willing to hand our enemies pretty much anything they want, but the Chinese want some lower-level spies and sabateurs as well, just to have every possible base covered before they pull the trigger.

Sneak Peek/Sample Chapters, TEOTWAWKI

Tactical Training and Creepy Customers

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Things get weird starting with this and the preceding chapter. You ever ran into somebody and just knew there was something seriously wrong with them, even though technically they looked normal?

6

D MINUS 83

COCCOCINO COUNTY, ARIZONA

Dwight Cavarra measured the chemicals and prepared to mix them. In the back room shop of CBC Southwest Tactical were 21 different molds, including the one in front of him. This one was for his patented polymer pistol grip stock for the Springfield M1A.

Once the initial casting cooled, the cutting, drilling, grinding and sanding would begin. Then the bipod would be fitted, the hinged, rubber-padded butt plate affixed over the cleaning kit compartment, then the whole assembly boxed for shipping.

The cheap walkie-talkie squawked in Cavarra’s breast pocket. “I need to talk to you when you get a minute, Rocco.”

He held the radio to his mouth and thumbed the push-to-talk button. “I’ll be right out.”

Cavarra—”Rocco” to his friends—was built stocky, and his once black hair was now mostly white. His swarthy Sicilian features and cauliflower ears had earned him the ethnically insensitive nickname, which stuck no matter where he went. But whereas he once resembled a mob enforcer, he now looked more like a mafia don.

He left the shop to enter the front counter area. Waiting for him was Leon Campbell. Leon was tall, lanky, with a dark brown complexion, and coarse black hair buzzed close to his scalp.

Out in the lobby the television was on, turned to Fox News. Rocco had sworn off TV in general, and the lapdog media in particular. But customers liked to watch it while waiting around, and Fox at least allowed some diversity of opinion…up to a point. A customer sat on one of the padded chairs in the lobby, staring at the screen.

“What’s up?” Rocco asked Leon.

“Probably in your office would be better,” Leon replied in his lazy marble-mouthed Georgia drawl.

Just then Carlos Bojado entered through the front door, with a tricked-out SKS rifle in one hand. Carlos was about Cavarra’s height, but still in really good shape, like Leon. He had a few white hairs now himself, though.

Even the young guys are getting long-in-the-tooth, Cavarra thought.

“I need to talk, too,” Carlos said, slipping his radio into his cargo pocket.

Cavarra gestured toward his office. “Let’s all go back, then.”

The three of them entered Rocco’s office. He didn’t take the chair behind his desk, but sat with them on the furniture in front of it.

The walls were covered with plaques, framed photographs and certificates from the Navy and Naval Special Warfare. One of the pictures, taken in a temporary encampment in the Sudan which officially never existed, captured three men in the “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” pose. The man covering his mouth: Cole; and the one covering his ears: Fava-Vargas, were long dead. The man covering his eyes was Tommy Scarred Wolf. Another photo captured Tommy, Rocco, Leon, Carlos and Jake McCallum posing together on the deck of a cargo ship. They had been the only survivors (save for a couple pilots) of that mission in Sudan all those years ago.

“You first, Leon,” Cavarra said.

“This cat out there,” Leon said, chinning toward the door, “the one in the lobby?”

Cavarra nodded. “He’s the one wants to order all the night vision and ballistic armor, right?”

An order like this one would go far toward making this a profitable fiscal quarter.

“Somethin’ about the dude bothers me,” Leon said. “I don’t wanna sell him nothin’. I wanna tell him to hit the trail and don’t come back.”

“This must be the day for it,” Carlos said. “This guy I got…”

Cavarra’s eyebrows furrowed and he raised his hand to interrupt Carlos. “One at a time. What’s wrong with him, Cannonball?”

Leon fidgeted in his seat. “I don’t know, exactly. I’m gettin’ a bad vibe from him. Gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“Think he might be from the Alphabets?” Cavarra asked. All three of them were careful to keep everything about the business above-board and adherent to current legislation. But of course legality didn’t guarantee tolerance from the federal government.

Leon shrugged. “I mean, he could be ATF or FBI or somethin’. But I think it’s deeper than that. I can’t prove it, man, but I’d bet money there’s somethin’ dirty about this cat.”

Rocco puffed his cheeks. Leon was a friend and he knew him pretty well. “It’s a decent pile of money, Leon. And who-knows-how-much word of mouth.”

“I know,” Leon said.

“Okay,” Cavarra said. “Your turn, Carlos.”

“I think I know what kind of vibe my guy’s putting out,” Carlos said. “He smells like one of those white separatists or something.”

“Anything in particular?” Cavarra asked.

“Mostly the way he looks at me,” Carlos said. “And he keeps asking if we have a fourth partner he hasn’t seen yet. That seems to be his biggest concern.”

“Like, ‘do you have somebody white I can deal with’?” Leon guessed.

