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

Episode A

One year after the Federal defeat at Carmel valley, and six months after Militia Generals Banski and Scrum surrendered control of all armed units to POTUS Trump a string of Trotsky-ite, migrant pandering cities exploded like crotch-bombs at a Madonna concert. Different towns different excuses, but  I observe  good times bring bad people - - -  city revolt paralleled  re-opening of national Interstates, railways, airports  and harbors, and the bleeding away from America of foreign intervention.

The 2nd American civil war had been a bloody cultural STD;  wise men looked to peace as tonic;  revanchist San Diego City Council could have rejected rebelier  longshoremen demands to strike against Militia control of  commercial docks.  Unions would have stewed, Militia pickets would have patrolled the commercial waterfront and Navel Base cutters calmly resupplied both Camp Pendelton and Vandenberg AFB.

But, San Diego City council  looked to its own power, as had globalist Democrat progressives before the war.  Fuck the yeomanry, the Redman and the horse they rode in on!  Wankers expelled 25 Militia emissaries, and roving mobs gunned down another 25  Militia-now-federal   waterfront pickets. Bad enough.  Two ambushed Agro patrols fought their way north to the Ski Islands. Policy suicide … way bad …  but, the LaRaza  fringe of rebelist agendistas  considered themselves nothing, if not Inca-incarnates … cannibal kings feasting on white guilt … and when a scheduled medical unit from Camp Pendleton arrived  downtown to provide  DPT inoculations the LaRaza longshoremen butchered the entire Company of 82 doctors, nurses and lab teks, burned  mutilated bodies and  on streaming video chewed the bones.

Amigos raised the  blue and gold Inca flag … of a inverted cross … and a scorched Christ being served like a roasted pig! Cortez had not been pleased;  Camp Pendleton Marines  agonized over this rabid cut to their soul.

Like Air-Force and Navy, the Marines had remained aloof from the civil war, serving the Constitution as exclusive master and acting only in  their own defense.  Neutrality served the military well.  The base commander … a New England elite named  Elliot Walter Cumberbunne …  intended a long-awaited Provincetown retirement with all the privileges of family and wealth. He had always desired a physicians life, not a generals and intended to assume CEO status for a small  Massachusetts childrens hospital. The 82 dead medical Marines weighed heavily on his moral compass. He hated war, loved the fresh peace and … in darkness formed the entire Camp Pendleton battle-group  ...  200 artillery, 85 tanks and 12 regiments of battle-armed troopers … into  order as a six-mile-wide Romanesque line-of-three. Down I-5  he marched them into, through and beyond  San Diego boundaries in a blood-drenched scythe of vengeance.

Of all  mammal species encountered the scything Fort Pendleton troopers killed one-half: 50% of all dogs … 50% of all cows … 50% of all humans  men/women/children … from Midnight to midnight the butchery continued …  columns of LaRaza Mexi-rebs lumbering south were spaded by the dozen A-10s and Apaches Camp Pendleton had been able to keep flying during the war.   … uncounted dead … After the Marines had marched back from the Mexican border General Cumberbunne addressed  them from a ladder at the Camp Pendleton gates. He praised their fortitude, resolved total responsibility for the killing to himself, passed-round a pitcher of rum from which he himself drank  and … blew off his own head with a 10-gauge coach-gun.

Buried by his men with a solders honor Cumberbunne did lots … his family  wasted grief … but  griefless what he did do like the Athenian commons apprising  Militus perfidy …  he defined the conditions and nature of retribution visited on any defecting City.   Pericles knew such ansatz as did Sheriden. Such actions of retribution thereafter were know by the Militia  as ... Cumberbunning ...

Three perps, three solders and three missionaries … I'll think about equality as a four letter word.BZING...ZBING...BZBZ… FMJs chewing  deep into the concrete blocks.  My face fulla sweat - - kid next to me  hunched  meanly over his M-60.

“Stay low. What's your name.”

“Peal, like  in peal-yo-eyeballs!.”KYWOW...KEYWOWZOW... as one of the incoming frags from an aluminum window-frame. Peal  laughs,  eyes of fire … then spits: “Bad as Silverlake, for the Koreans before faggots came off the hill. A collector  broke-out M1s  and drove Bantu rioters  west into the Del-Mar tunnels .” Next 20-round clip peals off and the kid looks satisfied. “Got one ! You fight in La. Mr Scranton?”

“Coming down from Spokane, trailing the first resistance  I never had the chance.”

“You wasn't first, we was by a goldfish whisker.” Kid rams home another 7.62-cal clip. “When La City council come after the anti-sneeze rockers .. Spam-me-Not … Little-Tits … Love-Crease … we shot-up their  Black Mariahs and terrorized Hollywood apologists: that's when Kardasian and  Streep and GaGa got nicked and dicked. Just scared 'em … really.”

Nicked …  sucking into the concrete wall I'd think about attack. Months either way … and a thousand vicious-yet-unknown acts of resistance quieted by victory … “You think Scrum intended his wedge to get halted by small arms?”

“I ain't halted, Mr Scranton … then behind a burst of M-60 FMJs the kid said nothing. So I thought about it.

“Japisr … just another post-Isis rebellion,” Scrum had spewed, apprising his BattleMaster screen  before flinging  mechanized wedges down I-5 and across I-80;  heavy columns of Pickets, Agros and DFAs  those  mechanical wedges racing along  6-lane concrete ribbons  all focused on the contagious and rebellious city of Sacramento.

“Prog fucks think they can wait-us-out. Wait till winter Tule-fog  comes … into Sacramento.”  Scrum turned to anyone who would listen. “”Course that's how we starved 'em into submission first time round, as I-5 turned into a bowling alley! Experienced hell yes - - every man-jack fighter !”

Three wedges and a tampon the master Sargents sniggered , but among hard-washed grunts  wasn't a cherry in the basket.  Scrum could'a squeezed, but he had lost patience.  Strong right arms came easy … Silvercoin, Eagle-Red and Mixon had the western routes,  with artillery and 76-mm support  for the new colonels. Those  two red-Injuns  directed relentless columns;  Soros-funded  assassins had tried  and failed  to kill both. Both carried tomahawks and Bowie knives and  lancing for'ard even their own men kept hair covered.

In contrast Weitz  Sandpoint and Sierra rangers adored her lead-from-the-front style, silver-black Sabra swatch of hair  flying from a  35-mm-toting 8-Wheely that Weinstein had conjured.  I know all this … more … because Scrum told me, while Ms K  left my bed and settled in  running Scrums real-time  streaming video.  HRI still moved 500,000 views/day;  her streaming was just like being there,  needed to complete victory she said … while I fucked her ass raw for a last time and saw she was all-eyes for Scrums power!  Life's a bitch! His men were a battle-hardened lot,   mostly left-coasters having broken-out locally from Seattle to Tijuana, fighting migrants and Niggers and progressive slits,  and  then survived the Fresno and Big Sur blood-baths  against main-line Federals.

TZING...TBZING … BBTTZING … the shrieking dead-fuck death-to-Federals rips red phosphor streaks  overhead zinging so  mean and so low any bunker three feet higher puts a crease in awareness the age of  protons. Know what I mean?BBYU=PINGG … You dead screaming  bitch I want to shout. Mud spatters my notepad, but the digicam continues streaming 1080p to satellite feed for which  bandwidth  HRI pays dear gold-threaded  Militia-Script.

“Heads up Bosco,” comes the rattle.

“I only counted nine.”  Squat-10 makes the usual clutch!

“Strays, Scranton!”  Before the strays we had been sitting around, outside the 2nd warehouse on Laguna Blvd … one & three  burned like creosote torches. Twas a tree-studded stretch of business between white-fence Craftsman neighborhoods.

“Fucking  police action turned into a major tong.”

Our wedge had come racing up I-5, hoping to trap raider quads and Flackers between the Pockets and Ship channel.  Each 8-wheel Flacker  carries 6 snipers, and you wanted to fight them up close where the 6.5-mm Manlickers  couldn't hurt you. They had been opportunist, the  Trotsky raiders … rebeliers they called themselves …  attacking us  at Stone Lakes. Silvercoin turned it around, hitting them face-on  and pinched away from I-5.  Our mobile unit of Agros, Jeeps and Pickets had succeed.  Eating dirt and shitting fear is what success looks like. “Major Tong to ground control. Why does  killing a few Jews need 10,000 dead  bodies? Lots of civis  put down  .. worse than a Chicago playground with Niggar pimping stryknin-cut-krak.”

“Hehehe  sure make itchy booty tumble , though ...”

“Ain't never been that close to a squaws sheath, have ya Tumbleweed?”

“ 'Bout 2025  on the Pecos if I remembers correct.  Dark night, but when the snipers come in they was all peyote-addled  Apache cunt … the killin' were so bad … narco.MEX most … our sniper-babes would'a fucked water-moccasins iffn they wore rattles.  Chap them spurs Silvercoin mine  was a rangy sort a' mare.  Ain't no Redskin like a ...”

“Colonel Silvercoin ...”

“Yes sa !”

BUZZZZ BYFFFF …. and face-flat everyone chews grass.BAZOOM … BAZZOM … the  string of explosions come seconds later. Pissed our pants.  The  Militia 152-mm grads  are targeted  north , along Pruneberry Canal, grinding clay  and walking toward the rebel  rifle-pits bordering  the Sacramento River.  Springtime dead stink fast. Thrusts and sorties like the one we just deflected  came out from the city every week. Since  Cali-Sacraments  financial rebellion in May,  killing has never stopped.

“Gotchur 10 Scranton?”

KERSL—AM … REKLS__MA…! Anti-tank rounds  disturb nature and split your ears. Dirt chews. You taste the shit in it.

“Where did rebels get the 88-S?”

A news-woman from The Cleveland Plain-Dealer. “Chinese re-manufacture from WW-2 German capture.”

“And you know ...”

“I fucked one of  their newsmen last week  in Las Vegas, during a  wounded prisoner exchange  and he pillow-talked like a bleeding kidney.”

Revanchist Trotsky  newsmen, the bain of yeoman America had come to a bad end.  They had pushed a pro-wettback, pro-faggot, pro-Bantu,

pro-banger pro babymomaz  agenda down yeomans throats and up our ass. Now paybacks slapped the race-traitors. As  civil war went against their masters, newsroom agitprop had migrated  to major city-states. As it happened migrated without safety!  In Israel-controlled Manhattan,  victory-tainted Mossad  had jailed a 250   prog-writers on Rikers Island. Without Twitter they  wrote 20-page Marx-style flaming rants … and rotted when  their jailers quoted Doctorow.

“Should'a listened to the natives,” japed a pigtail gunner, toting a tomahawk and  ancient 9-mm Steyr-34. It's crenelated barrel smoked, but  blonde furniture glistened new wax. “Cali  newspapers bled every time Guats or narco.MEX or Indo-slant stubbed a toe, but for the reservation Injun … ?”

“What's your name, Chingetchcook?”

Fat Redman bulges his cheek, under silver-rim glasses.   “Tommy Two-Tone.” Hurled a gob into  sizzling, spitting firesticks . “I did laser fusion at Los Alamos, before  cunt Pelosi/Feinstein forced-in Syrian and Viet roundheel replacements.  Best blo-jobs in New Mexico, I admit! La Times pimped the  employment scam as trans-sexual quantum entanglements. Or as narco.MEX say … good redmen is dead redmen. ” Another gob hit the fire and it sputtered out.

