Army Colonel Dickson was called to Washington for a meeting in the Whitehouse. There were several cabinet members and Generals in attendance. The Director of the National Security Agency was pacing back and forth waiting for the President to arrive. The matter of the domestic unrest was the only agenda item to be discussed. The issue was the most complex with no quick, no easy answers. Every man and woman in the room knew the boil had reached the stage of no return, no cooling until the differences were resolved. The suggested curfews had little effect as masses of people ignored the declarations in every major city and remained on the front of the new war. Few of the most radical leftists had given up even as a number of them had been killed. The Colonel’s job would be to direct a mobilized strike force where needed to stop violence.
More leftists were congregated and watching for those of the other side—making assumptions based on anything that could connect them to any church, to a business, or to conservatism in any form, to any degree. It is a leftist dream to take these awful people out of their cars and out of their homes and kill as many as they can by any means it took to rid the world of one more fundamentalist. In many corrupted minds doing this would make the world a better place. The rampage was also a party unlike any of them had been to and doing drugs, drinking, and defecating, or having sex just off the streets were common during interludes of quiet from the authorities. Quickly, wherever there were a number of rioting leftists seeing the fish symbol on ones back window or even a bad message to them on a license plate, then that vehicle would be attacked. Wherever there were a number of patriots though, there were more firearms and people willing to use them against threats.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a problem never seen before,” the President started. “I want your answers to restore civil obedience now. We cannot wait another day because people are dying on our watch and it must stop!”
There was silence in the room. Colonel Dickson listened intently, waiting for his chance to speak. He was responsible for investigating the congressional assassinations that added ignitable fuel against the discontented and hateful right extremists. Their murder was a mistake taken early in the conflict and instead of quieting the nation for a period of mourning, rallied more to the side of Marxism.
“I asked you to bring the plan you developed. Let’s start around the room and hear what we have. Get to the point and be concise about—major concepts, please. I don’t have to tell you that we have no time to waste, ladies and gentlemen.”
“I say we mobilize every unit of the armed forces, Mr. President. We can strategically place them in the cities and along major arteries in and out… put those involved in riots under guard. That will stop the violence,” the Secretary of Defense said. He was nervous, his fingers rubbing uncomfortably the side of his left cheek.
“That would require martial law to be declared and could doom the party,” the President answered.
“Or it could save it, Mr. President,” the Secretary of Defense said.
“I suggest we start with only three metropolitan areas, Mr. President and assign one-hundred more agents to work through the local authorities in coordination with the FBI,” the Director of National Security Harrison added.
“Yes, and what’s the end game? The department of Homeland Security must stay on watch at our borders and ports. We can’t let our enemies use this discord to come in and set up to plan to do more operations. I must confirm that our agency’s priorities remain intact for the time being,” the DHS Secretary said.
“Yes, sir, of course… I’m just saying if we move slower and take one city at a time, it could be that by the time a few are controlled, other locations may return to normal.”
“And in the meantime, people are dying,” he said. “I know you mean well but I don’t know about the plan. Will it work?”
“You must declare martial law and put the troops in the streets. It’s a very dangerous proposition, Mr. President.”
“I know it is.” He looked down and across the conference room table. His cabinet and guests could see his stress as the veins in his neck and face were bulging and pulsing. “Damn, what do we do? What can we do to minimize casualties?”
“There are people we can talk to who are leading this movement. Perhaps we should engage them in dialog to find out what it would take to cause them to stop.” The Secretary of State said.
“Yeah, we could do that. Do you think they will talk to us?”
“I think so, Mr. President. I mean, they can only do so much and then what? I believe they want to talk. I believe they want a deal. They have to eat and survive and it’s hard to do that when you’re holed up in a courthouse somewhere.”
“That makes some sense but is costly. It will create a situation where they’ll know what they have to do to get more from us—it’s blackmail to the extreme.”
“That’s right, Mr. President. We’ll undoubtedly have to pay to put this event behind us.”
