Speznatz burned the Chinese bodies, over one trumpet call and sent dog-tags to Moscows North Korean Ambassador. Can't say they disrespected the Chinese warrior, as a Militia Courts-Marshall later determined for three attached American raiders. Nothing like butchery after the Fresno breakout or during Mission Ridge bunker-cleaning. Anyway, General Scrum tel-exed his Federal counterpart in Las Vegas hissing threats and claiming mothers asshole was not nearly large enough. The Federal responded that what's good enough for Nigger sneakers was good enough for the Nabisco coast.
Nabisco. San Luis Nabisco. Obispo wanted nothing more than relapsing into a hippi wetdream of cushy moonbeams and prurient tit-milk. That's San Luis Obispo people neither Federal nor Militia favoring, but get off my lawn. A few hundred died at Big Sur fighting for both sides. Three days after the successful Russian attack remnants of their bio-chem weapon drifted along Foothill Drive, crawled onto the Cal Poly campus and into downtowns rat-infested center. Dead rats clogged the stream. Locals never noticed, but spoke of an immense out-door Torchman festive during which every cheerleader in the county was fucked raw on a freshly hewn live-oak alter. All or most. Or some. Or only sluts; noone could remember as all had drunk liters of the raw sun-red plonk Santa Maria Valley made famous.
One famous Berkeley programmer known for his core-war worms called bullshit. A few out-of-state consultants screamed into their cell-phones … STAY OUT … and the odd flights from Boise or Phoenix or Seattle just stopped. The Berkeley prof smartly stroked dead over his keyboard entering forever. Others vanished. Thoughtful anticline people dimmed for good reason after the Militia victory and yet among cosy fatted citizenry long entitled to Federal sympathies now occupying a war zone nobody cared much.
Months later when people cared General “Jeb” Bumfuck the Seattle Force commander sent a battalion of wounded to picket the town. They limped and squatted, shot nobody, but the local rag called them unfriendly ghosts. From Morro Bay to Pismo Beach nothing entered or left … as if the amyloid had not diluted beyond measure, if not effect and as if the San Luis Nabisco locals had not produced like McIntosh apples or sour cherries their own colored underground railway. Stupid. They were stupid by the amylois in ways noone imagined. After talking to affected locals you could imagine. But, shit dumb they could fuck and they could eat and they found ways to do both. Thursday evening farmers market is part of the wetdream San Luis sleeps.
Then Militia pickets called away for training exercises when President Trump released and let-in the first batch of narco.MEX depor'te. Militia fervor took-to-arms; Scrum told us stories. “Call themselves RedHats, the Federal backsliders redass bastards shot an honest man in the back.” Chewed on his Partagas. “One trick pony, those pricks; claim they wear red hats cause they're the only open source politics in town. FUSS this and FOSS that something about a bitch poettering their founder, but none knows the truth.”
Maybe truth's expensive. We caught the message and caught up vagrant-looking militia orphans nail-hard as cover. Weird stories told before boarding us a/train as nameless wanders and tripping us into town. Militia high council worried about retro agitation and revolt. Worried, Scrum sent me as if HRI could not bite-the-hand that fed it. I carry a 1987 voice-recorder that's it … and a cell-phone PIXIE_11 with auto-send camera. Sent me where a tennis partner taught me duals and a fat-titted bitch had driven a perfectly convergent M-space integral into an infinite low-frequency loop. Reviewers cursed the infra-red catastrophe. I'm drifting - - glad she is not.
We thought it best immediately hiking the narrow, well-trod path to Bishops Peak. As the sun dies, fog closing in from the valleys north and west. Two RedHats follow us , but turn off to fuck in a weedy high meadow. We summit, and stretch shivering atop the overlook , winded and watchful of rattlesnakes, binoculars picking apart the towns geometry and wondering if Marsh Street or Monterey or Chorro was most like to support a sudden exodus. ISIS factions would have intuitively known, but all we found we hamstrung and shot in the head. Then shot their lawyers, fellow travelers and Semite paymasters. A clean sweep the Militia called these actions. When you win … tis a lesson worth learning … lots of good unpleasant ideas win also.
Certainly, from a purists POV Battle Master would give us the best decision surface uncertain numbers allow, as would Trumps POTUS appointment from national politics. But, for blood-thirsty backhanding what rocks the cradle … THEDONALDS slippage, a week of poking galvanized Militia and careless streams of zonked pro-Federal chemos have convinced us only the nuclear option greets facts head-on.
“Just what outcome does Scrum expect,” queried Silvercoin? “We are not a battle-group nor an assassination squad.”