Not a novel story, I think, to any newsman  moving west;  prog journalists from heartland cities had simply  been butchered-out when the Mississippi Flotilla collapsed one Muzzi-wog stronghold after another.  Over the Rockies …  on the left coast, faggot-sucking Trotsky-loons  from the  San Diego, La, Portland and Seattle papers had run about like headless chickens, squawking their discontented agitprop. Collapse of progressive politics had gathered them in narco.MEX run Las Vegas and revanchist Sacramento. Not for long.

Attempting to escape Las Vegas, 130  blo-jobbing prog journalists had burned to death. Nobody claimed responsible!  A 737 had its pins-shot-out attempting a night escape and in a sagebrush gully full fuel tanks exploded on impact. Local warlords had sprayed a concrete blanket over the crash scene ..,. like a mini-Chernobyl  and Militia commanders were satisfied.

Unless you're an unarmed, dependent slack-jaw faggot, blo-jobbing Jezzebel and simpering over NewYorker adverbs  people can only take so much. One-after-another  the scaborous mayors: La., Seattle, Denver, NYC, Boston and Baltimore: such poly-slut panders all cut down by snipers, bulleted through within two weeks of yeomanry initial call-for-action.  National Guard rebelled against traitorous state governers soon after, and pillaged state houses couldn't support ghetto parasites.

The Injun  listened quiet. Then … “You agree, don'cha about  backsliding  Sacramento … it never was a true-believer Militia city,  or fit to compromise even after the Federals  surrendered choosing Trump as new national POTUS.  Months ago. End of rebellion. Peace. Horseshit! Only money counts, the Sac leaders claimed.”  I burn a Red-straight for the glassy-eye machine-gunner, his Lewis 303-cal slung over a shoulder . He dropped  shredded Dragonskin beside me and come up kneeling.” Sacramento was a last safe landing for remaining  Oceana progs.”

“Sure I believe ...” And I wasn't going to stop his rant.

But, I lit  his Camel Straight; tip fired red he blows a long thin stream of grey smoke into the doorway. “I helped liberate Sac! Feckin-A SJWs, migrant Bantus and defeated narco.MEX cholos had joined  trapped Jews and microdemics to assassinate  our provisional managers and expel Militia pickets. Exactly the opposite of the first retribution.” His mouth twisted. “Ya know about retribution? Betcha read Revelations … haha!”

“Then I saw another mighty angel coming down from heaven. He was robed in a cloud and his face was like the flare of napalm ... and his legs were like fiery rockets ...he was holding a little iPAD which lay open in his hand. He planted his right foot in hell ... ”

“Pretty good Mr Scranton ya got it half-right!   Before the first open skirmishes in Bakersfield and Atlanta we got pissed - - -  call us incensed  yeomanry - - - after Trot-city mayors declared their fiefs sanctuary cities pandering foreign wettbakks, narco.MEX and Muzzi-wogs.   Weitz and Scrum and Banski  and Drumsta called out the Militia; hard men needed to  perform citizens arrest on the traitorous bastards;  vote-herders had it coming …  Trotsky warlord mayors grasped for power on the back of imported votes, ignoring their duty to citizen and Constitution. But, we didn't have it easy oh no!   Demorat sluts still prowled the DC swamp, defending their night-creatures with GOOGLE, FBI and HSA thugs. Made no difference.  Enraged yeomanry caught them up;  a car bomb took-out the CNET headquarters in SanFran, and it's said every byte-boi in  San Jose lost a relative. GOOGLE natural-gas busses torched like marshmallows.” Outa breath he stops dead. Bums another fag.

Kerosine lantern flickers; mebby I'd read worse in Spartacist rags. “Doesn't sound too far off, pilgrim.  You been draining swamps ... taking political lessons?”

“The personal is the political, Scranton ya gotta know that! Banski ain't never said anything different.”

Ten-fuck where had I heard that !  Breaking the mood. “Have  those Seattle TOWs gone in yet against the  pill-boxes  and  mortars at Sac College?”

“No cover yet, for the close encounters. We can't hear the grads pounding … cause the snipers hide next to childrens shelters!”

“Then we play against this masonry.”  I'm thinking Sac will fall soon to Gen. Scrums bloody siege, though you can't make any sense of the killing.   I pull outa the wood pallet tumbledown  …  “still have a pair” …  armed men stand around.

Twenty seconds of quiet dissolves in blasphemy. “Fuck Mother Teresas puuz  warn't my i-de  shooting  Nigga chil'ren.”  Lean, gaunt  artillery-man returns a tin mug to  reddish-coals  and  breaking its circle of light steps away from the fire.   He reaches the  pot, stabs a burnt chicken-leg  and chews with intensity. “Twas that Russki Gen'ral what set the standard.”

I say. “We are not Russian. That's not how we started ...”

“Fucks that mean?” Voice cracks clean through muggy river air. “Let the man palaver, Scranton. You fight you  can talk.”

Shifting the holstered 357-Dan-Wesson  I hold up a bloody bandaged forearm. “Smart bullet bitch to tell a talker from a fighter.”

Random face, random voice. “You ain't no coward Scranton nobody says that.  Even in Weitz unit  we all read HRI and it's only ½-lie haha! But let  Drumstik have his say. Heah Scranton anybody know why most newsmen aren't like new, on the side of us yeomans?”  A stream of jah spills from the pickets mouth; artilleryman elbows his pal.

“Corruption, I understand ...” I light a Camel and it tastes like piss. “ Heard a story … a story from the late 1950s, where the faggot journalism dean of an Ivy-League  school started turning his students against the republic. Feed corruption to social memes of trust. His boyfriend was a  planted Russian spy … and figured a generation of twisted newspaper journalism in America would aid Russian influence. Little did he know ...”

“You train new 'uns?”  Fuck! No answer. Cigarettes glow and  feet patter  restless into beds of wet pine needle.

PING...PING...PING … 7.62s ping from warehouse brick walls and the thirty man picket rushes inside to join the tanks and armoured cars. “We gonna go after them soon?”

PZING...PZING..... “If'n you've a mind to eat FMJ.” He laughs. “Gone soft, Scranton without the bitch to flog.”

“Death never stopped us before. Whatcha got cookin' behind those blue eyes?”

“Fuck you Scranton .” Silvercoin clamp-jaws.

Hefting AK-47s a squad of cold-eyes filters around our firepit. “Mebby we ought to push them back.”  I take the fag he offers. Smear on black grease. "Got squeeze," he sez, the pair of museum-piece MG-34s bright with mink oil!

“I'm in!” Not to say our unit had jerked around, waiting for orders since breakfast came up with  penetrating starlight cold and  wet. There's more to it ... the pause yet stiff tactical strike than I can figure.

Aechy breaky twits to his boots. “If you go down, you're out.” Makarov 9-mm jams into belly-buttoned leather.

"We don't let Trot-bitch Intel snatch a talker," singsongs a Chinaman toting two mud-fouled SKS by wooden handles. Sniggering "We hate to lose men like that ..."

I shrug.  “Never any different.” I heft a MINI-14 and 357-cal Dan Wesson. Newsmen just ain't special.  Warehouse walls are three-feet thick.

Silvercoin  smirks ,  spits into a metal water-can and waves me off. “I want real-time action, Scranton. Lug the digi-cam so Battle Master can tune in!  Hardly makes sense to dodge them bullets, outside   unless you can tell us how it started.” He  kicks  a wood-chip fire beside it. “You look tired, Scranton.”

“Now!”  Behind a racket of small-arms fire we break outside  through two doorways in the  warehouse wall.

Churning camo legs break left and right ...PWING...BZZRING...ZZZZzzz …  under the rains grey mist and  billowing black-speckled  smoke-clouds …  I'm left and we're across the street when the man to my front goes down groaning in a puff of red-mist and leafy green tree-line only yards away.BRIZNG...BYRINGO... the next bullets tuck at my helmet and faces appear  in  truck windows thirty paces ahead … bastards are sniping from …PDDOWBRRNG  ....  bowls me over, the Peterbuilt cab explodes in a shatter of TOW frags and glass.

“Keep up keep up,”  shout the flying boots yet I'm poking the digicam glass eye through two branches and the MINI-14 barrel just below it. FMJs clip leaves … I pepper a K-Wapper rear window and blood spatters from the inside. “With me bitch,” grabs the hand on my collar yanking me up it's a big Spec-4 with an RPG and we are dashing  through metallic buzz for the open repair-shop door.BRANG ...RBBANG … bright staccato of rifle-flash breaks on both sides sweeping for'ard … “got 'em running ...”

Running through back yards,  running through a pear orchard, running through fallow hay how bullets clip  brown sheaves like razors takes a beard leaving bits of blood behind.  There  there there beneath a shattered bridge T-joints the muzzle of a 105-mm howzr pokes into  the mist.   Two men, no three … no four hunch behind its steel maw,  feeding the jaws, feeding …  and firing …BZAMPT ...BZAPMT …  firing across my front and in to a line of advancing  Militia troopers, the shots  high and whinny …  my digicam has strayed , already focused, measured and retrieved the coordinates  to a grad-crew miles behind.  A red target matrix scrawls blue LEDs and melts … I bury my head before a long-reaching sound  …TZING  … and the explosion  wipes clean the under-bridge like a red-painted mop. Birch-bark flutters from a snapped tree-trunk; I suck dirt.

BARUM...BARUMM ...PHFTV...  shells cooking off …  Smoke and flame rule ;  I dart to the hole now eddying dust and … vomit … move damn you beyond to a tumble-home pile of brick. Now  beyond … beside,  a headless body floats in a  rust-colored swimming-pool. Digi-cam blue-wink warns of a filling SSD.

Patter of bullets striking below my knees. From knees and elbows I fireBAT...BATZ...ZTABB...  Helmets and headscarfs bob to the front. An entire picket-line is rustling away from us. Recoilless rifle and  mortar flashes corrupt their path with flying bodies …BUT...BUT...BUT... TZIEG... rifle flash from our line streams continuous complaint and other bodies fall twitching …

You hear about silence after a firefight. Don't believe that shit cause only the dead are silent; they told their story. I fall down.

Scrum over the digicam mic.  “Nice work, Scranton ya only crapped-out twice.”

I hear an echo. “Lucky ya wore the plate carrier, Scranton. Com--mon outa the stretcher another guys needs it more.” Ya know how slow time can pass? Cup a Joe slaps to my mouth … I take a bite and spit.  “None-a-that, pad're,” cracks corpsman lingo ! “The 7.62-cal spawl ripped-away your 3-poly, but ceramic disks only cracked. Ya listening palsy gotta  have sore ribs. Whatcha got, corporal?”

“This freakin' hash-plug worth a chew! Try half an' ifn' it helps ...”

Needle jabs. Voices spatter. “Wounded on the carpet. Body-bags over there .”

Earbud. “Don't go tits-up on me Scranton. I need ya on-the-bus!”

Bus? So tired, can I sleep forever. Air spins and weaves. “Fucking good hash corporal.”

“From my dads farm, Mr Scranton.  It's medical ...”

Count to five … “bleeding stopped, he's out” … I'm sleeping …

Episode B

It's darker. A rainy evening. Ruba-med patch on my neck itches. Tugboats whistle; good for us! “You gonna make it Scranton?” Grunt slaps my chin and laughs.

“Good show and all … I got to BATTLE-MASTER—9” a snot-nose punk simpers chewing into an almond-flavor froth-bar. “I got 3 dykes and a fag. Wowser me!”

“Jeez I only got to BM-4. And had a little toe shot off. You must be super …!”

Shuffles. Dark in the room corner, where a patch of pickets huddle. “Don't tell that to the Seattle unit next door. They took six casualties today and ain't no mood for piss-offs. They gonna kick yo white ass.”

