Category Archives: TEOTWAWKI

Who Gets Blamed Automatically For Domestic Violence?

7

Y MINUS FIVE

AMARILLO, TEXAS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just do what I said, Mr. Tasper.”

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

“Are you arresting me?”

“We are placing you under arrest, yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

###

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

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

###

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

CORRECTION: Price will remain $2.99 for two weeks.

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

###

Tactical Training and Creepy Customers

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

6

D MINUS 83

COCCOCINO COUNTY, ARIZONA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s up?” Rocco asked Leon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You first, Leon,” Cavarra said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” Leon said.

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

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

“Anything in particular?” Cavarra asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ho-lee…” Carlos intoned.

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

“I think you’re right,” Leon agreed.

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

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

Carlos flipped him the bird.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost too clean.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cavarra repeated himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Somebody get shot?” Rocco asked.

“Shh!” Carlos held his hand up.

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

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

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

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

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

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

###

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

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

###

The Black Awakening Stirs

 5

D MINUS 88

POTAWATTOMIE COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE

OKLAHOMA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Diana nodded.

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

Diana nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

“Who are Zack and Dave?” Tommy asked.

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

“How about you?” Tommy asked.

“I’m a freshman,” the girl replied.

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

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

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

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

Tommy nodded. “Sexual things?”

Diana nodded.

“The boys are pressuring you?”

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

Diana nodded.

“How old are you?” Tommy asked.

“I’m 14,” Diana said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes sir,” Laura replied.

NORMAN, OKLAHOMA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeff nodded dazedly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was something different.

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

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

Jeff nodded, hand clamped on Kevin’s wound.

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

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

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

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

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

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

###

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

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

###

Purging the Armed Forces

4

Y MINUS TWO

CAMP PENDLETON

OCEANSIDE, CALIFORNIA

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

“Let him in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I understand you’re up for promotion.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nix Vine. Won’t play ball.”

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

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

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

Someone who passed the litmus test.

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

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

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

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

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Power-Tripping Cop is a Role Model For Hitler Youth

The sneak preview of False Flag continues.

(Chapter 1)

(Chapter 2)

(THIS IS AN EXCERPT FROM A WORK OF FICTION. THE USE OF THE N-WORD BY CHARACTERS IN THE WORK DOES NOT MEAN THE AUTHOR TALKS OR THINKS THAT WAY.)

3

Y MINUS 20

SHREVEPORT, LOUISIANA

Trooper Jason Macmillan, 29 and fit with a full head of brown hair under his Smokey-the-Bear hat, turned his halogens on bright, then adjusted his side spot onto the little Chevy S-10 pulled over in front of him. After the make was run on the vehicle’s owner and radioed back to Macmillan, he got out of his cruiser and approached the S-10’s passenger window.

He turned on his big Maglite and shined it through the rear window into the cab. He didn’t see anything incriminating inside.

But that was kind of the point: he couldn’t see everything inside.

The driver rolled his window down. Already squinting from the bright light of the cruiser’s headlights and side spot in his mirrors, Joe Tasper was now completely blinded when Trooper Macmillan fixed the Maglite’s beam directly in his eyes.

“Driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance,” Macmillan said. “And please turn your engine off, sir.”

“I’ve got battery problems,” Tasper said. “If I shut it down, I’ll need a jump to get going again.”

“Do me a favor and shut it down,” Macmillan ordered. “Then please comply with my request, sir.”

Tasper turned off the ignition, dug out his wallet and leaned over to open his glove box. Macmillan rested one hand on his holstered sidearm. He’d never had to pull his gun in the line of duty, but could never tell when the opportunity would arise. Tasper handed over his papers and Macmillan took them, relaxing just a bit.

“The reason I pulled you over is that your windows are illegally tinted,” Macmillan said.

“I just bought the truck today,” Tasper replied. “I was on my way to get a new battery for it. I can take the tinting off Monday after work. You’ll give me a jump when you’re done, right?”

“You sit tight here,” Macmillan said, waving the license, insurance card and registration form. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“The store is gonna be closed in a half hour,” Tasper said. “I have to get there quick to get the new battery.”

