BigSurNight-3 : narrated by Will Scranton

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


“Sled-dog sled-dog tuning 100.15 this is weather-vixen. Say no to three. Do you copy.”

“Minus three Weather vixen repeat ( -3 ). Rain showers at 36:00:49 N ...”

“We copy that sled-dog. Two sunshines available roger … delta … delta released to spread some tan. Johnsondale on your travel-visa; want the global outlook?”

“Affirmative Weather-vixen. Switching to OTP fifteen.”

“Ink smudge page; make that 16.”

“Whose sticky fingers?”

“NTN sled-dog … Stormer pointed to a LaRaza honey-pot …. full-tit legionnaire got a wall, a blindfold, a fag … and 5 minutes. Didn't take the blindfold. We had her buried outside of Matamoros; don't mess with Texas.”

“Noseeums affirmative. ” And the BUZzZzZ .... went on for eight seconds. Figured my honey-pot might get antsy. “Maybe we don't get dropped Ms K. Mystery mole threatens military nuke forever a mystery. If Scrum lost his Leopards and Russki 130s … with split forces anything might happen.”

“Nukes are solutions to cubic equations … a BATTLE MASTER result you told me without explanation; gotta have three zeros to the state-function or the option doesn't pay. Comprende? So what are we … turtle-doves. Into the valley-of-death Dr Scranton.”

“...d... closed circuit does not allow loss-of-security discipline … Bitch …!

“You're so cute when you're angry lovr-boy.”

“Weather-vixen barfs - - don't snip me off like that, sled-dog!”

click-clickclick … “Horny weather-vixen is pissed!”

Wavering static-ic=i@c#ic … “I caught that sleet; save it for the riverside boys and girls where everything's delightful. Approved GO follows: West of Lake Nacimiento , across I-5 Federal mobile force at Fresno got split. Big ticket choices when they decided to surrounded with mobile, a pincer movement and then drive a reserve infantry column straight through the city.

“Scipio Africanis at Carthage.”

“Not this time. Scrum cut them to pieces. His city-column moving due east with a few heavy tanks hit-the-flanks of both pincers and when reserve LV Mobsters never showed the shattered Blue-bellies got picked off. Slaughterville, unit-by-unit destruction factored with tank-supported klans. Banskis redirected assault broke their will. Among the free-fire engagements Militia homeboy rocketeers and mousrs ate Ford pie till they barfed. Thank the Military nuke!”

“Right time right place … bet we paid plenty for that one strike.”

“Wrong time wrong place … make any difference when U-235 is the message?”

“Take at face value - - Federal F4s hit the pad're convoy. Even the Argentines complained … they're frisky now with a couple battleships and carriers after they retook the Falklands and captured the Muzzi-wogged Brit Atlantic fleet. No Chilian phosphates for the Federals.”

I'd been chewing on my leather mouthpiece and finally spit it out. “Militia drove those paired bishop-busses for months, loaded with fresh trained recruits from Bear Mountain resorts. Even painted the Jesuit Cross on the roof. Federals just got tired of it. ”

“Roger sled-dog. Even better to the south.”

We are south. We are not better. South sucks. Vibrations shake my graphite-fibre shell. “We're approaching drop zone. Got to nocom through the landing … hate to have a dozen Agros shooting up our ass five minutes after we land.”

“Roger sled-dog. “Bite the big one.” …. BzzZZzZ..... Statix statix … “Pad-breaker alarm just sounded – stay-alive sled-dog. Fuck 'em hard.”

Pad-breaker; impossible! Ms K annoyed. “Billion$ of zillion$ and a 6 oz electromagnetic cores our AAA-encryptian. You're gonna tell me DishRag Scranton it's just because analog noise cannot be digitally reproduced … deep nature carries truth, but no algorithm!

“Yep.” Shit.

“We are winning. I mean we have just won California. Nine seconds to drop. Why are we here?”

“Will you marry me?”