“Yeah,” Carlos said. “That’s the vibe I’m getting. Like just now, he didn’t want to come inside with me. He’s standing around outside, like if he comes in a building with a Spic and a Spade, he’ll pick up a disease.”

“Don’t forget the Dago,” Cavarra said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

“Who knows,” Leon quipped, “he might at least consider you part human.”

“The good news is,” Cavarra said, gesturing toward Leon, “we can test this theory. Hand him off to our buddy, here. See if he agrees to let Cannonball take him through the Target Course.”

Leon patted his sidearm. “I got hollow points, Rocco. Make a nasty mess out there. Just sayin’.”

Carlos elbowed him. “Hey, are Neo-Nazis in season?”

“Open season,” Leon replied. “Got my huntin’ license in the truck.”

“Hey, seriously,” Cavarra said. “If you decide Carlos is right, send him packing. Don’t even get started.”

“Want me to send this one away, too?” Leon asked, gesturing toward the lobby.

“Nah. I’ll take care of it,” Cavarra said, standing.

Leon and Carlos stood with him. They exited the office in a group. Cavarra marched toward the man in the lobby, but stopped when something caught his attention on the TV.

“…The Pottawatomie Sheriff’s Department says they found evidence of occultic rituals in the basement of this house,” the reporter was saying, as the screen filled with the image of an average-looking house on a residential street in Norman, Oklahoma, “including animal and human sacrifice. The chief suspect is a local high school teacher, also suspected of numerous sexual relationships with students…”

“Ho-lee…” Carlos intoned.

“That’s Tommy’s stomping ground,” Cavarra said.

“I think you’re right,” Leon agreed.

“That’s where Tommy lives?” Carlos asked, incredulous.

“Not in that house,” Leon replied, with a condescending tone. “But he’s Sheriff of that county.”

Carlos flipped him the bird.

They continued watching, and it was reported that one deputy was injured in the arrest, but there was no mention of the sheriff himself.

CBC Southwest Tactical was located a short drive from Flagstaff. The dry, rocky surrounding terrain looked like something out of a Clint Eastwood movie. The Outlaw Jose Wales, to be specific. The office was a converted “manufactured home” on a concrete slab.

Back outside, Leon found the customer Carlos described smoking a cigarette over by the target shed. Leon marched toward him and checked his clipboard on the way. “Arden Thatcher?”

Thatcher glanced up, took a look at the tall, athletic black man, and his disapproval was obvious. “Yeah.”

“You want to qualify on the Western Shootout Course today. Is that right?”

“Yeah,” Thatcher said, taking a drag of his cigarette.

“Carlos already showed you the route, and briefed you on range safety?”

“Yeah,” Thatcher said. “Doesn’t anyone else work here?”

“What do you mean?” Leon asked, calm washing over him as if he was taking up trigger slack.

Arden Thatcher was a short, skinny guy with bland features and long blond hair in a pony tail. He wore jeans, cowboy boots, and a black T-shirt with some country-western musician’s name on it in stylized letters. His lips now twisted into a smile that struck Leon as hopelessly phony. “It’s just the two of you runnin’ the show here? You and the Mexican? …I mean, the Spanish guy?”

“Our partner,” Leon said, “he’s the Sicilian guy—he’s busy with sumpthin’ else right now. Can I get you to sign the paperwork now, Mr. Thatcher?”

Thatcher’s gaze dropped to the clipboard and pen Leon held. Or was it the dark hand that held them? His stare was one a person would level at an object infected with the Ebola Virus. “What’s on those papers?”

“Carlos should have explained it to you,” Leon replied, patiently. “It confirms that we explained the safety rules; says you agree to not hold us liable for what happens if you violate those rules…all the usual stuff.”

“That sounds almost like a threat,” Thatcher said.

“Not at all,” Leon said. “We’re careful to advise everybody who comes here how to stay safe. If you ignore us and do sumpthin’ unsafe anyway, and get hurt, that’s not our fault, is it?”

Thatcher pursed his lips and continued to stare at the paperwork.

“And we’re gonna need payment up front,” Leon added.

Thatcher shook his head. “I ain’t signin’ that and I ain’t payin’ for shit up front.”

Leon forced a smile. “In that case, thanks for visitin’ and enjoy your drive.”

“I drove all day to get here and payed for a motel already,” Thatcher said, angrily.

“Afraid I’m not catchin’ your point, Mr. Thatcher.”

“This is false advertisin’,” Thatcher declared. “Your website don’t say nothin’ about how you really run this rinky-dink shithole.”

“What is it that has you confused?” Leon asked.

“Oh, I ain’t confused. And neither will the Better Business Bureau be, when I report your ass. You wanna play? Let’s play.”

“Just curious,” Leon said, “what is it you think we wasn’t honest about?”

Thatcher was red-faced and Leon could tell he normally would have tried something stupid. But his gaze kept returning to the holstered Ruger P90 on Leon’s hip.

