All posts by Machine Trooper

A Glimpse Inside the Democrat Base

Just remember: all discrimination is ee-veel, and only white folks are guilty of it.

12

Y MINUS FOUR

AMARILLO, TEXAS

Ken Fowler cursed when he got to the house. It was on a cul-de-sac and the front edge of everyone’s property was squeezed together. What that meant for him was that he couldn’t park his work van on the street in front of the customer’s house without blocking the driveway. He also couldn’t park on the driveway, lest the company van leak oil or some other fluid on the drive.

Two houses down there was an unoccupied space where the van could fit without blocking any driveways, so he parked there. It was going to make the job take longer, walking this far every time he had to go to the van, but there was no helping it. He checked the paperwork, gathered the tools he knew he would need, and walked to the customer’s house.

After knocking and ringing the doorbell he waited three minutes without an answer. As he retreated back to where the van was parked, the door finally opened and someone called to him. Sighing, because he would just as soon not have to do this job or even remain in this neighborhood, Ken turned around and headed back.

The woman standing at the door was black, middle-aged and overweight. Though it was mid afternoon, she was dressed in a nightgown and looked like she’d just got out of bed. He put on the fake professional/polite voice he used for customers and asked, “Willie-Mae Harris?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” she said.

“Hi, my name’s Ken. Looks like you’re switching over from the phone company. I’m here to give you cable, Internet and a whole-house DVR on three TVs.”

“Five TVs,” Willie-Mae said.

“Well, there’s only three authorized on the work order,” Ken said. “But if you call customer service while I’m here, they can add the outlets and adjust your billing by the time I’m done.”

“Adjust the billin’? Oh no. They said I get five boxes for that price right there.” She tapped the price on his work order.

This was going to be one of those jobs, Ken realized. Either the salesperson had lied to the customer, or the customer was lying to him. He’d seen both happen plenty. But he knew what the cost of the services and extra outlets should be, and the company would not give it all to her for the price on the work order.

The first half hour was spent on the phone, trying to get it straightened out between the company and the customer. When they finally came to an agreement, he went to work.

The house was reasonably clean, and he was thankful for that. He’d been in many places that were so filthy, he almost refused to work there. But he needed to keep this job for a couple more years. Then he should have enough saved to start his own business and deal with customers on his own terms, and hire somebody else to do the dirty work, if there was any.

There were several kids in the house, playing video games at different locations. Surely they had to be the customer’s grandkids. They were a bunch of rude, disrespectful children. Judging by how they stared at him, they obviously didn’t see many white men, or like them very much. It briefly reminded him of that time back in Kindergarten.

Eventually the other adults in the house stirred, got out of bed and began going about their business while yelling at their kids. Willie Mae Harris casually cussed at and berated the adults and children alike from time to time. Ken had seen this scenario in hundreds of houses around town.

He passed through the living room several times while assessing, gathering tools, and performing the work to be done in various parts of the house. Every time he passed by, Willie Mae was seated at her desktop computer (where it was going to be very difficult to get her an Internet connection) playing Solitaire. The desk had been turned into kind of a booth with a frame made of black posterboard arching over the monitor and keyboard. The posterboard frame was nearly covered with cut out pictures of Barrack Hussein Obama; printed text of his famous quotes; pictures of Michelle; and the “O” symbol.

Ken had seen a lot of these shrines to “the first black President” in his line of work. Some of them juxtaposed pictures and quotes of Martin Luther King with those of Hussein. When he did work in houses with these shrines, in the past, he would ask questions (as neutrally as possible) to see what, if anything, the supporters knew about their messiah. None of them had even heard of the guy before 2008.

Ken didn’t ask Willie Mae Harris anything regarding Hussein because she was still surly about not getting the extra outlets for free.

The job became really miserable once Ken got up in the attic. Attics were much, much hotter than even working in the direct sunlight in the summertime. At just over six feet it was hard for him to maneuver in the tight spaces and his body didn’t take the extreme heat well. Progress was slow up there, and his mind often wandered as he scooted belly-down through the insulation an inch at a time. Today his mind wandered back to his first experience with race relations.

His family moved into a housing project in Houston when he was four years old, and stayed there for almost two years. It seemed like a nice enough place to Ken for the first year—but then he didn’t have much to compare it to at that age. Then, after he’d started kindergarten, one day his mother answered a knock on the apartment door and found two black girls waiting there who he recognized from school. They asked if he could come out and play, and his mother let him.

He played outside with his new friends, and had a great time.

Some days later, out in the courtyard playing by himself, he spotted the same two girls playing amidst a larger group of children. Ken didn’t pay attention to the racial makeup of the group, but that would be the last time he made such an oversight. He ran over and greeted his playmates, only to be shunned. Confused, he nonetheless remained there, assuming he’d be welcome to play with them. The other kids told him to go away. Too stubborn for his own good, he decided he had just as much right to be there as they did. Then two boys ran up and bashed him in the head with a large rock and a large chunk of asphalt.

The other kids laughed and pointed fingers, which angered Ken. He found a small rock and, when he recovered, threw it at one of his attackers. He missed his revenge target, hitting instead a girl who was even younger than he—one who had probably only learned to walk recently. The toddler cried, of course, and Ken ran away.

The two girls from his kindergarten class tattled on him at school, conveniently omitting everything that happened before Ken threw the rock. When he tried to tell the whole story in the principal’s office, the principal continuously interrupted Ken until he was too frustrated to even speak coherently.

Ken’s family moved again, so he went to First Grade at another school, but he never forgot how important it was to pay attention to skin color after that.

Somebody yelled for him, “Yo, cable man!”

As loud as the voice was, it meant somebody must have climbed his ladder and stuck their head into the attic hatch, though he couldn’t see them from where he was. “Yeah?”

“You need to move your truck, man.”

This made no sense. He had parked in the only nearby spot where he wouldn’t block anyone’s access to anything. “What’s going on?”

“Yo man, I’m tellin’ you you gotta move your truck! Our neighbor’s pissed off.”

Ken groaned and cussed. This was the worst time for this kind of interruption. He really didn’t want to have to crawl through this attic any more than necessary. He decided to finish what he was doing before crawling all the way back to the trapdoor. Twice more someone stuck their head up the hatch to tell him about their angry neighbor.

He believed people had a right to forbid someone to park in front of their property, but jerks pissed him off, even when they were within their rights.

When he finally got out, filthy and drenched in sweat, he strode out of the garage straight for his van, intending to move it without any discussion so the neighbor could get the knot out of their panties. He would have to block somebody’s driveway or mailbox, pissing off the US Mail or somebody else, but he had no choice. The neighbor had plenty of room in their driveway so it wasn’t like they needed room for somebody else to park. It was best to not even speak to an unreasonable jerk, lest he lose his temper and get a complaint.

There were two black men in talking on the porch of the house he parked in front of. As he went to the van one called to him. “Yo, man, you gonna move your truck?”

“Yup,” he said, and kept walking.

“Who told you to park up on my lawn?” the guy demanded.