Punk shivers. His dinner makes the room stink ! Cookfires burn in metal cans and cold has seeped in from the river. And the unit scatters around the warehouse floor … more than our unit and more than our officers. Sliding metal doors have been closed. Armed pickets guard. Men say the six-story back half of the building looks like Swiss cheese, but this concrete block and pillar front holds solid.

I note again nine men in a corner, three ragged, mouths gagged and bodies hogtied to chairs. Beside them, ungagged , silent but cuffed three solders; and beside them three well dressed men sitting unbound and mumbling. “Who ... I say who are the pilgrims?”

“Ready for trial ! That's all I can tell ya Scranton.”

“Trials eh … all 9, together or separate … even the grunts?” I walk beside them whistling Dixie. “Away … away … away down … You pricks up for promotion, sitting so stiff? Lieutenant, you ... you Sargent … even the piss- Private? Chrisalmity ya learned to talk? ” Silence.

Nobody answers. Jabbers fly my way. “Scranton, ya media fuck getchur ass inside.” A gunnery Sargent points to holes in a concrete wall, picks one and stoops through. It's bright inside the command post.

Silvercoin, his Sargent and three mil-nerds squat 'round a brace of wide-screen monitors. BATTLE-MASTER maps play on the pixels. Another streams infra-red video of our for'ard pickets. “You need a

vacation, Scranton. Snow on Donner Summit still skis … know what I mean? Jane White sez she needs lessons.” The maps slide south of Las Vegas. “Wants practice turning , but can't enjoy anticipation with Sinaloa Cartel roadrunners on her flank. Weinstein was supposed to keep them away!”

“Jane White? Weinstein?”

“Ya need a postcard palsy ?”

I gag on stupidity. “Rickets Glen. Best waterfalls east of the Coors Brewery.”

Silvercoin spits. “Gena will brevet you to Weinstein .. prolly … but, know this. Scrums wedges, his Agros and Mobsters cannot move for'ard without Whites unit engaging rebeliers mobile mechanized far to Sacramentos east side. Like us they can't advance with gatling-guns on their flank. I want no surprise sortees spewing against our rear from I-80!”

“And you think Cartel roadrunners can get this far north.”

“I know they can, and our advance stops here! Hell knows why Gen Whites F-28s can't stop them, but we cool heels until Cartel mobile armour ceases to threaten.” He turns to a computer screen. “Look over here … read this and this ...”

Fuck. “................ pretty technical,” I say shortly.

“Don't bust a cherry reading it again, Scranton. Yesterday we captured a pair of quadsters and a Molester in Auburn. Firefight! Grunts shot the drivers, but they were military, advanced scouts not spys.” Silvercoin pulls up. “Snip that from the stream, Scranton. The war-crimes courts are going to be a bitch!”

I shrug, knowing it can't be done … not with the new secure digicam. Happen once and it happens forever. “Count on me.”

He shrugs. “Are more Cartel hiding or moving north or can Weinstein cut them off, snip their supply chain?” He hunches over a keyboard punching numbers. “Do this job for us, Scranton. Kiss ass, interview , forage … fuck around … answer that question, Scranton … whatever it takes.” Silvercoin chews on a ripe Partagas and sends a long fat smokey billow toward the doorway. “Microcopter leaves for Weitz headquarters in around 15 minutes. You've ridden them before, right, with LOU? Sure ya have. I even got a Ukraine pilot!Somethingsomething Savchenko … or such-like. Know her? Well who does! Who can pronounce those Slav names ! Just a kid, but her mother's famous … I'm told.”

I snark. “Old enough to have a license?”

Silvercoin looks tired. “Better than you deserve,” he says heavily. Ours are new Boise builds, but rotor-frames and control surfaces are straight from Mariupol.” Silvercoin walks to the side and pushes open a tent-screen. Plugs a needle into his bicep and flinches. “Good stuff for sleeping, salvia. Find the second prefab on the right, behind this warehouse. Be there or be square.”

Packing bags, … LOU … Boise builds … it all comes back like a teen fuck rush, stink-finger … or a missed deadline. My bag makes room for a dozen 357-cartridge, a compass, six blunts, 12 Kisses, 3 packs of Camel Straights, 3 turk-jerk sticks, a raisin-rye loaf and 4 barley-carrot cookies. You can't steal a rubber, but a man's gotta eat. Gotta eat, sometimes gotta live or gotta die. The two caplets tuck into my shirt pocket: the GOFAST that lasts 4 hours … and the GODEAD that lasts 4 seconds. Packed, I lace the bag tight. The copter squirts in behind our warehouse. Concrete blocks ought to rattle, but magnetically coupled rotors whisper local and silent as a switchblade and the pilot hqas tuned them like a piano. Savchenko pops a port and waves; Christ if she's 20 I'm 60.

Big Spec Sargent. “Gotch'r dreamland , Scranton? Even 'Krane products get shot down, and we don't want no squawkers. Get to it fast … know what I mean …?”

Dreamland. “Every time I sneeze it rattles.” What the fuck … after a firefight in Manitou Park put down our Mobster, Ms K. and I decided on Dan Wessons. I still do. It rides like the good fairy under my left shoulder and has never failed to shoot once. Better living through chemistry … Stripes can still believe in his .

“See you alive Scranton or dead,” Silvercoin waves from a tent-flap.

Fuck you too. We load the microcopter, zipper into A-3s, jiffy hatches and silently squirt out like a lost dildo, banking south then darting into the evenings grey eastern sky. I call home to HRI Spokane, testing for updated handshakes; the night-op tells me to go fuck myself. Seven-PM. Temps read 70-F. I ride with two human medi-teks and a new AI-based auto-surg unit size of a surfboard; integrated defib/pacemaker/Xray/stenter … and for extracting slugs and suturing it's slick as a Becker. Tells me lots; tells me Jane White is taking casualties … I think. Not me.


“Some where.”

Temps read 55-F. We dally north following a ridge-line then plummet south. I chew on a salvia leaf and dream of Ms K. till the first AA frags tickle our belly.

ZBeeNG … BeeZING …

Red LEDs flash on my wrist and traffic writes to heads-up display. Static, then Savchenkos voice crackles. “Unfriendly skys boys and girls. We'll do ...” and sonic boom shrieks though our titanium skin, a humming threat that collapses into the sound of peanut-shells being broken; 57-mm AA will do that.

BGUEWW … BUWWE …Temps are 32-F. I shout … “Fly higher! ...”

Microcopter jerks violently and drops … unlike a stone … flinging itself and us into a looping curve … “Sorry for the delay boys and girls. Our 6-G maneuvers will kill anyone with a stent or proto blood-clot. American military gives physicals … no?”

“Yes; most women can't pass them.” I let the ice-pick draw blood … then coldly ... “This bad over Tartus?”

“Bad? How would a good Kiev gurl know that?” And Savchenko snickers.

Before Israel lost its Negev-nukes to a suicide neutron weapons attack, and after Russian and Ukraine Slavs had fought a fratricidal war over pH 8.7 swampland … an airborne corps of united Donetsk Ortho-Slavs had been formed and parachuted into Tartus … a Russian Orthodox populated port of 8,000 souls on the coast of Syria. Twenty-five thousand ISIS MuJad surrounded and swore killing them to the last Christian child.

Islam armed it fighters with an unquenched desire to fuck 70 twelve-year-old virgins into submission. Ukraine Slav infantry were armed with a novel Russian 6.0-mm fuel-cell-powered Gatling gun, and body-powered reactive full cover armour. Fighting continued from beach to foothills far into a rain-swept night. The Slavs lost 31 men to frost-bite and frozen blood. Islam lost 23,000 to surveil-by-fire and their virgins remained lonely. Only one ground-attack SU-25 was lost … when a loaned-out CIA M-60 Patton exploded and like a metal-goose blew its 50-cal hardware into the strafing jets air-vane.

“I don't know how a good Kiev woman would know that.”

Static tickles our mics. “Alta ladies and gentlemen … Alta is hot and Jane White is not. We'll pass the town and insert at nearest trail-head.” More static … then … “My mother wanted a pair of 35-mm, but OKB supplied only missiles. Stupid … they blow up before you get there ...”

And flying into a sudden snow-storm our copter buzzes the lake, banks south and bellys along a rushing brook. Rock fingers guard the stream and will break our bones. “Fetal position, children” comes the call. We slip-stream a waterfalls white whorl and pitch up inside an ice-crusted pine-swaddled pool. Temps are 21-F . A micro-copter delivers 3-layers of accelerat indirection ; I feel nothing , but the final thump. Ejection tumbles us into needle-beds beneath four pine trees. Tumbles … the surf-board AI skates … but humans come to ready-fire positions while copter engine sings songs of electro-mechanical infra-red love. “Empty FOF boys and girls. Do get your IR signatures away from me, so I can bug-out. Give Jane all my love.”

Wire skeines detach and retract from us into healing ejectors. River rushes a white noise curtain. Iced pine branches mist. An old man and a girl and I strip to A3s, share signatures and check magazines. “I'm Jack.”

“I'm Jill.”

“I'm Will.”

Lewdly … “Jack and Jill will fuck the hill ...”

“And still don't know what hit … them,” say the AI. We stumble madly over tree-studded rocks following the snow-boarding unit.

“Why are we here?”

"General White generals whomever joins."

“HRI cares for the big-hit-days. I expose lives, you save them.”

“Crap! Not enough people died the first time. May the groans of the prisoners come before you.”

“Everyone in my squad died at Mission Ridge. Nobody complained.”

“When an unemployed meatpacker put a bullet through Bezos head nobody complained. When an unemployed taxi-driver put a bullet through Khosrowshahis head nobody complained. When a demonitized xinyonged channel-owner put a bullet through Brins head nobody complained. Guess it makes no sense to complain.”

“Or be here!”

Away from the river, green white-striped forest patterns stone grey between snow-melt icy steeps . Breathing heavy and scrambling we never hear the copter leave us alone. But, at our back a clutch of exploding tracers proves someone was watching. “Hope she's a quick study!”

Small-arms fire crackles through a ravine below us. “Eventhough I walk through the valley of theshadow of death, I will fear no evil ...”

“Yo white boys. I didn't expect to see any rebelistas so far behind front lines.”

“That's our insertion point … the front line.”

“Shit. Moma said don-U-trust girl. None a you plan to rape me if A'h take a bullet.”

“Why would I wait that long?”

I feel the flash suppressor of a carbine scratch between my shoulders. “Ah yes that's the itchy spot never touched.”

“Yo women don't? They sho' leave their own dissatisfy ...”

Shot-minded, we've formed a pack-3 covering 270-degrees. One-hundred yards lockstep uphill. “Baker-one … Baker-one … your signature loud and clear. Catch you half-a-click east.” Thinning pines show a cold blue sky; fifty yards again and roiling river folds back on us. AI stops uncertain dipping its snow-board snout into white-water. “Rock-fall must have changed the course of this stream. My database shows ...”

“East AI … follow the compass.”

“I am not programmed to be stupid, Mr Scranton.”

“Nothing on IR ,” says the girl traversing riverbanks with her M-18 carbine.

“By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept,” says the old man lighting a Pell Mell straight and sending a long grey smoke-banner along the ice-crusted boiling water. Been cold like that … in May … since the Japan current swung south sending snow into July and republican militia into the eternal snow.

My Swiss Army ticks loud. “Mean TORs for stationary targets are 13 seconds. I count 8-9-10 ...”

