The Day the Dollar Died (Part XXIII)
Filed under: The Day The Dollar Died Series
by John Galt
February 21, 2010
Just a reminder….the following is FICTION…..
February 27, 2010 2:45 P.M. Central Time, Vicksburg, MS
The weather this winter afternoon on the Mississippi River was miserable. It appeared to the boys on the river banks that more rain was moving in and the cold weather that was behind it might freeze up the roads again, a mixed blessing because if they could blow this bridge it would cut off the Mississippi for the Feds and force them to send their home guard contingent down from Memphis and finally determine how this region would finally be settled. At least that was the thinking of Lieutenant General Timothy Albright, a decorated veteran of Vietnam, Cambodia, Grenada, Panama, Iraq and now after retiring, the Battle of Greenwood, Mississippi.
The National Guard units defected shortly after the nonsense began several days ago, taking their weapons with them and the first conflicts against the Home Guard amateurs were somewhat pathetic from the reports the regulars gave Mike and Bill. Bill decided to open his mouth first to one of the other officers, “So why did the Home Guard attempt to take experienced, especially recently experienced Iraqi vets, on mano eh mano? Are they nuts, stupid or what?”, Bill asked innocently enough. The Captain told us that they were cocky thinking that air support and the threat of regular army soldiers backing them up would cause their units to crack. “Bill, if you don’t mind my calling you that sir, most of their boys hadn’t seen a weapon fired in anger,” the Captain said then continued, “they got their experience rousting grandma out of bed at two in the morning and shooting people’s pets. They have never been in combat before just like old Sadam’s boys. They talk big, but most have only learned in the classroom. My troopers learned in the sandbox so they know what to do, be it here or in the swamps to the south, or mountains anywhere. We are hard. We are ready.”
Bill and Mike were greatly impressed. “Sir, if I had a beer, cigar or something good to thank you with, I would hand it to you now,” Bill said proudly. The Captain replied, “I would take a beer or smoke but to be honest, I would just like to know that my family is safe. Everyone here is worried. We’ve heard stories, you know.” Mike looked him in the eye and told him, “I’ve seen the stories sir. We’ll pray for everyone here. It is ugly from sea to shining sea.”
Bill excused himself and decided to check his truck out, still wet with a horrid spray painted greenish gook all over it. There was still about seventy gallons of diesel left he figured, the engine and batteries looked good so now came the big question for him, “what was the plan” he wondered. When Bill and Mike ran up on their old friend the question stood out, “Sir, what do we do next? We are ready to go,” Mike said to Tim. The General shook his head, “Between the two of you, best I can figure, you’ve had seven hours sleep in the last forty-eight. I need you rested. Sunday is a big day. You are hereby ordered to rest for the next sixteen hours plus until I call for you. You ain’t kids either and I know you are dragging. A world of hurt is coming with the President speaking tomorrow, live this time, and with the 101 siding with the government openly. The 82nd isn’t far behind nor are the units in Texas unless things change rapidly. Get some grub, a shower and some sleep. We will meet at 0800 on Sunday morning, barring shocking developments today.”
February 27, 2010 6:55 P.M. Sarasota, FL
I spent the entire afternoon putting up traps around the back yard, figuring that the neighborhood rat was going to zing me next for some imaginary reason. As I appeared to do gardening work, the neighbors around my back side of the yard appeared interested and suspicious, causing me to lash out at them, yelling, “What the hell do you want? You want to send me to a camp you dirtbag?” After a few hours of working out there and people exchanging nasty looks, the one guy who was old, nasty and bitter finally walked up to the fence for an honest exchange. “John, I know we’ve had our differences,” he began, “but, but, but that scum in the Robinson household has to go. They outed me for using plastic grocery bags to clean up my dog’s poop claiming I was illegally dumping hazardous materials. Rumor has it they nailed James too. He may have been a redneck but he was a good guy!”
I was taken aback by his words. “Was,” I said softly, “you’re acting as if he is dead or something.” The neighbor looked at me like I was a child and said, “Well, what do you think those labor camps are? They separate the children for re-education and training and put the parents to work. I doubt we will ever see them again.” I looked at him again like he had been listening to some sort of science fiction theater, then again the past five days have been something out of a “B” movie. I decided to press him, “Okay Mr. Expert, how do you know all about this? I might be stupid or ignorant on the subject, but in just five days the government has camps set up like Russia or Albania used to have? Get for real.” The neighbor looked around like he was being watched. He then hiked his right leg up on to the chain link fence and pulled the pants leg back. “Yeah, I’m a paranoid freak. Call me a nutcase but I have to call to get permission to go to the store and take a shower,” he angrily stated pointing at the device above his ankle, “and if you think this is bad, you see the ones on my kids. This country is losing it. And our little peaceful neighborhood is riddled with rat finks and government stooges.”