Ken stopped at his passenger door, opened it, and put his tool belt inside. He wanted to avoid this conversation altogether, but it was obvious by tone of voice and body language that the guy was going to force it.

So be it.

“I’m not on anybody’s lawn. I’m on a public street, where there are no signs posted, and I’m not even touching the sidewalk, much less the lawn.”

“What!”

Ken shut the door and started around the nose of the van toward the driver’s side. He heard some unpleasant comments pass between the two men. Then the aggressive one raised his voice again. “I don’t give a shit if it’s a public street! Why you park in front of my house?”

Ken stopped and pointed back at the Harris house. “I’m doing work over there.”

“So why didn’t you park over there then?”

“Didn’t want to block anyone’s driveway or mailbox.”

“That’s your damn problem!”

Ken got in the van, started it, backed up to the front of the Harris house and shut it down again. He was blocking the mailbox now, but there was no helping it. He got out again and went around to retrieve his tool belt thinking the discussion was over.

“I know you don’t think you’re bad, right?” The pissed off neighbor was now off his porch, approaching Ken as he went back toward the Harris’s garage. The other man…the stocky one…hung back a ways, holding his tongue.

Ken gritted his teeth and kept walking. The aggressive one was about his size and build. Maybe he could fight; maybe not. If Ken wasn’t on the clock, they would have found out.

“You gonna walk right out to your truck like you bad,” the guy continued. “You went straight to your truck ’cause you knew you was wrong. I don’t know who you’re used to dealin’ with, but we don’t play that at my house.”

Ken stopped and faced him. “Play what? What exactly am I so wrong about? Parking on the street? Where exactly would you park if you had to do work at that house right there?”

The guy got more and more wound up, like Ken had insulted him or something. Ken could think of plenty actual insults and wisecracks, but he had to swallow them because he represented the cable company.

“You shoulda’ parked in their driveway, then,” the loud mouth said.

“Against company policy,” Ken said. “You wanted me to move the van. I moved it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have stuff to do.” And he went back to work.

Next time he had to go back to his truck, the two men were standing on the sidewalk, talking again. The aggressive one was still doing most of the talking, but didn’t seem angry now–just loud and boisterous. “…Know his white ass doesn’t think I’m impressed. He may have to claim workman’s comp up in here.”

They shared a laugh, but it wasn’t a genuine laugh inspired by humor. It struck Ken as bravado.

The loud mouth looked at Ken as he said, “Parked right in front of my daughter’s bedroom window. Scared my daughter half to death. Man, I ain’t tryin’ to have no…”

Ken stopped again, and interrupted him. “Scared half to death? Wow.”

“What? You say somethin’ to me?” Loud Mouth asked, taking a few menacing steps toward Ken.

“What is it about a work van that’s so terrifying?” Ken asked. “Does she have this phobia about all vehicles? Or has she never seen an automobile before? Maybe you should put her in the hospital; cause all it takes is for her to see one more work van and she’ll be scared completely to death.”

The guy got right up in Ken’s face at that point. He obviously didn’t like having his statements taken literally, or being challenged about the meaning of his words. He hurled insults and feinted striking a blow several times.

Ken knew he should have kept his mouth shut, but his buttons had been pushed. He now waited to see if the guy was going to make good on his threats.

It was hard to be heard over Loud Mouth’s monologue, but Ken said, “I’m not supposed to get involved in fights, but I am allowed to defend myself if attacked. You’re threatening me with physical assault right now. I suggest you back off.”

“Or what, cracker?” Loud Mouth then spewed out all the euphemisms for “coward” he could think of, still feinting.

Ken wanted to pop him in the face really bad, but he at least had to avoid throwing the first punch. If the other guy swung first, he might get to keep his job.

The guy didn’t swing. But Ken had to get out of there before he blew a fuse.

He felt like a yellow-bellied worm for doing it, but he got into his van and drove away, calling his supervisor to explain why he couldn’t complete the job. While grumbling and cussing to himself later, he used the word “nigger,” and meant it, for the first time in his life.

***

Cleveland Parker only partly enjoyed the white boy getting served. His younger neighbor, Meldrick, was a little too low-class for Cleveland’s taste. Sure, it was good seeing the pink toe put in his place, but Meldrick behaved like a common thug to do it. The ghetto wasn’t far away, but this neighborhood wasn’t technically in it. There were classy people who lived here, like Cleveland and his wife, but you’d never know it by Meldrick’s behavior, or by their welfare queen neighbor Willie-Mae Harris and her clan, to the other side of Cleveland’s house.

Meldrick fancied himself a poor man’s Denzel Washington, but he was missing a whole lot of class for that. The only reason Cleveland was making nice with Meldrick was because the brotha knew somebody with a late model Benz they might be willing to sell. Cleveland’s Benz was pushing ten years old now and was way overdue for an upgrade.

After the white boy drove away, Meldrick finally gave him the address where the Benz was parked, so Cleveland could go take a look.

Cleveland entered his own house to put on some presentable shoes and get his car keys.

At the landing of the staircase between the first and second floors, he slowed. There was a spot on the mural about a quarter inch in diameter that looked like either a stain or a chip in the paint. He hadn’t noticed it before so it must be new. Anger rose quickly as he tried to imagine who might be responsible. He didn’t let just anybody in his house, so he should be able to narrow it down.

The mural wrapped around the landing. It was the scene of a tropical paradise, full of the green vegetation of Mother Africa. A lion sat on one side, a black panther on the other. Both regal cats looked toward the center of the scene, which was a life-sized portrait of Cleveland and his wife in loincloths. In the painting, their bodies were ebony perfection. He stood behind her, but their hands were joined in front in an ancient symbol for dignity. Their images stared out from the painting with stern pride.

His wife was getting her hair done downtown at the moment, so he’d have to inquire about the damaged spot later. He ascended to the master bedroom, changed shoes, came back down the stairs and fetched his keys.

He pulled a Lionel Ritchie CD from the shelf on his way out the door. In moments he was underway in his Mercedes, and put the CD in the player. The player ejected the CD right away. He pushed it back in. It ejected again. Yes, it was certainly time to get an upgrade–little things on the car were starting to give him trouble. He took the CD out for examination, just to make sure it wasn’t scratched.

***

Joe Tasper couldn’t afford bail, so he remained in jail until his hearing. Crystal was apologetic about the incident and didn’t press charges, but he knew soon she’d start up over something else, real or imagined, and make his life a little more miserable. He had to dump the psycho bitch, but wasn’t sure how to do it, yet. There was no doubt she would go batshit when he told her they were breaking up. She had previously threatened to kill him if he ever left her. At the time he assumed she’d been joking. Now he wasn’t so sure.

In the mean time, he had lost his job.

He’d begun reporting for day labor gigs while searching for something permanent, but sure enough got a ticket for the cracked windshield. He was putting off paying it for as long as he could, thinking he couldn’t be cited for it again at least until the payment deadline on the existing citation. But yesterday he’d been pulled over again for the windshield.