Poufffff sounds like poufffff ….. inside of an MRI! Five seconds after release , and slipping under 250 knots my cocoon breaks open - - parts flying away behind me and the wing-suit inflates. Sun and cold topped by silver clouds I skid on slippery air. Pilot banks the A-10 north bleeding gifted Mig-25 flares like every satellite between Japan and Jamaica didn't nail us. Sixteen color heads-up helmet display tells me everything, but how to keep Ms K. alive. Three seconds apart, our silky airing yet twenty meters ahead and above, fifty meters north Ms K. tumbles slowly in turbulent air. Her graphite cocoon-tail has not separated … a 3-foot-long crescent moon troubling cold, dense Sierra air 2000 feet above Terra toasta!

Dropped short, but expected to fly over by a mile and land west in tree-less desert washboard. Under our flight-path burned black chaparral falls away into high desert. “Try a jack-knife 3-2-1 ...” Just beyond Johnsondale ... 35:58 N … 118:32 W. Near 4700 feet. Ground zero. I know this much, from our real-time micro-probes and static-fringed satellite link.

The M90-C40 penetrated 65-meters of sandstone before exploding 90 KT into a 500 foot deep bubble of nuclear soup; gluons, pions, no-see-ums … terra-firma you are so fucked burned deep and scorched black now for a mile everyway. Edge of the pit tints frost green, in morning sunlight, frosted from sand just vaporized into quarks and electrons only to diffuse against entropy optimized its native human glass. What fuckers we are.

“Sure kept the energy together,” I carp as if 500 feet was a dreamgirl.

“Poly-boron the chipmunks tell me.” Voice harshly fluttering, she struggles … struggling … to damp out the tumble.

“Poly-boron 'eh … oh you can't suck that bling, if you don't steal the zing,” I copper into the dry aether between us and pray for a steady, snarly reply. But fat nucleii and slim neutrons don't explain everything. Federals fuel-stock and munitions storage vaporized after the nuclear blast into an air-petrol 2500-degree plasma of carbon and nitrogen and oxygen ions. Lots of protons … lots of very fast very deadly protons. “Feckin-A use your mouth Ms K!”

The conventional, classical explosion behaved so similar to the atomic … compressor with an Americium shield. “You know Majorana,” I pip?”

“A Manhattan with twists of dry cherry and plum.”

“Four ... and you're under the host. Quark plasma is like that, a so-called Majo-cocktail.” I slide behind her, cutting off turbulent vortices which smoothing propagates for'ard. Sneering. “Named after the Brit-Intelligence assassinated Italian physicist who discovered energy-expressing nuclear gluons in 1937. Cambridge boffin really, Majorana saw that protons gotta suck-face someway! He commuted between Cambridge and Mussolinis pride, Fermis lab in Palermo … Majorana kept a young mistress there employed as a seamstress in one of the Jewish fashion houses. Nice celebration rewards party that -- for finding both neutron and anti-neutron simultaneously - - frolicking on the visiting Brit royal yacht. Frolick - - getting fucked-to-death by a Welsh royal for his trouble. Bet foreplay martinis served by the patriotic Duchess tasted as good as a ricin-coated cunt !

Ms K. snarks. “Buried at sea … as are we all. Look! Flower-pot below … where have all the flowers gone …?”

Flower-pot … shape of this below-surface nuclear splash … a deep melt-hard bulb leaching upward in a V-shape. Like our wingsuit foreplay now; I'm chattering lewdly to Ms K. to keep her from vomiting till she squashes turbulence , gains the slipstream and swings over beside me. Don't die baby though digi-mag displays Ms Ks cracked helmet. Face-guard took a loose bolt ripping away her outer mask. Goggles and oxygen remain … that and back-mounted hardware streaming data to our circling A-10.

