As Mike said previously, we’re at a point in history where selling works of fiction is almost a silly agenda to be concerned about.  Fixating on the American Dream at this late hour is tantamount to opening a Kosher bakery in 1936 Berlin. Nonetheless, my ability to sound the warning is limited. My only platform, such as it is, is built on my fiction (and my blogging too, I guess). So here’s another chapter of my warning, in fictional form:

16

D MINUS 56

AMARILLO, TEXAS

“Oh man, I don’t believe this shit,” Delton Williams muttered as he swung his car around the curve and saw the po-po lined up across the road, lights flashing on their cruisers. Another random roadside spot check. Another part of the “zero tolerance policy” garbage the politicians on the local news were talking about lately.

Delton had lost his job months ago when the company he worked for downsized and outsourced their remaining labor overseas. His Unemployment Compensation was about to run out and he’d had no luck finding a job. He’d just sacrificed some gas to go to an interview which turned out to be a scam. He should have known the “no experience necessary” was too good to be true in this economy. Their job posting said he’d get paid training to be a financial consultant, when in actuality it was a door-to-door sales job and they expected him to pony up some cash to pay for the training. He’d spent the last of his cash on gas and now he wouldn’t be able to buy baby formula. He and his girl already switched to cloth diapers, hang-drying them on the apartment balcony because disposables were too expensive. The easy way out would be to either start selling weed in his neighborhood, or go on welfare. He didn’t want to do either, but was running out of options.

He needed to get back to the apartment soon so his girlfriend could take the car to her late shift job at the convenience store. Delton’s sister had borrowed the car Sunday and he hadn’t had a chance to clean it out since then. Who knew what she might have left in there somewhere? He was only a mile or so from his apartment. This checkpoint was the last thing he needed right now.

Six cruisers were parked here, in all. Most of the cops stood over by a cluster of trees shading them the late afternoon sun. They were all either white or Hispanic.

He rolled down his window as he came to a stop abreast of the two cops standing in the road. Maybe they would wave him on and harass the next guy.

“Good afternoon, sir,” greeted a short, beady-eyed cop, leaning down to face Delton through the open window. “We’re conducting roadside spot checks today.” He pointed beyond the paved shoulder to an area in front of the trees. “Would you mind pulling off up there so we can check you out real quick?”

“Yes sir, I would mind,” Delton said. “My girl got to get to work and she got no ride without this car.”

The cop blinked in puzzlement. Evidently he wasn’t used to people treating a question like a question. “That’s alright sir,” he finally said. “It’ll only take a second.”

Just in case the cop was being honest, Delton asked, “What exactly you gonna check?”

“We just need to look at your driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance, and to look the car over to make sure everything’s all right.”

Delton was behind on all his bills, because Unemployment was not covering his expenses. He had foregone paying the electric bill so he could send a token payment to the insurance company. He was pretty sure it appeased them for at least another month. But the premiums kept going higher and higher every year…

“You wanna search my car without a warrant?” Delton asked.

The beady-eyed cop’s demeanor changed. Hard lines formed around his mouth. “Excuse me?”

“I said you need a search warrant to do that.”

Beady Eyes looked over the car’s interior. “Is there something you don’t want us to find in here?”

Now the other cop, taller and uglier, stooped over to join Beady Eyes outside Delton’s window. “Is there a problem here?”

Beady Eyes gave the big ugly cop a meaningful glance. “He’s refusing to comply. Says he wants to see a search warrant.”

“Have you got something to hide?” asked the second po-po.

“I ain’t hidin’ nothin’,” Delton said. “Why I gotta be hidin’ somethin’? I told this officer here I need to get home so my girl can take the car to her job.”

“You could be in and out of here if you didn’t give us a hard time,” the second cop said. “This is just a random stop, as part of the zero-tolerance policy…”

“I ain’t givin’ you a hard time,” Delton said. “I’m mindin’ my own business, just tryin’ to get home so my girl can get to work. You’re givin’ me a hard time.”

The second cop stood to his full height and hitched up his gun belt. “Tell you what: do me a favor and pull up over there.”