“… And save lives.”
“That’s correct, sir. It may be a temporary burden but it would give us time to more appropriately respond.”
“Yeah, it could do that. I don’t know what we would do if we had more time but at least it would be an end to the violence.”
“That is primary objective, Mr. President. We must break it up before the planned attack,” Gary Wheat, the Attorney General said. “We have a list of contacts who have been the primary movers.”
“Very well, Mr. Wheat… I would like to see them, please. Having to stop a violent attack on this Nation’s capital is an untenable proposition. We cannot be forced into such a confrontation. I’m sure everyone in this room understands that.”
“The police and Guard units have been effective, Mr. President. If we give them more time and continue to provide the resources, I believe the end is in sight. The situation is as controlled as it can be. It takes time.”
“Yes, I know they have been doing a good job but I’m not sure it is possible to continue pressing those on the front lines for more effort and time.”
“The people have joined the protests and counter-protests in droves. I believe most see this time as their best chance to take power, Mr. President.”
“Yes, Mr. Wheat, I know. We have to respond to them. Let’s get the leaders here before this thing is completely out of control. Our enemies are watching. If I must, I’ll declare Martial law in the worse locations. Don’t forget that, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Very good, sir, we’ll make contact within days,” Harrison said.
Sam listened to the radio as he drove to Boulder on his way to Washington State where the murderer of his wife was located and heard reports of a raging battle between the left and right, between the Socialists and the mostly middle-aged bikers who came to fight them. There was blood literally staining many parts of the streets where guns, knives, bats and hands were being used to inflict casualties on both sides of the political divide.
Events at protest sites had become more heated and much more confrontational. Since many areas decided to fund fewer police officers, their mission became an abbreviated one. The violence that began had become a regular part of the assemblies in most areas where people began by voicing their grievances against the government had become first a demand and now a requirement for there to ever be peace. The opposition, loyal to the Constitution and liberty, were meeting the Marxists in the streets. The worst that could happen and the worst kind of response by loyal Americans went practically undeterred by police or federal law enforcement.
When the Eagles rolled in, they would often do so from several angles toward the downtown courtyard and main intersections being used by the Marxists as a prelude to their destruction, fires, and looting. The Eagles could out-fight and overpower those who were in the way. Sam and I both were aware of the motorcycle club and read news reports of many of their patriotic and mostly peaceful activities. At first the protestors began running back, away from the onslaught but ran into another group of Eagles coming at them from behind.
There was nowhere for them to get away except inside buildings, the government offices, stores and different shops that had long ago closed and locked up, having been looted out and severely damaged. The objective of the Eagles was to stop the destruction and injuries of these Marxists—the perpetually unhappy and dissatisfied who joined the new way. The motorcycle club made it a purpose to avoid interfering in any way with those who were peacefully protesting and not obstructing streets and traffic.
In most instances barriers and locks didn’t stop the Marxist protestors as they broke into as many doors as they could force open. Often, bloody trails from being struck by fists, billy clubs, and chains led the way inside some of the building fronts near the courthouse. The Eagles were winning the fight in Boulder and not letting up. The more some of them felt the pressure of their blows, the more blows they threw. It felt better to strike them with fists than it did just to scare them as they ran away. It was more satisfying for most to feel that contact with their skin and bones under their fists. It was old school punishment of wayward adults for their crimes. The Eagles kept their fists flying with little return. Shots rang out but the few didn’t—and couldn’t—stop the Eagles.
There was so much noise, deafening interference to thought—motorcycle engines and screaming—the shots fired by the leftists couldn’t be clearly heard in the melee. One or two shooters at a time were being taken down, stripped of their weapons, and bloodied as an answer to their weak attempts to control other people by force everywhere, but it was being stopped for a time in Boulder.
The Eagles had firearms as well and produced them when they got word that there shots fired. It was a field day of frustration and hate let loose. The left was unprepared and reeled. Suddenly, several Antifa members were struck down in the return fire. Confusion and fear drove most into hiding as they tried to escape being beaten or shot by these interlopers on their arson and violence toward the police.