First surprise, the A-10 not a KFIR. Some retired dentist flew one in Iraq, and tossed a robo-walker to fly this one … Novocaine he said steadied his paws. “I'm dizzy Will so feckin-A dizzy think I'm gonna … wait, found a vinegar/baking soda release. My chance, but don't fuck me dead you bastard for a million-hit-day. 3-2-1 …..”

I watch like a Rolex. Tail section sloughs into the aether … Ms Ks wind-suit dives dives suckskin below me till Aramid-Mylar catches Avogadros riff … inflates … she rises and I fall to meet her …

“Barker one to sled-dog … do you read me sled-dog ...”

“Copy down, Barker.”

“Hard itch, bu'cha got barker. You're coming in hot and high gonna land in Gooberville.”

Second surprise we have boots-on-the-ground.

Passing hell, that's passing center of Johnsondale at 750 feet. Radiation monitors glow yellow … radioactive isotopes mostly traqpped in the unground buld. Glider-probe Ms K. released 7 sec ago whimpers *0.35 Siev* “Sorry Charlie you just missed fucking me an extra 60 times ...”

“I calculate 120!”


“Gusty. We gonna spill wind, like the ol' pirates to stay in ECEP. My Finder trends NNW at 0.75 miles.”

“Roger lovrboy. Burn pattern solid to 0.56 miles, with a dozen micro-volcanos round-abouts where the underground fuel-storage caverns were carved. Federals really packed in gas and desiel for the attack on Fresno. Radiation and heat … Barker must have backed off.”

Static … static … “Negative, sled-dog. Federals patrolling in RadNots!”

High class Mobsters, chubby Mobsters with an inch of cigarette filter, extra sheet of nickle-phosphor and ¼ inch lead film. “I see none, Barker. Speed 40 ft/sec … altitude 250 feet. No direct thermal signature below. At altitude current radiation 55 mSiev.”

“Roger sled-dog. Come in right over me I see ya two flying for slipstream. Romantic as hell. Plan landing 100 yards past me.”

“Release parashell at 75 feet.”

“M16 releases … same for DW. Was that a tracer round zipped by?”

“Twinklestar rotate 90-degrees to tack and surface-min. REM sweet-pea, they shoot armed journalists. Ankle brace locked?”

“Locked and loaded. Dropping lead-film belly-sheet. Feckin-A flash from the ground lover-boy. Sound spectrum looks like a 140-grain FMJ not 22.5-mm.”

While flying you can live within protocols, lift/drag/torque... a nine-dimensional envelope that postcardsI want to Live … What exists is what is permitted. Parenthetic, a 'well done' flits in from the aether. Scrum pays attention to detail, at 60 MPH! Ms locks in a turn, banking under me; two rounds zing up from the ground splitting the distance between us. Our drogue balloons snap up-and-down; I pop the deflector fin under-belly for straight down. I can feel the air-wash from Ms Ks on my rear balloon … just as a bullet snickers through it. Over target Barker! Diving fast - - - 90 – 60 – 30- 15 – know how fast a 7.62-cal goes when it shatters off your titanium helmet? And the balloon implodes beneath me. That and the 3-A Kevlar and neoprene metal weave of the wingsuit keep me alive … keep us alive … Ms K. bounces, flattens, flips and rolls thirty meters ahead of me. She gets I think a dirty face. Laying flat spread out on the desert washboard three FMJ rounds bracket her body.

Barker's somewhere 300 meters west. “Crazy man Ms K!” I warn. She has crawled toward target, toward a dried out sand-curdled pine size of a concrete pipe.

“Barker or a RADNOT,” queries Ms. K? She has nursed the digicam. “Barker one barker one do you copy?” She stands too long for a panoram and bullets take a piece of her rubber heel.