“No thanks,” Delton said. “How ’bout you do me a favor and let me get home?”

“You need to think hard about this, sir,” the second cop said. “If you insist on making this difficult, you won’t like what happens.”

“You guys can’t search me unless you got a reason,” Delton said.

“Where’d you hear that?” Beady Eyes asked, voice dripping with disgust.

“Man, it’s my rights!” Delton replied, unable to keep the irritation out of his tone.

The two cops exchanged a look. The other cops, over in the shade, were now taking notice that something was amiss. Beady Eyes turned to them and called out, “We’ve got a belligerent one, here.”

The other cops hurried over, stationing themselves on both sides of the car.

Why can’t they just leave me be, Delton wondered, wracked with the sinking feeling of hopelessness. But he countered all their demands by insisting they produce a search warrant.

Finally one of the other cops approached to lean down in his window. “Unless you show us your license and registration, we’re gonna arrest you.”

“I’ll show you that stuff,” Delton said. “No problem. He reached across the front seat to open the glove box, where his registration was.

“He’s going for a weapon!” Beady Eyes cried.

Cops flung open both doors and grabbed Delton.

“Chill the hell out! I was just gettin’ the papers, like you axed!”

His words were drowned out in the shouting of the cops. More and more hands grabbed hold of him and they hauled him out. He tried repeating his protest but they didn’t hear him, or paid no attention. All of them were shouting at once and he couldn’t sort it out. They shoved him against the side of his car and somebody wrenched his arm behind his back.

They were going to cuff him.

Delton tore his arm away and twisted around to face them. “Back off, man! I was just gettin’ the…”

Something hard hit him in the ribs. Through blinding flashes of pain he saw the one holding the night stick. His body reacted before his brain thought it over, and he planted his fist in the guy’s face.

Now sticks crashed all over his shoulders and the top of his head. The only female cop in the group aimed a tazer at him. He batted it out of her hands and pushed her. She went tumbling backwards.

Blows rained down so fast and heavy it was like fireworks went off inside his head. Through the blinding pain of the beating he felt the ground come up to strike him yet another blow on the back of the head.

The perp’s resistance was an unexpected highlight to the checkpoint duty. Not only did they get to see Officer Katy Hobbes go tumbling ass-over teakettle after losing her tazer, but they were getting quality stick time like most of them had never enjoyed before. Then Archuletta began yelling, holding his arms out to stop the beating.

Panting but pumped on the adrenalin, they gradually stopped swinging. Their human pinata was unconscious.

They all glanced at each other and smirks were exchanged. Hobbes picked herself up and came over to take in the scene, and a couple jokes were cracked at her expense. Then Archuletta squatted to examine the perp.

“Hey guys, this doesn’t look good.”

“Cuff him and get him in my car,” Fender said, chuckling. “Somebody can bring aspirin to his cell.”

“No,” Archuletta said. “I mean this looks bad. Maybe we should get an ambulance over here.”

Archuletta stood again, then noticed all the civilians from the backed-up traffic standing outside their vehicles with smartphones out, taking pictures and video.

“Oh, shit.”

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

###

The image link to False Flag (the entire book) is  on the upper right sidebar. You can watch the accompanying Youtube video here.

[avatar user=”Machine Trooper” size=”thumbnail” align=”center” link=”http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_1_8?url=search-alias%3Ddigital-text&field-keywords=henry+brown+pulp&sprefix=henry+br%2Cdigital-text%2C482″ target=”_blank” /]

13

D MINUS 74

LAS ANIMAS COUNTY, COLORADO

Joshua Rennenkampf let the Palomino set its own pace up the mountain slope. The sun, where it shone between the trees, was hot; but the air had a cold bite to it in the shade. A nasty winter was due, and even this far out Josh could tell it was on the way.

Josh was tall and lanky, with classic Nordic features. His blond hair was grown out almost down to his collar, and he used the beard trimmer just often enough to keep perpetual five o’clock shadow. When he entered civilian life his divorce from the Army manifested in his appearance and his sleep schedule, if not his tactical mindset.