The Eagles included hundreds of veterans of every military service as well as many other patriots who were now serving in a new, home ground theater. They were people of all races, all religions, and no religion who heard enough from the left and was not accepting being blamed for every woe, everything they were told was wrong—the war, the homeless, the healthcare, and the treatment of illegal immigrants. The leftist Antifa bitches about everything and blame the poor tax paying working men and women for all their woes, easy excuses for their push of authoritarianism.
The Eagles motor cycle club relied on their honor and loyalty to the basic sworn oaths each member made in the service and repeated for the club. All the Eagles were aware there were not any brakes on what might be done when members’ blood is up against domestic enemies. The police were unable to be directly present in force at the scene of the conflict. They had been forced to look on from a distance to contain the violence as much as their numbers allowed them.
The Eagles, like many Americans, had enough of the destruction, the hate, the injuries, ever higher taxes to feed the government pig, and watching their rights being squashed away by fiat that the so-called caring, and well intentioned left was putting on the people. They were tired of seeing their rights being stripped away, jobs taken overseas, watching housing, fuel, and food prices rising because of government actions. Weary of the left’s use of lawsuits against companies and developers for some irrelevant environmental concern or what have you—every possible cause one could conjure—and factually had the effect of hurting working families within the United States. It was the reality to the families that suffered and their many friends who saw it and helped them. The breaking point had been reached and rushed through with a vengeance by this inept, Godless administration.
They were tired of hearing the hard-hearted, convinced of their authority, left screech how evil America was—a notion every man and woman riding that day knew damn well was a lie. Millions of Americans knew of the lies as well and many made up the majorities in red states.
They were weary of teachers howling against the parents of their charges, their work and life. They were angry with celebrities, professional athletes, media figures, and so many others being so against them and their families. They had enough of the leftist corporate complex getting away with it and an advocate media splashing their lies in every home.
Now was the time for a reckoning. The leftists that stood their ground on their false principles were being put down in the debate and moved out of the way, injured or not, like the human purposeful wastes and greedy liars the Eagles knew they were. It was time for them to feel the pain of the fist to demonstrate exactly what solid convictions feel like when you work to strip away jobs, faith, and rights. And there was plenty of pain administered in a fair manner that day in Boulder.
Sam smiled as he heard the reports. He knew the protestors were in trouble when the Eagles passed him. He wished he could have seen it all but he had a mission to achieve and not much time. He drove into Utah. Then he would see parts of Idaho before entering Washington where Luther Giovanni waited, doing whatever it is he does. He felt sadness grip him, replacing the joy with a knowledge America was now a land of conflict.
As happy as he was over the mental pictures of America hating leftists getting an answer they didn’t expect or want from the Eagles, he was fighting his mind to think of other things. It meant his country was divided as she had never been, fueled by a most dangerous human mix of emotions, greed, religion, and ideology and there seemed no turning back into time where people could amiably disagree. In the past ideas were honestly put forward and ultimately decided at the ballot box. But now the future was uncertain. There was no voting when it came to defending your family, yourself. The state of the union was a mess. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He focused on what his family lost.
He wanted to find who killed Cheryl. He kept telling himself that all he wanted was for the hate-filled person to stand trial for judgment and justice. Deep in the recesses of his mind though he knew he had to see revenge fully, justly, fairly done, and finished as an eye for an eye. He wanted to return to work and live as he was living before that black Saturday when the barriers crumbled and people let their nightmare begin to show itself across the country. He drove on. The murderer was in Washington State and before he realized it fully had driven into downtown Seattle. The many miles he couldn’t remember were rode out while he drove in a haze and he made it to the place.