“Idiot!” I jump up, shed the wing-suit and do a Charlie-jog till I see Ms Ks ass in camo. Lead bees fly. “That's agro Barker.” An FMJ furrows my steel knee-plate; damned right knee already has a stainless pin. Me, roll and move, jag left, a twenty step streak then shoot-from-kneel clip-zip 30 5.56s into the last brine-sage hiding the last barrel-flash sprayed onto my heads-up. The rough pebble wash runs no more than 10 feet high. Dunky toward the end. More than a green plant, it's a bitch. Ever see blood spray from a buzz-cut throat? Scream ? Spurts, then a filmy red dew follows. Filmy dew on a breeze set to become cold. What is it … August … might get September snow in these foothills. “Should I circle left for his cover?”

“Didn't have one.” I am psychic! No more shooting. “Not ours !”

“Wish so.” Rolling right, I have my arms over Ms Ks back; the A-3 is shredded! She moves one arm, one leg then another, then her helmet. Alive. Piss on it. I say. “No more!” I'm not feeling good about this gunplay.

“Or the RADNOTS feeling great! Killed barker, or infiltrated between us. He said to expect patrols. Barker, do you copy.” Silence.

“He said shit to target and suck us in!”

“Sending repeat still sending stream to HRI?”

“Different satellite … lower battery life … error test, but not correct.”

I am crawling up her back in a deep washboard rill behind the pine-log. Saved her life; so did the titanium helmet with 3 creases down the side. “Got rib-burn Will, from a round straight-on that unzipped the A-3, but lead couldn't clip the spyder-silk undie. Burst on a brass bra-plate; damn my nipple is sore. Pretty sexy, you think? I'm horny. Could get lots if you could get to my belly.”

“Damned well hope Sarg Boo is editing this stream. He's got the hots for you.”

“I know. He clips everything when you talk dirty. Oops .. he just signaled. HRI thinks they need to bring us back.”


“Cause the Militia will not ; says us. Ten old AMD 9590s in our 2nd tier AI ; not BATTLE MASTER cause Bejee Bug codes it - - trusts it - - and her computer model find exponential trending … to a set-up … kill-bad-dog … so solly ...”

“Can they send us anything?”

“Kidding, right?”

“Then we move to cover and move quick.” Radiation … 10 mSiev. We can strip to half-helm, A-2, pack and weapons. And recorders.”

Groan. “You are a true gentleman, sir. At low-power We can record and transmit for 3 days. ”

“You have a very tight ass Ms K.”

Nearest tree is 200 yards. We stand together, a ripped-up pair of orphans carrying 200 rounds. “Follow it. Got a fix from IR on the nearest trees and the most covered travel-route. First NE, to the ridge, follow it 'round this wash to the 2nd ridge-line. Then straight west and uphill to the pines. That's 1400 to 2000 meters altitude change. Mebby 6 miles distance. Then get lucky. Our scouts patrol the southern Sierras as well as Blue-belly rangers.”


“Other options?”

“Don't get crapped on! Go back to Barker. Shake down the body. Get a clue. Find the enemy. Then ….”

No good choice, but two clear choices. Head straight toward ground-zero and whatever shit barker prepared, or loop north and east dodging the blast area, any RADNOTS patroling, looking for a Militia patrol.

Ms K. lays the barrel of her 25-06 against the side of my neck and scans behind us. Funny … “No we certainly do not put this on-the-wire. Banski meant to have us killed!” What can be taped and tacked and glued of our inner-skin rad-nots and outside A-3s get a half-ass patch. I point 100 yards out to the shredded sagebrush. Now!

Oily sand buries our digging boots to the hi-tops and a rolling belly-scramble finds us the first body not 30 yards into the flash-wash Barker used as a home. “Just a kid.” Half-pack a' Reds lay scattered on his chest. Cell-phone smashed beside him. One low-cal bullet marks the crew-edge his helmet ought to have protected. Helmet lays 10 feet away, beside his M15. “Get the kids to volunteer by passing around Pell Mell Reds … the unfiltered fags. ”

Ms K. starts pulling at cloths and boots, a more 'forensic' exam. Leaches out one pic of a braless teenage girl. “Wearing plastic anti-rad like us, heavier wool snow-proofs and a goose-down camo vest. In for the long ride - - I see him that way - - and could have worked with Barker!”