“Well ain’t you just a great salesman?” Thatcher finally said, with a sarcastic tone. “I’ll have to write this company and tell ’em what a good salesman you are. You really make me want to give you my business.” By the time he finished saying this he had his back turned and was halfway back to where he’d parked his Toyota Titan.

“Since I’m one of the owners, you can hand the letter directly to me,” Leon said to his back. He took position by a tree that was thick enough for temporary cover in a pinch, in case this loose cannon had something hidden in his vehicle and decided to try something really stupid.

The Titan started and Thatcher was heavy on the gas tearing out of there,

“Don’t let the door hit you in the fourth point on the way out,” Leon muttered, half aloud.

Inside, Cavarra called the other customer to the front counter. Before doing so he had checked the background of both questionable customers on internet databases while in his office. Both of them had clean records.

Almost too clean.

But now, as Terrance Handel approached the counter and Rocco studied his face, he understood what Leon had meant.

Handel was a strapping dude–over six feet tall and muscular, with a handsome enough face. But he gave off a vibe that suggested something ugly and cold.

Cavarra gave himself this assignment automatically despite the fact that he dreaded it. He’d never had to do this to a customer and didn’t want to. Not only did it mean turning down money; but also casting judgment on somebody for no defined reason.

Although CBC Southwest Tactical was a partnership between the three of them, he still usually had the final say in business decisions. One of the costs of leadership was playing the bad guy in situations like this.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Handel, but we won’t be doing business with you.”

Surprise registered in Handel’s narrowing eyes, but not to the degree that would seem normal. “Excuse me?”

Cavarra repeated himself.

“I don’t understand,” Handel said. “Why? I’m willing to pay your asking price.”

“I appreciate that, sir,” Cavarra said. “I’m afraid we’d just rather not do business with you.”

Handel reminded Cavarra of a robot trying to process data that “does not compute” in an old Science Fiction movie. Finally, he said, “That’s not an answer. You at least have to tell me why.”

Cavarra began to sweat. Inside he was squirming, but he kept his voice calm and neutral. “No sir. We’re not required to disclose our business decisions.”

Handel turned to study Carlos, then back to Cavarra with an appraising gaze. “That’s ridiculous. You can’t just refuse service to a customer.”

“We’re not a hospital,” Cavarra said, “so we reserve the right to refuse service to whoever we please. Unless you’re a homosexual, we’re allowed to run our business as if this was still a free country.”

“Is that it?” Handel asked, squinting in unbelief. “You think I’m gay?”

Rocco shook his head. “I have no idea; and I don’t want to know. Even if you are, we don’t bake cakes or hire out space for wedding receptions, anyway. Bottom line is, we’re not gonna sell you anything.”

Handel gave both Rocco and Carlos another measuring stare, and finally turned to exit.

Cavarra felt even more uneasy, now. For some reason it would have sat better with him had the guy been outraged, cussed and threatened for a while before storming off to slam the door behind him. This guy just took it in stride a little too well, for a civilian.

“We’ll make up the money somewhere else, Rocco,” Carlos said, once Handel was gone. “We’ve been doing real good, considering the economy. We could become millionaires just by selling ammo, these days.”

Leon came in through the side door. “I’m pretty sure you was right, Carlos,” he said.

“Let’s mark this date on the calendar,” Cavarra said, grimacing. “From now on this will be Turn Customers Away Day.”

“Hey,” Carlos said, pointing to the TV again, “they’re still holding fast on the Garber Ranch.”

Leon stopped to look and Rocco came around the counter to direct his attention to the flat screen. News cameras panned over a parked convoy of APCs and armored vans, with Alphabets in black uniforms, armor, masks and helmets, brandishing automatic weapons. Then there was a short montage of different armed civilians in old-school woodland camouflage. Then a shot of an ambulance making its way between the opposed forces to the ranch house.

“Somebody get shot?” Rocco asked.

“Shh!” Carlos held his hand up.

“…The elderly rancher is thought to have suffered a heart attack,” the news announcer said. “Right now the rumors are that it was due to the stress over the standoff; but as yet there is no confirmation.”

“Whaddya think, Rocco?” Leon asked. “They gonna throw down on each other there?”

Cavarra exhaled heavily. “You know what I believe. This is 1913 Austria-Hungary. I don’t know if the whole thing touches off at Garber Ranch or somewhere else. And so far as we’re concerned, it probably won’t matter a whole lot where the fuse gets lit.”

“Come on, man,” Carlos said, waving dismissively. “This is America. That crazy stuff doesn’t happen here. We always work it out, in the end.”

Cavarra glanced at his friend, shook his head sadly and returned to the workshop.

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

###

The Kindle version of False Flag is on sale for 99 cents for a couple more days.  After that it will likely jump to a price point that is $4+.