I knew what I had to do so I dared to ask the question, “So who in this area is with us?” He leaned over the fence as he rolled his pant leg down, and gave me the names of everyone he knew that was upset with what happened to him and James. I looked him in the eyes and promised him, “When I leave Sunday night, I’ll cut that off of you if you want to run and resist.” He looked back at me, his eyes starting to tear up, “I can’t, my wife might be with the rats. She may turn me in to protect the kids or rat on you to get that bracelet off of her ankle. Just go get me some sugar if you can so I can say I was borrowing something we needed and you do what you have to. You will be in my prayers John, because I do not know how long I can live like this.”
I walked over to the neighbors who were with me, carrying today’s latest version of propaganda in the local paper and USA Today which were now combined works published by the United States Information Agency (USIA). The headline in this morning’s paper was an obscene gesture designed to play on the fears of the masses, starting with the huge banner headline at the top:
PRESIDENT OBAMA TO OUTLINE AMERICA’S FUTURE
The arrogance of this headline was only surpassed by the box entitled “Breaking Local News” which highlighted the gun registration program and how many terrorist incidents were prevented thanks to the “Know Thy Neighbor” informant system put into place thanks to some enterprising high school children thanks to some teachers who had foresight weeks ago. “I know who to zap now,” I thought to myself. The neighbors and I acted like we were discussing the article in the paper about setting up a Home Guard approved neighborhood watch and I even went to the rat fink’s home to elicit their support. The mother of the family who had just moved in from Maryland about six months ago was glowing and happy to see that I was coming around to their ideals and way of thinking. “You lost your gun or turned it in?”, a skeptical father asked me as the discussion got a little heated on the protection subject. “I was asked to turn it in for four days while the situation with my neighbor cooled off. They promised to return it to me by next Friday which is no big deal as I figured it would be better protection for all if we set up a Neighborhood Watch as per the ideas in the paper.” The family was obviously a group of Northeastern elites who had no idea what to expect from the locals and really did not care if they fit decided to buy my story, hook line and sinker. “We would love to help, we have already done all we can to clean up the dangerous people in the area and make sure they did not hurt our children or the nation,” the father said. “Thank you for your help,” I replied. The father then continued, “It is nice to see some anti-hick sentiment in this nice neighborhood. The ignorance of those opposed to the goals of our wonderful President and the new Federal Governor appointed to lead Florida out of the doldrums is a sad statement as to the pollution that hate radio and those corporate whores on Fox News were spreading.” I was going to say something sarcastic but decided to reply like a sheep, “I never watched Fox News, I was too busy trying to make a living for my household and enjoying my free time with my wife. Information was always available via the local paper when I needed it.” The father and mother both nodded in approval and we said our goodbyes.
Little did they know that the Neighborhood Watch was in place and that they were going to be the subject of this meeting late tonight, where payback was the order of the day, rather than preserving their sick version of law and order. As I walked back to my house a few blocks away, I noticed the chirping of the green parrots echoing out into the darkened night. “Great, just great, the squawking birdsong of noisy creatures, just like the annoying screeching of the finksters,” I muttered to myself. As I opened the door to my home, my wife was finishing up cleaning the shotgun and other firearms. “I did the best I could,” she said, “and they appear to be in good shape as if he knew what was happening.” I looked her in the eyes and said, “James knew what was going on, but decided to not endanger his wife and kids by fighting the overwhelming odds because he was not sure if the neighbors would join in. For us to start fighting now might be construed as too little, too late. We’ll find out in the next two nights.”