Another fifty yards up the arroyo we find the second body. Tucked into a sand-riffle. Face beat-to-piss … grimace of horror … shot in the belly and both legs; bled to death. “Torture?”

“Grunts don't get tortured … Barker just didn't like him any more than the kid, and neither man was shot-down running away.” We're close now, to what ever is closed.

What seems heavy? Bullshit by the bucket! We're missing it … “Move on.”

Two ancient Bouncing-Bettys guard Barkers squirrel-hole. … VietNam War toys. He had used thin metal wires for the catch-pins and my magno busted them. Each det-lay stations out as an 8x8 matrix four feet to a pull which is not so obvious if you are not looking. Can't really disarm the system, because ya don't see Bettys booty! Not made for the Federals, or for the guides ... Barker had done bad before he built these traps. “Ms K.” I call, “have a look.”

Her response reckless loud. “Here! Here Will.” Dodging the sappers craft , close up I see. She plucks a microwave dish antenna, waving it, sitting on a sandbag platform with her left leg hanging over … somebody set up a regulation Marine foxhole, complete with grenade and crap disposal. ”

Lucky bitch. I'm nearly there. “How did you get through, Ms K?”

“I followed the pink beads.”

“Pink feckin-A … you mean these?” I scramble up beside her, following the trail of pink beads. :Somebody had to leave and return.”

“Or somebody had to move in second. North end of the setup got a log bunker built-in.” Barkers setup lays less than a mile from the green-fringed nuclear vested pit. Black fuel-burn had stopped just 100 meters west.

Climbing over the rim … “I see that's not the only antenna and you're not the only body staked at the edge. Blood covered the face smashed into the hidy-hole side; I pushed the body sideways. “I know this man. Full bird Ranger colonel , Sierra Volunteers. Named Jack, but everyone called him frosty … he likes the cold mountain winters.” I casually rummage his vest for papers, finding only a picture of his wife. He had Washington connections, and could have fought in the east, but his wife died in a Virginia firefight and he needed out!

“Doesn't look like a colonel.”

“Do I fuck like a reporter?”

“For a geek you do better than a woman expects.”

“Frosty works from the front, like an officer ought to work. Last I reported he'd picked two other mountain boys and two grey-beards for a scouting patrol. From Tahoe to Mammoth Mountain. So yeah, he'd be a natural for an injected ...” I couldn't find the right word. He did!

“Him!” A crippled arm points toward the log bunker - - when I look close - - closer - - I can see two sets of boots attached to legs buried under the twisted, half-fallen logs. A RADNOTS 43-mm gun could have scrambled foot-thick logs like that.

“I lay the bead of my M-16 on his nose. Still alive!”

“No, I'm a zombie werwolf from Draculs domain. Got a pointy stick or silver bullet?” He belches blood and stops yapping.

“Who shot at us? Who did I shoot dead?”

“Check the bodies ...” He tries sitting, thumbs toward a tangle of shattered logs and falls face first into the rut. We pull him up … pieces of him stay in the dirt.

“Are you Barker?” One eye is ruint … a stab wound … covered now with a bloody patch and the gun-work stitching on his arms a field of gore.

“I knifed one early, after the double-cross became clear. You shot the other and lucky because the MEX produce NATO rounds. I met you once, Scranton ... a ranger camp upside Squaw Valley. You were scatter-shooting back at a sniper with a 357-cal Dan Wesson. I thought you had two quarters rolling around between your eyes. A talleymon friends said, you hustled for some fucked webzine. How cranky was my judgment?”

“I was trying to join a sniper-on-post, but they found us first. You shot dead that bastard with a 30-cal carbine.”

“You couldn't even reload the revolver, cause cold shrunk the cylinders! Shit ...” and he coughs blood comes out not a stream, but a river. “ What are you doing bringing a girl into this radiation-death-bag shithole?”

