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.




The Oath of Office: How Seriously Is it Taken?

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




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.



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.


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.

What Gets a Cop Promoted?

Put simply: “Proactive” policing.




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.

Elvis Reveals How the USA was Obamanated

Well, not really Elvis. You DO accept that the man is dead, right? (Long before Hussein crawled out from under his rock and appeared on the national scene.) But since we’ve featured two Elvis songs already this week, and “That’s Alright, Mama” was made famous by him…close enough.

The two paradigm charts featured in the video were too much work not to be displayed where people have time to read them…so we’ll do that. First, the actual left-right paradigm–almost guaranteed to be the opposite of what you were taught in school:


And then there’s the paradigm according to the Social Justice Whiners:



You will see these again, class.

Captain Gearhead

Alpha Anthems: “U.S. Male” by Elvis Presley

As I said before, alpha dog sentiments are much harder to find in music than the supplicating verse of beta chumps. But I managed to find one by the same artist from this week’s Mangina Melody.

He may have sold Wunitus (one-itus) with most of his songs, but in these lyrics Elvis clarifies who is the property of whom. This song is about a man warning his competition (a pick-up artist?) to back off his woman.

And this is the uncensored version. The one I remember didn’t have the line about the ditch and the S.O.B.

Not sure what movies these video clips were taken from, except I think I recognize Stay Away Joe. And my advice regarding that flick is to, um… stay away from it. Presley’s talent as a singer can’t be disputed; but that doesn’t mean all the movies he starred in are worth watching.

Captain Gearhead

Standoff With Federal Agents on Wyoming Ranch





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.

Mangina Melodiies: “Don’t Be Cruel” by Elvis Presley

Anybody would be hard-pressed to find a man with a higher value to the opposite sex than the young Presley. Sure, the Beatles inspired the same level of hysteria about a decade later, but there were (fab) four of them. The King did it single-handed.

I have to admit up front that I like this song. As with most music, I was seduced by the melody, the instrumentation and/or the beat, etc. before I really scrutinized the lyrics. Also, like most males in our culture, I was brought up blue pill and it took me a while to recognize what had been perpetrated via songs like this.

Here’s one for the psychologists to chew on: why do the blue pill sentiments women pretend to long for actually turn them off…except when expressed in a song or displayed in a romance movie?

All indications were that Presley was far from blue pill in his personal life, but as in most pop songs, through these lyrics he simps and elevates some woman to a pedestal like the most supplicating of beta orbiters in the Friend Zone.

In this performance, Elvis seems to still be enjoying his newfound celebrity, and having a good time making music. In this clip and the one from the Ed Sullivan show, something has him amused, as he laughs through some of the lyrics.

This is about the time TV camera crews were instructed to shoot him only from the waist-up, lest “Elvis the Pelvis” start a riot among the female of the species with all his rowdy gyrations. Even so, and with his rather subdued choreography here, you can hear women going into heat all over the audience.

Captain Gearhead

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.




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.

Corvette wins GT Class at LeMans

Captain Gearhead

I don’t like what has happened to GM and Chrysler, but I’m still somewhat happy about a ‘Vette winning the famous 24-hour race this year.

Last time a Corvette won, it was a C5 in 2011.

Some years before that, Dodge Viper coupes won three back-to-back victories at Le Mans, sweeping their GT class in 1999 with Vipers in the first six places.

Going back much farther, the Ford GT40 dethroned Ferrari at Le Mans by sweeping with First, Second, and Third places. Company politics at Ford, however, prevented Ken Miles from winning the first ever Triple Crown. But still, Ford’s dabbling in European GT racing during that short period proved Americans (at one time, anyway) can achieve anything they set their mind to.

For a fascinating look at that period of racing history, I highly recommend Go Like Hell.

The new C7 ‘Vettes are world class sports cars. They have been for the last few generations. I got a little track time in a C5 a few years ago, and the performance matched the badass look of the car. The win at Le Mans proves that the engineers have designed an automotive masterpiece.

Divide & Conquer: Church Shooting Will Turn Evangelicals Against Patriots

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.