A rifle scabbard hung hunter-style from his saddle rig, and a pistol was holstered on his hip. From the opposite hip hung a scabbard full of oversize survival knife–the ESEE Junglas. In his breast pocket was a lensatic compass.

He didn’t anticipate using any of this today. Most people didn’t expect to get in automobile accidents, either, but they still paid for car insurance.

Beside the horse trotted two pit bulls–a 90 pound male and a 60 pound female. The female,Valkyrie, was buckskin, with amber eyes. The male, Ragnarok, was brindle all over except for black socks and tail, and a white patch on his belly. He looked like a burglar’s worst nightmare, and probably was, though he had been just a growing puppy only a month ago. Neither had ears or tails cropped, as was the fashion for the breed.

So far only one of his traps had paid off for Josh. The raccoon dangled below his saddlebags.

He rode up to a spot overlooking his third and final trap, and saw that it, too, was empty.

Josh patted his mount, Denver, on the neck. “Looks like I still got some learning to do, huh?” He turned Denver around and let the mustang pick it’s own way down the slope. Both he and the horse were startled when his phone rang. The dogs both cocked their heads to the side and stared curiously. He pulled the phone out of his breast pocket and checked the caller I.D.

It was Jennifer.

“Hey,” he said. “How’s it going?”

“I’m here,” Jennifer’s youthful, feminine voice answered. “I think this is the south entrance I’m at.”

“That’ll work,” he said. “Just hang the cable back across when your car is inside. “Keep it in low gear. First fork, make a right. After that, always go left. I’ll meet you at the house.”

“I remember,” she said. “Okay.”

He continued down the slope, thinking about Jennifer’s tone of voice during their brief exchange. Was she still upset with him? It didn’t sound like it, but then who could tell?

They’d had their first fight on her last visit when he insisted she leave her cellphone outside in her car. She’d thrown a few words at him, including “unreasonable” and “paranoid,” the latter most likely applicable, but he told her that her choices were to keep it out in the car, or with her, turned off, after he had removed the secondary battery. She told him tampering would void the warranty.

He had wanted to give in, but didn’t. More and more judges were ruling that, by voluntarily carrying around a device with a microphone in it, a citizen waived his Fourth Amendment protections.

When she left after that argument, he assumed it would be the last time he ever saw her. It was too bad, because she meant a lot to him.

Then, after a few weeks, she called. They began talking again, and she soon asked if he would still take her riding up in the mountain. Who could figure women? But when Jennifer sprang surprises on him, they were usually of the pleasant variety.

He heard the engine of her Jeep straining to make it up the steep driveway. His emotions were haywire. On the one hand, he missed her; but on the other, he dreaded this visit if they were just going to pick up where they left off last time.

Denver felt his own way down the trail and made it to the flat shelf a couple minutes after the Jeep. Josh dismounted and tied Denver to the hitching post in front of his dome house.

Ragnarok and Valkyrie had gone ahead and beat him to the shelf. They now stood facing the Jeep’s driver door, tails wagging in sync like windshield wipers.

The Jeep door opened and Jennifer got out. “Hello, babies!” she said, stooping to pet the dogs. Valkyrie especially loved the attention and jumped up, her paws landing on Jennifer’s jacket.

“Get down, Val!” Josh snapped. “You know better than that.”

Val dropped to all fours, ears swinging back and head smoothing into an abashed expression. But her tail kept wagging.

Jennifer was short but shaped nicely. Her red-bronze face was pretty, but had a kind of toughness to it that Josh assumed was normal for the Shawnee nation. What he liked best were her radiant brown eyes.

They walked toward each other and she smiled, then hugged him, pulling back quickly.

Platonic. Well, so be it.

“They’ve both gotten so big,” she said, reaching down to pet the dogs as they escorted her on either side. She then held up both hands as if ready to be searched. “Don’t worry—no cellphone. I left it in the car.”

“Nice trip?” Josh asked.

“It was,” she said. “I’ve really got to pee, though.”

He waved toward the front door of his dome home and she headed toward it. He fell into step behind her and couldn’t help admiring the scenery, glad she was wearing tight jeans, but half-wishing she wasn’t at the same time.

“When you’re done,” he said, “we can eat if you’re hungry.”