Macmillan ignored him and returned to the comfort of his patrol car. He called in the additional info, but Tasper’s record was clean, except for normal traffic citations, and his story checked out about buying the pickup that day.

Macmillan took his time filling out the ticket. When he went back to the suspect’s vehicle, he asked to see the bill of sale, then looked it over. He questioned the suspect about why someone in northwest Texas had driven so far to buy a truck in Louisiana, but failed to trip him up or get him to admit anything. Macmillan added a seatbelt violation to the citation and got the suspect to sign. The suspect asked again about getting a jump start, but Macmillan ignored him and returned to his patrol car.

Normally he waited for the suspect to drive away first, but knowing Joe Tasper wouldn’t be able to start his vehicle now, MacMillan drove away without waiting. He decided to come back this way at the end of his shift and see if the S-10 was still sitting here. Who knew? Maybe it would be abandoned and he could schedule it for impound.

It turned out to be Trooper McMillan’s lucky night. A county mounty called for backup on a resisting arrest code. MacMillan floored the accelerator, flipping on his light beacon, and got the Crown Victoria rolling down the fast lane at 120. The incident site was only a few miles away. He would get some stick time tonight.

MaQuon Lutrell was pulled over for a “no turn on red” violation. The sheriff’s deputy asked to search his car. MaQuon had a bag of weed under the passenger seat and didn’t want to go back to jail. He heard people say that cops couldn’t search a vehicle without either a search warrant or the driver’s consent, so he didn’t give his consent. The deputy asked what he was hiding and the conversation soon turned into an argument.

When the deputy ordered him to get out of the car, MaQuon feared it might get ugly. And it did.

The scenario ended with the deputy and an increasing number of arriving cops beating on him with police batons. One of the arriving cops was a young State Trooper.

The beating took place in a well-lit area on a street connecting residential and industrial areas. Across the street, hiding behind a cluster of bushes, was a group of preadolescent boys. They were friends from school who got together to hang out one last time since Mrs. Thatcher was moving tomorrow and would be taking her son, Arden, with her to Texas.

The boys laughed and joked among themselves, watching the black grown-up getting the crap beat out of him. Arden bragged that he would be a cop one day himself, and get paid to beat up niggers.

Why’s a Sharp Brotha Like You Workin’ For the White Man?

Chapter 2 from False Flag.

(Read Prologue and Chapter 1 here.)

2

Y MINUS TWO

BAGHDAD, IRAQ

Jake McCallum hadn’t had many visitors since he’d been in the hospital. A few guys from Security Solutions, International, including the president of the private military company, dropped by. Ingrid–a field surgeon and his on-again, off-again girlfriend, checked in regularly. But his closest friend in SSI, Leon Campbell, was stateside. And after the first few days there was little break from the bedridden monotony in the cool, white room.

At six-foot-eight and with a massive, carefully-sculpted musculature, it was agonizing for Mac to lay here and feel himself atrophy. His arm was broken and his knee recovering from surgery. In a civilian context he would have been released to recover at home; but here he was treated like a wounded soldier because it wouldn’t be safe for him in-country in his vulnerable condition.

A black man, who was not Leon, appeared in the doorway and rapped his knuckles on the jamb. He was a little shorter than Leon, and huskier. “What’s up, my brotha?” the man greeted.

Mac noted his business formal attire, despite the environment. His shoes were in the latest style. The creases in his pants were razor-sharp, and his jacket was tailored to his V-shaped torso. With perfectly trimmed mustache and goatee, he looked like a model for the cover of Jet or something. Mac had rubbed elbows with plenty of Agency guys over here. Agency guys usually dressed business/casual Nobody except politicians dressed sharper than that.

From his bed, Mac chinned an acknowledgment of the visitor, who then entered with a very subtle three-legged swagger.

“DeAngelo Jeffries,” the man said, extending his hand. Mac wrapped his own huge paw (the one he could still use) around the offered hand and pumped it once.

“I’m in town for a while, checking things out,” Jeffries said. “Guy I’m with was assigned to debrief your girlfriend—tall Swedish blonde—so I thought I’d come by and holla at ya.”

“Debriefing” meant Jeffries was working for the Agency in some capacity. McCallum had wondered if his trip to Indonesia would get their attention.