The paperback will probably stay at its current price for a long time. As long as the novel is, it can’t really sell for less and be profitable.

###

Politics/Current Events

Will Some States Secede?

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Ron Paul spoke about this on C-SPAN.

It’s unlikely many drones in our dumbed-down culture have any clue what secession even means. And they’re distrustful of anyone with a vocabulary of multisyllable words. “TV say them people bad. Them racist.”

Paul updated his thoughts on secession during an appearance on C-Span today, noting how “The founders believed in it, there’s no prohibition in the Constitution against secession,” adding that the union was voluntary and therefore secession was also voluntary under the tenth amendment.

“They want to put them on a list that they’re committing treason, put them in prison or throw them out of the country – what about the First Amendment,” asked Paul in response to calls by some on the left to have pro-secessionists deported.

Lemme get this straight:

We should let into this country billions who hate it, untold numbers of whom are terror cells  like the one that recently attempted an attack in Texas, and they should be given a free ride at taxpayer expense and vote in our elections while plotting our overthrow. And anyone who takes issue with this policy is racist. But when those taxpayers express the desire to peacefully break away from the renegade public servants who are criminally dragging us down to the abyss, well, that is “treasonous.”

Given their indifference to the acts of William Jefferson Blythe Clinton and Barack Hussein Obama, it’s surprising they would pretend to even know what treason is.

Paul thinks there will be a de facto secession. Maybe he gives us too much credit.

 

Crime, Sneak Peek/Sample Chapters, TEOTWAWKI

The Black Awakening Stirs

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 5

D MINUS 88

POTAWATTOMIE COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE

OKLAHOMA

Tommy Scarred Wolf finished reading the email from his niece and was organizing a reply in his mind when a knock on his office door roused him from his thoughts. He glanced up to see Deputy Janet Bailey leaning around through the doorway.

His door was usually open, but his people were polite enough to knock anyway.

“Have you got a minute, sir? Janet asked.

He had never got used to being called “sir,” preferring to be called by his first name. Janet knew that, so this was her way of telling him something serious was going on.

“Yeah,” Tommy said, nodding toward the vinyl sofa opposite his desk. His office was tidy and Spartan, with little in the way of decoration save for an American flag, a framed photo of all his deputies between two prowl cars, and some other cop stuff. He didn’t clutter his work area with family memorabilia.

Janet entered, followed by a girl who looked to be about 15. The girl glanced at Janet tentatively as if making sure it was okay to sit down. Janet shut the door behind them.

Tommy straightened in his chair. This was serious, alright.

The sheriff had a lean, sinewy build, a little below six feet in height, but tall for a full-blooded Shawnee. Shaving had never really been necessary for him, and it was a good thing since his red-bronze face was now full of more pits and other terrain features than ever. He still kept his black hair short, but not high-and-tight for a long time, now.

The young girl was mixed, like Janet. Maybe a quarter-breed or less. Her hair was brown with streaks of different colors. She wore a cumbersome volume of jewelry as so many in her generation did; stylishly torn jeans; a tank top showing off her pierced beer belly, and some of those retro-hi-top sneakers kids wore because they thought they made them look street savvy or something. Her fingers had nicotine stains and it was obvious she chewed on her fingernails.

“This is Diana,” Janet said, sitting beside her.

“Hello Diana,” Tommy said, trying to smile warmly to put her at ease.

“Diana,” Janet said, “I’m going to tell the sheriff what you told me, okay? Feel free to add anything new you remember.”

Janet, a mother of three, wasn’t great at police work, but she was a dynamite rape crisis counselor. Actually, in anything requiring the human touch, Janet was his go-to superstar. She faced Tommy as she spoke, with frequent glances at the young girl to coax nods of agreement and include her in the conversation.

“Diana found me at the gas station,” Janet explained. “She had just left the house of one of her teachers and ran about six blocks before she found me.”

“Is it normal for you to see your teachers on the weekend?” Tommy asked.

Diana nodded.

“She’s been visiting Ms. Greeley at her house for a few weeks,” Janet said. “Right?”

Diana nodded.

“What’s your relationship with Ms. Greeley?” Tommy asked.

“We’re friends,” Diana said, staring at the floor.

“She ran from the house because she was scared,” Janet went on. “There were things going on in the house that made her uncomfortable.”

“What kind of things, Diana?” Tommy asked. “I’d like to hear it from you, if you don’t mind.”

“Well, there was me, Rose—Ms. Greeley I mean—Zack and Dave,” Diana said in a squeaky voice.

“Who are Zack and Dave?” Tommy asked.

“They go to my school. Zack is a junior; Dave’s a senior.”

“How about you?” Tommy asked.

“I’m a freshman,” the girl replied.

“So what do these boys do over at Ms. Greeley’s house?” Tommy asked.

“They…they’re lovers,” Diana said. “The three of them.”

Tommy had a poker face that came in handy at times like these.