Sam looked outside the SUV he slowly aimed through dusk shaded streets, glancing side to side through its windows and noticed some movement along the sidewalks of the streets. The many people he noticed in surges of groups appeared to be walking ghost-like stick figures, with no passion, no emotions of either joy or anger. They appeared to be walking in a trance or is it me, he thought. Maybe I’m the odd one. He was in the University District—Sara gave him that much of a location. He knew if any hard-core leftists made him for what he was, there could be confrontation. These types do not allow one to think differently. He had a name to find.
There was nothing showing outside the vehicle that distinguished him as being religious or conservative—he assumed many people in the district who saw indications like that would consider the driver to be an enemy. He felt like an interloper, a spy—as someone on the other side who could be caught and punished for having the temerity to come into their space. He thought the vehicle itself wasn’t the most obscure way to travel and blend in with people on this side of things—many who were certain to be environmentalists. A Sportage is not known to be among the most fuel efficient vehicles available—a rule among the environmental elite—only certain vehicles are expected to be owned and used. He thought about how conspicuous and vulnerable he was in the area. He shook his head side to side and pushed the accelerator when he woke up. He realized he’d almost slipped into an irrational paranoia.
Sara had written a name and area on the note she gave him. It appeared to be a conclave of what some may call the village of the west, mimicking the name of Greenwich Village in New York. There was even a roadway named Brooklyn Avenue. He laughed at the thought. The area was made up of studio apartments above shops of various sorts—from small specific genre bookstores to art stores, memorabilia, and t-shirt marts. The area allowed liberals to fetch the memes of propaganda of what they consider anti-establishment statements all day long, even though their brand has become the establishment in places like Seattle. The most popular were anti-Trump slogans screen printed on the front of shirts. That uniform distinguished the wearer as on the right side of things for this neighborhood. Dissent is not allowed.
He drove through and around the District to get a feel for its layout and size. He then searched for a place he could leave the vehicle out of sight of most pedestrians. He noticed an old stone church with several tall outgrowths of building and pulled into what was once a United Methodist congregation with historic roots but had been bought and converted into a liberal Universalist church. Within the angles of the old building he parked the Sportage to set out on foot. The stone walls hid it from view.
Sam thought he could fit in anywhere and the District was no exception. He wore jeans and a plain shirt, sterile enough, and sneakers. He walked the blocks to the Starbucks he’d spotted while passing through in his car. It was one of the oldest in the chain—perhaps where it all started for the entrepreneurs who desired to pay more taxes—or to have everyone else pay more while they protected their income. He laughed over the hypocrisy of some on the left who made fortunes and moved most of the money off-shore.
He ordered a coffee and took up a seat in one of the open corners facing into the store so he could see everyone coming and going. Sam was hoping for a friendly enough face to show that he could engage in conversation and not be conspicuous or too forward. As he expected the few patrons who milled about were in their solitary world of thought and seemingly detached from others. He noticed most of them stepped in, ordered and left quickly without so much as a word being said to anyone other than the young lady taking the orders.
Being unfriendly is only one outward sign of liberalism, he thought and smiled. As tempted as he was to break some of their trance for the hell of it, to shake some up, he had to control himself. Discretion and patience were the words. Quiet and unnoticed is better for him. What a dreary place to live. Laughter is rare—he heard none so far. I guess they don’t have much to be happy about. The war against capitalism isn’t going well for their side I suppose. Their want of a complete teardown of the Nation due to what they claim its racist foundation isn’t going well. Most people aren’t buying their revised history where the United States is all bad. This is also the land where the kind of people who hate it and its flag are looking to fight the very people who have guns while most of these don’t.
Sam suspected most of the patrons are wary of talking to strangers these days for another reason. Certainly many may think it risky to talk to a stranger because he or she could be an agent—there are bound to be a few working here undercover to provide intelligence to the authorities on any planned operation/protest that would likely turn violent. Or the stranger could be a mugger or simply a police informant looking to lessen his sentence for some other crime by turning evidence of conspiracy. There were plenty of muggers hiding and waiting on some streets and avenues. Either way, most of the citizens he watched thus far were afraid or uninterested in engaging a stranger in any kind of conversation. A city as large as Seattle probably had them all in great numbers. He didn’t find a single person to talk to in order to ask whether they knew Luther Giovanni.
