Ladies and gentlemen - yeoman - all ships at sea and natives of any stripe lets go to press.

Far away gunshots crackle through a rising mist. I wait for the pickets in a thick skinned army-green pickup. Over my right shoulder mornings first cold silver light spills into the preserve; palms shadow and live oaks wave their mossy banners. This three-hundred acre riverside wilding lives hugging the shallow mudflats; within sight of Jacksonville hi-rise towers militia glide among it's pine dotted swamps; sure of it. I'd meet them soon enough, Hricko had said.

Hricko --- a barrier island perv from Charleston I'd once before met in La. Then he escorted a Charleston shamus on a Hollywood snuff-firm gig and needed a hand-off. Now, suddenly, a packet of 75-mm airbursts far upstream snap me awake. Shit. Call me quarterback. I looked around, eyes unable to pierce the misty rainforest. Swamp and brine pools, native Indian burial and gator mounds, and something of a wilderness quiet all provided the preserves salvation from developers machines. Surrounded by city, woods and swamps seemed empty, as did the road I drove and the pier. Meant as a rich mans toy, meant for yachts of the wealthy the mussel-encrusted posts, cross-beams and gray wood docking run long and straight into the last bend of the St Johns River. Last before the Atlantic surf; last before the Mayport rock jetty and last before the navel base and it's newly won carrier.

The Obama Hussain, named after the last POTUS . His own people put him down after he dared call out National Guard to suppress fires in riot-torn Cincinnati. Isis had tried taking over, as in Dearborn. But Cincinnati hunters banded in leaderless cells, terrorized the local Bantu into behavior and butchered out drive-in Muzzis by sniper attacks. It wasn't pretty, but the militia figured gawd would sort 'em out. Now Jacksonville --- ex-senator Rubios mosquito-boat Carnival Caravan off-loads a 4-th world Camp of the Saints along Floridas east coast. NOBs carrier dominates that mongrel pack. It's known as THE BEAST by Bantu , narco-MEX and Pak-import swabbies who run it under Admiral Jimbo Carter 4th It's said he wears an ISIS-controlled explosive belt, but noone have seen it. Viewed another way that carrier provides Jacksonvilles money, Jacksonvilles pride and a mayors ticket to another term on the local gravy-boat. Florida government split into Rubios Cubano mafia and northern nativists. Blacks were hated by both, tribalized and now provoking an exceptionalist sub-klan deal to the best offer. The nativists dug in and Hricko swore those militia were putting-down the carrier this morning, down to the ever-dredged and ever-silted river bottom and away from the strafing missions it's F18-Ds run on those ravening north-Florida militia.

I'm here to chat-up the man gonna carve a dozen eight-inch holes in the manganese-steel belly of the beast. To the north, a pair of ducks rustle up from the marsh; foraging the shallows a fox scared them no doubt. The ducks skim low across the pier and following the sharp river curve noisily fly off to the south. Navy F18s follow a similar course . The fighters stalk militia river pirates who prey on tourist excursions and torpedo an occasional munitions supply. Federals have chosen the city center office towers as command posts. In fact they built another, thirty-fives stories high and covered with low-light targeting sensors. Constant rocket and 20-mm sniping from surrounding ghettos has forced an occupation brigade ( 1st Miami Migrant Marines) and Ft. Bragg ranger battalion into 100,000 shot-a-day response; every corner a bulls-eye for weapons ranged over 2000 yards. Panthers and crocodiles freely roam town center savaging the remains. So Scranton certified, the bastard, along with needed tradecraft.

No, not foxes my ear whispers; I follow approaching boot-steps on my iNAV. From the east and the sound spectrum suggests boot-soles are truck-tire rubber so probably worn by the militia picket. The Go-PRO Viking on my shoulder clicks on. I'm sweating in the cold – yet another Appalachian hugging Canadian blast – waiting for either a militia patrol to sweep me under their skirts or to get Federalized – castrated, gutted and shot dead.

Bad luck doesn't just talk it swears. A misdirected shell whizzes overhead and explodes spraying shrapnel near the boxy pier end. That's a 43-mm; I know the sound from Turk air-tanks flying over Ramadi, Kurdistan hosing down YPG positions. I glance at my Swiss Army – then jump from the pick-up walking smartly to the piers first wooden planks. SEE ME you bastards I think! South, where the ducks flew an expensive, demanding cross-river firefight breaks out ; thirty and thirty-seven mm weapons howl across the St Johns. Large caliber munitions were to be expected, Hricko had mentioned, because in Jax even chip-implanted geese zombies wore body armour. The shells are four-dollars each, bought on the Cubano black market that runs Miami. SEE ME! Twenty yards out a nervous thin man rises from the deck his M16 at ready-arms. “You Jackson”?