“For the last few days,” Janet said, “they’ve been pressuring Diana into doing some things she doesn’t want to do.”

Tommy nodded. “Sexual things?”

Diana nodded.

“The boys are pressuring you?”

Janet cleared her throat. “The boys, yes. But mostly Ms. Greeley Right?”

Diana nodded.

“How old are you?” Tommy asked.

“I’m 14,” Diana said.

“Did they try to force you to have sex, Diana?” Tommy asked.

“Well, not exactly,” Diana said. “I mean, nobody got rough, I guess. But, Rose has been, like, pregnant…and, she’s all into some kind of, like, alternate religion…”

The girl seemed on the verge of breaking down. Janet picked up the narrative. “It sounds like the school teacher gave birth in her house. They took this newborn baby and performed some sort of ritual. At the end of the ritual, they took a knife…”

The girl lost it, wailing and blubbering, face wet with tears. “…Blood everywhere…it kept screaming…”

Janet put her arm around the teen and patted the back of her neck, turning to Tommy with tears in her own eyes.

Tommy ground his teeth and asked, “Can her parents come get her?”

“She lives with her mother, who’s at work today,” Janet said.

“She’s gonna have to leave work and come get her daughter,” Tommy said. “And we need the address of Ms. Greeley’s house.”

“Yes sir,” Janet said, wiping her eyes.

Tommy rose, opened a desk drawer and pulled out his shoulder rig, checking the magazine in his M1911 out of habit and clicking it back into place.

He threw his office door open and stalked down the hallway, pulling on his shoulder rig. He paused at the dispatcher’s desk. “Who do we have not busy right now?”

Laura brought up a window on her monitor and scanned the list. “Jeff and Kevin don’t have anything.”

“Get ’em,” Tommy said. “And if anyone else gets free in the next hour, send ’em to me, too. And get Judge Aragon on the phone. We need a warrant PDQ.”

“Yes sir,” Laura replied.

NORMAN, OKLAHOMA

Tommy and two deputies arrived at the Greeley house and checked all the exits before knocking. For most cops the girl’s tip by itself would suffice for probable cause, and judges would accept it in cases like this, when time was of the essence.

But Tommy had an arrangement with the judge to get warrants quickly, and so far he’d always had one when he intended to search somebody’s property.

A skinny teenage boy answered the door, with an oversize T-shirt and sagging pants, a toboggan on his head despite being indoors. “What is it? he asked, taking in the sight of his visitors, with hollow eyes.

Jeff gave him the spiel. The kid tried to stall, then his eyes came alive with hate when the uniformed men entered anyway.

As they drew closer to the door to the basement, the kid’s protests grew louder. Kevin stayed with the boy during the search, to make sure he didn’t try to run.

Kevin wasn’t expecting the kid to produce a knife and stab him just under his vest.

The kid screamed and came at Jeff with the knife. Jeff had his pistol out by now, and fired. The kid went down.

Jeff’s eyes went wide. He’d never had to shoot before, and this was a kid.

Tommy grabbed him by the shoulder, pointing at Kevin, who was also down, crying out and bleeding everywhere. “Put your weapon away and stay with Kevin. Use one hand to put direct pressure on the wound. With your other hand, call an ambulance, and for backup. Got it?”

Jeff nodded dazedly.

The basement door burst open. Another teenage boy emerged, taller and sturdier, slamming the door behind him. He wielded some kind of curved sword and by the way he moved it, it was obvious to Tommy he was comfortable using it.

“Hold your fire!” Tommy shouted, in case Jeff decided to counteract this new threat, or if Sanford came in the back way after hearing the shot.

The boy glared at Tommy and bellowed something that was neither English, Spanish, or Shawandasse. Then in a guttural voice in English he said, “I’m going to carve you up and drink your blood!”

The kid definitely had the edge in speed and energy–Tommy could tell by the way he moved. His T-shirt said something about ROTC and leadership. He reminded Tommy a little of himself as a boy—maybe what some of Tommy’s buddies might have looked and dressed like when young men.

“You need to put down the weapon, young man,” Tommy said.

Light glinted off the blade as the boy twirled it in a figure-eight pattern while advancing.

Tommy didn’t want to shoot him; but he also didn’t want to be sliced open by that blade. Without warning he dropped into a deep crouch and used his leg to sweep the kid’s feet out from under him. The kid fell and Tommy, springing up from his crouch, landed on his wrist, kicking the sword away.

Tommy squatted, pinning the boys arms against the floor. From here he paused to decide how he would wrestle the kid around onto his stomach, to get the cuffs on.

With strength no teenage boy of his size should have, the boy bent up from flat on his back, rising like Dracula from a coffin, lifting Tommy up with him. Tommy shoved his unbelief to the back of his mind and drove an open hand strike into the boy’s jaw.