Pigs didn’t have anything better to do. All the drug deals going down in this neighborhood; and prostitution; and theft; but the cops chose to make life harder for a guy trying to make an honest living.

Joe lived in a house in a black neighborhood because the rent was cheaper. But the vandalism and burglaries he suffered there made it not-so-cheap to live, after all.

Unable to risk getting pulled over for the windshield again, Joe would have to take the pickup truck. Shortly before Crystal moved in with him, he had traded his old S-10 for a full size Chevy truck. It burned more gas than the car, but he had no choice now. It was also parked behind his car in the driveway, so he would have to switch them around.

He started both vehicles and pulled the car out on the street. He left the engine running, walked back to the truck and pulled it onto the street, parking next to the curb. He got out and walked toward the car.

He saw a Mercedes speeding up the residential street toward him, but didn’t think much about it because the driver had all the room in the world to stop and his own car was plainly visible. As Joe reached his car and was climbing in, he looked up and saw the Mercedes bearing down on him at the same speed, only much closer.

“Oh, no. No! No!”

He threw his car in reverse and hit the gas and horn. The cold engine hesitated. At the last second there was a squeal of tires as the Mercedes rammed him head-on.

Joe slammed the shifter back in park, turned it off and got out, walking forward to inspect the damage. His car and the Mercedes were crumpled pretty bad. The other driver got out–a stocky older black man with fancy shoes, clothes, and glitzy jewelry.

“You alright?” Joe asked.

“Man, what the hell you think you’re doing, all over the street like that?” the guy demanded.

Taken aback by the guy’s self-righteous attitude, Joe angered quickly. “What am I doin’? How ’bout you look where you’re goin’, jackass? You just ran into my car!”

The other driver said something, but Joe didn’t catch it. Suddenly,Crystal was at his side , yelling at the other driver.

Crystal specialized in making bad situations worse, and she did so now, insulting the other guy with phrases like “fat coon.” The guy got pissed and came after her, and Joe had to physically get between them. Finally Crystal retreated indoors to call the police.

It took nearly two hours for the police to get there. Meanwhile, several people from the neighborhood gathered on the sidewalk adjacent to the Mercedes, staring at the accident scene. The other driver spoke with them while they waited. One remark Joe caught from that crowd was, “You had the right-of-way!” like it was an open-and-shut case.

Well, it should all get cleared up when the police filled out the report. Joe wasn’t impressed much with cops, based on his experience. But at least they were useful for stuff like this. If they ever showed up.

They finally arrived. There was an older cop and a younger one. The older one went right over to the Mercedes driver when they arrived. It seemed like a familiar greeting shared by the two. The Mercedes driver spoke in hushed tones, gesturing at Joe and the vehicles. They spoke for a long time.

The young officer, after looking the vehicles over, approached Joe. Joe explained what happened, and the officer took notes.

Finally the older cop, smoking a thin cigar, came over and told Joe to sign a ticket.

“You’re citing me?” Joe cried. “You’re sayin’ I’m at fault?”

“That’s right,” the cop said. “You are at fault.”

“How you figure? My car wasn’t even moving! I had just got in it and this guy rammed me!”

“He had the right of way,” the cop said, nonchalantly.

“Right of way for what?” Joe demanded. “My car was on the street first!”

“It shouldn’t have been on the street,” the cop said.

“I told your partner I was switching vehicles in my driveway,” Joe said. “You can see there’s no place to park it on this street. This clown was doing over twice the speed limit through here, and wasn’t looking where he was going!”

“He had the right of way. You need to sign this ticket.”

“The right of way,” Joe said. “You’re tellin’ me I can run over anything on the street, as long as I have right of way? There are kids out here all the time. He would have killed them today, if there’d been one on the street.”

“Kids aren’t supposed to be on the street,” the cop said.

“So you’re sayin’ I can haul ass down these residential streets as fast as I want to go, and you’re fine with it? And if I run over somebody or crash into something, that’s on them?”

“You can do that,” the cop said, “but if I catch you, you’re getting a ticket for it.”

“Do you two know each other?” Joe asked. “Is that what this is about?”

The cop breathed cigar smoke in Joe’s face and said. “Listen: you sign that ticket or we can do this another way.”

Joe wound up signing the citation, but was determined to fight this one in court.

He later obtained the police report and saw that the younger officer had drawn the diagram to portray Joe’s car as pulling out of the driveway and slamming into the Mercedes. The report named the Mercedes driver as Cleveland Parker. His occupation was listed, too.

He worked for the police.

 

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

###

The link to False Flag is also on the upper right sidebar.

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Heinlein’s Vision of Revolution

As we approach Independence Day, we might as well review a book about revolution: Robert A. Heinlein’s The Moon is a Harsh Mistress.

Heinlein’s novels do what science fiction is supposed to do, I suppose. But whereas he has a grasp on science that helps sell his futuristic technology as believable (even though this story doesn’t anticipate the pervasiveness of electronic devices, WiFi, 4G, etc., and people on the moon still rely on print/paper to the extent we did in the 1980s), his grasp on cultural anthropology, human dynamics, and the military sciences is less authoritative. His whole concept of how family and marriage work on Luna, for instance, seems more like wishful thinking than any understanding of human nature or extrapolation of cultural trends.

Also, if it was ever explained why a character named Manuel O’Kelly, a citizen of the moon, spoke in some kind of Russian hipster lingo, I missed it.

Heinlein’s political orientation has long been assumed to be “conservative,” but I think it would be better classified as skitzo. In Starship Troopers his social commentary struck me as authoritarian. In this novel he, on the one hand, recognizes the virtues of a constitutional republic…while simultaneously portraying an oligarchy as necessary to install it, and justifying mass psyops on the population to push the “necessary” agenda.

leftCENTERright

Part of our difficulty agreeing on what Heinlein was is probably due to the engineered confusion regarding what “left” and “right” truly mean, with socialists like Hitler and even Stalin continually alleged to be “right-wing.” Even greater confusion pervades about what “liberal” and “conservative” truly mean.

LEFTright

It was interesting, though, to note Heinlein admitting (through his characters) that FDR bullied Japan until they were provoked into attacking us, giving him the popular support needed to support a war he’d been scheming for all along.

The female lead (honestly can’t remember her name right now) was supposed to be a love interest, I guess. As such, that sub-plot was completely lackluster. The character was more of a distraction than anything else, but even back when this was written the “strong independent woman” was becoming a self-imposed requirement for fiction authors. (Later to be imposed by agents and editors.) But the Prof was an interesting character and Mike (the self-aware supercomputer) stole the show.

Looking back over these paragraphs, I’m probably not cutting Heinlein enough slack.This is an enjoyable read, and easily better than any new science fiction I found on the shelves from about 1992-2013.

Wise Guy on the Fringe of the Galaxy

D. K. Strickland joined Virtual Pulp recently, and since he’s a fellow author, I was curious about what he had written. That’s how I came to find Fringeman and picked up a copy.