For seconds the apparition slaps me speechless. “No I'm the feckin-A Pillsberry dough-boy and where-the-fuck do you natives get money for non-linear optical skin?” I've looped the Nikon around my left shoulder and a Seattle Seahawk patch covers my right knee.

Another five-round 75-mm clip exploded far overhead. “Here they call themselves National Organization of Browns - - - NOBs for short. “ He noticed, peals off a synfab helmet exposing a pale unshaven militia face and raises the M16; it clicks into full-auto mode. “Who got the first piece of Madonnas tongue?”


A rabid Negro goldfish.” More tradecraft. Nobody laughs.

You armed?” I patted the 357-cal Dan Wesson under my A-2. Gun-barrel poked into the holster bulge and he seemed satisfied. Two men rise behind him, one fat one tall. They carry long-barrel 10-gauge goose-guns. “Scranton, SixPak said you're one lucky nigger.” Sixpak, Hrickos nom-de-guerre. I jigger out a Camel straight and one for the closest rifleman. Light them. Thin streams of grey smoke dance along the pier railing. “I've been worse.” Another shell whines overhead.

What do you want?”

A Seal would fuck around and type into Bluefish: Want? A Disney whore and four Cubano Partagas. I'll stop that - - “Want? What any newsman wants: who, what when , where --- why.”

Come a long way for it.” His M16 barrel has never left my face. “You get tired of the snow?”

You ain't so tan yourself, palsy.”

Tall man taps his body-armour. “Why don't the Federals shut you down?”

Why indeed. “The SUPREMES still hold to half the 1st Amendment.” Pure bullshit. “Truth is HRI knows more about the militia than they do. Gestapo hoping for a break.” It's the best damned lie I can manage.

Tall mans face got no satisfaction. “We read about the late snow seasons along the North-West coast. Doesn't our great white north keep you busy? It is still ours, eh _ - -?” The second man had stepped for'ard and ground his 8-gauge on a boot. “You think this is budding Florida artists night at the Cummer?”

I've been in Jacksonville three days. First day an ex-girlfriend toured me the museums. We found a water-stained Morrison and dusty garage-sale early Remington. The sculpture wouldn't be discovered for another twenty years. I said nothing. We move now, off the dock and twenty yards down a worn path into a ragged stand of vines. Wilderness by the fifty-foot square. I thought of something to say about lonely trains, about the great white north not all lies. “Quieter now north of the Rogue River, since the Seattle fagboiz slaughtered local Muslims.” Three pairs of southron eyes surround me and don't blink. I story.

Seattle ISIS started beheading local GLBT members. ALLAHs dogs knife-weiding fanatics screamed while the local politicians pissed pants.” The three men surrounding me nodded. “Easy marks the fagboiz; you could tell them by their rainbow sweats and Teletubby backpacks. ISIS killed twenty-seven in one month. Their H1B-programmer agents screamed for Sharia and the following genocide. Seattle techno-oligarchy demurred –- for the BIG THREE and SMALL SIX ten bucks is ten bucks.”

Fags got what they asked for,” fat man blubbered. “Keep yo' dick in a woman!”

Money mad, power hungry and status pimping Seattle women aren't all that entertaining.” I thought about it. “But, you called it close.” My iNAV lit up as a boat-hull beat upriver along the channel island. " Police power paralyzed, refusing to admit that an entire race needs to be put-down. Jewboi legals were no help as one after another were sniped by Isis terror squads. Yet dirty-handed wisdom rose amid the sheep-like slaughter. Some Seattle teens in a wood-working program UTUBED a bit of Greek history, a NAMBLA project enforced by the school district.”

A man spit -”NAMBLA!”

I fished out another Camel and Zippoed the end burning red. Laughed bitter. “Ya wouldn't guess it, huh? Ancient history – 470 BC! Seems Spartan hoplite lovers fought together, au' pair, fearing a partners shame if they retreated! Practical too. One sliced at an enemies head while the other drove a spear-point through his groin. Hell on Persians! Hell of a story pair. I picked it up and HRI ran full banner pages with ad-support from a Bulgarian AK-47 factory worked by Greek Orthodox Christians.” A rain gust swept through the copse and I raised my head to breath it. “First the fagots tried marching and got picked-off like drunk pussy at a fern-bar.”

Crackling leaves and a deep degraded voice behind me. “Amazing ISIS didn't put you down. What did Seattle straights do?”