“Well yes, that's a nice question, considering Federal occupation of Camp Roberts was considered a major coup … until Seattle faggots changed feathers, drove south and trapped them!”
“Do we form up with sympathetic locals into a battle line?”
“When Belgian FLN become Brit Brown Bess.”
“Really now? I... I think I have it ...”
“So did they ...”
“Yes! Here Will.” Silvercoin struggles to regain the edge.
“Don't feckin-A fall.” He has climbed below the rock edge and found a sissle-tied bundle. Could'a been hoboz kit or month old sloppy Joes or a Monaca-esque womans dress. Was not. “Spare igniters?”
We lever the bundle into a supporting notch. “Heavy bitch.” Stashed into his backpack. “We have three Oxy-Zippos.” He grunts hefting the weight, shakes dirt from his ass … heads for the down-trail.
“And don't tear the water-proof; it's gotta stay dry till next Thursday.”
Walk it now … the crowd , the gameness of it all undercover. Like the previous week, two Mayberrys and a bones guard the west entrance, where Cal Poly crowds horde. Bet there's another trio near the foreign car shop. More than one. Blue-belly watchers reported SWAT camps out at the California Blvd lumberyard, out of trouble and out-of-their-minds on glass peyote bongs and hookers from the Brass Rail.
“More 5-PM fog than Blue-belly watch. They have our pictures.” Silvercoin breaks free to pursue our rare support.
Why Scrum sent me with the team … sent me because … I buy a See Canyon yellow pear and chew it till the skin gets bitter. That or tit. Ms K did, we now married honest and she now a reserve Captain in Scrums intelli-scraper unit and I can go all fuck to hell because Scrum will screw her raw in a turd-shit instant. Does already … mebby. Fuck she could after a month in coma from a 7.62-cal that squeezed her brain, but missed the good parts. From that bullet I had a new titanium forearm from the San Fran Federal surgeons … thank god we didn't kill them like Scrum wanted initially and instead chopped one little finger from all the Federal nurses.
Catches me up! “Peace and war, plums a bore.” Pilgrim in stripe coveralls drools stepping out from his thatched stall. “Heh … heh mister bum, fresh green plums. Eat them up, buttercup.”
Beside me. “Buttercup,” she repeats quiet, taking my arm like she would never go and I would never know my own.
I grouse. “Skin looks a bit … uncertain.” It's an eddy in the stream, the chorus I perceive. “From the radiation zone, where Federals punched through containment?”
“Heh now that's a lie or see me die.” Bud slices one open and shoves it in my face. “Looks like pussy, but tastes better.”
Lilting. “He's a liar mr buyer pay a buck and take a flyer.”
“Had your pussy already, bitch and it's no itch.”
“Couldn't keep it, could jah …?” A roan-hair country girl sings out behind me. “His farm beside the reactor spews plums measuring 60,000 counts/min. But, we're Atascadero bred. Peaches here, peaches near bite a peach and call her dear.”
I turn, yank her close … bite her neck while she struggles whimpering . The peach tastes like fresh hay. “I'll take a pound,” releasing her. She snatches the three fresh dollar bills.
“Betch'a can't do that again,” she threatens.
“No I can't ...” and the flow of Higuera Street gawkers shoves me along. Into a a swell guy with wavy brown hair, Chesterfield king dangling from a fat lip and a reporters beady eyeball. “Squeezing the fruit like that … you're not from around here are you!”
“Fish heer - - - get'cha dish heer ,” chortles the monger of Pacific snapper from a tub of ice flipping an oyster shell our way. Her hair is short and blonde and her belt blue and slimy. “Makes ya getgo,” she snickers digging peeps back into the ice.
“Let'cha know,” I shrill and turn away. Chesterfield has not moved. “Rock lobster not chin,” I squirt his way without effect. But, what's that to a best boy?”
“Two years on the Times, another two on the Chronicle …” lashes quiver, expecting ...”three live interviews with Militia leaders ...”
“Leaders, huh. They comb your hair like that?”
“No. An Irish mom has natural curls.”
“But, not her son.”
“Four years in the actors union bed. Then I decided to enrich my environment by writing not flapping gums on the big-screen.”
“Ever hurt them … flapping.”
Reporter scratches hard at his chin and pulls an earlobe. “Most Militia runaways find the San Luis Obispo environs challenging. Burn out burn up blow away ...”
A snatch of blue kimono 6-th generation Japanese farmers push him into the flow … he eddies around and finds a vanishing slipstream. I call ... “Next time I step on a fedora I'll remember the warning.”