I gave up on science fiction (and almost all fiction from the New York Publishing Cartel) years ago, for the same reason Larry Correia founded the Sad Puppies, and why so many sci-fi fans empathize with the Sad and Rabid Puppies: We’re sick of thought cops more interested in ramming their leftist and feminist messages down our throats than they are in telling a good story.

Fringeman is the kind of sci-fi novel that could break us out of that literary gulag.

Gunnar Schmidt is a Ranger (not Airborne…think more like Texas; except in outer space) with a quick wit and acid tongue that get him in a lot of trouble. His boss assigns him to the “fringe” of the “republic” where the central government’s authority is minimal at best. (As just about anything with “republic” contained in its title, it’s only nominal.)

This is a fool’s mission to the outer planets at the edge of “the Republic.” Schmidt’s boss is obviously hoping he’ll be killed. The plan had its merits, since Gunnar goes in and out of differing levels of captivity while awaiting a death sentence from the local feudal lord, and spends pretty much the entire novel getting the daylights beaten out of him.

I’m guessing this is to be a series, and this first novel is mostly a setup for an interstellar lawman with knowledge of and clout in the more primitive cultures, to execute justice and maybe enjoy some unofficial adventures.

After reading a couple Gor novels and being severely disappointed, it’s clear to me John Norman could have learned a thing or two from Strickland about how to explain a slave culture and explore the psychology of bondage, submission, etc. without bogging down the narrative.

Hopefully Don will get the next one finished soon.

 

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The Oath of Office: How Seriously Is it Taken?

…By any public servant, down to the local government level?

11

D MINUS 87

POTTOWATOMIE COUNTY, OKLAHOMA

After the county coroner and other forensics experts had been on site for a while, Tommy made sure they had what they needed from him, and returned to the office. He watched some of the questioning of Ms. Greeley and the boy not in the hospital, took care of some paperwork, then called it a day.

He pulled into his front yard on the rez after midnight, and was greeted first by his dogs. His wife, Linda, met him at the front door and they spent a few moments showing affection before she led him to the kitchen, where his supper was keeping warm in the oven. The kitchen was old, like the rest of the house, but Linda kept it clean and cozy, in the way only feminine women could.

Tommy and Linda still usually spoke to each other in Shawandasse, to keep in practice.”Where’s Carl?” Tommy asked, sitting, as she set the plate in front of him.

“Out in the garage, tinkering with that dirt bike again,” Linda replied, and sat across from him at the table.

Carl was their youngest, and still lived with them. Gunther and Takoda had been on their own for a while, already.

“How was your day?” Linda asked.

Tommy frowned, not really knowing how to answer that question. What could you say after seeing what he’d seen over in Cynthia Greeley’s basement? He felt bad, because his job put him in an unpleasant mood more often than not, and Linda was the one who had to deal with it. It wasn’t her fault that he had to see that kind of stuff…

Well, in a way, it was.

Y MINUS TWO

ABSENTEE SHAWNEE TRUST LAND, OKLAHOMA

When Tommy returned from Sumatra, he at first considered going into hiding. Maybe assuming a new identity. That’s how scared he was.

He and his brother Vince had been framed for the murder of an Indonesian cop, and had to run from the local police just to escape with their lives. But after all was said and done, Vince hadn’t escaped with his life.

The attempts on their lives over there made it clear they had some powerful enemies who could pull strings just about anywhere. The only reason Tommy could think of was an investigation both he and his brother had been working, which grew to include a domestic terrorist incident, and involved complicity in the highest levels of the Justice Department, implicating involvement even higher up.

So when he returned to the States, Tommy figured his enemies would come at him from some other angle. Certainly his job as a special agent of the Bureau of Indian Affairs would be sabotaged somehow, just for starters. Then what? That murder rap overseas would be the most obvious line of attack.

But against his understandably paranoid judgment, he showed himself publicly, answered (or avoided, depending on who asked) a million questions, and attended Vince’s funeral service.

It was at this very kitchen table, when Tommy was deliberating with himself about what to do, that Linda made her suggestion.

“You know Sheriff Flores is up for reelection, Tommy. He’s not very popular.”

Flores was crooked and most everyone in the county knew it. “So what?” Tommy replied.

“So, you know it doesn’t matter who the Republicans run—they won’t have a chance in this county. Flores is practically running unopposed.”

“I still don’t see your point,” Tommy said.

“You should run for sheriff, Dad,” Carl said, catching on quickly and loving the idea. “As an independent.”

“County sheriffs answer to the people,” Linda reasoned. “You won’t be under the thumb of some federal agency, or the suckups in the Tribal Police, if you go back there. As a sheriff, you’d be able to defend yourself a lot better than as a subordinate of some career slave.”

“I’m not a politician,” Tommy said. “Sheriffs are all political these days. I couldn’t win a popularity contest against Jack the Ripper, and wouldn’t want to try.”

“But you could,” Linda said. “You’re very popular right now. Word’s been getting around about how you rescued Jenny and Susan Pyrch, and the other girls.”

Tommy’s niece Jenny, Susan Pyrch from here on the rez, and some of their college friends had been kidnapped while overseas on vacation. Tommy had led an effort to get them back–and succeeded with the exception of one girl.

“What kind of word is getting around?” Tommy asked, worried. Other men had gone with him, and he owed them more than he could ever pay. If their names got out, they could suffer for their association with him.

“You’re a hero, Dad,” Carl said. “You’re all people are talking about at school.”

“It’s the same with my friends,” Linda said. “I’m married to a living legend.” She gave him a playful nose-honk with one hand. “Just don’t let it go to your head, okay?”

“I don’t know,” Tommy said. “I’m not good at giving speeches or debating.”

“Just be yourself,” Linda said, now rubbing his cheek. “Your capable of charm, or you never would have got a second date with me.”

He had to grin at that one.

“And I think you’re popular enough right now, you wouldn’t even have to say much,” she added. “At least think about it. Unless you have a better idea.”

Tommy didn’t have a better idea, so he thought about it.

He ran for sheriff.

There were no debates. He gave only one speech, a week before the election, and it looked like half of the county, plus everyone on Shawnee Trust Land, came out to hear it.

“If you want a bigger jail, that’s fine,” he said. “I’m not gonna say you need one. And I’m not gonna seek federal or private money. If I’m sheriff, we’ll handle things ourselves with the resources we have. I don’t want Washington pulling strings here, so I won’t invite that by begging for federal cheese. The way I see it, the office of sheriff exists to protect your rights.”

This got a cheer, requiring him to pause before continuing.

“Politicians and bureaucrats get your tax dollars to serve you; not so you have to serve them.”

Another cheer. Given the voting record of the electorate on the rez, he had expected heckling when he got to this part—or blank stares at best.

“Because most politicians see it the other way around, and usually get away with it, doesn’t make it right. I’m glad you all are so enthusiastic about your rights. But your rights end where somebody else’s begins. When rights get violated, that’s when the police should get involved.”

He spotted his family in the crowd, all toward the front. Takoda and Carl’s hair was just beginning to grow back from their Mohawks. They and Gunther were typically blank-faced, but now with chests pushed out perhaps more than normal. Jenny was smiling broadly and Linda looked so excited she might faint.