Startled. “ISIS tried; I shot two and the galpal shot the other. Now I hire four ex-Seals for legwork and to write copy; one gal's gonna win a Pulitzer if she sticks around. Since we rent the entire second floor of the Victorian, 50-cal sniper posts come easy.” I started to turn, but paws held me steady. “Straights? They did Jack shit.”

Fat man. “We heard you've killed before. That's good. But --- but straights crapping out, that's us!”

The man had his M16 pointed straight at my head. Hrickos last email said he had already paid me out of purgatory. “Not them. Seattle lib.com straights at first begged for tolerance, for understanding, for mercy, for – “ I hit deep on the straight. “ They even took up a collection to build a new mosque ; tolerance ya know, not a blojob.” I spit out a piece of Turk-blend tobacco. “But, something brewed backstage cause the fagboiz struck. First night they butchered twelve known ISIS killer-perps that liberal Seattle courts and police nancyboiz had released for good-hehavior. One dozen killaz and two-dozen Muzzi-wog fellow travelers, apologists, financiers, body-runners. Whole families were machine-gunned and burned. Some say scattered Seattle police provided computer records, but the Muzzi-wog H1-B import programmers shut-down those computers fast as Allah fucks a dog.”

Then case closed,” says the rough voice from behind.

Case just started. Sunday next was a rest day; NAMBLA snipers got nine ISIS belly-bombers and four suicide trucks before they could hit churches, but one explosion took out the new cross-town tunnel. On Monday morning GLBT sappers blew-up BIG THREE offices housing the Muzzi-wog H1-B code-monkeys. Those still living were gut-shot leaving the collapsed burning buildings. Wounded screamed for Allah or their mothers tit --- and pleaded Constitutional and human rights. By then it was a mixed militia: straight, trans, fag, white, black, brown, red and yellow. During a melee some tall bloody-faced black man stood for'ard, jumped to a truck-hood and started bellowing. “You Muzzi bastards haven't acted human and Americans haven't had a Constitution since Andrew Jackson. Mr Jefferson be shamed.” He then shot a black-robed ISIS teen in the belly. “Allah akbar bitch!”

A start and start only”, rapped the man behind.

Certain of it”, I responded. “HRI ran spreads of the bloody street-corners. Isis fighters were well armed and determined to kill. Few surrendered, but those captured were everywhere shot in the head. Three turncoat whites were hung jiggling from pine trees. Four-hundred ISIS were eliminated within the city, plus another two-hundred that missed airport buses.”

So the buses escaped to Saudi passenger planes? We heard - - -”

You heard wrong. Four 747s took TOWS up the azzwhole. But, they were half-empty. Six transit cars and the buses were cut-off. Feds ran those buses and a couple FBI turned sides, the buses cornered by a local Eagle-Scout unit with mini-14s; steel point 50-caliber auto-fires finished the job. Those FBI and some Treasury agents chose field commissions in the militia; armed with 335-cal sniper rifles. Call themselves the GRINGO FEDERALES now and fight together.”

And the straights?”

Who's doing this interview pal?” He said nothing. “Near eight-thousand so-called breeders took arms and swore honor to the Constitution; both men and women. HRI webzine had a million-hit day with the sob-stories and excuses. A couple ex-Pesmerga women flew in to train the gals; they're killers ya know.”

So I've heard. We have two east of the Inter-coastal working with female sniper squads. Men in the field say they fuck you so hard your ass turns to jelly.” No he didn't sound like that, smooth and determined, but sounded like a rusted iron radiator that steam ate through.

I continued. “After one weeks discipline with automatic rifles , straights are off fighting imported narco-MEX Federals near Mt. Rainier. Killing one-for-one some say. Amtrac takes narco bodies directly back to Mexico. Other straights ran for Spokane; maybe they figured Sand Point Nazis would have mercy on them.” I spit and filled a lung with Camel poison. “HRI did a two-day special on their greeting by our eastern militia. The rest milled about Seattle for two days, then mixed with disguised ISIS fighters headed for San Fran via Portland. 'Brown Americans are good Americans ' they chanted pleading for transit. But, the rail bridge refused to open … seems there are fags everywhere armed to the teeth. ISIS butchered a thousand of the straights fleeing with them. A night of screams followed before cross-river rangers put down the last of ISIS fanatics. Living straights were given a choice: arm and fight or swim the winter river and die. Seattle, land of the yellow-belly wobbly. Fucking cunt about half chose to swim; two made it.”

Must be the cattle hormones.” I said nothing. The man behind touched my shoulder; we moved into the clearing; he took off the black mask. A kid, a kids face and scag hair, a kids thin arms, a kids soul that looked wound out as ginned cotton. A healing scar on his throat talked plenty. He was smoking Reds and I said no thanks. Then he rasped. “No fancy talk here, Scranton; Adams, Paine, Franklin, Jefferson, Hamilton and Madison done that already. We're mostly straight white Christian, fully intent on butchering off the anti-Constitutional globalist enemy. Whoever that may be where-ever we are. That or send them away by steamboat.” There was a silence. “Gulags are too expensive and degrade everyone concerned.”