“I’m fine,” she said over her shoulder. “I’d like to start out right away. That gives us more riding time.”

His house’s exterior was painted subdued earth tones that blended in so well with the surrounding environment that it wasn’t easy to see unless you knew what you were looking for.

They entered, both dogs taking a seat outside the door.

Inside were several shelves sagging with books; Josh’s commo nook full of shortwave and HAM radio gear; and his server and four desktops.

Josh had removed the portrait of his ex-wife from the wall prior to Jennifer’s very first visit here. If nothing else, Jennifer’s friendship had helped him exorcise that particular ghost.

While Jennifer was in the bathroom, Josh fetched the pair of chaps he had bought for her. She came out and he handed them over.

“What are these?”

“There’s cactus and thorny bushes out here,” he said. “You may get brushed up against something with sharp edges now and then. These will protect your legs.”

“Oh, these are chaps,” she said. “Like the cowboys wear.”

They went out to the stable and saddled Indy, the mare, and went off on their ride.

He took a trail that led farther away from his traps, with a gentler grade. Both he and Jennifer were novice riders, so he figured excessive caution was the best way to avoid doing something stupid. He hadn’t owned the horses long and was learning their strengths and weaknesses even as he learned about horsemanship in general.

Only a couple miles up the trail some snow had stuck, but it was shallow enough the horses had no trouble with it. The dogs couldn’t have been happier, either, licking up the snow on the run and snooping around in general.

Joshua and Jennifer didn’t speak much, but every time he glanced her way, she seemed to be enjoying herself.

“It’s so picturesque up here, ” she said. “It’s crazy to see snow this time of year.”

“High elevation,” he said. “If it’s high enough, you get snow year-round.”

“But it’s worse in the winter, right?”

Josh nodded. “And there’s supposed to be a bad one coming up.”

Before long, the dogs’ ears swung forward and tails extended down. Ragnarok growled.

“Stay on me,” Josh said, but the dogs’ instincts were too powerful and they bolted forward to investigate. Josh sighed and Jennifer giggled.

“Needless to say, we’ve still got some training to do,” Josh said.

“I’m impressed that they’re not barking, though,” Jennifer said, always seeing the glass as half-full.

Josh noticed movement between the trees far ahead, perpendicular to the path of his dogs.

“Did you see that?” Jennifer asked.

He nodded.

“Is it a bear?”

He waited to reply until he got a better look. When he did, he saw it was another party of horses and riders moving across their path. No more growling or other noise from the dogs, nor sign of a struggle, either. “Looks like my neighbors.”

The two parties drew close and Josh recognized Paul Tareen, a tough-looking hombre with a black mustache, his sons Dan and Reuben, both dark-haired and whipcord thin like their father, and his daughter Terry. They greeted each other and Josh introduced Jennifer, noticing the looks of appraisal she got from the two young men. Ragnarok and Valkyrie came back to sit at either side of Denver, panting, tongues hanging out from the run.

“This is the family that sold me the horses,” Josh said, smiling at his neighbors.

“They’re beautiful,” Jennifer said.

“How do you know each other?” Terry asked, gaze bouncing between Josh and Jennifer.

As little as Josh understood women, he was fairly sure Terry had a crush on him. At 19, Josh considered her far too young for him, but she didn’t seem to agree. Josh had always looked younger than his years, inspiring unflattering nicknames like “Baby Face” in some circles. In the past he’d tried growing his beard out to look more his age, but he didn’t like how it felt when it got long. It itched and felt greasy.

“I’m friends with her uncle,” Josh said, assuming he had been downgraded from boyfriend since the cellphone incident.

Terry, a pretty blonde with dimples in both cheeks, appeared to like this answer. But not Jennifer. In fact, maybe he was reading too much into it, but he had the impression Jennifer took a dislike to Terry from that moment.

“You been keepin’ an eye on the Chapanee situation?” Paul asked.

“The Bar G Ranch?”Josh asked. “Yeah. Just read the latest before I went up to check the traps this morning.”

“You think it’s gonna get ugly?” Paul asked.

“I think it’s already ugly,” Josh said.