“You're not from here,” a shivering RedHat twerks. Another lark … I think. Long hair long jacket slump pants and a fat ragged belt he needs to grab. “We partiklay … San Luz peach be dat tree-tit top.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and drags me into dark between stalls. “ FifT bucks white devil … mebby dat white how U-B stalkin' .” His switchblade shouts.
A band plays dixie-land beside us. “Why the shiver, bossman?” Breath close and stinking of MD40.
“Alabam nigr' gets col in fog. Like Cape Jord'e. Ain't no sweet home fer nobodz. Need dat green ...”
“Need is thirsty want. You are not thirsty!” I flip an oxy-torch against his pocket and his left side goes flame in a burst of orange. His left ear melts and he screams - - I kick his crotch, watch him trip into a tub of cider swallowing tongue - - step on his head so air bubbles - - I walk to Pris side.
Her voice shakes. “You know the bastard?”
“He was thirsty … and I gave him to drink!” Dark smears sworl in the fog. A RedHatted mime dances by and Pris tips him a buck. “Friend of your?”
“He tried to fuck me once. Couldn't ...” I nod.
“Figs ahoy filled with joy, Russian ships snatched up my toy. Say heh don't you turn away.”
“You are the Russian ship! Another Los Osos product?”
“Avila Beach not the banion … we're from the canyon … almost tan-yon.”
“Yeah you gotta tan.” His heavy jaw and Russian accent chew nouns into sausage. Pale Moscow skin … as ship-jumpers are reckoned.
“Apples too .. allies are like tomatoes when yah don't be potatoes.”
“Keep trying Alexia …” Again the crush sweeps us … peach blossoms on a warm wind. We walk toward the largest BBQ pit.
“Ribs, Pris or have you turned completely vegan?”
“What I eat is not all meat. What I spy will catch your eye.”
“Ribs are yours, meat-du-Jour chew it down in Federal town.” A fat-eyed vegan flips cow-parts like a juggle flips pins. Half-way through each turn he'd squirt on a splash of hot-sauce. Burned yo' eyes … I thought. “Heh mister the babe got plenty. Buy her a pound she'll go down in renown.”
“But, not you.”
“Steady Freddy THEDONALDS most ready he'll punt the Militia like ol' Black Betty bamalamb.”
“Fedora diaspora dem Niggers adore ya ...” chants a passing RedHat. Pilgrim salutes flipping him a half-cooked rib; he noshes it greedy caroming off walkers strolling away.
I wait … “Sez ...”
Handfulla powder tosses into the flame. Ribs crackle. “Affirmative Action gets some traction blows two-shits outa Militia faction.” His giant flip-fork bastes and snaps.
“You know a lot.”
“I can feel it coming in the air … so don't be square when looters rage, from their cage it's just a thought they're not a bot , but rot Mex come peepin .. silent creepin' … Militia weepin ...” and if the rap ever stopped I did not know. Pris pulled me across the street, to a sandstone alley where she pushed her red mouth and face into mine.
Breathless. “You met Hricko? Fog has thickened to a sauce flavoring all obscure.
I jap, burn a Straight and poke it between her teeth. She likes to have her mouth forced … and she trys casual. “Meet him? Funny time to ask."
Dry-humping bitch gives me time to think. Ever tried LSD smoothed with heroin? Or big-blue ganja sprinkled with meth? I didn't know what to say to her. “Met Hricko? Once! Federals shot-up his place on IOP and HRI blew-the-whistle. He claimed a dead witch saved him.” I blow a toke between her open teeth, sharp little teeth that left holes wherever they bite. “That witch … I met her once also, at the Pecos River run green on a train that tried crossing west Texas , but couldn't make it. She was reading HRI on her Xpad and we found the man-in-common quick. She said he fucked her ass raw, then beat her till the 2nd orgasm came. He's a bad man. Now you won't eat … it's your street !”
Wet sniffle. Po lil' daddys girl. “He wanted me to live with him … in that fucking swamp.”
“Should have. Your ass to give.”
“Not mine. Take me home, Will ...” Pris drives a Cadillac.
Wrap a down comfort about my waist and smoke on a dark wood-grain patio. “You won't stay, dare you?”
Orange desk lamp illuminates. Snorts a thin white line from silvered glass. “I have a man north of Foothill .. another south of Buckley. City contract covers all sewage pumping and treatment power-grids. I'm plenty boned and no rolling stone.”