I stuttered ..”Bu better to kill than imprison?”

Damn straight,” he exclaims! “Florida is citizen land. We butchered it from the Seminoles fair and square - - - their fighting with us now, ya know?” I didn't. “Our main force fights to liberate Jacksonville inside the St Johns River curve. Plenty of ranger-men west and north of the river; Federal hi-rises site on the west bank so in time we'll expand. East and west.” He thought some and said bitterly, “Amelia Island and Georgia tidewater is Federal by wealth.”

You got lots of moves, lots of energy.” I held back for a second. “Getting anywhere?”

Tall man squeaky voice. “Anywhere? We control half the daytime river, ninety-percent at night, half the land area and two hospitals. Medicine we buy from Canada; the Post Office hurts for business and ships half-price. Thinks they go to a migrant camp outside Tampa.” He spit. “ Most local docs chose us over the NOBs. After we captured two Treasury cutters and could pay them!”

You have no air cover that I see.”

You ain't supposed to see nothin'! Upriver airbase is wrecked, but our territory, our concrete landing strips for launching drones, cruise missiles and prop night-fighters; we control all the beaches toward St Augustine except , well except for Mayport Navel Base.”

Getting that base will be tough. You consider moving to Texas? It's open range.”

Tall man. “We're Florida men, born and bred.

Don't fuck with Texas palsy. Air-bases immediately locked down or went militia. National Guard shot pandering officers and went native. Ranchers and Christian biker gangs cleaned out remaining Federals. One two three. Most locals knew cowboy machinists, so redneck oilmen and RUST programmers all armed with uranium-tipped micro-rockets. They swept away attack helicopters, fire-bombed a few M1-As and shredded invading Mexican Gatling-gun trucks. Damn – lucky those narcos drove Ford 250s and most engines overheated. Built Ford tough! Christian ranchers drove Dodge 454-hemis whose 37-mm pairs whipped bangerboy asswhole.”

You know a lot Mr Scranton.” We had started walking deeper into the preserve where a live oak canopy starved out swamp grass. “Do you know how we love the Constitution and love our land?”

True story, kid and gave HRI nineteen-million hits in September. But, love didn't save Jeff Davis … or New Israel.” I was thinking about a Norwegian blood farmer with no tongue.

You know the Pak and narco-MEX crew can't take the carrier out to sea. Not blue water with thirty foot swells. Don't know how to control ballast, so the steel duck swims around Mayport Jetties, spitting off F18s and Apaches, and spewing radioactive oil from a bust lubrication value. Another six months and the rear propeller stops turning.”

Radioactive, huh. Remind me not to eat the local fish. Sounds like Paks may sink the carrier trying to turn 'round a bouy. So why not wait, like Gen. Lee ought to have waited in mountains west of the Shenandoah. Those Bantu-piloted F18s do any real damage?”

The kid touched his neck. “Bantu can shoot just fine. Boers taught the Auzzis that in South Africa 1900; we remember and excepting snipers and long-barrel 25-mm gunners keep our head tucked into our belly. If you need quants I won't give them; we do lose supply-running swiftboats to the planes and raider formations to helicopters. Not many, but enough to hurt morale. We don't give mini-14s to 10 year olds, but they take them anyway and march to the sound of fighting. It's hard to see one torn up by shrapnel.“

My back sweat cold. The carrier ploy had suicide mission written all over it. “Now you shoot for the big-time with popguns. Like I said Gen Lee ought to have known better.”

The kid with a scared neck took a long slow drag on his Red. “Courage yes, we have that, but besides, Gen Lee didn't have neuro-controlled weaponized redfish!”

You weaponized the damned redfish?” That stopped me cold. My head spinning as I guessed odds and debated HRIs morning headline. “Ha! Think you can sink a carrier with fish?”

Tall man. “Jonah harbored in a whale,”

Not the same thing, pad're. In fact kinda … ”

Jonah carried a message for Nineveh, so patience, Scranton. One mans pogie is anothers bluefish.” Nonsense, more nonsense. Yet I'd hooked a big blue yesterday and - - - “We released a school of 60-lb mercurial.thermite loaded spot-tails on the outgoing tide, forty minutes ago. He held up an iWatch whose face sparkled twenty-five pinpricks of blue light. A finger-swipe produced river bottom topography and he smiled. Those spot-tails, that's Donnas work.”