“If I was sheriff, criminals would be put in jail,” he continued, inspiring applause. “My deputies wouldn’t be spending their time harassing people who aren’t criminals. They wouldn’t be engaging in random roadside checkpoints, or issuing tickets for tinted windows or seatbelt violations. If you respect the rights of your neighbor, then the law should be on your side. And it would be, if I was sheriff.”

Tommy wasn’t ready for the ovation he got for that short, unpolished speech. Linda threw herself at him and said, “Take me home, now, and ravage me!”

He laughed and shook his head.

“I’m serious,” she said. “Have Carl spend the night with Gunther. I want you.”

“I just pissed off every ‘law and order’ type in the county,” he said. “People don’t want what’s right. They want…”

He was interrupted by some well-wishers who complimented him on his speech.

When he was done with this bout of glad-handing, Linda wrapped herself around his arm and said, “There aren’t many ‘law and order’ types after Flores, Tommy. He converted them.”

Tommy tried to smile, not so sure.

“Tommy, you could run for president after a speech like that, and even your sister-in-law would vote for you!”

Reporters crowded in to ask him questions, but Tommy ignored them. He ran the gauntlet of hand-shakers and eventually made it to his Blazer.

The election came and Tommy won, surprising him more than anyone.

His first order of business was to scrutinize his deputies. He fired all but seven of them, then sat the survivors down in the briefing room and gave them a longer speech than the one he delivered on the campaign stump.

“You men have heard the expression ‘there’s a new sheriff in town’?” Tommy asked, then just watched the deputies reactions as the thought sunk in.

“The reason you are the only ones here is because I let everyone else go. The first thing I want you to understand is that for every one of you still here, there’s ten unemployed wannabes waiting in line, who paid to put themselves through the police academy. It will be much easier for me to teach them good habits than to correct any bad ones you might have. If you’ve been learning the wrong way to conduct this job before I came along, then you’d better un-learn it before I find out.”

He opened the cardboard box on the desk, pulled out a handful of small booklets, and tossed one to each deputy.

“Each one of you took an oath to uphold the U.S. Constitution, and the laws of Oklahoma,” Tommy said. “The Academy does an okay job teaching you the most common Oklahoma statutes you can use to trick, bully, and charge citizens. It does a disgraceful job teaching you about the Bill of Rights. These little books are copies of the Constitution, with the Bill of Rights and the later amendments, plus the Declaration of Independence and some other stuff. When you report to work tomorrow morning I expect you to have read the Bill of Rights. If you have any questions about it, ask me. I’m giving you one week to read the entire Constitution. You swore to uphold it, so as long as I’m sheriff, you’re gonna know what’s in it.”

None of the deputies had worked with him before. Nobody grumbled—possibly only because they weren’t sure how crazy a boss he would turn out to be.

“Until then,” Tommy said, “here’s some items for you to remember: if you ask for or accept any kind of bribe, you’ll be fired. If you steal something, I’ll put you in this jail myself. There will be no more checkpoints. No more speed traps. No more arresting people, then figuring out what to charge them with after they’re brought in. No unwarranted searches; no warrants without probable cause—and probable cause does not include skin color, camouflage clothing or gun racks.”

Tommy studied faces again. Some of the deputies blushed. He took note of them.

“You will not take one of the unmarked cars from the motor pool without authorization directly from me. We are not going to use unmarked cars for speeding tickets. If our objective is truly to make drivers slow down, then we want them to see that we are out there on the road with them.

“I don’t want citations for seatbelt violations coming across my desk. Citizens are not our property. If they aren’t endangering someone else, leave them alone. There’s more than enough yahoos on the road out there driving drunk, tailgating, changing lanes without signaling, cutting people off, running stop signs, and all kinds of other idiotic stunts, for you to concentrate on. Citizens don’t pay our bills to be harassed, or for you to make up excuses to cite them. You aren’t revenue men anymore, so make that mental adjustment right now. From now on you are public servants, and your job is to protect and serve.”

Kevin raised his hand tentatively.

“Save your questions until I’m done,” Tommy said, and Kevin lowered his hand.

“If you find yourself in a situation that requires backup, then call for it. And if you need to use force–up to and including deadly force–then don’t hesitate. If you’re doing your job right, I’ll have your back. But understand this: that badge doesn’t give you the right to violate anyone’s rights. If you hurt or kill somebody without good reason, then I will be your enemy. And if a suspect is truly resisting arrest, and the situation justifies a call for backup, your job is not to converge on the scene to get your sick jollies beating and tazing the suspect. You get them restrained and back here for booking as quickly, efficiently, and painlessly as possible. Is that understood?”

A chorus of sober “yes sirs” sounded in reply. This was not a happy crew.

“I’ll take questions, now,” Tommy said.

“Is it just us, now?” Kevin asked. “Are you going to replace the deputies you fired?”

“We’re gonna work it like this for now,” Tommy said. “I’ll see how it goes. I might bring in a couple rookies if it turns out we truly are short-handed. But the workload will be going down now that we’re out of the harassment business. This will probably be enough manpower, right here, to do the job we’re getting paid to do.”

Sheriff Flores had bloated the office with a small army of deputies, and ballooned the budget every fiscal year. Paying for all that excess made it necessary to generate revenue by “proactive” policing that made the locals despise and distrust law enforcement.

“Question,” Jeff said. “If we’re only concerned with people who violate the rights of others, how do we deal with drunk drivers?”

“Drunk drivers put other people’s lives at risk,” Tommy replied. “That’s a violation of somebody’s most basic civil liberties: the right to life—weaving all over the road and other drunk behavior will kill somebody; the right to liberty—a wheelchair is a definite infringement on their freedom; and property–the other vehicle or whatever else the drunk is going to crash into.

“Men, I spent some time in the Middle East. That region has the absolute worst drivers in the world. I wouldn’t trust them at 20 miles an hour on an empty four-lane road. But they drive at 110 on two-lane, half-paved roads, with crossing livestock and blind corners. And yet they have only a fraction of the accidents as we have in the States, driver-for-driver. Why? Because they don’t drive drunk. Period. They just don’t do it.”

Another deputy—Walker was his name—raised a hand. “You just told us to use deadly force without hesitation if we need to. Then you said you’ll be our enemy if we hurt or kill somebody. That seems like a contradiction.”

“Two problems, Walker,” Tommy said. “First off, you didn’t listen carefully to my instructions. Poor attention to detail. Secondly, it seems to me that you question your own ability to judge when force is necessary and when it’s not. That’s a fatal flaw in any peace officer.”

“I think his concern,” Harris said, “is the same as mine and everyone else’s: I mean, it’s our first day with you in charge and it’s like you’re taking the side of the civilians over us already.”

Tommy shook his head and ground his teeth for a moment. “Let me make something real clear to all of you right now: you are civilians. You are not soldiers; you are not in an army; and we are not at war with the taxpayers.” He pointed at the booklet Harris absently played with in one hand. “I don’t just expect you to read that, men. I expect you to know it; accept it; and conduct yourselves as if you believe it, for as long as you work for me.”