“Nurse said they had to do some work on your knee,” Jeffries said, sliding the chair over to seat himself at bedside.

“Yeah,” Mac said. “I can get around on crutches for now. Hopefully I’ll be able to put weight on it before much longer.”

“Knee injuries are no joke, man,” Jeffries said. “I had to have mine scoped a few years back. It’s like the most critical joint in your body. Has to withstand the most abuse.”

“Hurt it playin’ ball?” Mac asked, slipping into a ‘hood accent without conscious thought.

“Yeah, you know it,” Jeffries said. “But nothin’ like yours. Speakin’ of ball, I know you had to play somewhere, with your height.”

Mac shrugged massive shoulders. “High school. A little college, before I went in the Army. So if somebody’s debriefing Ingrid, that means you’re here to debrief me.”

Jeffries shrugged this time. “Naw, man–nothin’ official. Wouldn’t do that here, anyway. But rumors go ’round, and I’m supposed to ask you some questions. That’s all.”

“What you wanna know?”

“You know: routine stuff. Like were you injured here or somewhere else?”

“On vacation,” Mac said, technically telling the truth.

“Where’d you go?” Jeffries asked, in a friendly, conversational, none-too-concerned tone of voice.

“Indonesia,” Mac replied, wondering how much Ingrid was telling this guy’s partner. She didn’t know everything, but she knew enough to raise some eyebrows in certain circles where a smart person never wanted to cause eyebrows to be raised. “My first time over there.”

“SOCOM never sent you over there, huh?” Jeffries asked, surprised.

So Jeffries had read Mac’s dossier.

“Not me,” Mac said. “They always had me focused on the Middle East. Taught me Arabic; oriented me on Islam; all that.”

Jeffries nodded. “I guess it makes sense you got a Private Military Company over here. Ain’t too many brothas got that kinda’ juice at War, Incorporated.”

“I’m only vice president,” Mac said.

Jeffries chuckled. “Looks to me like you do all the work at SSI, while the president just handles the administrative end.”

Mac shrugged again. “Nigga behind the trigga. You know.”

Jeffries shook his head, sadly. “We come all this way. Even got a brotha into the White House. But the white man still has the white collar.”

“Even in a war zone,” Mac agreed, chuckling himself, relieved that Jeffries didn’t seem to be hungry for details about his “vacation.”

“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” Jeffries said, suddenly serious. “But there’s a new development here. Al Qaeda is reorganizing; working on changing their name.”

Mac knew “former” Al Qaeda cells were instrumental in a lot of regional mischief. And white people were making entirely too big a deal that American tax dollars were buying weapons which found their way into the hands of the late Osama Bin Laden’s jihadists. The issue was much more complex than who was behind the 9/11 attacks and whether the new regime in Syria would be more hostile to the US than the old one was. Now, evidently, the jihadists were getting ready to topple the precarious post-Saddam regime here in Iraq, too.

“The withdrawal is a done deal,” Jeffries said. “The day is coming when you won’t have the Army or Marines here to back you up.”

“I go to the briefings,” Mac said.

“You ever consider working domestically?”

“In the States?” Mac nodded. “I tried to get on a SWAT team after I left the Army. Wound up a contractor instead.”

Jeffries shook his head, frowning. “I ain’t sayin’ you wouldn’t be good at it, but SWAT—that’s local stuff. The Man wants to keep us local and small scale, but we need to get in where the power is, on the federal level.”

“You mean like what you’re doing?” Mac asked.

Jeffries nodded. “I’m at the federal level. I got my finger on the pulse; feel me? And if bad stuff goes down, I’m in a position to do somethin’. Look at the whole Eric Garner thing…did you follow that?”

Mac shook his head slowly. “Yeah. Man, that jury…”

“That jury was just the start, man. You know I can’t talk about everything, but trust me, my brotha: it’s gonna get real ugly before too long. The man sees us movin’ up, now, and he don’t like it. I mean, we even got one of ours into the White House. White House. White. It’s their house, the way they see it. And they’re frothin’ at the mouth to make make sure us uppity Negroes don’t ever get up there again. There’s gonna be a backlash sooner or later, and you can kinda’ see it happening already.”