“Yeah. Man can’t dig a retention pond on his own property…” Paul said, shaking his head. “The Feds will use any excuse to steal from us.”

“The land owner got sent to the hospital for a heart attack,” Josh said. “You know they’re gonna work on his son—see if they can get him to cave in.”

“What do you think about this Jade Helm business?” Reuben asked. “Is it just a cover for beginning martial law?”

“They’re supposedly just carryin’ blanks,” Dan said. “I think they just might have live ammo.”

Josh shrugged. “Hey, I’m a civilian like you. I’m out of the loop. Best I could do is speculate.”

“Please do,” Paul said, with a worried frown.

“I really do think it’s an exercise,” Josh said. “Will they springboard from it into martial law? I don’t think so. For one thing, they’re using SOCOM personnel—not who you’d want to earmark for occupation troops. Two things SpecOps have always done is special operations, hence the name, and military advising. So first off it’s probably another psychological prep for the population—get civilians used to seeing soldiers patrolling Elm Street and Oak Street like it’s no big deal. The Pentagon has been pushing more and more of these exercises over the last several years. Another thing it does is familiarize the participants with the terrain that a real operation might play out on in the future—a special operation, to take out the most dangerous leaders of a potential resistance movement, for instance.”

“Night of the Long Knives,” Paul mused aloud.

“Or it could be so they can advise foreign troops how to effectively pacify this region,” Josh added.

“You think American soldiers would really go along with all this?” Reuben asked.

Josh nodded, feeling a pang of the old heartbreak again. “I do. Soldiers are mostly folks who were taught what to think by government schools and the idiot box, just like everyone else. They haven’t read the Constitution and, these days, probably lack the reading comprehension even if they tried. So all they know about it is what they’ve heard.”

“From government schools and the idiot box,” Paul said, frowning.

Josh sighed and nodded. “Almost nobody joins for patriotic motives. I was an oddball because I did. It’s all college money, signing bonuses, and job training. The different branches recruit by appealing to mercenary instincts, so they get mercenaries. G.I. Joe is gonna do whatever he’s told to do. Likely they’ll have him overseas in some U.N. Or State Department manufactured hellhole violating somebody else’s rights, anyway, while foreign troops are dealing with us. Bottom line is, don’t put your trust in our military. It’s not ours, anymore.”

“The weapons and equipment ain’t even made here now,” Dan remarked. “We could never go to war with China—all they’d have to do is stop sellin’ us what we need to fight.”

“They have to do away with posse comitatus, too,” Rueben opined. “They know police will be a joke if they come up against organized resistance. They need combat troops if they get serious about coming for our guns.”

“They pretty much have done away with it,” Josh said. “But posse comitatus was never as restrictive as we wish it was. Not that politicians will abide by even the most simple laws, anyway. And nobody appreciates the danger of standing armies anymore.”

Paul turned solemn. “Josh, you reckon you could start teachin’ me and the boys…um, Morse Code one of these weekends?”

Paul wasn’t talking about Morse code. He obviously didn’t know if he could speak freely in the presence of Jennifer. As the neighbors had gotten to know each other over the years, they found out Josh was a Special Forces vet. One primary mission for Special Forces was to train indigenous armies for war. “Advising.” Paul was asking Josh to train him, his sons and some like-minded friends for a war they believed was coming right to their back yard.

“I’ll drop by your place one of these days,” Josh said, “and we’ll talk about it.”

Terry flashed a charming smile at Josh.”Maybe you could show me some orienteering, Joshua?”

“What’s the matter?” Josh asked. “Your brothers don’t savvy land navigation?”

“I bought compasses for all of them,” Paul said. “But we haven’t tried to use them much.”

“You can do it without a compass, right Joshua?” Terry asked. “At night, by using the stars?”

Before Josh could answer, Jennifer said. “He can. He taught me how. I can teach you.” The offer was made in a sweet tone of voice, and Jennifer’s expression was innocent enough, but this struck Josh as the proverbial hissing and scratching of a cat announcing her ownership of the turf in question. Terry seemed to take it that way, judging by the fading smile and furrowing eyebrows.