It's rough going over the ice rocks. Every step nests a heart-break. Heavy artillery rumble against the mountainsides; a few white contrails mark blue sky … many and only a few. One jet slices low; shadowy micro-copters flit casually. Five minutes later a camoed patrol slams us heads buried into a nylon-webbed snow-bank that would fool polar bears and happy to be alive we chew ice. Candy-stripe white and green arms hold braces of 334-cal; they scan us meanly. “Jack Jill Will … not you transistor-head. What was John Prines 2nd hit?”

“How about 1st baseman for 1957 NYYanks?”

“The cartels know baseball … fucker.” She raises her rifle butt and moooz.

“Montgomery Angel.”

Enough, I wonder? She glances at her pal, who wears an eye-patch, cheek scar and full, pink wet lips that would suck you to the moon. “Half-enough good-enough … for a reporter.”

“I must object,” carps AI, “for the answer depends on ...” and slush-balls sting our technically correct snowboard into a silence lasting across rocky gulches over a swinging bridge piling north-side snowdrifts all the way into an ice-tunneled under-forest maze that Air Marshall Gena Weitzman throws beside the first ranks of her assault.

Crisp mountain air; I think lung-burn will scorch the out of shape. Grey puffs of 57-mm frag hector the ear, threaten the eye and patter the spruce bows like wayward sparrow. Before they push us below we see ranks of long-barrel Wheelies packed beneath mounds of blown snow and scattered dens of Agros, Mobsters, Molestors and Pickets … the entire Militia armed mobile cadre billeted under camo. Some are still cosmoline pickled, but many sport fire-blacked gun-barrels or RPG damaged plates. Now … blue sky above our prisoners corral, while on all sides prismatic light filters through thick blocks of ice.

AI under interrogation … again … we sit on pine stools, chewing peanuts and dried beef; chew and talk as my silver flask passes round. “Why don't they send Agros against the A^2 ?”

“Or sally Molesters … they carry 43-mm plate-splitting cannon.”

“Why don't we have soup instead of nuts? In the camps men divide our plunder.”

“Lord's gonna bleed you ol' man … for blasphemy. Why not Negro leaders instead of a Jew Nazi? Ad'mrl 'Clellen rules Mississippi Flotilla !”

And the Great Lakes Fleet she might have added. But, emotions run high, among the early disaffected. I say … “They need her … the white nationalist men love Gena to death.”

To HRI the story sounded like this: spreading quiet death patriotic north-proud yeomanry filtered around her meta-cultural hard center more like hyper-mobile pickets than another Banski wedge; more like devils around Lucifer than goslings about a goose. Sandpoint-Nazi Air-Marshal for the last two years, IDF-trained Gena Weitzman now had her first interstate command moving Mobsterized Sierra light-fighters over Donner Summit, through Alta and Aubourn and into sniper-infested hilly east Sacramento berbs.

“Plenty of Black women have a nice ass ... I do.” Jill snatches a Camel straight from my pack and burns red a bright hard tip. “Who says you got nothing to follow?” I had lost count of the young black girls pledged to the Militia … slave mentality or … or mebby they just liked the Constitution cause 3/5 is better odds than post modern America gave them.

Jack smooths his white beard and croons. “How good it is to sing praises to our G*d, how pleasant and fitting ...”

Boots crunch snow and electric sparks. “Enough twaddle old man!” Door to our corral creaks open and the woman behind a pair of shaggy thugs speaks softly. "What have we here ... Roman Senators come for Caesar?"

You don't lock eyes with this one ... Snipe. "Nero's come for a pizza recipe. Got spice?"

“Why me? Because nobody bakes like a white man!”

Jack sucking thin dry Sierra winter air ... a bubbling carp. "She gave their ham to grasshoppers and their pineapples to locusts."

Hands hipped Jane White points. "Med unit mess eats two tents over ... Porks chops tonight, but the wine's a good Grass Valley red." She catches them ..."Can either of you control the AI speech? Randomly it prefers whom to who. Didn't think so ..." and she turns ruminating toward me ...

Nightfall. Mars hangs low in the star-strewn western sky competing with star-burst flak for attention. Ice-blocks defend the aramid neopren flak-tent to shoulder level. Deep spring snow outside muffles camp noises. A yellow flap-stripe holds the stencil: GEN. WHITE, J.

“Overdue, a Banski bitch; but ... figure he'd send a reporter to deliver it? Never!" Hands on hips again, her military collar open. "Yes, every weak flank must be denied.” Two plank tables hold the paper map. “Terrain near I-80 steeps fast, spews ice and makes unforgiving rocky entrenchment. Better to run than hide!” Snatching a charcoal … “Our heavy picket spreads like this … along Sawtooth Ridge south, splitting I-80 here, at Baxter east of Alta and inverted, curving north to Scotts Flat. Cartelistas own the northern gravel pits and El Durado Canyon.”

The aide and a burly Sargent Major sit across a split-log floor, their ears empty and hands close to 1911-45-cal weapons. BATTLE-MASTER runs on both quad XEON laptops.

“Banski thinks those pickets ought to be fighting alongside your ranger bands into Aubourn.” I look up ...”you are fighting them in Aubourn not just surveiling …?”

"In'juns pushing hard?"

"Like Geromino!"

Gena stands and motions me toward the tent-flap. Her Sargent stiffens … and sits back. Outside, frosty air mists our breath and we make for a tree-mounted space-heater. “Good for us the Cartelistas don't fly IR_sensored drones ...”

“Good for us we shot them all down.” Taking a Camel Straight and the Zippo stiff flame. “Our paired 30-mm are good for something.” And Air Marshall Gena Weitzman, IDF Lieut-Colonel and Rafale fighter pilot aliased Jane White, leader of the SandPoint Nazi flight ansatz and General of Militia Armies … laughs.

“But they can't push back Cartelistas 57-AA!” Light flickers over her face, and micro-fibre camoed jumpsuit. I motion about. “You have the armoured hardware and ...”

Grey cigarette smoke spills from her lips. “Of-course I know what Banski wants, and what Banski needs and why Silvercoin stopped pushing north! Cartelista raiders riding his western flank. Who knows exactly how many … all Morenos wheelies fleeing north across New Mexico … Weinstein the bastard hasn't stopped them … then trafficing local support thru Las Vegas copperhead-progressives and LaRaza alienistas ...”

Perplexed I stutter … “But … but … but none of that ...”

Bitterly ...”None of that compares to the fighting difference between 30-mm duals and 25-mm tri-gatlers!”

Jane White stubs the fag. “In semi-open Sierra forests Cartelista 25-mm armed Wheelies shoot faster, shoot straighter, shoot quicker than our 30-mm jobs meant for high desert and open range land.” She snaps an iPod for remembered data. “Their cepX is 17%, ours 9%. Kill ratios are 2.5/1 in single vehicle combat ; without our Mobster or Agro support it's 4/1. We both wear DragonSkin, but since the reactive tabs are one-shot-wonders doubling ROF increases kill-rates by 26%. ” Jane White points to the sky … “experienced troops Mex Molester pilots run behind their Wheelies and gunning 57-mm in mountain terrain shoot-up whatever they like.” A brace of 57-mm AA brighten the sky, leave faint sound-prints and fade.

“What do you need,” I ask?”

“What I need?” She comes up face-to-face. “Does Banski have that kind of confidence in you?”

“Try me ...”

She's thought about that, from the faint crinkled crows-nest to white teeth biting her lip. “If the Wheelie-gats were killed-in-transit … never got into the Sierras then we swat Molesters away and push for-ard. Or … or if the Molesters were destroyed in Mexico then we would trade up-close body-count with Cartelista Wheelies.” She laughs out loud. “Dog-fight Alley … Gunslinger Lane … an old fashion shoot-out not fearing enemy could retreat behind a wall of long-range 57-mm covering fire.”

“You'd like that ...”

“My Wheelie'd lead the first scrum! Barrel to barrel my troopers would break them … grind their bones under our treads. And after the 1st break our picket and sorties swarm east … wowser … Banskis western flank feels no pain. His Redmen take riverine scalps while our wedge strikes into revanchist Sacramento hills.”

“Makes sense except … you control the SandPoint F-28 squadrons. You could spread them north of Hermosilla, ranging the Sonoran desert, vectoring any radar contacts.” Jane White said nothing. “Militia already control the Salton Sea .”

Avoiding. “And they're tied down in a daylight sniper war stretching from Mexicali to Phoenix. Militia patrols travel free outside cities, but come nightfall everyone hides in bunkers.”

We tug and we war … about what … “Everyone, but packs of Cartelista Wheelies and Molesters and … and Weinsteins armoured phalanx. Cartelista battalions traffic north, while Weinsteins Agros and Mobsters chew at their flanks. What a lion he could be with air-support. Where are your F-28s Gen. White?”

Like a French horn, anticipating the flute. “Waiting for Federal F-18s to support against Mexican Mig-29s . Federales bought a dozen from Cuba!”

Jane White misses her F-18s? That I don't believe for the age of a meson. Two Federal carriers sail under Militia convoy within striking distance off the San Diego coast. Long-striding high Sierra wind whistles through snow-crusted pine boughs. “Who makes your electronics?”

A military sentiment closes about her mien, until another opens … “For the F -28s? Micron.”

“And air-frames?”



“Allied Signal.”

“Control surfaces?”



Silence. “Compressors and blades ....” I hiss.

“Get real Scranton.” Jane White has perched atop a split pine log her boots running down to an ice block and hands buried under a down vest. “Ya know, crap or get off the pot! Schwartzers were about to over-run St Paul. Eight months before Bill Clintons lover shot POTUS Hillary, Federal F-14s were supporting BLM and ISSUSA renegades.”

Old scenes flash like a pan of grease. I rumble ...“met Scrum there under fire, retreating from a column of M-15 armed Somali pillagers. They tranched north from the Niggarized and Muzzi-Wog cesspools of Michigan. Over-run? Tell me something I don't know. Wisconsin went down in ruin and flames like the bleeding-heart pussy liberals they pretended. But, not you!”

“I knew you would understand. Innocent me, still a good girl, flying Rafaeles out of Kennedy Airport and making progressive New York Jews happy. They kissed my fingers at Shabbat. Wall Street financiers sought my … company.”

“Nice life, General. All the while DHS-armed howling ghetto savages ran converging columns of M1As on I-94 and I-35 … they targeted the white sanctuary cities of St Paul and Minneapolis and were opposed by free-lance labor-farmer collectives armed with deer rifles. HRI covered those early battles. Whites called themselvessecond-men as a joke … and as a play on minutemen. Until SandPoint armed Scrums Mobsters into the Dakotas, whites that couldn't escape to Idahos white separatist enclaves were enslaved or butchered.”

An aide joins us from the tent ; a silent round of decisions pass and the aide vanishes. Gena says ... “Valor never distributes equally … numbers were equal during the St Paul battles, but the tools of death were not. IDF pilots did follow HRI coverage … Jews are Western people … the major media covered nothing, but dead white bodies and forced Muzzi-Wog marriages to pre-teen white girls.”

She said he said. “For HRIs million-hit days we showed sniping farmers bleeding out swarming krak-faced Niggas and the gasoline tipped fireworks rockets that burn tanks. But, until Nazi trucks supplying M-14s & RPGs arrived ...” Flaming hot those memories and I turn my back walking into a dark stand of pine. A sentry mumbles crisp and turns me around.

“Sometimes we just wait … Will.” Gena waiting curious.

I need the Camel Straight. “Was a little Minnesota river-town named Hudson, on a long curving bridge where white yeomary first turned the Bantu. Long columns of cotton-swatched Ghetto bitches led the attack marching first, rumbling bridge pillars with their chants, swaying like pythons and sporting gang-colors and banners … FAT-TATS & PRIME-CRIMES … half the banger-babes carried shotguns or pistols, the rest krak-pipes and babies.”