A week passes. Congress has reconvened with a pro-immigration ansatz by a Trump / Axelrod coalition. Mississippi Flotilla backs away … ' too many niggers …' Embers burn redeye. I chortle “straight, jack high.” New thought-crime legislation is proposed for all public speech. I toss cards into the pile of bills. “Meet the new boss,” and laugh out loud as our fire sparks.
Noises from crowded street stalls filter across San Luis Creek and into the pines. “Talkin' like kids do at the beer-pong table.”
My Rolex ticks passed 7:17-PM. “But, not drinking like them, or pawing easy snatch.”
“You gotta mouth Scranton …”. Her face tilts into mine and says lightly. “I'd cut your paw off at the wrist.” Negro gal - - she - - a Lieutenant now and months older than the Big Sur summer afternoon that snatched away her left hand. Laughs - - easy - - the three boys worship her dirty knickers and laugh with her.
Jim. “I cou … cou … could get handsy ...” Our Lieutenant blushes.
I snort at the smoking bogart and snark. “You got stoned with Cal Poly frat boys before street markets opened. Palavered for hours, Jim. What appendages made them worry?”
Hunching over, his chest pushing out the 357-cal walnut grip. “They said Negros were slaves and still savages so need affirmative action.”
“They said women were bitchy clit-haters and needed affirmative action.”
“They said narco.MEX Federals were border-jumping wettbakkks, and now bottom dwellers they deserved to rape white women and enjoy affirmative action .”
“What's the funny thing with locals lingo … it's a bingo .. haha!”
“Aphasia, sort of. Militia-chem thinks an amyloid poison the Russians released causes it. Trapped by the surrounding mountains, only Nabiscos get fucked … or mebby we pilgrims also … affects the pineal gland so if your head swells just kiss-yo-ass goodby.”
“What's an amyloid?”
“Beta sheet brain-fuck,” says the smarty-pants boy.”
One boy laughs and one vomits. “But, Russia is our ally now - - helped us beat both Federal storm-troopers and Chicom sabateurs. Helped so we can hardly bitch.”
A breath of fog swirls up from the creek-bed; bleached boulders vanish. A scout returns to our campfire from street market patrol and chats-up Lieutenant. Jim tips his cap, straps the Dan Wesson a bit tighter. Strained face - - he wanted to rest, but as replacement moves from our hillside thicket into streams of locals parading toward farmers market stalls. Sky lights with a bang as red-white-blue rockets smudged evening sky. Whoops and cheering fly away from smoky streets. Silvercoin. “Sounds like reincarnation of the SNEEZE LAWS.” Nails scratch on the worn M1-carbine receiver. “Did we win here?”
“Win? Oh yes San Luis militia did do that.” Camel straight smoulders … low quality Turkish tobacco … while I blow a long thin stream of grey smoke through the mist of pine needles. “Even a sort of battle, at Montana de Oro between snowflake SJWs and campus militia regulars. A thousand dead and counting … never did finish the count since popper Benet drove through with his mechanized faggot battalion.”
“Were you at Mission Ridge,” chirps a tow-head?
“Other side Zek, at Nepenthe. We collected most wounded when their Pickets broke the Federal bunker line. Who knew a light tank could maneuver in those ravines? ” The smash-through assault was an oft-told meme of the militia Pacific campaign. Boys fed twigs into our fire.
“San Luis Obispo was meant as R&R for those troopers.” Few knew the story, but we had evacuated SLO preparing to join General Almond in his Sierra ansatz. Lucky break, when battle news traveled slow. HRI drove it to five million hits. Fresh from his bloody route-101 break-out , Benet came to San Luis mad as a sand rattler and with hummingbirds' patience. Federals were lodged in the football stadium and trashing wooden seats for cook-fires. When a militia tanker interfered they shot him. Benet ballisticed! I looked face-to-face. “He hung 200 protesting prisoners next morning and roared off to the peace conference at Santa Barbara.” Lieutenant leans over to snort my Camel … squeezes my arm with fingers long and tender enough to hold a baby. “Cal Poly restarted classes that Saturday!”
She smiles. “Of course San Luis Obispo always was a pussy circus.”
“Yeah ...” Bitter … “Locals went through the motions of supporting militia orders, but counted on two-coast-Trump for deliverance.” I butt out the Camel. My watch squirts 8:01-PM into silence. “Didn't need to wait long ...”
“Real aggressive those progressive RedHats.”
“That can be stopped. Lots can be stopped. Scrum said so.”
To Silvercoin. “You choose Semtec placement?”
“Recursively, Battle Master had the better idea.”
“What's a man for if not a better idea … and a car ?”