Brushing aside tangled undergrowth we approached a pool-sized low, camouflaged concrete holding tank. A screen and pieces of netting rolled away. Leaves dripped as a film of rain sifted through the trees, shimmering clear water. Fish fins roiled the surface. Across the tank a fresh faced girl stood watching us, her Nor'easter hanging loose and bowed amusingly. “Fish are smart,” she giggled.

A smirk from the kid. “Fish mostly follow the tide; we stimulate them to find large steel objects attractive. Find, approach and suck on the metal skin. “ He puffed a bit. “That's my neural micro-circuit work at uni! Really, a fish-brain isn't all that big; they sense, swim and deliver. The three-lb squirt of 3000-degree liquid copper traveling 350 meters-per-second takes about four-tenths seconds to bubble-out and penetrate a seven-inch thick hull. And after penetration the first space inside the hull is ravaged beyond repair. ”

Who, what, when, where --- “Isn't this preserve the first place Federals would sweep?”

Arlington belong to the militia. Federals control only the southern half of University Boulevard. Any rolling column gets shredded east of the bridge, four miles from here.”

And ranger or para-fighter bands?”

Perhaps,” he allowed,”but only in winter. Donna also breeds snakes and to snark back here in summer, without a full-body anti-strike suit is to die. Not much help for a silent ranger attack. ”

Why? “You too?”

Fat man laughed. “Not we too! Kid here built an electronic unit --- high-frequency sonic snake repellant. Acts on their infrared sensors and makes their fangs fall out.” Fat man laughed again. “Carry it backpack style and not a rattlesnake or moccasin will approach for fifty yards. Shut-down. And if one is buzzed and you step on it the viper just yawns and slithers away.”

Kid was breathing hard - - the throat - - - “Do the Feds have such a unit? Militia Green malwared a homoerotic sex site favored by Federal geeks. The load was slippery, transferred on a key and crashed, then stuxxed their Miami design computers. Hardware needs replacing so not yet! ”

Why? “Militia Green, that a fifth column unit?” Fat man tall man says nothing. “How much time do I have?”

The kids got jumpy, his iWatch roiled numbers. “Fifteen minutes , say, until Fed computer deconvolute satellite IR through the rain-squalls. Militia units put up lots of heat noise for this operation.” He thought a bit. “You wear a vest?”

Why? “A-2 vest and knickers, steel cup. How much time ---?” It's quiet, so quiet. I think of so many thin faced militia on riverbanks, icefalls and third story warrens. And of the nuclear weapons Airforce generals have locked down, sequestered, refused yet releasing to the Federals. It's not like this militia uprising locks together perfectly, like a maths proof in sophomore lecture. Everyone stiffens. Dreamlike, ricochet sounds fly upriver. You need to know they're coming I think, but the clever iNAV sound shows a blast spectrum; muffled blast one through thirteen could have been a drum-roll, could have been an infantry salute, could have been backfires at a dirt track stock car race, could a' been lots.

Bingo. Move people,” says tall man clamping shut his smart phone. Legs frozen by anticipation churn. Except Donna who stood stroking and cooing a cold paralyzed water moccasin we all crashed through vines and as a column dashed into a grassy area beside the parking lot. Upstream the high-caliber firefight had gone ballistic, and tracer streams forged pathways bright and simpering across the river. Alone! Rain has stiffened with the north-east wind. Only my green painted pick-up holds a place.

Kid had older mans eyes. “Now publish the damned story, Scranton. Don't need to be slick to walk free. Drive out and across University Rd., wind around to the Fish and Game building. Park, get out your fishing pole and move. You have time and a stupid face, striding up the boardwalk, toward Arlingtons golf club and fishing pier. Might even have company; university students come to the boardwalk and fuck when the shooting starts. Privacy you know and Federal helicopters never shoot golfers.”

I hit the pick-up seat running. Behind us, beyond the pier two Federal gunboats raced down the deeper channel. Their three Yamaha 250s screamed and bows carved a twenty-foot high wall of spray. By now trapped men were screaming on the carriers lower decks; sure of it. My engine fired right off. I had popped into first gear already, tires dug deep in mud-skim and my shout-out was only a tangent. ”What about you?”

We're home,” mouthed the kid with a ripped-out throat. He, fat man, tall man and the M16 gunman turned and walked slowly onto the pier. They all carried fishing poles and someone had hauled up a bucket - - - live finger-mullet I was guessing as I followed them in the oversized rearview. Half-way to the cross-docks they stopped and baited rigs. I should'a guessed that, cause the redfish were running.

We're home with another HRI. Returning to port, Ladies and gentlemen good night.