“But the savages … you stopped them!”

“The M-16 armed Bantu and Muzzis rowdyed behind the women and casually the tanks behind them. Our 60 x12 rotating triple-shot formation hit the front column just as they exited the bridge immediately killing three-thousand and raising panic before the first shot was returned. We ran over screaming bodies to keep the pain immediately to our front. Auto-fire from male rebeliers killed their own females. Our A4 Dragonskin and chest-plate protected shooters, while a row of riot-shields supported RPG free-fire. By the time we had chewed through women bangers the Bantu column had collapsed to the bridges far side, into the scatter of tanks, BPCs and main-force Muzzi-wogs. Bayonets fixed , we ran straight into their teeth … and they could not hold formation. Strafing, RPGs, a few 81-mm morters and 50-cal machine-guns flamed their tanks and cut infantry to pieces as they ran away.” I start again. “After they ran we ran, cause the Federal F-14s appeared overhead and shot down two of our support props and Super-Sabre F-21s.”

“We watched those HRI vids, Scranton watched the maneuvers like test pilots watch their brother pilots crash! It took 7 dead white farmers to kill a tank. You slowed 'em, but mile upon mile the savages advanced on St. Paul. Charming city; I had been there once, for a Fluid Dynamics conference … Eau Claire fell in November. The IDF forces were appalled, but helpless. That's when the Sandpoint Council sent an emissary.”

“Why you?”

“I had been passed over for promotion as full-bird Colonel … and command of the Avoca Airport fighter wing.”

“Avoca, Scranton? That's in Pennsylvania.”

“The Jesuits invited us in, promising ground-support and in concert with the local Temple they were very powerful. Federals and Militia battled for the Susquehanna Basin, but the skys belonged to us. ”

Like yesterday it seemed … “Two years ago I covered a battle at Avoca for HRI, ferried in by copter like here and embedded with Ukraine volunteers. Funny, half-finished fight. You weren't one of the hovering aircraft …?”

Uncertainly she says. “Kennedy fighters cover Eastern Pennsylvania, if Federal aircraft intrude.” Her left hand fidgets the 1911 leather holster. “You aren't supposed to know that,” she sniffs. “IDF acts like any military to its soldiers … up or out! I started losing patrol-time. My rocket-pods became last-years model … SandPoint Council has good intelligence. Within a week of IDF rejection I rode a Canadien L1011 cargo plane into SandPoint. ”

“You trusted Nazis?”

“AMAM already had boot on the ground, an aged son of a Holocaust survivor. He lost a leg at Lahtzanit; Council contacted thru an HRI foreign romance ad and now he runs a tank repair unit in Coeurs "D Alene. He fights for a decent life instead of sucking nursing-home smilies. SandPoint Nazis … they treat him like a brother!”

I chew on the Camel Straights wet end. “Romance bondage hotels were my idea, not job ads … you trusted Nazis?”

“I know the look of a solder facing death.”

“You trusted Nazi gold! They fronted truck-loads, buried in a Swiss mountain ...”

"Am I to be a Christian?" She stalks around me. "A Christian like Christ retreating to the desert mountain, fasting ... permitting all Satans charm to prove wealth and power cannot corrupt me?" Genas voice becomes so soft ... "You know, Will why Jews never convert? Because Christ was a Jew and every Jew , but Job will be corrupted by this earth! Like gold-dust through a sieve, virtue & grace flow through the hands of man."

I touch her hand ... "Which fingers held the serpent?"

Gena blushes and laughs. “They gifted my own YF-23 ... you know, the fancy better quality F-22? Pilots guild installed a laser carved diamond gun-sight. Worth a fortune ..."

“To a live pilot!"

I think she will release my hand. She says ... "Council has, but four stealths which fight only in defence of SandPoint; I flamed two Vancouver anti-fascist pilots who called me out, and my wingman chased the other Canadien SJWs back to their Molsons." She shrugs playing thumb upon little finger. "Both hands were filled. SandPoint women gifted a 3-Kg gold brick in a cedar box, the men a lakefront house, an ice-fishing hut and my choice of any five young men.”

“Only five?”

“Our Aryan airmen … all over 2-meters, blonde hair and blue eyes running mile after mile of 5 minute miles! If they can't fuck you attractive children, then you must be Berber.” Gena picks at an acorn and throws it skidding across the snow. “I picked 11-yo orphaned sisters as house companions.”

“Did they need to be orphans?”

Snatching away her warm fingers ... “You're a real asshole, Scranton.”

...the story, the goddammed who/what/when/where story ... “And the Federal F-14s …?

I fear she will run back to her Sargent. But, she takes to pacing between the space-heaters warmth and a tent-glow. I see her fighting another battle in space more obscure than the sky. Then ... “After The troubles started, so much of Hughs AirCraft disassembled and moved to Idaho that Sun Valley installed two brine-water wave-machines. Long before I came displaced white engineers flocked to the venue; sometimes a postcard is not needed.”

“All local design/build/test then.”

“Time pressure was immense. Schwartzers bore-down on St Paul, while the white western ansatz came under attack from Trotsky sluts of all stripes. ”

I'm cold ... shivering, snow from a pine-bough pelts my face. Shivering a meme rises, old as Attic Thebes, sticking in my head ... “Yet one womans slut is ..."

“More than most ... better than nothing . SandPoint assembly-works produced a perfectly able ground attack turbo-prop. Quad-blade twin engine, 1900 HP each, ROC 36.3 m/s , 105 knots stall, turn fast & tri-30-mms make tank-toast yummy … one deadly aircraft if they have cover above. That cover … our SandPoint jet is a 4th-gen Tigershark knock-off paralleling the F-16 in everything , but electronics. A pilot both needs and loves flying the F-28 … just fly it faster!”

“You made it fly faster.”

Gena Weitzman snatches another Camel from my pack, burns a red end and sends a long thin stream of grey smoke into the deepening night sky. She's quiet for a bit and I think her black flag of hair has captured a bit of the Milky Way. Something amuses her. “Really Will, my morning BATTLE-MASTER drill schedules for 5-AM and officers mess 4:30. It's hell on REM! You need to finish this interview and take me to bed ASAP. Please, don't be slow. Slow as I was beginning, experienced only in East Coast politics. Not having any cartelista dogs-in-the-hunt I chose Lycoming as compressor supplier for the almost working , but under-powered F-28.”

“Jasus-H-christ-on-a-crooked cross!” It comes as a love-bite Banski could never imagine not a kiss.

Episode C

Pedantry, the 5-ball blips of phosphor  streaking  upward. The drone leading our triple spins lovingly to increase its radar cross-section, drawing the streak of white tracers ever higher, every more easterly  its nose-cone throwing  faux-electric blurt downstream and when a first 57-mm clips its fibreglass tail  the entire craft knows enough to bark smoke and flames for  thirty meters about its flailing wing-tips. Meteoric. Phosphoric! Looks for all-the-world like a wounded starship grazing a black hole  accretion cloud  ever falling inward;  or a busted C-130  grunt … and will mimic attention  for another 7 seconds.  Seven precious seconds  while we slide lower and more quietly …

“You’re greedy, Scranton … want everything at once always. Ha! Guess I commit to feelings  very much the same … flashy events, but … but we’re not photons.  And don’t tell me I’m all tits and ass when you need it …  around men  all Jewish women are like that.  No … they don’t know … Scrum and Banski neither. Christ how jealous  men act, even when you’ve earned nothing! But, look here.  Cumberbunning  Sacramento revanchists  is Banskis affair.  Any old horrors will do;  rape their women … grind their children into egg salad. But,  tell you this for free, Scranton. Don’t try deflecting  Weinsteins rage into existentially desirable paths. Yes yes Banski sweats  how history will treat him.  Fears  damnation as  a baby-basher after  glory winning the Big Sur battles. He wants a quick end to Sacramento insurrection … to all of them and for that  he needs my western armoured wedge … and I need Weinstein to remove cartelista pressure from my southern flank. And for all that he sends you  …  look … look at  this note Weinstein   scribbled. Was the day before he flew into Ajo, preparing  for a pitched battle in Madera between his Pickets and Agros and cartelista Wheelies. But Chrisake don’t read that shit now … you know ... ya know I'm worth the attention.  Only an hour till mess-call;  casualty reports come in from snipers …  darklings and they’re mostly so young … Will … my breasts are sore, but if we hurry still time to work-up  another perv! ”

If time is a direction which way for’ard? If photons take 8 minutes traveling from Sun to Earth, but experience no time themselves then why worship such defective wavelets?














American  south-west badlands  stretch from Bakersfield to White Sands proving-ground  and south beyond the tequila orchards of  Hermosillo. Cheap warzone that 250,000 squ. miles  of unforgiving un-naturally habitated thorn and creosote-bush landscape. Since Trumps  pro-Nationalist ascendancy  Militia controls  and patrols broadly to the north, while southern areas bend their knee to cartels, renegade Federales and  nationless Trotsky sluts  exfoliated from America by the civil war.  Exfoliated ... now there's a word. Makes ya think that the progressive/liberal ansatz is the dead skin and canker of Americas middle age,  like mega-malls or tweeners.  Cities bordering between - - - Las Vegas, Phoenix, Tucson, Mexicali - - -  have become bankers of convenience. Stakeholders multiply and the best, quickest dollar buys the next secure night or safe convoy passage over a  regional turnpike.

News at 7. Continuous desert that 250,000 squ. mile  land.  Only  spiny mountain ranges  break its every-shifting flow till Mexican jungle  fills in from the south or forests of the great northern basin claw down from their Sierra and Rocky Mountain crags.  If plants grow it's the thorny cactus … saguaro, barrel and hedgehog  tucked beside brooding quiver trees, and if animals live  it's by the rattlesnakes fang … Mojave green, lance-head, tiger, speckled, sidewinder  … leapt over by permanently starving mountain sheep.

Hot badlands, they make even less likely  human residents; only manna-from-heaven supports them.  Heaven or hell. Chandlered by China-financed trading houses in Nogalas, Chihuahua, Agua and Hermosillo,  cartel managed renegade columns thrive. PeterBuilt alone refuses their money. Supported by huge freelance ORVs  war-buskers  pattern their  supply trucks and Molestors through obscurely maintained , but brilliantly maneuvered pathways leading north.  Let a thousand jojoba covered dry-washes bloom. La Raze paints them, but Mandarin speaks with the treads of a million  SITRAKs and 57-mm toting NORINCOs. Naked violent aggression these incursions, and threatening  to the reconstituted  American republic even after a newly self-aware and triumphant republican militia had slaughtered invading Cubano, narco-MEX main force and butchered-out fifth column progressives and revanchist Trotsky sluts from Sierra mountains , Central valley farms and  lubricious pagan  free-trading  flesh-pots of coastline California.

Boiling badlands …  Chicoms were there making up  6000 lost-years of  lost glory through the newly  acclaimed Emperor Wang Hai, the Cartels were there for  heart-ripping Inca blood-lust, the Hollywood libmeister Jews were there, cause nobody else would have them and … and Weinsteins Mobsters, Agros and 43-mm armed  Big-Wheels bulled into this wild melee with  Militia support  … cause by his own Constitutional pledge, by his own assembly of force, and by his own calling-out of cartel-bosses he's  a nasty, foul souled Christ-killing   son  of a bitch …

“And never forget this, Scranton, he's the republics son-of-a-bitch. Trump flew his BD-700 into Ajo  just to gift him an FN-SCAR.You been to the desert, son?”

“Only when it blooms.”