Within the first four months, three more deputies were gone. Harris tampered with his car camera; Walker coerced sexual favors from a prostitute in Norman. The third quit.

Tommy deputized some academy graduates to replace them. One of them was Janet Bailey, who covered for the dispatcher during her shift, and also updated the website. The image of the county sheriff’s office turned around, between her efforts at communication and the reformed conduct of the deputies.

Looking back on that first year, Tommy was surprised more deputies hadn’t quit. What surprised him even more was that, after a few months, the Feds seemed to lose interest in the bogus murder rap. He was questioned a few times; Gunther and Jenny were questioned; then the Feds backed off. Maybe, by some miracle, an honest person was calling the shots despite the Attorney General. And the fact that Tommy had been too busy with his new duties to keep sniffing around at the Justice Department probably helped.

D MINUS 87

Tommy set his coffee down, took Linda’s hand and kissed it. “It’s good to be home, baby.”

Linda’s dark brown eyes turned sympathetic. “You want to talk about it?”

“You remember that thing you told me about the other day—some link Jenny posted on Facebook about cults?”

Linda made a face. “Oh, yeah. Sick stuff.”

“Can you forward the link to me?”

Linda nodded, then her jaw dropped. “Did you find something like that?”

Neither of them ever turned on the television, unless it was to watch a movie together; so it was no surprise she hadn’t seen the news.

“Yeah,” he said. “I still don’t know how to process what I saw, yet.”

“I’ll send you that link,” Linda said, then moved around behind him to massage his shoulders.

“You still think me running for sheriff was a good idea?” he asked, grunting with pleasure as she kneaded the stress knots out of him.

“I do,” she said, stooping to kiss his neck.

“You’re the greatest,” he moaned, as she continued kneading. “Sorry if I’m more grumpy than normal. I don’t mean to take it out on you.”

“You owe me about 40,000 date nights, Sheriff Scarred Wolf,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “Let’s have one Tuesday night. I found this place I think you’ll like.”

Later, Tommy read the article his niece had posted a link to. It reported occultic rituals all over the country with very similar characteristics to what he found in Cynthia Greeley’s basement. He spent a few hours digging out what information he could on M.O.s, and the belief system which led people to commit these bizarre, disturbing crimes. He jotted down some specific questions to ask the woman and the two teenage boys during interrogation. So far nobody had stepped forward to post bail, and his deputies had little luck getting the boys’ parents to come in.

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

###

The link to False Flag is also on the upper right sidebar.

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What Gets a Cop Promoted?

Put simply: “Proactive” policing.

10

Y MINUS 20

SHREVEPORT, LOUISIANA

There was already a keg at Captain Taggart’s party when Trooper Macmillan arrived, dressed in a golf shirt and Levi Dockers.

Macmillan made the rounds. There were a lot of guys he didn’t get to see often because they were off when he was on, and vice-versa. There was also a fairly hot blonde and some other chicks present, mingling. He would have to check them out before long.

He got absorbed in a story Trooper Beale was telling about catching two queers going at it at a rest stop. Everybody laughed themselves silly. Then when the story was over, they got in a competition over who could tell the funniest faggot jokes. Macmillan had a few that got everybody howling.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to find Captain Taggart, in a loud Hawaiian shirt and shorts, holding a beer.

“Let me have a word with you, Macmillan,” the Captain said.

Macmillan followed him around the swimming pool, past the tool shed to the corner of the wooden privacy fence surrounding the back yard. His mind churned through possible reasons for this special attention. He decided it must be about the Texan he’d left on the side of the highway with a dead battery. The civilian must have complained. Somebody looked the citation up, found he’d been pulled over for tinted windows, and decided Macmillan had gone too far this time. Macmillan kept his cool and began formulating a probable cause story in his mind to justify the traffic stop.

The captain faced him and asked him a few questions about if he was enjoying the cookout and so forth. Then he said, “I’ve been looking over your productivity, and you’ve been exceptional, Jason. Just exceptional. You’ve been consistently proactive since you’ve been on patrol.”

This didn’t sound so bad. Maybe Taggart was praising him as a preamble to warning him to dial it down a notch, after the battery guy from Texas.

“When I pull a trooper aside for a one-on-one,” Taggart said, smiling faintly, “it’s usually one of two reasons. One is if he’s not being proactive enough. I give him the usual talk about how each trooper should generate enough revenue to pay his own salary, and all that.” He paused to chuckle, slapping Macmillan on the shoulder. “That’s not the problem here, Jason, so don’t worry. The other reason is to feel somebody out for possible promotion. That doesn’t happen nearly as often. Both of those take place on duty, when we’re in uniform.”

“Is this job-related?” Macmillan asked, confused.

Taggart took a conspiratorial look around. “Yeah. In a way. There’s this program…” He paused to purse his lips for a moment. “Every so often, federal law enforcement takes a look at the Highway Patrol in different states. What they like about state and local police is that you’re proven on the job. You’ve got a track record already; you’ve been screened for medical and all the other stuff. So they come down and look over entrance exams, psych profiles, interview transcripts and notes, performance reviews and the whole nine yards. Well, this time you were one of the troopers they took an interest in. A short list of badge numbers got handed to me and they’re waiting on me to pick who I think the best candidate is. I don’t know if I’m the tiebreaker vote or exactly how much weight they’ll give my recommendation. I’ve never been in this position before.”

Macmillan mulled this over. He wasn’t in trouble at all.

I’d hate to lose you,” Taggart went on, “but I wouldn’t want to deny you the opportunity, either. Think you might be interested?”

“Yeah. I would,” Macmillan said. His strict enforcement was getting him rewarded, not punished!

“It’s a bigger pond,” Taggart said. “Probably harder to get noticed. But then there’s probably a lot more avenues to advancement than here, too.”

“Sounds great,” Macmillan said.

“Word to the wise, though,” Taggart said, expression and tone now turning a bit stern. “The Feds are really touchy about all this diversity stuff. The big thing right now is sexual orientation. You have to kind of jump on the band wagon. They don’t tolerate homophobia and they don’t play around when it comes to that.”

It only took Macmillan a moment to make the adjustment. “Consider me an advocate, then.”

Macmillan would march in the next Gay Pride parade, if necessary. For this opportunity, giving somebody a blowjob wasn’t even completely out of the question.

“And of course it’s the same for women and coloreds,” Taggart said.

“I love niggers, sir. And I was just thinking we need more women on the State Police.”

They both shared a good laugh.

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

###

The link to False Flag is also on the upper right sidebar.

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Standoff With Federal Agents on Wyoming Ranch

 

9

D MINUS 82

CHAPANEE VALLEY, WYOMING

The paramedics avoided eye contact with Roy Jr. as they hauled Roy by stretcher into the ambulance. The last thing Roy Jr. heard his father say before the ambulance doors closed was “Don’t knuckle under, son!”