“Matter of fact,” Paul said, oblivious to all the covert saber rattling between the females, “if you’re not doing anything for Independence Day, we’d be obliged if you’d come over and spend the day with us.”

“You can try some of my potato pie,” Terry suggested, undaunted.

“I appreciate it,” Josh said. “Sounds good.”

They exchanged a few more pleasantries and bid goodbyes.

Josh continued along the trail with Jennifer following. He expected either an angry outburst, or the silent treatment. Not that he had been anything more than polite with his neighbor’s daughter. But since when did facts ever matter to a woman?

Jennifer surprised him again, though. She asked a few reasonable questions about his neighbors, but never escalated the exchange to an argument.

He turned back just after the waterfall so they would make it home before dark. The ride was a pleasant one, with horses and riders getting familiar with each other along the way. When they reached the house, Jennifer asked to take a shower. While she did that, he stabled the horses, rubbed them down and fed them.

Jennifer was still in the bathroom when he came indoors, but the water was no longer running. He called through the bathroom door, “You wanna eat something before you go?”

Her answer didn’t come right away. “I’m staying here tonight, aren’t I?”

That was the agreement originally, but judging by her lukewarm greeting and attitude, he assumed she had changed her plans. “You’re welcome to stay if you want,” he replied.

“I thought that was the whole idea,” she said, rustling something around on the other side of the door.

“Well, yeah. But I figured you only wanted to go riding, after…” He shrugged, deciding to drop it and just play this visit by ear.

“After what?” she asked.

“Nevermind,” he said, and went to the kitchen.

As he dug through the freezer, she entered the kitchen wearing a bathrobe she must have brought along, and a towel wrapped around her head. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Trying to figure out what we’re going to eat,” he said.

She grabbed the freezer door out of his hand and waved toward the doorway. “Why don’t you clear out. I’ll take care of this.”

“Cool. I’ll go make sure the guest room is ready, then.”

“And call Uncle Tommy,” she said. “He wants to talk to you about something.”

Josh rounded up sheets, blankets and pillows, and made the guest bed for her. Jennifer was the only guest he’d ever had sleep over at this house; and he’d been convinced they were finished as a couple, so he hadn’t anticipated using the guest room again.

Josh wondered what Tommy Scarred Wolf wanted to talk about. For the several months after returning from Indonesia Tommy had continued the investigation which probably got he and his brother Vince marked for ruin in the first place. But then Tommy got too busy with the whole county sheriff thing and slacked off.

Josh opened up his video conferencing program and dialed his old friend. It worked much like Skype, only it was strongly encrypted—a custom program he’d installed on his and Tommy’s desktops.

Tommy was an old buddy from Josh’s A-Team in 5th Group. Tommy was a living legend getting short when Josh was an FNG fresh from the Q-Course. Still, they were like-minded in those days and got tight. They remained friends even after Tommy got out, but after Josh’s time in Iraq years later…things changed. Joshua’s attitude soured regarding the people running the U.S. government. Over time, the more he learned, the sour attitude became seething animosity, which trickled down to nearly every bureaucrat and person with any kind of authority. Tommy had become a cop like his brother, and that strained their friendship. Then he left the Tribal Police and went over to the Feds for a while, which was when Josh completely turned his back on him.

Then Tommy showed up one day right here on the mountain, in desperate need of Josh’s help. Joshua still didn’t completely understand why, but he couldn’t turn Tommy down.

Josh got wounded helping Tommy on Sumatra. Then everything was further complicated when Jennifer came into the picture (her father was murdered, so Tommy was even more protective of her than normal). But somehow when all was said and done, Josh and Tommy were good friends again, as if they’d never had a falling out.

“Hey Tommy,” Josh greeted. “Jenny says you wanted to talk.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Tommy replied. “I have something new for you to keep track of. Maybe dig at a little, when you have time.”

“Is it related to the secret teams?” Josh asked.

Between what Tommy and Vince dug up, plus some information their friend Rocco Cavarra had once been privy to, they had pieced together evidence pointing to an ongoing black ops division hidden inside the intelligence community. The division employed an unknown number of clandestine “tier zero” teams, a couple of which Rocco and the crew ran into overseas. They strongly suspected at least one of the secret teams specialized in false flag ops.