Tommy knew how to knock a person out. He could do much more than that with his bare hands, in fact. But the boy was barely even stunned.

Tommy hit him again, and again. He rained down blows that would send a mature man twice the kid’s size to the hospital, but his lights wouldn’t go out. Ideas occurred to Tommy in those few seconds: Maybe the kid was on cocaine, or PCP. But where was his disproportionate strength coming from? It wasn’t like Tommy hadn’t known people who were stronger than they looked. In fact, Tommy himself was one of those people.

This was something different.

In desperation, Tommy reached for a weapon on his belt he’d never used before. He drew the stun gun, poked it against the kid and pushed the button. It jolted the kid’s body, but didn’t stop him. Tommy sent charge after charge into the boy, who was still full of fight. But it slowed his body down enough for Tommy to roll him over and slap the cuffs on.

In amazement, he straightened and watched the kid flail around, straining with spastic desperation as if trying to break the cuffs. For some reason Tommy feared he might be able to. “Keep your eye on him,” he told Jeff. “I don’t know what he’s on, but if you have to, taze him.”

Jeff nodded, hand clamped on Kevin’s wound.

Tommy opened the basement door again and stepped through. His nostrils were assaulted immediately. The air was heavy with strong incense–and something foul underneath that smell.

He descended the stairs, preferring to let his eyes adjust to the dark rather than use a flashlight. Strangely shaped objects hung from the rafters. As his eyes focused in the dim light, it became obvious why there’d been such an epidemic of pets reported missing in town. And what had happened to the pigs reported stolen by a local farmer was also explained.

The floor and walls were decorated with strange symbols and pictures. Tommy remembered Diana had mentioned some kind of alternate religion. Then he noticed something that looked like a stool, or perhaps a small end table, made of brass. Upon this platform was what appeared to be the corpse of a human baby.

Something about a collection of pillows on the floor didn’t look right, Tommy studied it. A mattress lay on the floor–no bed frame, no box spring. One of the large pillows stirred, then took on the form of a naked woman. Early-to-mid forties, attractive…probably quite a hottie once upon a time. From her lower lip, trailing down her chin and neck were dark streaks. Tommy was afraid to guess what those streaks were composed of.

“You should leave,” the woman said. “Forget you ever came here. You don’t know what you’re messing with.”

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

###

We don’t normally post on Wednesdays but the Kindle version of False Flag goes on sale for 99 cents at some point today. After that it will likely jump to a price point that is $4+.

The paperback will probably stay at its current price for a long time. As long as the novel is, it can’t really sell for less and be profitable.

###

Military, Sneak Peek/Sample Chapters, TEOTWAWKI

Purging the Armed Forces

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4

Y MINUS TWO

CAMP PENDLETON

OCEANSIDE, CALIFORNIA

Brigadier General Clayton P. Vine, USMC, looked up from the training schedule when the intercom buzzed. One of his staffers told him the civilian V.I.P. had arrived. Vine had played power games when he was younger, forcing people to wait unnecessarily on him when they were on time for appointments; but he had grown out of that. The military–and the government in general–wasted entirely too much time with stupid little games designed to prove who had more power.

“Let him in.”

The door opened and one of Vine’s marines announced the visitor before shutting the door behind the State Department errand boy.

The errand boy was a mid-30s nerd with one of those fancy new Blue Tooths and a haircut that appeared downright unsanitary. He glanced around the office–which was tastefully built of stained wood—not that cheap paneling that simulated the real thing. The walls, of course, were bedecked with a few framed photos and several framed awards. There was also a US flag and the Colors of Vine’s present command.

The errand boy strode forward and shook the general’s hand. Vine encouraged him to have a seat, and he did.

Vine asked him all the polite garbage like how his flight had been, if he had any trouble finding Vine’s headquarters,and so forth. He had entertained errand boys before, and knew these pleasantries were expected. One never wanted to piss off anyone from the State Department.

The errand boy made a few polite comments about formations of marines he’d seen marching as he passed on his way here.

Finally the errand boy got around to business…in a bureaucratic way. “Well, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, the domestic situation is a bit worrisome.”

Vine said nothing, unsure what the errand boy was referring to. He wondered what exactly Washington was worried about. There were issues with police and demonstrators in various cities, but that was hardly a concern of the Marines. He could be referring to the influx of radical Muslims, hiding among the hordes of Latin refugees invading the country. But that was unlikely, since the administration he worked for obviously wanted to make the situation on the border worse, not better. None of it made sense to Vine, but then politics rarely did. Most of what the Marine Corps did made sense; which was one reason Vine loved being a marine.

“The President and Secretary thought it important that we touch base with our senior commanders in all the Armed Forces,” the errand boy said. “And I thought it best to meet with you face-to-face.”

“That’s good,” Vine said, resisting the urge to demand he get to the point. “I appreciate it.”