The ambulance got turned around, then negotiated the bumpy dirt road off the ranch. Three men who had been watching everything at a respectful distance now moved in closer as Roy Jr. watched his father being taken away.

The rawboned one, dressed like a cowboy, was his neighbor, Mike, who owned the closest ranch. Mike’s sons were not in sight, but likely patrolling the spread on horseback. The big, burly man in bib overalls was Roy Jr.’s uncle, Rusty. He had brought sons and grandsons, all armed, and dubbed “anti-government extremists” by the press. The stocky man in camouflage fatigues and a boonie hat was named Gary. Roy Jr. had never met him before three days ago. Gary had driven about 300 miles with a party of 11 other men who came armed and equipped to help Roy’s family and friends defend the ranch, if necessary. Right then they were in hasty defensive positions facing the feds.

The Bar G Ranch spread over thousands of acres, but there were only three roads cut through the rough land. The feds had their military armored vehicles massed at the three entrances. Of course they could go off-road just fine, but for now evidently intended to stay on clearly defined avenues once they moved in. No doubt reconnaissance aircraft had caught heat signatures of armed parties waiting for them in the hills and brush, too. What they might not suspect was that some of Roy’s allies were hiding among the cattle, as a sort of infrared camouflage. There wasn’t nearly enough manpower to secure the entire perimeter of the property

When Rusty drew close enough, he squeezed his nephew’s shoulder. “How you holdin’ up, Junior?”

“I think I’m still a long way from a heart attack, if that’s what you mean,” Roy Jr. replied.

“Did he say anything before they took off?” Mike asked.

“He said ‘don’t knuckle under’,” Roy Jr. replied.

Rusty and Mike chuckled.

“Hey, fellas,” Gary said, looking down the road the Ambulance had taken. “Here comes The Man.”

A black SUV drove toward them, a white flag tied to the antenna.

“What the hell do they want, now?” Mike wondered aloud.

Gary looked Roy Jr. in the eye. “They want you to knuckle under.”

“He’s right,” Rusty said, spitting into the dirt. “With Roy out of the way, they’re gonna test the waters with you. Scare you or sweet talk you into givin’ up.”

“Don’t do it, amigo,” Mike said. “Don’t fall for their bullshit. They got no right to even be here. They only pull this kind of stunt because folks been lettin’ ’em get away with it for so long. We need to stop lettin’ ’em get away with it.”

“We’re with you, Roy,” Gary said. “Don’t let them scare you. You’re not alone.”

Roy Jr. thrust his hands in his pockets. “They’re gettin’ paid to be here,” he told Gary. “You guys’ll have to go back home at some point to your jobs and families. They can afford to wait until you do.”

“We can stay for the rest of the week,” Gary said. “If it hasn’t blown over by then, some of our buddies will come to take over. We’ll rotate men through here, if that’s what it takes. There’s a guy gonna interview me for a podcast here on site. I’m goin’ on a HAM radio broadcast when I get back. The word will get out.”

The SUV pulled to a stop and three doors swung open. A man in a suit and two figures in black combat gear emerged from the vehicle.

Gary locked-and-loaded his AR15. “You two Nazi ninjas, back in the vehicle!” he commanded.

Mike and Rusty also got their weapons ready.

The man in the suit raised both hands, fingers spread. “Gentlemen, we came under a flag of truce. There’s no need…”

“We’ve all seen how ‘honorable’ you clowns are,” Gary interrupted. “Tell your goons to get back in the truck, now.”

The negotiator nodded to the two dark figures and they climbed back inside.

“That really wasn’t necessary,” the negotiator said, then extended his hand toward Roy Jr. “My name is Ray Hollis. Can we speak in private?”

Roy Jr. reluctantly shook his hand and gestured over toward the tack shed. The two men walked over and faced each other in the shade of the small structure.

“First of all,” Hollis said, “I’m sorry about your father. We’ve got him on his way to the best care available and we’ll do everything we can for him.”

“Who’s this ‘we’ you’re talkin’ about?” Roy Jr. asked. “Do you speak for the hospital and ambulance service, too? Do they work for you?”

The negotiator’s public relations facade faltered, and he licked his lips. “Hey, there’s no reason to make this hostile. We’re all sorry about your father. None of us wants this situation we’ve got, here. We all just want to resolve this reasonably so nobody else has to get so stressed out.”

“Reasonably,” Roy Jr. echoed, mockingly. “You show up here with an army of killers because my dad built a duck pond on his own property, and you want to talk about bein’ reasonable.”

With a flash of irritation, Hollis said, “Look, it won’t do anybody any good to have another argument about the law concerning wetlands…”

But Roy Jr. wasn’t done. “You’re lyin’ through your teeth about not wantin’ to be hostile. Look at these goose-steppin’ bastards you brought here. You don’t want this situation? You made this situation! This situation is exactly what you people want.”

“Calm down, sir,” Hollis said. “We don’t want any more…”

“Kiss my ass, Mr. Hollis,” Roy Jr. said. “You want me to calm down? Get the hell away from our land, and we’ll calm down. Put this army of yours on the border, and protect the people who pay your salary, instead of stealin’ from us. I’ll calm right down, then.”

“I understand you’re upset…” Hollis began, only to get interrupted again.

“Mr. Hollis, I’m not in the mood for any more of your snake oil. This is my family’s property and you’re trespassin’. I don’t care what the EPA says, what the FBI says, the ATF, the IRS, the DHA. You’re breakin’ the law. You thought I’d be weaker than my father and you could strong-arm me. Now you got the media callin’ us a bunch of Klan members. Kiss my ass, Mr. Hollis. You boys came dressed for a fight. Well, you drive one of those tanks through our fence or onto our driveway, you’re gonna get one.”

Hollis shook his head and gave a slight shrug of the shoulders. “All right. We tried to reason with you.”

Ray Hollis walked back to the SUV. Gary snickered and called after him. “Hey, revenue man! Most of us know all about Waco. Guess what? All of us will shoot back this time. And you don’t get a cease-fire when you run out of ammo.”

Roy Jr. watched the SUV bump along and disappear down the road. Had he just guaranteed bloodshed? Should he have knuckled under, regardless of right and wrong?

He knew most of those standing with him were just as scared as he was. Maybe some of the boys who came with Gary were itching for a fight–he didn’t know for sure. But Roy Jr.’s father, and grandfather, and great-grandfather had worked their lives away making the Chapanee Valley a profitable ranch to feed and clothe their families. Once upon a time Roy Jr. had assumed he could pass it down to his own son.

That wasn’t a sure thing anymore. But he wasn’t going to let some jackbooted Fed bulldoze his family off this land. Not on his watch.

 

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

###

The link to False Flag is also on the upper right sidebar.

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The Teacher of His Adolescent Fantasies

I plan to post a chapter today, Wednesday and maybe Friday. This should be a full week at VP.

This follows a thread started in Chapter 6.

8

D MINUS 83

COCCOCINO COUNTY, ARIZONA

Terrance Handel drove his Honda Pilot off the CBC property to the highway, tuning through the radio stations.