“Hot wired a new BMW wagon. We'll be in Atascadero before the first explosion.” Silvercoin manages emotionless clock-work precision. He and the Lieutenant … he'd never touch her on assignment, but alone together talks dirty about fucking a dozen nigger kids out her butt in a Grass Valley condo once the war ends. The war has never ended for him. Yet when he talks like that Lieutenant mews a lovers soothingly grace.
“Fire and forget, ducklings!” Bags and packs are shouldered and weapons cleared for action. “You Scranton?”
“Not on my silver button. Silvercoin has one and I'll be damned if I lose the other because of a civ.”
“It's not needed you know … not the loss of your hand or of polity or of this cities peace or of my wifes honor.”
“We know that Scranton . What are you a Rawlsian twit?”
One breath two. Peaceful in a weary sort of way. “Scrum was pretty clear about real-time images of the evacuation. I carry the tek and need to use it. RedHats have been organizing up and down the coast. Organize, but don't fight yet. What they teach and how well they plan emergency response provides plenty of intel on their success.” I shuffle feet. “So do images of Torch-Man burning. We have exactly zero footage of that event!”
Resigned. “You gotta honey hole … sure ya do. Honey hole and titanium arm.”
“Sure I do.”
I am alone. Pris has not answered my last three calls. A horrid cloud appears … that she has been turned by the RedHats and the semtek terror disarmed. Failures terror, if the civil war taught me nothing else. Sudden silence. San Luis Obispo gone silent, while crowds parade the cart carrying Torchman down Marsh Street. You can't spend all night walking two blocks even if Battle Master could have put the 26 pounds of explosives anywhere … show some guts, bastard! The chanting starts … TORCHMAN CART MAN EVERYBODIES ARSEPLAN …. sparklers sinter the bridge stone shoulders at San Luis stream. Across Marsh safely I'm dodging up Beale Street and over on Main, lookin' for that bitch who never explains ...
All time compress in two-tenths second. It's everything the Federals wanted … what globalists and Hillaries mafia fought for … why guilt-ridden white SJWs blojob … and the nibberizing media and lubricious Semites … ISIS reps and Ivy-League preps … the Diks & Dykes & rheumy kikes …
Gymnasts tumble below the wicker monstrosity just torched even as it rolls. One smooth-thigh cheerleader has jumped-the-cart , lusty mounted wings flapping even as flamelets spray about her. The entire football team joins in, sting and drop like bees. Pennants flutter. Live fire drip from Torchmans face and white heat flickers from black-singed jointed hips . A trumpet blares. Mission bells ring. Cheers abound as dancers shed their bras and a troop of Bantu march by with Zebra-skin shields.
At the blue-bell chime of mission SLO de Toloso head-capped figures swarm from every other doorway. Signal betrayed or sign uncanny the effect is combustible. It's a bold sight, that blue-belted legion and they sift through and about the parade till a solid phalanx slides away to occupy the Monterey side of Santa Rosa - - for blocks around. Beards aplenty; sandals match. Sound a groundswell of content; swift were their runners. A sea of blue pennants overshadows the courthouse and chanting dissonant phrase of the WHOs paeon turn sharply to meet a horde of RedHats drawn up to oppose them.
“Formation right !”
Spontaneous gather, spontaneous gathered. Most of the RedHats had rudely and careless paraded flesh-of-the-hay while filling the Marsh Street flat. Not so opposed to the hillside manglars whose canes and staffs promise the honest mans discipline … and the rogues pleasure. Shock, dismay and confusion rip the march-line. Who attacks them and why. But, actions inform courage and soon form-up the RedHats, whipped to a frenzy by their agitprops, row after shimmering row for billowing red banners and agents had freely passed among them. Tall were these agents. And they sang the paeon of Madonna claiming girls just wanna have fun. They straggle to Pepper and thicken to Pismo and of the well manicured surfer-type and body beautiful they comprised the majority and might have sundered Grants cavalry had all running shoes been of iron.
Orders don't mean much, when emotions deceive every never. It crackles, the rational hate of two organisms unfit for mutual existence. Redbone faces see-the-stain … want the bleach. For a moment both red and blue cohorts pause and heros front each mass. Heros in body armour most unwelcome at a grill-pit or at a parade. They curse one-another and strike together, shafts deflecting shafts and knives flashing until their seconds rush to the struggle and drag them apart. One must not die for many. Scrum said that … as I remember. Positions harden, ranks tighten, flutes and drums play marshall tunes … and both ranks surge for'ard, into their columns divine gap. So I understand tragedy of the commons.
Under a tree I position the camera … It's 8:48-PM; almost dark. “Scranton … Scranton ...”