“Even with all this technology nowadays, I still think it’s the best way to communicate.” The errand boy checked something on his beeping smartphone, then slid it back in his pocket. “First of all, I want to personally thank you for your service to the President over the years.”

Vine nodded. His career had spanned the terms of a few presidents, and he considered his service as to the Corps anyway, but he went along with the assumption, hoping the errand boy would spit out what was on his mind.

“I understand you’re up for promotion.”

Vine nodded and smiled, which was not what he wanted to do. This civilian dweeb mentioning specifics of his career made his stomach queasy.

“Obviously my superiors and I understand how important it is to retain quality leadership,” Errand Boy said. “My uncle served in the Marine Corps, so I know the deal.”

You don’t know your sphincter from a gopher hole, kid. You should have sent your uncle to talk to me.

“So with the situation like it is, it’s imperative that the President knows he can count on you.”

“You lost me, son,” Vine said. “I’ve been in the Corps so long I can’t remember life before it. I’ve served with honor and been faithful to my duty. Is there some reason the President—or anyone else—suddenly questions my ethics?”

“Of course not,” the errand boy replied. “I took a look at your records, and your ethics are peerless…except, of course, for that brief dalliance with the young woman in Japan about 30 years ago.”

The queasy feeling got worse, and Vine’s blood ran cold. How did the State Department know about the affair? His wife never found out, and neither had his commanding officer. He would certainly have heard about it if they had. He’d felt guilty about the moral lapse for years afterwards, but finally chalked it up to youthful recklessness—no harm/no foul—and forgot about it.

“So it’s not really about ethics,” the errand boy said. “It’s about loyalty.”

The cold, sinking sensation intensified. Vine couldn’t very well swear to his own loyalty when they knew he’d once cheated on his wife.

The errand boy chuckled and held his hands up, palms-forward. “Hey, don’t worry. I’m not here because anybody’s upset that you got a little side action when you were young.”

“Why are you here, then?” Vine asked, losing his ability to maintain the polite tone.

“As I said, the domestic situation is getting ugly, General. Not everybody out there welcomes change. And change isn’t always easy–sometimes it makes things uncomfortable, even though it ultimately works for the greater good. And sometimes bringing change requires some people to adjust their methods, and perspective.”

Now it was dawning on Vine what this was about. He’d heard scuttlebutt about a purge taking place across all the branches of the armed forces. He knew about a few of the senior commanders who were sacked a while back—vocal critics of how Benghazi was handled. He assumed that was the extent of the purge. Obviously not.

“What specific change are we talking about?” Vine asked.

“Well,” Errand Boy said, “there are some old traditions and rigid ideas about what the military can and should be used for. We need to take our concept of the armed forces to a whole new level. Times like these call for flexibility. For thinking outside the box.”

“All right,” Vine said, in a tone meant to coax out more information.

Errand Boy crossed his legs the way a lady does, removed his glasses, and polished the lenses with a handkerchief “The ways of war are changing, as I’m sure you know, General. There’s no more one nation against another, sending bomber formations at each other’s factories; soldiers stabbing each other with bayonets; that sort of thing. At least not in the developed world. We’ve got modern technology; a different definition of victory; and different threats. Our men and women in uniform won’t necessarily be tasked with fighting enemy soldiers…or shipping off to some faraway land to do it.”

“Let me spell out what I think you’re driving at,” Vine said, his face heating up. “And you tell me if I’m right: the President wants to know if I’m willing to command my marines to fire on American civilians, based on his say-so.”

The errand boy’s head rocked back on his neck as if he’d just received an invisible slow-motion blow to the face. “Well, I wouldn’t…”

“And you all believe that what I did in Japan is an insurance policy just in case I don’t want to dance to the President’s tune,” Vine interrupted. “Is that it?”

“I assure you, nobody in Washington thinks any less of you because of some harmless booty call in the previous century,” the errand boy said, nonchalantly.

“And furthermore,” Vine continued, “my promotion, and therefore my career, depends on me agreeing to this. Does that sum it up?”

The errand boy shrugged. “Perhaps that’s not the most delicate way to phrase it. But yes.”

Vine wanted to tell him where to stick delicate phrases. Vine had never concerned himself with politics. There were only a few times he even bothered to vote, and he’d never even watched a presidential debate. The only campaign promises that motivated him had to do with the military budget.

Vine’s father, however, had been different. A marine, for sure, but he also considered history and politics to be important. In one of their last conversations before he passed away, Vine’s father reminded him that Clayton had taken an oath to uphold and defend the Constitution. Vine had never read the Constitution, and only knew what other people claimed that it said. His father said that it was the law of the land–the fundamental core of American government. His father said America was unique because, here, individual rights were sacred whether laws were written acknowledging them or not. In America, government’s purpose was to protect those rights.

His father would go on at length about this, and Vine couldn’t remember all the details, but that was the gist of it.