“Numbers say we have days, not minutes.”

“Fuck yer numbers.” He calls out while Ms K. keeps jabbing morphine and hallucinogen poppers into his neck. Pulse? He had one, enough to slam words between his his bloody lips. “They had experience, shot straight and security codes were stapled into their ears, so I picked 'em. Them. There. Fucking-A secret agent man. Narco.MEXC noseeums.” Frosty stops and grimaces, as Ms K. slaps a multi-stick across his jugular. Then he laughs ...”In for a hour in for an hour and 10 minutes.” He's bitter, looking around at the treeless, lifeless waste like he's seen this mess forever. “Wasn't gonna be an expedition, not this nocover tromp till word of the Bishop-boppers came thru. I knew the Military would be mighty pissed, and knew where they could slap-back at the Federals … where , but not how.”

I slap out at him with hard words. “You can't be that ignorant … just happen on the GZ.”

“Said we guessed, didn't I? Strong men good boots covering 40 miles in 48 hours. We took this position 12 hours after detonation. They didn't kill us till your first hook-up with Weather-vixen.”

“Yeah and my ass itches on Tuesday, just after Ms K. has one of her molasses pervs!” Barker trys to smile - - he's half-drugged and 2/3 dead. Hard work, smiling. I rap back. “Banski knew how, before the attack. Sure of that! Otherwise, he took too many risks. I see that now. How, but not where … until GZ happened. Never told us, but pretty clear he though where says lots about Military support of the Militia … about a Military close to deciding against the Federals. Why here --- that's why we're here, listening for spill-guts, trying to keep a boss colonel alive for another ten minutes.”

Barker drools, but his eyes shimmer a scratched steel shine , and when they close him breathing heavy our fucking gods of war close them on a field of 5-HT flowers and sylphs dance with satyrs. Ms K. listens … and detaches the probes.


“Here or there.”

“Why not LosVegas direct. Send the whole message in one package?”

Late afternoon. We're bury the dead. Barker keeps breathing. HRI slithers through an Emag noise-field to deliver the goods. I shift to another OTP. BZZxZxxZZZ “Not fucking her are you Scranton? Hands off till safety-Sam has you tucked away. Could happen fast. Federals south planned streaming right through Militia supply columns to the ocean at Moro Bay. They threw six-teen howitzers and 300 light and medium assault mobiles at the gap. Nice try! But two dozen of out Mobsters got to the truckers first , turned them and their 76-mm cargo due-east in ravines above Paso Robles. Lost three F-100s to the F-4s, till PICKET mounted RedEyes snipped a half-dozen wings. Sky's cleared. Lots of sniper/light infantry support also; the assault went down in buckets of Federal blood and diesel and melted aluminum.”

“What about the ansatz?”

“Two steps for'ard, Will. Safe to the southwest, the original main assault could reform and extend. Some black bitch with one arm borrowed your old digi-cam, remember that - - with no steady-steady? Crazy Red In'jun drove a Mobster with her to the battle-line and she got bleeding leads to die for.”

“Made her an offer … she can't live long in sniperville with one arm. Anyrate we're Not advancing, but digging in, our mud-runner assault holds just north of the lake. It's all on the Web with 750,000 hits already. Even the Vatican wants a full stream, cause the dead bishops replacements all need to be purchased. ”

“Only got two of the LSTs? Lucky duck for us! But, those were easy pickins' BooBoo , like a see-through blouse.”

“Not when our HRI stringers squeeze-their-knees! But, we make progress. In the northern bunker-fields Feds over-extended also. Seattle Boscos sent 5,000 men to steel the NW attack, while they kept on pushing south of Carmel. Fed pickets could not hold on three sides! When they lost King City, the bunker-boyz got all nervous - - thought they were being outflanked - - and sent three flying-wedges against out sappers and snipers. The auto-focus 50-cal semis cut them to pieces so small ya couldn't make a salad! Funny thing, the western wedge broke through and B0-lining across Route-101 and I-5 toward Bakersfield. Headed for Vegas most think. Total, Federals lost eight-hundred men and four miles of bunker-line … slits and expensive concrete trench shit. The Seattle SanFran faggots own most of the heights and twenty-five heavy field guns. More 175-mm moving in with their hoplites … tough bastards could seep through brass cheese-cloth! The pounding onto the plateau has already started.”