He might have spent more time pondering his treatment at CBC Southwest Tactical had he not seen the news segment on the TV in the lobby.

Finally he found a station broadcasting a news segment. He waited for the report from Norman, Oklahoma, and finally it came. “The primary suspect is local school teacher Cynthia Greeley, 45.”

Terrance drove aimlessly while he listened. His day and this trip were a bust, anyway. He had nowhere to be, and would have to figure out what the wisest course of action would be, now.

While driving through the town of Sedona he noticed a quaint old tavern-like establishment with an owl logo on the sign. He pulled into the parking lot, listened to the rest of the news report, then went inside for a beer.

When Terrance first saw Ms. Greeley, she was teaching biology at his middle school in Oklahoma City. She was maybe in her 20s then, and the sexiest woman he’d ever seen. He hoped to get her for biology in spring semester, but was assigned to Mr. Spicer instead. Ms. Greeley’s class filled to capacity early–and no wonder: every horny boy in the school wanted to ogle her for a full period.

She had a fantastic body that she routinely showed off with short skirts and tight, low-cut blouses. She had a sensuous voice and walk, and boys who took her class claimed that one time seeing her uncross and recross her legs made the whole school year worthwhile. But what really pushed her hot factor over the edge was how she looked and spoke to boys. She never said anything overtly sexual in school but boys were just certain she was sending out seductive signals. When she batted her eyelashes it seemed she knew their naughtiest fantasies and was more than capable of fulfilling them.

Terrance witnessed this once when she discussed one student’s homework with him. Then, toward the end of Seventh Grade, he approached her to ask about getting in her class the next year.

She smirked at him like she understood perfectly well why he wanted her class. He didn’t remember much about what was actually said. Mostly he remembered her scent; her lips as they formed words; her perfectly tanned cleavage; and her bewitching eyes.

He spent all summer fantasizing that she would turn out to be one of those teachers who had an affair with a student.

But he didn’t get her for biology. The year passed and he was off to high school.

He didn’t see her again for the next four years, but he thought about her constantly. He thought about her all through boot camp, too. He also convinced himself to look her up when he got back.

He returned home on leave after Parris Island and visited the school in uniform. Teachers and students alike gushed over him, but the high point was when Ms. Greeley looked at him with an appreciation he hadn’t seen when he was a student trying to get in her class.

“You remember me?” he asked.

“Of course I remember you, Terrance. I was hoping to teach you some biology.”

“I tried to get in your class,” he said. “But they assigned me to Mr. Spicer.”

“Oh, he couldn’t possibly teach you about biology the way I can,” she told him in a conspiratorial, sultry tone. Then she actually winked at him, shooting his imagination into overdrive.

He wanted to say, “It’s not too late; I’m still willing to learn.” But he chickened out.

Then, the next day, he ran into her at the bank. He decided he had nothing to lose, since he would be shipped to Afghanistan after AIT. So he flirted, and asked for her number.

She not only gave him her number, but her address.

He showed up in uniform again, which was a corny thing to do, but she apparently didn’t mind. There was little preamble. When she met him at the door she immediately took his cover off his head and pulled him inside. She asked if he’d had any personal biology lessons before. He admitted he hadn’t, and she proceeded to give him the biology lesson of his life.

Technically she was married; but it was an open arrangement and her husband was rarely home. By some coincidence, his job took him to the Pentagon frequently. She lived mostly alone in their house, and kept herself busy when not in school with some weird religious stuff that required Terrance to remove his shoes inside the front door.

She made all his fantasies come true, and then introduced him to some he’d never even thought of. Every time he got leave, he arranged to spend it with her. Strangely, he remembered less and less details about their love-ins as time went on. He just knew he left satisfied.

It was funny, how his memory worked. It seemed like so much was blurred into obscurity during his childhood and after becoming intimate with Ms. Greeley (she still insisted he call her that, even when they were in the most informal positions). He didn’t even remember much about his deployments, or all his years in the Corps.

Come to think of it, he didn’t remember how he came to the decision to visit CBC Southwest Tactical, or why he wanted to place bulk orders for gear.

So Ms. Greeley had moved to Norman. He wondered if all the stuff about sacrificed animals was true. And a human baby, too?

No. He knew her. She was only interested in bringing pleasure to others, and she excelled at that.

He thought briefly about visiting her in jail. Maybe even testifying as a character witness for her. But he’d lost touch with her in the last few years. Plus, these days he had an instinctive compunction to keep a low profile.

Ms. Greeley was no longer low profile.

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

###

The link to False Flag is on the upper right sidebar.

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Divide & Conquer: Church Shooting Will Turn Evangelicals Against Patriots

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From the instant the first news flash went out that there had been a massacre in the Carolinas, some of us knew details without being told.

It was a no-brainer to call how the treasoncrats would react. Barack Hussein Obama’s predictable talking points emphasized one difference between what is left of our constitutional republic and the type of nation he is fundamentally transforming us into. (That one difference that is the toughest nut to crack for the globalists, and why they haven’t already reduced us completely into a third world police state.)

Also before hearing the details, many of us were willing to bet that the shooter was psychologically disturbed, in therapy, and on some sort of psychotropic drugs. This is a consistent pattern in these media circus shooting sprees. They all have remarkably similar vulnerabilities and…to put it cautiously, seem to be marching to the beat of the same drum.

Now I’m going to be a little less cautious.

The hysterical voices that hype stories like these (while suppressing others) are not worried in the least about guns in the hands of violent criminals, Mexican drug cartels rampaging inside our borders, or sociopaths like these high-profile shooters. It is law-abiding Americans who mind their own business that they so desperately want to disarm. That is the toughest nut to crack for the enemies of our freedom.

In the elections of 1994, anti-gun leftists in Congress suffered the worst political spanking since Reconstruction. The very next year saw the Oklahoma City Bombing, and a seeming epidemic of school shootings has punctuated media coverage of celebrity sexcapades and Oprah Winfrey’s diets ever since.

Despite the catastrophic “progress” made on every other front, the would-be serfs in America tend to be less gullible when it comes to the right to keep and bear arms. Efforts to disarm us have mostly been stymied. The Hussein Administration has been executing a flanking attack by going after ammunition, but that’s not working fast enough for them. And for all the hype about the shootings, some Americans insist on “clinging to their guns and religion.”

Guns and religion–that symbolizes an unofficial coalition between evangelical Christians and constitutionalists that has proven a foil to the designs of the globalists.

We’ve seen divide-and-conquer implemented effectively along racial lines since 2008. And with regards to the invasion on our southern border, a fissure was seen to form between churchgoers and patriots. How can that fracture be exploited and widened?

By shootings in churches instead of schools. Watch for droves of churchians jumping onto the anti-gun bandwagon soon.

And it was a white shooter with black victims, of course. So that motive for division isn’t over, by a long shot.

Who Gets Blamed Automatically For Domestic Violence?

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.

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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.

###

Tactical Training and Creepy Customers

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.

###