Mac considered his white friends. Some of them were just consumed with hate for Obama. They could rattle off facts and statistics to justify it, but what was the real reason? Then there were loose cannons like Josh Rennenkampf, who Mac was sure must be a closet Neo-Nazi.

“You got too much talent to waste on a SWAT team,” Jeffries went on, laughing derisively. “Or to waste bein’ a contractor.” He swept his hand in an arc–not to indicate the room they occupied or even the whole hospital, but the volatile country surrounding it, along with the chaos and military/political quagmire it represented.

“I dunno,” Mac said. “Contracting has been a good fit for me.”

“Well you might wanna think it over, my brotha. I might be able to hook you up, you ever decide to give it a try.”

“I appreciate it, man,” Mac said.

Jeffries stood from his chair. “Tell you what: I’m not gonna pry into your personal business about the vacation right now. You’re in the hospital, on pain meds. I’m just gonna say you fell asleep before you told me much. You get with Ingrid, find out what she said, then you can get your stories straight. Then we can finish debriefing. Sound good to you?”

Mac nodded, dumbly. When they shook hands again, it was in the familiar street method passed down and constantly revised by young men ever since the Vietnam era.

After Jeffries left the room, Ingrid came to visit him. She was a tall, well-proportioned, attractive Scandinavian woman, with a lab coat on over a nice casual blouse and pants. She asked how he was doing, and if he’d been questioned.

“Yeah. And he’s not done, either. What did you tell them?”

Ingrid shrugged. “What I know, which wasn’t much. I was on the boat when all of you went ashore. But I did see the one firefight.”

Mac groaned. Why did she have to mention that?

Well, he guessed the Agency probably knew about it already, anyway. “What did they seem most interested in?”

“Who all was there,” she said. “They knew about Tommy Scarred Wolf and his brother. And about you. They wanted other names, but I couldn’t remember them. I just gave physical descriptions.”

“Alright. If they come back to ask if you remember anything else, say no.”

They chatted for a bit, then she kissed him and left.

Mac pondered the whole strange encounter with Jeffries. The agent had saved Mac a whole lot of hassle, not asking questions there probably weren’t any safe answers for. In fact, if somebody really wanted to be a jerk, they could classify Mac as a suspected accomplice in the murder Tommy and Vince were framed for back in Medan, Indonesia.

Something bothered Mac about how easy Jeffries had made it for him. On the other hand, he was grateful to finally find an ally who saw things how they really were in this white man’s world. The negative possibilities surrounding Jeffries’ behavior paled in comparison.

Vaginas Rule the Wasteland (But Enough About Hollywood)!

My gloomy predictions about the Mad Max reboot have been proven true. We’d all be better off if something like this fan video below was incorporated into a feature length movie:

Here’s the character we love and miss, in the milleu which has never been showcased as well, but in a story we haven’t already seen, which potentially fills the gap between the first and second movie, and doesn’t ruin the character, preach at us, or perpetuate the cultural programming we get from everywhere else.

So in other words, Hollywood would never allow such a film to be made. Same with Australia’s film industry these days, probably.

"Gee Goose: If only we had a strong womyn warrior to tell us what we should do..."
“Gee Goose: If only we had a strong womyn warrior to tell us what we should do…”

It’s not just the artistic tyranny of the SJWs permeating every nook and cranny of organized entertainment (except videogames so far, and a small outpost of science fiction authors). The authors, screenwriters, directors, etc. THEMSELVES, have been fully assimilated into the hive. All their pretensions of individuality are a pathetic joke: the same narrative is being pushed by ALL their hackneyed reboots, remakes, adaptations, rip-offs, knock-offs and “original” cultural-conditioning-disguised-as-entertainment.

But I’ve got a side-note that hit’s closer to home.

Even among self-described “red pill” males there is no solidarity. It’s nauseating how the feministas, SJWs, homophiles, cultural Marxists and other vermin routinely band together to push their agenda; but men on the opposite side are more concerned with hamstringing each other than cooperating on even something as small as a film criticism.

My article on the new Mad Max was posted on April 9. Yesterday, somebody on one of the big manosphere sites made the same warning. Initially glad to see somebody else getting the word out, I posted comments. Within a half hour my comments were gone and in their place was a comment by some other guy using the “Mad Maxi-Pad” joke I had made.