Bastards headed for Vegas … who would chose that risk? “Rosy glow Weather-vixen, but ya haven't said a thing about PCH.”

Static usually means sentences re-written on-the-fly. “Nothing to say, sled-dog. Our fourth-wave of dories come late. The Federals sent in a downhill column of Agros and infantry. Broke-the-line, slaughtered retreating infantry, Agros and PICKETS and grabbed the roadway. Gunboat 105-mm and Russian submarine 120-mm could not keep them back. Got an interview with a Russian officer onboard. Said they were shaving 155-cal shrapnel. The BigSur sea is like water --- everywhere, but ya can't drink it! It's really a mix, and except for casualties not all bad. Beach-bum Feds are trapped between Carmel and Hearst Castle, with 1500 feet undefended mountainside behind them! Militia mobiles outflank to the east … got two Agro stringers for cover … so no new supplies come their way. Kinda like a horse-shoe! At best they starve.”

Five years of MRTE and they starve? I laugh! “Too bad they suffer. After their attack anybody from the Militia get out?”

“It's called theOtter-Trap now, that strip of BigSur coastline cause ya otter-not be there! Ha ha … Anyone still on the beach rowed west to the Russian subs.” Statix statix … “Still, the California coast is now Militia .. they cannot defeat us. I mean the Militia. Whoa pad're pad-breaker alarm just sounded – stay-alive Will chrissake you're a lucky prick. Fuck 'em hard and ship the nasty shit ASAP.”

Yes, I'm fucking her while Barker sleeps. Hot. Her breasts tanned brown to the nipple, belly bare red and ass roughly treated will hurt all week. Wouldn't let go … she locked in her claws pumping her ass and would not let go … says I can die now.

Fire sparkling cuts an orange hole in bare mountain silence. Barker wakes as evening turns to night, life to death. Ms K is asleep , covered with a heat blanket and I must look satisfied cause Barker leers at me. “Ya don't know, do ya?”

“Ms K. will be preggers. I know that. Name him after you?”

“Fuck no. She loves you, so name her after your lover.” I read his BP & pulse, then take it manual … how does he stay alive? He nods and spits blood. Coughs. “Fuck her raw tonight, just to be sure. A cunt is meant to be used, while a Robert gets Hanes. Some Militia people don't like you.”

He swoons into a hacking cough … takes a shot of my Wild Turkey … I say. “Always figured you still worked for the Council; Mississippi Flotilla too, mebby. Can't brevet you any higher without taking you out of the woods.”

“Can't have that, a faggot ranger colonel.”

“Whose man are you?”

His heart it seems heaves up through his chest and I wack APZ into a vein. “The republics,” he screams!” He twitches, then quiets. Returns. “Know this lovrboy … JJ Jr no longer Federal President. He lasted as long outside the Asylum as he did inside. Got shot three days ago, in LasVegas just as the LV counter-attack started. All four bodyguards and the chauffeur were shot dead. He took 2 50-cal FMJ to the chest - - blew him apart! This bloodbath was his Niggerized baby come back for a blessing. ”

“Military use of a nuclear bomb?”

Barker is failing very fast. His nose bleeds and eyes lose focus, face drools only to be dragged around one-more-time. “Federals didn't learn their place. Do now! Leaving LasVegas is always the end. But, not everyone left. ”

Enter or leave, Vegas took pieces every visit. I chew three bites of that leather and peer into Barkers eyes minting a silver coin. “Whose Federal President now?”

Before he laughed death had taken him. “Donald Trump!”