He was ready with a plausible story—that he was a friend from Kentucky and had just left the Antifa battle of Louisville for a break and rest. He wanted to find his comrade and invite him to return to the city as things were falling apart on the front and they needed all the help they could recruit from all points. It sounded good to him as he thought about it.
The larger picture of a society nearly at war hardly affected the people of Seattle by all appearances. Life appeared to be as normal as it had been for years leading up to the national break from convention when all hell broke loose and the right finally began fighting back. He watched people in their normal routines whatever they were—some were students, easily identified, others appeared to be professionals of some kind—from professors to those involved in government administrative work—mostly in front of a computer screen. Most looked soft and untouched by the sun. He thought most of the men appeared to be far removed from labor and most of the women looked to be students or the jobless kind of youth adrift in society, wanting attachment to something important—whether they were or not, didn’t matter much to most of them as they trudged on in the fight for social justice.
Older women dressed similarly in dark pant suits, an obligatory satchel slung from one shoulder and a large purse slung from the other. Most were only barely distinguishable as women and obviously preferred to appear in public as intellectuals and not simply another immature woman following the latest fashion. In fact they all wore a kind of uniform to fit in with everyone else. He laughed at their conformity. He knew most liberals follow fashion trends as much as anyone but would vehemently deny being part of such a bourgeois phenomenon if asked. Yet here they are, looking like they all shop at the same stores and buy many of the same uniform pieces of cloth.
Seattle had a march that lasted two days but without an occupation of any buildings or looting. The protest march was enough to qualify them, he thought. It had been peaceful and the very few skirmishes with the police did not even come close to rivaling the violence of the riot surrounding the G-8 Summit held a few years ago. Seattle was at peace and waiting for the results at this particular interim of time. Sam knew that Antifa could change that in an instant and would on orders from their leaders. The want of destruction smoldered with hot embers of hate and resentment resting for a short time and ready to explode in fire and fury.
Like San Francisco, Marxists who claim to be merely progressives or liberals pretty much own Seattle. In Seattle, damage was minimal at the start but over time it came to very destructive ends, with many businesses shuttered after being destroyed, gutted, and burned. It was maddening to understand what the rioters wanted. Sam thought it was much like these people wanted nothing less than for the national government to finally topple—when they could step in and show the nation the right way—their way.
San Francisco was eventually trashed under its own weight of liberal orthodoxy as homeless encampments extended into every part of town. The needles and trash on the streets added to the feces and urine left by people at will and it all made walking in many sectors a serious hygiene risk. There was no one or group strong enough in the state, the Mayor’s office or City Council seemingly interested in controlling the spread of the filth which spread on the streets much like an ocean wave coming ashore let alone clean it up or correct the causes of so many people becoming homeless. Rumor had it that campaign contributions and more largess rained on politicians from the new high-tech, big-tech companies taking up residence nearby to protect their homes and enterprises above all else.
Many of the citizens in Seattle felt it the federal government’s responsibility to provide a minimum income to every citizen along with housing and health care. Though those elements were not in place in Seattle, there were safeguards in place that they could provide. The welfare rate is among the highest in the country, public housing and rent control helped a few for show it seems but the level of homelessness was inching toward being so large that it could rank second to no other city one day in the future. Paradoxically, most inhabitants and people of old Seattle families couldn’t begin to afford housing and so were pushed away from their homes.
Seattle also proudly boasted of being a sanctuary city—for the homeless and illegal immigrants. It was charity for the people who did most of their menial labor type of work. Few residents ever paid more than the market demanded—part of the same market that so many of them also claim to detest.