“He said I could be his girlfriend and bloom every night. When it rains it pours …  can you believe that shit?”

Lightening flares and I think I see a million bristle-cone pine … “we're close.”

Pilgrim  and upland stranger;  he wears a string tie. “Sonoran and Chiricahuas  Sky Islands bloom. Most rightly call them mountains , how they rise up from desert sands. Yucca blooms explode  every spring and don't step on the thistle while yer watch'in! ”

Tree-hugger I think … it’s why bark is fulla bugs. “The Mexican deserts are a dehydrated gawds world-sucking asswhole sprinkled with black and brown lumps of ...”

“Chrisalmighty enough blasphemy! Mountains? Scranton  sez he's been all over, which a white boy might think includes  every island in the sky.”

“Night fucking quiet sky we fly all fucking night … where's Jack?”

“Took a frag behind his left eye.”

“He gonna be Okey?”

“... took everything behind his left eye ...”

“Fuck.” Lucy in the sky sparkling diamonds …  skating from Ajo into a mountain valley north of  Cananea , Gena had said. Weinstein has fuel and water  sources  among the mining interests , networks of retired Mexican special forces and raiding parties sifting debre as far south as Ciudad Madera. He prepped double-agents from the  Hollywood writers guild to suicide sixteen of their own Democrating pederasts.  Stubbornly.  “He snatched two 15 yo-bitches and thirty pounds of  Medellin coke.” I  repeat that lie too loud.

Suddenly we dart low, over a burning terror-scape.  Something that might have been farmer pastures, but from the long chews of Picket-treads no longer. While our drone circles above we survey shattered, smouldering remains of two barns,  a dozen heavy trucks and pairs of Norincos.  Bodies too ... lots of them twisted up ... toasted ...  "Weinstein?"

"Nobody else."

"Doesn't miss much when he hits."   For a man at war Weinstein  welded allies,  torqued  connections … made enemies bleed-out for their own values.

He makes it look  bloody easy ...  left behind in radio banter rush,  breathless at the micro-copters 200 knots we maneuver a mountain ravine,  twist over its icy peak, break 3000 feet over a plateau and look for our postals.

BAMALAMM STRK … yanked right and we slew ...

“Cactus 1 …  Badger one do you read …?”

“Cactus 3-1-7-5  Badger  175 ...”

“Freq 1-1-niner.9 to 2664 ...”

“Squawk 2664 … shot off my damned  starboard rotor ...”  Drama queen Savchenko pipes chatter through,  so we three hear all like sharing death got you a hard-on. “Down here …. 30-58-45 ,  110-18 … down now dow ... ”

Down … down ... down to the ground Savchenko  flips a 360 to lose ground-speed and  practicing a brass-balls maneuver  rams our microcopter tail-first into the volcanic pumice. She’s  drilling down like a post-hole digger. End of it … when  rotor noise stops howling and fire retardant foam stops bubbling we don't even fall tits-over ass, inside our shattered graphine shell, but stay upright leaning south with pilots cockpit pointing at Antares.

Pods release and roll us out.  Heavy grit taste fills the air.  “I don't see the city.” Whisper  quiet.  “I don’t hear the mines.”  Cactus poke the evening sky and pines dot volcanic rubble.

Pilgrim. “Lucky we didn’t crash in a gringo plantation. Then HRI leads ‘YES WE HAVE NO BANANAS… Your people like that shit...”

Jill’s a wonder. “Gen Jane said  last month the Cubans bombed them ... factory, hospital clinic, school.  Some cholo selling phosphoric copper  del Norte.”  The copter's silent and we have not deployed communication.

“Cubanos sure be mean Niggers.”

Steps away, I’ve moved to an edge and back. “We're on a  mountain ledge,  so no crazy  idiot moves.”

“Yo paws be the only idiots, Scranton.”  Jill flips a stone into the dark and it crackles tumbling along a rock-face into emptiness.  “West and North of   Cananea  … that's us  with our lucky landing  and beneath the peak.”

“What peak?”

“Locals call it Perras Preparan.” Patchy snow moonglows from the mountains north face. I wonder if Weinstein thought of this snow while he palavered with Weitzmann beside the icy  June rills of  Donner Summit? Did he think she could skate down those slicks peppered with cartelista snipers and shot-thru by rebel 57-mm …. skate through timeless like he can skate from Ajo to Durango?

“This in a 1000 years becomes a coffee plantation. That …  that's Panda bear ...”

Savchenka scrambling down from the splintered cockpit, wiping a smile from her face and hitting a stink-pot Gallois.  “No. Panda bears are the Agros approaching us from the south.” She thinks.  I can’t see a damned thing … Jill swarms among her brood cutting away A-3 , jabbing needles and patching ripped flesh. Lots better than Surfboard cause she touches your face while her  handheld sewbot stitches away.

Pilgrim scrambles down from an overhang. “They use IR manglers, but the  100 Khz sonar-signal has us zeroed to-the-inch!”

“You see the lights?”

Pilgrim scowling.  A nighthawk pair wings overhead, wings kanted  mated for life coasting the dark downhill draft … a rabbit screams and screams …  “They're all coming for us?”  Pilgrim  relaces a Chippiwa boot and stamps the dirt. “Fit for a yucca tree, but I would not have guessed this ledge  wide enough to support them.”

How slowly time passes when you wait. Microcopters radar still  follows the approaching band … enemy disassembled signal flashing red  and cold sweat growing on M-16 plastic grips … till Agro 454-hemis roar against the volcanic scree. “It's almost always wider than a man thinks. That's why most men are inadequate.”

“Tea-cha that at ROTC?”

“Sausage three this is Cactus leader.  Without Hot-Sauce. Find 3260 … repeat 3260 Med-line on-the-bun if needed.”

Overhead the Milky Way brews magic. “Copy Cactus we're faire and 4-square.”

Static returns from the mic. “Hot-Sauce looking for burrito. Who's the faggot smoking a cigarette up there? Cartelistas run Chezko IR scanners and they're better than ours.”

I kill the fag and turn on the tall man.  “Who are you pilgrim?”

“Jacks replacement. Weinstein's taking casualties.”

“Makes  a man feel needed.”  Five minutes later the first of 12 three-wheel Agros rumble onto our north-most rim of Bitches Brew Ledge.  Behind the black 4-As  it’s a mixed bag of Mexican Speznatz, Spanish 3rd sons … and vigilantes.

Mobster lamps blaze like furies. “I’m  Rebollo. Who’s Scranton?”

“Where's Weinstein?” I stumble on volcanic roughs getting near her Agro. “South of Chihuahua surely, in the Occidentals or toward Torreon?”

Stiff  shouldered  Major looks me over. “Weinstein? He's killing Mexicans and Jews.”

I snap. “Arizona Rangers killed Mexicans and ISIS kills Jews.” Helmut and shoulder-pads strip off  a Sonoran beauty ; her brunette flag waves to the risen.  Jane Whites warning strikes C#.

Sharply. “No en mi reloj ...” A disgraced generals daughter she’s seen both ends of the world.

I fork her a Camel and burn the end red.  “Tell me something I don't know.”

“He knows you’re coming.” A picket exits each Agro;  our 50-m perimeter will not protect us from Tijuana pickpockets.  Blonde primps,  aggravating like a first date who has her bra-strap loose before you find her thong-slit.  And she plays loose truth. “Even Durango pickpockets know Sacramento has not yet fallen.”

“I didn’t know I was coming … here.”  Look ‘round again thinking fast and shallow as poison octopus ;  harsh times and cold nights and  empty moonscapes take a violent fem as Blonde rules no doubt this bodega. “He could have waited for me.  So he runs?” I size her up … what she might know and what she may tell …

“There’s an arc …”  she says wrist-flipping her iPod un-ravels like a yoyo leaving a 7” wide  stretching silver screen behind … a central Mexican silver-map as photoed from 80,000 ft. “The four cities hombre Scranton  … Coahuila, Torreon, Durango, Sinaloa … like mirror pixels simultaneously containing all while focusing  cartelista ego, hardware and power.”

“If he knows I’m here then he knows why I’m here.” Mebby so, if photons fly backwards …  “Weinstein’s become a lynchpin.”

“Cartelistas pour del Norte.  Against that strategy  survival requires feign and counter-punch, a  tactical ansatz.”

“Tell me it ain't so. He hit their  Western flank trying to roll them up!”

Dismissive. “Never make it!  Jungle Boy, Black Betty, Bad Puppy   and Mambo King don’t roll.”

Sinaloa Cartel leaders … JB & MK …  heavyweights and violent even for Zeta offshoots. I ruler the map. “B-line then ….  that’s 400 miles from Cananae to Sinaloa!”

She laughs. “Even a mechanized division wouldn’t stand a chance. If  Weinsteins raiding stealthy he’s got only pairs of Pickets, Wheelies and Agro’s with a quad of mobsters. She thinks aboiut it. “He'll run five 4-banger Harley scouts and   two 10-wheel supply trucks if he’s lucky. And he jumping point-to-point ...”

“What can he do?”

“Hitting fast and hard he can wreck a  sleeping battalion in 10 minutes. Another 5 and  his main-force vanishes into  mesquite hills behind a wall of Agros and smoke.”

“Then … like who counts?”

“With F-100 and Avenger air cover try Nogalas to Milpita to Nuevo Casas to Manitoba … savvyed up he can turn-out-the-lights for days.”

Blonde counts! “So  day-by-day Weinstein’s  hopping airfields. Crap! How else does a raider get in new ammunition and get out casualties. And airfields are bound to stock fuel. But, I thought Manitoba Aero flew Cuban Mig-21s for the Federales.”

“Mig-23s, too and they are all expensive. You can run an entire night-raid with mobsters,  Agros  and two Wheelies for the cost of a single  Mig-23 strafing mission. Mig-man  fly-bane  knows the target and  does not bargan! Everyones do-re-me  welcome; everyone pays for the toy-boyz rhyme.  If you have the dime, sen~ior they have the time.”

And - - I think - - if a raiders attack is beaten off, then moving quickly  to the next point gives  an attacker fresh chances  of success.  Mebby so,  I’m thinking, if the mirror really knows everything within its grasp then Weinstein is screwed. “How long till Weinstein hits the mirror?”

G rizzled Sargents are prepping engines and saddling up. “He may have already. East of Janos he reports, but otherwise next  current vector  not till tomorrow morning. Wherever he lites we won't net him  by talking.”

Yeah …  webs do wonders … if ya  play them to  maneuver.  Bastard’s  loose like a slot-machine ding-ding-ding----aling  losses don’t count … all wins 2 free games  …  except for the dead … Engines whine, then growl. Blonde patrol barrels off the ledge heading south. I’m tucked in behind her, on the Agro as we ricochet from rock to ravine pitching downward away from the magic starlight and into a crust of pine.

“Where first?” It seems a crazy notion, with  the unseen  desert floor  2000 feet below.

“When we zeroed your distress-call our Pickets were chewing an arms convoy south of Bacoachi.  Agros blocked escape into town and now a  prize squad holds the booty; we’ll need to relieve them and assign a Captain.”

“Captain of booty; sounds fun!”

“Not for you, gringo.  We  keep 10% of captured value, and the prize Captain may take control of all fighting machines to form his own raiders. It’s the local Generals choice, but he rarely rejects prizing  a successful raider.”

“Like 18-th Century English free-booters?”

“Yes, but we’re Spanish not Brit and don’t allow Nigger Queens, or Islam pigs fucking our women or … or let our wounded  soldiers die  screaming in the sagebrush.”  Blonde walks toward her command Agro. "You're with me, Scranton."