"You can run, but you can't hide! Sodomite marriage is coming to a wasteland near you!"
“You can run, but you can’t hide! Sodomite marriage is coming to a wasteland near you!”

This wasn’t the first time that ideas I’ve shared online have been “borrowed.” But why did my comments have to be censored?

Because I shared the link to my own, earlier Mad Max post.

Nobody at Virtual Pulp writes the “Five Ways to___________” or the “Why Serial Killers Shouldn’t Murder Pretty Girls” or “False Rape Accusation at __________ Campus” articles that is the primary focus at that site, but they obviously see us as competition.

And they can’t have that.

Ironic, because the article in question, reporting the same thing I did (over a month after I did), appealed to solidarity among red pill men, to vote with their dollars and boycott this flick.

Yeah, okay, you big team players, you. Since we’re all in this together and everything.

The War Against Americans

Every week this country is consumed in a new distended orgy of polarized, mutual hatred, set against the backdrop of outrage mobs, race riots, shuttered businesses, scandals, Twitter-induced career ruination, gleeful smear parties, and partisan hackery.

More and more people see writing on the wall all the time. But I had come to believe “conservatives” (whatever that means) would be the very last ones to realize or admit it, due to their myopic optimism.

That so many of them are sounding alarm bells now is kind of chilling.

My soon-to-be-released third novel incorporates into the plot many of the cultural, political and economic trends competing to topple America. Every day I worry that if I don’t finish it fast enough, the toppling will take place before publication is final.

Speaking of that, I better quit piddling around here and get back to work. But here’s a video for ya:

This idiotic conclusion by Brooke Baldwin is just one part of a narrative we’re gonna hear over and over until “everybody just knows” that veterans are dangerous. Almost as bad as (gasp!) Constitutionalists or (hiss!) gun owners.

This meme hasn’t even caught on with most of the flock yet, but I’m already sick of it. Here’s a few points that NEED to be made at every opportunity, to anyone capable of rational thought:

  • The Constitution is the law of our land.
  • Politicians (and all public officials) swear to uphold the Constitution.
  • 99.999% of them spend their careers violating, ignoring, circumventing and perverting the Constitution.
  • They consider their enemies to be anyone who would uphold the Constitution.
  • Their now-weaponized institutions like the FBI, CIA, IRS and Department of Fatherland Homeland Security, according to policy, consider patriotic Americans, gun owners, and veterans, to be a greater terrorist threat than actual, proven terrorists.
  • “Actual, proven terrorists” includes Bill Ayers, the mentor to and ghost writer for the individual presently occupying the highest office in the land.
  • Almost nobody cares. And they won’t care until it’s too late to do anything about all this.
  • And it’s probably too late already.

Revolting Developments in Revolution

I mentioned recently that I’m on a TEOTWAWKI kick right now, in conjunction with trying to finish my third novel of Rocco’s Retreads–which is a genre bridge from military thriller (Hell & Gone) and men’s fiction/paramilitary adventure (Tier Zero) through dystopian SHTF speculative fiction (the new one), setting it up for a post-apocalyptic fourth novel, should I be inclined to write one. And if the world doesn’t end before I can.

So that’s the kind of audio books I’ve been listening to, and the kinds of movies/series I look for on Netflix as well. Trouble is, I think I’ve already seen (multiple times) everything that doesn’t suck. And more than enough that do suck.

But hope springs eternal, so this show called Revolution caught my eye on Netflix. It’s about some survivors trying to figure out why power grids around the world went down 15 years ago. (Nope, it wasn’t an EMP.) Civilization went back a few hundred years when the lights went out, to a sort of Planet of the Apes quality of life.

I previously reviewed The 100, and a lot of those criticisms apply to this series already by the 3rd episode.

Of course the protagonist is the obligatory Strong Independent Womyn. And, in a world where survival depends largely on strength, aggression and 24/7 toughness in a rough, unforgiving environment, women still sport vogue hairstyles; name brand shoes, prescription glasses, and store bought clothes are still evidently available; computer nerds have survived, maintaining their overweight couch potato physiques while failing to acquire a single survival skill; and despite reversion to survival of the fittest, our feminized culture is still perfectly intact.