February 28, 2010 1:42 A.M. Sarasota, FL
“Payback is here,” said one of the neighbors in a whisper. “Shhhh,” several of us said. I told three of them to set up watch at entrance to the subdivision and to fire one warning shot in the air if any law enforcement pulled into the area. The rest of us finished making our Molotov cocktails and when the question was asked, “Do we shoot them when they flee the house?”, I responded, “I don’t’ care what you do. They destroyed several families in this area, it is up to each of you. I’m just going to destroy all of their possessions and leave them on the streets. You do what you want and live with your decision.” The ten of us that were left had about twenty bottles loaded with gasoline plus two more one gallon cans of gas. I snuck around to the front of their house and started pouring the two cans on the cars parked in their driveway and on the garage door. As I finished my work, I ran back behind the hedges and started to light the two Molotov’s I had as did everyone else. I started by throwing one against the garage door which caught fire in spectacular fashion while another neighbor set the front door alight and threw one into the picture window.
Flames erupted rapidly as you could hear the crashing bottles against doors and into windows then the scream of the woman inside. I tossed the last bottle on their Land Rover and yelled, run everyone now then fired two shots from the pistol I had into the air so our cover group could get away from the entrance of the subdivision before the Home Guard arrived. I ran as fast as I could with several other neighbors back to our homes but apparently some decided to stay and prevent the family from exiting their home by firing at the doors and windows. It was going to be a brutal scene and we knew the local goons would launch retribution against everyone in the area. I stopped running with everyone and uttered one key sentence, “Red Bug Slough, seven a.m., be there or you’re on your own. I’m getting my gear and heading their now. Blink your flashlights three times to identify yourself or I’ll shoot you.”
The fire was smelling up the entire area and the sirens were unmistakable. Two of the men stayed at the entrance and allowed the fire department to pass but ambushed a local sheriff’s patrol car and the familiar black Humvee from the Home Guard that had been harassing everyone in the area. I decided to turn back and help them out. “Tell my wife to get the go bags ready. Tell her I’ll be home after we’ve secured the entrance to the subdivision and prevented the goons from starting their counter attack.” I ran with my rifle in hand and one of the other men handed me a Molotov he did not throw saying, “I couldn’t do it. I’m sorry.” I looked at him and told him as I took the bottle and stated firmly, “You’re burning now, one way or another. They will round everyone up for this. Take a stand or else.” He nodded and ran towards his home, unsure of what I meant apparently but he would learn the hard way as so many others will this morning.
I was pleasantly stunned to see the Humvee on fire and our men grabbing the weapons off of the guardsmen laying on the ground. The deputies in the sheriff’s department car turned out to be wearing Home Guard gear also as the local officers were no longer trusted or so we thought. The running had tired my middle aged legs out but not so much where I could not smile as a voice was saying, “John, John, help me please.” There was old Porky, laying on the sidewalk bleeding from two wounds in his legs and dragging himself away from the burning vehicles. I walked up to him with a sick smile of satisfaction replying to him, “I see you have been promoted, or was harassing little old ladies at the grocery store just your day job?” He was holding his leg, begging, “John, John, I’m sorry, I’ll set you up better. I was just doing my job keeping the people in their place.” He coughed, in great pain obviously from the one wound to his kneecap and looked down on him, not in pity but with vengeance in my heart. “It’s people like you that destroyed this nation, that blindly followed goons and liars and sold their souls. I tell you what, I have a better idea Porky. Here’s your return favor for the job you’ve been doing this week.” I lowered my rifle to his forehead and his horrified look will forever be embedded in my mind.
The single .308 round splattered his brains all over the pavement as his lifeless body finished twitching seconds later. There was no turning back now. I had crossed the final line. My neighbors looked on in stunned silence. One of them said to me, “He didn’t deserve that. He’s a goon but he’s an American. You just murdered him.” I was reminded of a favorite line of mine from a Clint Eastwood movie and looked at him in disgust, “Deservin’ ain’t got nothing to do with it.” The confusion of the night had created both hope, opportunity and danger. “Let’s get out of here and move our families. They will be doing sweeps within the hour.” Everyone nodded and took off running. I had become a murderer in their eyes and as such a leader or another nut. Either way, I was not turning back now. The birdsong of the squawking parrots from earlier this evening was now forever stuck in my mind. “Were they warning of predators,” I thought to myself, “or telling the other birds to fly away to safety and freedom?” I knew what it meant to me and I intended to get free as soon as I could. We had become the hunted and those that did not realize it were doomed to a life of agony and servitude. There was no more civil debate, the stand was taken whether you pulled the trigger, threw a bottle or just watched in horror. There was no more middle ground in this neighborhood or our nation, in our minds