Riding the command Agro doesn't mean you learn squat. But, Blonde keeps the  data-manager & mic open except while pass-coding. Doesn't mean you're alone either, as 3rd crew was a dried-out prickly-pear of an Arroyo Seco vigilante. He wore an 2-A,  headliner, 10-gauge coach-gun and swore he'd light a candle to the Virgin of Los Maderos Madre blessing the man who knocked-up the raiders cold-breasted ravine-dry commander. Blonde made him tomato soup every evening for which he was grateful;  otherwise he never spoke.

Perfidious Albion, laid low by OxBridge faggotry  and High Street Semites  washes away under a Franco-Slav wave even now lapping at the tainted Temes River Basin.  Best ones died at the Somme;  never replaced by a peerage as  ghastly penitent as soul-rot allows.  Desolation of the  corrupted race comes  none too soon.  North America uniformly hated the rummys though their  navy, nuclear arms and lisping solipsism was being exported to Ottawa. Most HRI correspondents believe the new French Enlightenment will require 9 generations  to purify the Court of St James.

“Watch the turn ladies we do not wear parachutes.” Volcanic scree paves the ledge, and we feel downward till rubble chunks into pebble.

“Perimeter … perimeter ...” We crawl into a turnout and people wait ... "I leave you here, Scranton" Savchenko volunteers, while a pair of waiting Mobsters  point down a side-trail and proof her coin. "Mebby next time we fuck,   like  the Vilnus  sniper at Avoca. She  spoke of you being  ... better ...." Savchenko  kisses me with bitter tears  and  behind a wave of  crush vanishes  darkly.

Mebby next time ... yeah ... At the mountains base our ledge bleeds into a macadam road that Y-d between the vast ringed open pit copper mines and a nearly dark whitewashed moonscape of Cananea brooding over the milling towers.

"What sniper, Scranton?"

"It was cold and winter and we killed people."

"Not Mexicans!"

Is she daft? Wetbacks don't even pick beans in Lackawanna County.  Not Mexicans. I needed to come back west for that.  "Where are the trees?"

Nature had forgot Cananea.  Winter snow promised ...  everything else  men had built from the rubble of nature remembered.  We roar along pastel brick main streets ,  uphill under the arches and through a green which skirts two  cemeteries then enters onto a bomb-ruined plaza of  sheared forge-chimneys, burnt-out 37-mm Chi.com AA  and shattered furnace pits. Cuba had indeed been pissed off;  only a nation-state  could  wield the strong arm, only a country dare vengeance  so directly, vengeance to  strike low  cartelista power. Only a diktator … or Weinstein ….

Dead Cananae by the Cubans … and dead to us as all house-lights have been dimmed. We clump together, like sardines  defending by bluff against roving tuna rather than military form. Of the standard paired 100-m separation between riders  typical of  armed convoy we know nothing.  Full speed  our Agros press though an unlighted mall ; a ravine lays ahead, but straggles of  wool-painted old women  leap in front, hitching their calico skirts and blocking the road. We  stop  and circle  beside a row of stunted pine trees.

Volverás con nuestras hijas?”

“How many did the cartelistas take?”

No el cártel El judío estadounidense tomó cincuenta para obtener un rescate. Ellos y un centenar de jóvenes que armó.”

“Fuck.” Locals siphon Blonde under a rotting balustrade and they talk turkey. Mano a' mano.  Jill  and Pilgrim punch out a  suspicious private door …  a grama says so, where sympatico-cartelisima   hold pregger teens captive. Even a rebel knock-up squad won't starve their victims.  Moonlight can’t blanch faces whiter when  Jill returns.  Pilgrim carries a draped body and a skinny  grandmother has my ear.

Una vieja mujer sin dientes cerca de la muerte. “The Cartelistas gringo …   your armed  Jew rousted a  Zeta hireling pack … Los Cabos kids really … scared and hungry we fed them …  he rousted  them from our old mill and shot everyone dead.”


She points ahead. “He punished us for  mercy by taking our children.”

“Virgen te protege madonnas. Los devolveré a tu pecho.”

Fuck. We roar two  masonry blocks, only to stop at the tangled, smashed millworks that couldn’t hold Weinstein.  Didn’t tell us they were shot where they fought. Jill and  Blonde pick through the ruins and a crushed warehouse dock. Blonde vomits coming out.

“Your fucking hero, Scranton.”

“Not mine.”

“Know how he shot them, the cartelista kids?  They all wore Che T-shirts and Madonna belts!  He shot up-the-asshole, like Vlad impaled Islam triumphant!  Kids jaws were all stretched, like they died screaming … does Weinstein sleep during the day or night?”

Wasting not a minute our Agros whip into action. Moving ya don’t think. Bacoachi lies 30 miles south-east, a straight off-road shot up and down a well-trailed  sandy salt-ravine. Pine stumps are dirt-bags and the mesquite shadows.  Roar through. Our three-wheel auto-stabilized  Agros were designed for the ride, with 36” tires and a 80 foot-free-fall glide zipping around ledges and over dry creek-beds.  Seats three prefers two; if meth-fouled Harley Davidsons  sprouted chrome feathers and grew into oversized e birds they’d look like an Agro.  Its 25-mm and 7.62-cal full-auto  fire-and-forget  weapons kill on or off the ground and a sealed 1200 HP poly-Argon/nitric-acid fuel cell will wrench the graphine/titanium frame before the torque curve bends over.  It's self-healing, from frame to rubber in ways not always obvious.   RPGs, mortor and smoke-able,  onboard AI talks to base unattended and if blown away by a shell or mine it will auto-inject  into crew a dose of dead-me-not multi-life asset sufficient to keep a pork-roast sentient till the mustard sauce gets sprayed on.

Canejos, Fria …  Bacoachi  … red tracers flared in the southern sky  miles before thePOP—PPOP--POPPP  of 20-mm cannon came running up the canyon.

“Combat ladies,” Blondes voice calls out the classic.

She stretches our formation like pizza-dough and raises speed to 110-MPH  where the Agros aero works smoothest.  Short bursts clear barrels. Well-watered wheat fields on both sides of the strand gave snipers paradise, but when none venture we grow pairs of flankers. Orders fly in a crisp military Spanglish leaving no uncertainty.

“Leftovers, Scranton from the convoy we captured.  Desperate men clawing back some honor. A 2nd ambush would have placed marksmen in-the-wheat to prevent exactly what we’re doing.” Orders snake away and as the city rim comes into view we extend into a line-of-battle Lysander would have understood.   Blonde snaps. “They’re dead men walking,  after losing a cartelista convoy so survivors take the insane chance of driving us off our prize.  Miguels prize-crew say no more than a company.”

Firing erupts on all sides.TBZINGZBUBUM …  Cartelistas draw first blood as our left-most Agro flips skyward  tumbling while its front wheel disappears in a flash of 76-mm hell. “They have light tanks.”

PLUFZ...PLUFZZ… into the cold  erupting desert floor. “One! And we recover the crew.”

“Cactus leader we have hostiles.”

No fucking shit. “Give me a weapons light Blonde,” I snap …  it glows beneath my thumb.

BZATT-BZATTT bursts from our wingman as a jeep skeleton jumps  200-m to our port side.  Our 7.62-mm pinches itsPIN..PINN..PINNN  tail sending jeep skyward in a ball of flame. “Been in battle before, Scranton? Heard ya fought in Israel —  and Paradise Ridge but, I don’t believe that  media hero shit … don’t  crap on the seat cause we need purity of thought … humility of purpose … modesty of mayhem we’re gonna hit them straight, shock them upsidedown and run up their azzwhole.”

Far ahead, where  Bacoachi south side edges into badlands the radar blip of a light tank emerges. “Get that bastard ...” and I hit the  orange TOW button.  A shank of flame trails into the distance … and when the radar blip mists into fragments  we cannot see the explosion.

“Bad Puppy gets his,” Blonde hisses. Airshock whizzes above our heads, from 22.5-mm anti-tank  rounds last used in ISIS battle for Raqqa. Our Agro dives right, into a ditch and bounces across the far rim.

“Break left Cactus leader ...” and we are slow. From behind the first line of house-lights a BMP appears toting  gear while tatooing our Agro with 5.56-mmm chatter.

“Radar lock!” To our right a baracuda-edged  Agro breaks from the wheat-fields herding stick-figures and scything the edges  with blue-tracer. Its 25-mmFOP-FFOP-FFFOPing the BMP till a blue light  explodes  front to rear leaving steel wheels  spinning atop a hollow shell while the victorious Agro zips by.

“What a man he is,” gloats Blonde. Two blocks of houses silent, then a baseball field runs to our right, and a pair of 50-cal FMJ spit from 3rd base shattering ceramiglass plates on our front cowling.  Whose your pal I think … same Barracuda 25-mm rips the visiting team dugout and the sniping stops. Blonde: “ Rafael, always  to the top!”

Bet Rafael had other ideas … “Then he should knock you up Rebollo … ASAP …  bend you over like a horny yew tree, fuck your brains out and get you out of this shit-hole cause the next sniper rounds will be another foot lower.”

Blonde sniffs that without biting. “You think you can butter me, Scranton like a piece of toast.” And hammering a Utah rainstorm the firing runs off to the west end of Bacoachi. "I fight for  Jose Martins Nation so to get your fingers on me you must butter with cocoa ... pure butter of Amazon cocoa." We gear down half-speed  gathering the brood.  Traps cut  random snipering  ...  raised hands or no we refuse prisoners.  Fighting  migrates to rocky  western rill-lets ...   beyond  empty ... and then nothing. “I don't suck, but  chew when I melt.”

Might as well deny … “You got me way wrong, Blonde. I'm more a biscuit and jam  kinda guy ...”  I’m sweating blood from a  lip chewed red and sucked dry.   Flares  brighten beyond the town on a wavelike mound formation  marking the defensive positions of Blondes prize crew. I'd never had the drink, but under the evening sky our raiders ventured hot tequila and  chocolate almond while raising the paon to Huitzilopochtlithe Azteca god-of-war. It's what winning feels like, and while  I  thought  to chase  evasive Weinstein till we lost a  dessert battle  the rumor occurs he might have the same idea.

Even Satan rests at midnight. Don't even look for cool air, as  Mexican hell cracks open after dark.  Captain Miguel  ferel and restless despises sleep, takes ½ the prize crew and twenty tracked hardware east  to Federales Generalisimo at Nacozari.  The water’s bad, I understand, and whores full of crabs,  but CIA felons supply Cuban rum.  Miguel wanted another 15 men , got shined  and when taking leave of his commander spit on Rafaels boots.   Pretty clear what top-dawg mounts the bitch. Rafael lights a Cubano Montecristo and swilling tequila drags Blonde from her chair. They hector and preen … fighting for territory  small and bitter, face to face and  when she bites his hand he slaps her tit so hard she  spins sprawling into a corner.  Then he  parades away, singing to the guitars rhythm and   bawding joins a dozen  troopers at Bacoachis only whorehouse.

“You had enough?” Blonde swings her knife at me, when I pinch a nipple not even trying to hide.   I’d fight her for the ass, but a call yanks me away to surgery. Playing anesthetist.   Jill saves two troopers with flashlight cutting and a third  gravely wounded falls for her …  falls sobbing love … before a terminal injection of heroin. I’m not sure that any woman is worth 20 tracked armoured vehicles … but Jane White came close.