Vine hadn’t studied what his father had; and didn’t agree with him about everything…but something just struck him as wrong about using the Marines as a weapon against Americans.

“I’m curious,” Vine said. “Why are you so sure we’re going to need to fight a war against our own civilians? The country’s what—240 years old or so? There’s never been a need for this before.”

The errand boy frowned and checked his watch. His whole demeanor changed as the pleasant, respectful facade was dropped. He paused before speaking. “It’s obvious from your hesitation that you’re not the man for the job. I thought you were smarter than this. But not everybody can handle the adjustments necessary to make change work.”

“Why won’t you answer the question?” Vine asked. “Why are you so sure you’ll need my marines to kill civilians? I mean, even in the Civil War, armies fought other armies. What do you anticipate?”

The errand boy stood from his seat and gave a curt nod. “Of course I don’t need to tell you that the subject and details of this conversation are classified; not to be disclosed to anyone without the expressed permission of the President.”

Vine rose to his own feet. “We didn’t discuss anything of strategic significance, young fellah—there’s no national security concerns here. I’m not legally obligated to keep any of this secret. But then I suppose that’s where the implied blackmail threat comes in.”

The errand boy already had his back to Vine by then, but flashed him a wry grin over the shoulder on his way out the door.

The errand boy walked back to his rental car using one thumb to compose a text message. Once behind the wheel, he finished it.

“Nix Vine. Won’t play ball.”

He sent the message, started the engine, and scrolled through his notes to find the next senior officer on the list.

And just like that, Clayton P. Vine’s career in the United States Marine Corps was over.

Within the next few days Vine would be notified that his second star had been pinned on somebody else’s uniform.

Someone who passed the litmus test.

Vine would be thanked for his service and forcibly retired. If he leaked the reason behind his sacking, his affair with the young lady in Japan would be leaked, adding disgrace to injury.

For the rest of his life, Vine would wonder if he’d done the right thing. Was his instinctive moral resistance important enough to throw away what he loved most of all?

For the first time in 40 years, he felt the urge to cry. The Marine Corps was his entire identity. Wasn’t it worth keeping, at any price?

Despite the anguish of his shockingly crushed spirit, he suspected it wasn’t.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Adventure, Crime, Historical, Music

Shadow Hand Blues

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In 1954 budding blues virtuoso Waymon “Tornado” Fuller is executed for the murder of a North Carolina woman. In 1994 nomadic hot-rodder, moonlighting private investigator and blues aficionado Deke Jones stumbles upon Fuller’s guitar, triggering a mudslide of buried truths. Fuller’s innocence is one revelation. Another is “Shadow Hand Blues”–the last song he recorded, which Jones has never heard of.

An impromptu search for the studio where the recording session took place leads Jones to a small hippie town seemingly still enjoying the Summer of Love, where the psychodelic atmosphere turns from surreal to hostile when he begins asking questions.

Vintage Fender Telecaster in one hand, steering wheel of his radical Cyclone Spoiler II in the other, Deke Jones launches a one-man crusade to exonerate the infamous musician and find the obscure recording. The blood trails are 40 years cold, but neither corrupt good ol’ boy cops, sex industry sadists, nor fanatical pyramid-schemers can throw Deacon Jones off this case.

This investigative pilgrimage propels Jones right into the bloodstained fingers of a clandestine power elite Tornado Fuller called the Shadow Hand.

SHBebook

 

This is set four years after Fast Cars and Rock & Roll. While that book dealt with Deke Jones’ racing exploits, and playing in a band (some even call it “coming of age,” since he learns some lessons about women…and people in general), this one is a cold-case mystery.

A fusion of the hardboiled P.I. genre with whodunnit, Shadow Hand Blues also has a strong musical element. Deke Jones is now in a nomadic phase, and this story takes place in North Carolina—far from his Southwest stomping grounds.

Historical, Military

D-Day in Pictures

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I’ve posted something on D-Day pretty much every anniversary since I began blogging. This time I won’t be writing so much about it–just showing imagery.

normandybeaches
These are the beach heads that had to be established. Only the one designated “Omaha” had heavy German resistance.

 

Ike meets with paratroopers of the 101st before their midnight jump into Hitler's "Fortress Europe."
Ike meets with paratroopers of the 101st before their midnight jump into Hitler’s “Fortress Europe.”

 

"One minute!" U.S. Paratroopers about to be scattered to hell & gone through a land crawling with Germans.
“One minute!” U.S. Paratroopers about to be scattered to hell & gone through a land crawling with Germans.

 

At H-Hour the ramps drop and ground-pounders have to slog through the surf through German fire.
At H-Hour the ramps drop and ground-pounders have to slog through the surf into German fire.

 

Here's what the folks back home knew.
Here’s what the folks back home knew.


This guy did a fairly decent job on the video, though he’s not informed well on the UN and China. But hey, most people in our dumbed-down culture don’t even know what WW2 was.