Well, culture in this throwback world isn’t exactly like it is right now. It’s more like what the feministas pretend or wish it was like right now. So of course there are amazon superninjas. You just aren’t gonna get away from that idiotic trope in any action adventure from Hollywood. But you knew that already.

sillyrevolution

And there’s also nothing original yet in the plot or subplots. One of them, in fact, was lifted directly from Jericho. Remember the black dude who had some mysterious government connection who had a laptop that somehow still worked, and he would lock himself in a basement and connect to the Internet that was somehow still functioning, to communicate with other mysterious people also online somehow? Favreau’s writers\directors didn’t even disguise the rip-off so much. They changed the black man to a black woman, changed the laptop to a desktop, and want us to believe that an amulet about the size of a key fob not only overcomes the miracle of physics that made electricity stop working around the world, but is also an adequate power source for computers, radios and other 110 volt household appliances, that doesn’t need silly little things like wires or other conductors to deliver power to a device.

It’s commonplace to show military and paramilitary units moving about in a gaggle when contact is possible, in a movie or TV show, blowing noise discipline all to blazes. But I’m developing a pet peeve about Hollywood depictions of hand/arm signals. Their technical advisors have evidently researched the subject by watching other Hollywood productions. I’m not sure exactly when it started, but originally some pogue civilian film maker saw hand/arm signals used somewhere, misinterpreted what they meant, and put them in a movie. Other pogue civilians decided it looked cool, and copied the misuse. I wouldn’t doubt that grunts have to un-learn all this crap when they go through infantry school nowadays.

Like every other TV show and most movies, there’s too much stupidity to document. Just a few random highlights to give you a taste:

  •  In the flashback to the world before the blackout, there are two characters stationed at Parris Island with haircuts even the Air Force wouldn’t let them get away with. (The same two guys who have a conversation in the clip above, BTW. Their hair isn’t that much longer here than when they were allegedly in the USMC.)
  • Ammo is scarce in the new world, so characters have become expert swordfighters. The series badass is in a swordfight with a bad guy and has a few opportunities to kill him after disarming him, knocking his sword out of the way, etc., but instead he allows the guy to recover–as if we’re watching Errol Flynn as Robin Hood, who is just too chivalrous not to give his opponent another sporting chance to get in a lucky stab or slash. Finally, he knocks the bad guy unconscious and THEN makes to kill him. But alas, at this point the Strong Independent Womyn appeals to his morals, because to kill a momentarily defenseless enemy would be sinking down to his level, blah blah blah.
  • A gang of bad guys move in to wipe out a resistance cell that’s inside a building. They don’t surround the building. They don’t blow it up. They don’t set it on fire. They don’t kick in the door and murder everyone inside BATF-style. They open fire at the brick wall of the building with small arms from about 150 meters out, having no idea how many are in the building, what the enemy configuration is, or even if they’re still in the building. And it works.

As can be expected, “militias” are the bad guys. What’s interesting, though, is that they have a Marxist attitude toward the right to bear arms, and consider items like the American flag to be contraband.

 

Mad Max Rides Again

The reboot addicts of Hollywood have convinced Director George Miller to go back and fix something that’s not broken.

The Road Warrior was a landmark film. I won’t rehash my past commentaries on it here. Instead, check out this first car chase sequence:

Now we’ve got a fourth film scheduled for release this summer. When I first saw the poster, I was thrilled. Then I came to my senses.

So here are my predictions for Fury Road:

  • The Falcon Interceptor will be destroyed within the first 20 minutes.
  • Charlize Theron (and/or some of her Womyn Warriors) will fill the obligatory Amazon Superninja slot, as well as proving the most capable leader in the Wasteland.
  • Typical Marxist ideology will be woven into the film, including (but not limited to) environmentalism.
  • This time the sexual deviants will be on the “good guys” side.
  • Humongous (or whoever the villain is this time) will be thematically associated with the religious right.
  • Lots of vehicles will explode.

Those are specific predictions. My general prediction is: it will suck just as bad (or worse) than Beyond Thunderdome. Except the special effects will look better.

What Star Wars fan hasn’t regretted ever clamoring for more films after finding out how much the second trilogy sucked? I predict the same buyer’s remorse for this cinematic effort.