Sam day-dreamed for a moment that he had entered a different world, strange, not parallel but imprisoned in a kind of hellish sideways dimension. Still it was a clean place so far as he could see or judge and that appealed to him. Why someone like a Giovanni would take to killing by being part of the Shroud from what could be a peaceful place like this was another thing he couldn’t understand or bother to try to understand anymore. Sam knew well, this was only a moment in time though. While it felt safe here now, tomorrow there could be arson, larceny, and assaults. He left the coffee bar and strolled casually down the block trying to think of what to do next. How am I going to find this man? What will I do?
He walked toward Brooklyn Avenue and noticed a middle-aged man urinating against a wall set back from the sidewalk a few feet. At least he had his back turned. Clean city? He thought. He smiled at the ludicrous situation—all that being a sanctuary city seems to do is encourage more people with a full bladder and no home—and more illegal aliens, many who don’t know how to drive in the U.S. to take up residence. The city wasn’t near as clean as it wanted to appear.
Sam observed the pedestrians nearby. He had no good way to find this Luther. Having checked the City Directory and telephone book, there were no listings with even a close possibility. He would have to step his effort up and take greater risks. He’d have to simply ask as many people as it took to ask to find him. He went inside a small bookstore.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said to the older woman behind a counter. The transaction space was framed by books by Al Gore, Nom Chomsky, Lenin and volumes of other authors rising like pillars in the store owner’s view of what real substance and truth was in front of the woman. On the sides of the stack of unsold books and periodicals were stacks of The Nation magazine. She may know of Lute, he thought, checking his smarmy attitude before he spoke to her.
“I was wondering if you know of Luther Giovanni—I’m a friend from Kentucky.”
“No, sir, I don’t know him. Can I help you with anything in the store?”
“No, I guess not today,” he said as he turned away.
Nothing. This is crazy, he thought. I’ve come a long way and don’t have a clue; another real dumb thing to do, Sam.
He had a long way to go—and a great deal to do to find Lute Giovanni. He was in the midst of what had become enemy territory where in his view, rational thought long ago gave way to irrational emotion interred with thought. It wasn’t as though any of these people were so bad. They had become people sold on an ideology probably through friends at first, in college second, and then colleagues.
When one cannot escape a prevalent way of thinking and a constant barrage of the same ideology, he or she will most likely come to think the same way. Maybe it’s for acceptance. Maybe it’s real. Whatever the reason they think the way they think and are in a place of outright enmity toward the United States Constitution. Many want to do away with it and replace it with something else—for the sake of the collective. Many hate other people who do not think like they do.
He briskly walked the block and stopped as many people as made eye contact with him. It wasn’t working and most looked on him with suspicion and he knew, with good reason. He stopped into a police precinct—a last desperate method—one that would put him in jeopardy if anything happened to this man, Luther Giovanni. It was a last resort. Maybe they have a record on him and would be willing to share at least his whereabouts with a stranger. It will be obvious to them he meant no harm if he came to them, he reasoned.
“Hello, officer, I’m sorry to bother you. I know you all are busy.”
“What can I do for you, sir?” the female desk sergeant asked without looking up to his face.
“I’m looking for a man who lives somewhere near here and I was wondering if you can help me.”
“I don’t know how we can help you. We don’t give information out; that’s not why we’re here. Besides, Seattle’s a large city,” she said as she laughed slightly. “Who am I talking to?”
“I’m Sam, Sam Adams.”
“So I can’t help, Mr. Adams,” She said firmly.
“Yes, ma’am, I understand,” he said as he turned away to leave.
Sam walked back to the district, determined to find Giovanni.
He went into a coffee shop and ordered one to sip as he watched the clientele come and go, again. He asked the barrister at the counter if she ever heard of Luther Giovanni.
“Well, you’re close to the right place I suppose. We’re not a finder’s bureau here, but I know him.”
He had gotten lucky. “I know you’re not but thank you, ma’am for helping me. I haven’t seen or talked to him in a long time. Lost his number. We lost touch.”
“Yeah well, we’ve been a bit busy around here.”
“I know you must be.”
“Give me a minute. I won’t be long and can help you.”