After a hesitant pause, Tommy said, “I have no evidence of that. But it’s something that looks pretty big. I can’t really do much more digging from here without getting The Man back on my tail.”

Josh fancied himself a pro at hacking into secure resources without being detected. “Whatcha got?”

Tommy told him about an epidemic of occult rituals involving both animal and infant sacrifice. Tommy himself had traced connections from some of the practitioners to classified government programs. He wanted Josh to glean more information, on the down-low.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Josh said. They exchanged a little more information and hung up.

After the meal of buffalo burgers and diced potatoes Jennifer cooked, Josh thanked her and bid her good night. His plans for the evening involved some reading on the living room couch before turning in.

He wasn’t ready for her to sit in his lap, wrap her arms around him and stick her tongue down his throat. It stunned him, but was certainly another pleasant surprise.

The towel-turban was gone now and she looked earthy and glorious with her long black hair hanging down.

They had been affectionate with each other before, but something was different about this time. Jennifer was really revved up, and soon had his motor running at redline. He let his hands roam over her, and she didn’t protest. Her breathing became heavy, but she didn’t push his hands away until he began to slip one inside her bathrobe.

She pulled away, but he tugged her back into his lap. “Don’t sleep in the guest room tonight,” he whispered. “Stay with me.”

Her only answer was a quavering moan and he was sure she’d finally surrendered. Careful not to make any sudden moves, he climbed to his feet, cradling her in his arms, and carried her to his bedroom.

All went well until he got her out of the bathrobe, then she shook her head and began crying. “I want to, Joshua. I really want to, but I can’t.”

He sighed and pulled away from her. He didn’t want to argue. Besides, her crying killed the mood for him, anyway. He patted her on the arm, draped the robe back over her, and stood to leave. But she grabbed at his arm and pulled him back.

“Don’t go,” she pleaded, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Is this about religion, still?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. Which meant yes.

She sniffled and tried to smile, sitting up to wrap her arms around him.

“Since when,” she asked, “am I just the niece of a friend of yours?”

“Since your last visit,” he replied. “Our knock-down drag-out about the stupid phone. And reinforced just now. Did I miss something?”

She licked her lips. There was concern, if not fear, in her deep brown eyes. “We may not agree on everything; but I don’t want to lose you, Joshua.”

“That’s good and all,” he said. “But there are some things about me that will never change.”

She tossed her hair. “The one thing about me that will never change is my faith. And I believe I should only give up my virginity when I’m married.”

“Then why are you wasting time with me?” he asked, with an irritated tone. “There must be millions of church boys out there who would do everything you want.”

“I’m not in love with them,” she said. “I want you.”

“But only on your terms.”

She chewed on her lower lip. He sighed.

“I don’t want to fight,” he said, half-turning. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He pulled away again, but she tugged him back, locking her fingers between his.

He was doing just fine by himself. Why did she have to bring all this drama into his life?

She placed her palm against his face. She looked like she was ready to cry again. “I’m not willing to give up on you.”

He hugged her, patting her back. Sexually frustrated as he was, he tried to give her what comfort he could.

After a while, she composed herself and asked if she could borrow a computer to check her email. He set her up, then checked his news updates on a different computer.

The item of most interest to him at the moment was the standoff in the Chapanee Valley. According to the video feed from one of his most used alternative news sites, the Feds had backed off. His fellow wingnuts were celebrating all over the country, like they’d just destroyed the Death Star and saved the galaxy from the Empire.

 

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

###

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

[avatar user=”Machine Trooper” size=”thumbnail” align=”center” link=”http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_1_8?url=search-alias%3Ddigital-text&field-keywords=henry+brown+pulp&sprefix=henry+br%2Cdigital-text%2C482″ target=”_blank” /]

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.

[avatar user=”Machine Trooper” size=”thumbnail” align=”center” link=”http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_1_8?url=search-alias%3Ddigital-text&field-keywords=henry+brown+pulp&sprefix=henry+br%2Cdigital-text%2C482″ target=”_blank” /]