Yellow dog sun erupts over the eastern badlands. Tis 8-AM and coffee bright when our column sets sail. Blonde has gone languid, remorseful  and all fucked out. We’re 20 landward frigates and corvettes …  Wheelies, Mobsters, Agros and Pickets well matched against anything smaller than a Leopard-3,  running overland for Moctezuma which sits feckin-A nowhere and  farms irrigated beans and peppers,  notorious as a cartelista honey-hole, but it’s the signal point Weinsteins raiders gave at 6:35-AM. We follow the prize-crews route to Nacozari then break south on macadam.

Striding at 110 MPH our  Agro spills  midmorning heat across ailerons , but that same heat  boils the road and wind curls dust clouds around our formation.  Outriders search stealthy, but a 1600 HP  Gatling-armed Harley carries the Mexican flag up front;  in full power-bloom  we are not hiding.  The steady grind has got my last nerve. “He’s there, you’re sure of that.”

Her attitude has roared back. “As sure as  1040-bit encryption can be. How far can you chase him?”

Bitch. “I don’t need to chase the bastard; I need to deliver  Gen. Banskis orders and Gen. Whites request. And Weinstein needs to act.”

“You think Weinstein cares?”

“Cares enough to yank 50 young girls into a battle zone.”

“Madonnas cunt, gringo  these girls  never left a battle zone.  Not at 5 and not at 15. And women slobber  all over Weinsteins Hollywood dick. The old women told me, how they trained the girls …  not his fault not theirs … just the way life shakes out.  Pura Vida gringo! He  flag-waves  and they march. Do you see me bawling?”

We stop under a spreading wash to snatch weak, confused  signals from the aether.  Sun beats straight down. I sit on a rock cleaning my Dan Wesson and Blonde, remembering every word stalks conflicted  beside her radioman. Makes ya mad sometimes what get taken for  leading edge of the opening wave.

I say. “No option. Weinstein needs to support Weitzman. If Banski can’t get a quick enemy collapse at Sacramento his troops will turn buildings to rubble, then butcher half the city; rebels, Trotsky-bitch and choir-bois alike; a real massacre. And when  another half-dozen  progressive-revanchist cities are treated the same no chance exists of a negotiated agenda  within north America. You want Idaho Transfer  forever?”

“I pain for your yankee-doodles  Scranton ... Del Norte brought us war, the sick  arrogance of wealth and pounding of tanks. Can't cure a sick citizen, or chase fool teachers from the classroom. Lawyers due process means fuck-my-ass-whole.  Since when are you the diplomat, Scranton the negotiator, the peacemaker?  Fly down here to grab Weinsteins attention, grab million-hit HRI vids,  grab an Agro  and roar around Occidental Desert.  Mebby it's a story you tell; mebby you  aren’t tough as you think.  Mebby you should stay home, fuck your bitch and write  HRIs gossip column!”

Sometimes all you can do for a woman is put her on her back and prove a ruthless master. Doesn't do any good  for a dried out rancid bitch, but then nothing does. Dan Wesson returns to its holster and our formation pushes into a void.

"Any advice?"

"Stay in the Agro."

Dry plateau reaches of ironwood and saguaro bracket  richly irrigated swale   and lace rogue valleys along the road  to Moctezumu.   Crop circles and squares belly roadside and dot hills among frosted produce warehouses and 18-wheel KWhoppers. Crops, tractors, sillage-barns ... all  the prosperous whitewashed outbuilding and radio-towers of  a modern peonista.  Landing fields too,  as  farmer  eyes  do more than see. Our inverted-V formation expects trouble, expects Weinstein to meet us not as  greeter, but in column rank arrayed against similar cartelista armour, for why would Weinstein  waste time running into us if he did not run from a stronger enemy?  Miles north of town the answer comes in a long sonorous volley of 155-mm  LongJohns. Giants rule those drums and  ballistic radar in our Pickets scream  us vulnerable.

"Cactus-1 ... Cactus-one do you copy. This is Dilly-Dally  5-3-2-4 repeat 3-4-2-5. Copy ... GE?"

"Copy double-D on 2-1-2-1. Radar love!"

"Been driving all night ... 29-54 ..XX .. 109-118 ... caught a convoy east and rolled-em-up!"

"We're coming into your northern flank."

"Hit hard, Cactus-1! When the convoy ran for it  our drones marked  Moctezume safehouses and storage. Our Wheelies dive inside the town to claw-out and burn down that support. Then we bounce south."


"No reason. Except what lies farther south."

"Can BATTLE-MASTER coordinate our attacks."

"Negative, Cactus-one ... magnetic anomaly to the west. Bit-rot kills  local SN. Visual flight rules make the boul ... tool. My Pickets will be on your side of town ... don't let me down, clown. Mobsters  slipping around south trying to get 120-mortars on cartelista guns. They're real unfriendlies. "

"Copy Dilly-Dally and love ya madly. Cactus out."  Our Agro gears down and slides  left, into the  first irrigated barley field.  "Steel it up, Scranton we gotta push-it-up Black Betty ass and even then, she tries to break it off."    Six miles out and our  right-flank formation columns up ... roars into battle.

"Flat and wet to the east.  Hot sulfur springs in the western ridges make it a popular tourist attraction ...  get yer perv on Blonde if ya have cartel tattoos. " Pipes crackle static ... "It's a safe zone for all klans  coming up from Hermosillo or east from Chihuahua;  medical clinics and  dealmaking  bodegas bunker ironwood frames into the ridge-lines."

Blonde hisses. "Buy a glass-top bus, Scranton and run tourist hops from Phoenix." Then snaps. "Pickets to the road and pipe-cleaners on their flank. Wheelies  feel  east for Weinsteins tankers ... Mobsters and the jeeps ...BTZAMMM ... BTZAMM ... a brace of 155-mm shrapnel rounds  explode in a cactus patch thirty meters to our front.   "Mobsters and jeeps clear the brush-lines. Agros .... Agros follow me!"

A 76-mm burst a second late, but frays our rear wheel.  Aramid belts try to re-fuse on their own, but fail.   We skid over sand and  stop on a rise, where no silhouette ever should stop and the battle lays out before us.

Moctezume ... a mottled quail egg  webbed  north-south along a string of green pearls ... trapped between  an eastern dry-wash desert coated by ironwood and cactus, speckled by flashing metal jaegers and covered in a robins-egg blue sky tesselated by  tall windy columns of dust spewed up by each tread of foraging armour  and hatch-worked  by  long-arm streaks of trace-phosphor ... and  bunker blackened seguara-patched hills, ravined one  ragged edge over another and falsely smoothed by the uphill flow of morning air  while boasting layers of creame-puff  mini-clouds rounding out and stretching  their necks  upward into the flash as if supporting the 60-lb explosive rounds fleeing to the hardpack below and punctured by  earth-shattering blasts of heavy mortars and grads.

Grads  high lazy white arcs mark the blue-sky like crayons ... heavy cannon green ballistics criss-cross the white arcs while  30-mm triples and pents red-slash  the lower air hissing like  airborn barracuda.

An ultra-sound warning chirps;  our Agro rear tire melts, bubbles, belts  and mends in an acetone stench. A line of Agros has passed by,  smoking us for cover ,   a formation swooping onto the city glade below - -  their 14.5 and 20-mm  Gatlings ablaze. Two enemy 22.5-mm chip our cockpit  gorilla-glass without harm. "We gonna fight or screw, Blonde ...?"

"In your dreams, cowboy. Esta mujer preferiría cabalgar que ser montada."

"There, on the left  Weinsteins Pickets are moving into our center, shooting and diving for that ironwood treeline.  Their 76-mm are digging at it! We should support ..."

"Fools  flank exposed are a mile ahead of their Wheelies and Agros. Raise your eyes, Scranton!  See how many units ... Weinstein must have fifty!"

"Damme we're supposed to cover that flank!" On the eastern plain,  near  city radio-towers  a pair of  converging mobiles explode in green flame. Jaegers move to their support in looping curves and crisply straight dashes. Cross-firing becomes intense in the sub-unit melee as reactive armours scatter erring shots.

"See how you fight a desert war, Scranton. Pickets and Wheelies ... the strong jaegers go in for the kill, attacking a  unit loosely defended. That unit or single responds with greater speed, circling the Picket , dodging along rolling ground, mostly unseen, but  firing as convenient.  What's to say for the unlucky? Then like a whorlpool deadly, but undisciplined  fire draws in new hardware."

"If we stay on this hill we join the unlucky. One Apache at 7.7/62E ... another at 3.3/-119E ... at  quarter-mile the 43-mm are deadly. Whose calling the Cartelista vectors?"

"Scanning ... scanning ...  from  fixed positions on  hilltops. Nearest is 3.7/68W"KTOW...KTWOO ...WKTOWW...

"Copy that?" A Mobster  pair roars past our left fender-plate and Blonde snips. "Take us there Roscoe."   A long burst of 25-mm streaming into the tree-line takes us off - ridge and into the killing zone. Agro clattering into bumps half-flying half flat-ass rumble thru a garden of  gutter-brush, scrub and cactus and burning light armour where our first Agros have passed by,  sintering bad-boy pick-ups  where distance  stretches enough for an attackers long-throated howl into the madness of bright firelines sparking through  manzateta and ironwood ribs clumped over and RPGs, TOWs and machine guns  that will snipe you to Hades.

"Watch that ... and that ..." Fire and scoot ...BAZATZOM ...  grey-matter exploding above our  hood-mounted 20-mm .  "We joining them?"

Weinsteins Pickets hit the ironwood  defenses first ... two  Pickets burn twisted and smoking within the ship-like ribs of the trench. But, a dozen holes have been punched though those ribs and defenders bloody bodies salute as we crash the splinters and thru into the smashed pastel outskirts of Moctezuma.  Cement and cinder building hedge closer the road; some burn some fire-flash at retreating enemy.

A school-building left and the road to Hermosillo right ... "Till you take fire, then report ..." crisps Blonde and a pair of Agros break off. And to us only ... "Black Betty will come down that road ..."

I can't imagine ... "Black Betty?"





"Jamaican born Cancun hoe ... 1st rate jobbr by reputation got raped by a pack of Spring Break Ha'vad sphomores: three Bostons, a Syrian & a  muzzi Chechen. All  entitled liberals." Blonde hesitates , storing it up. "Pissed her off. Aborted the kid; that's hard for a Catholic. Went back to her father  Matamores auto-shop and learned to weaponize cars ... then pick-ups ... flies the jamram marmalade flag and kills whites of any stripe." Again the hesitation. "Scranton ... gringo ... you should stay out of Mexico!"

Snotty. "LaRaza sluts and cartel cholos should quit Vegas."

But, not here.  Roadside,   Moctezuma cement flats have taken sport to battle, sand-bagged roofs  and raise their occupiers klan-flag ... fornicating chili-peppers --- skank-ass suga ---  4-balled seguaro cactus --- yellow-blue throated rattlesnakes entangled ...  we sleep among the enemies gutted brick walls and tangled bodies  ... as we pray among allies. BATTLE-MASTER screen lights up with a blue  matrix of friendly fire position and a red-neon warren of  cartelista safe-houses , outposts and bunkers.

A fire-fight has erupted behind us, on our  flat open east flank, where a column of cartelista pick-ups and Agros has infiltrated between Weinsteins Wheelies and our Mobsters and scout-cycles. Our reserve 5 Wheelies have in turn taken their  northern flank and mixing in a few Weinstein stragglers  a vicious uncontrolled and bloody-handed wild melee of thirty  cannon-spewing jaegers festers within a square-mile  fire-zone no  battle-line no concealment no strategic no 2nd-shot no quarter asked or given and Blonde  with our wingman wheel around to join that most threatened armour.

"There Blonde, over there ...  bastards  gone to the ditch ..." Two Pickets circle at 100 feet shredding each-others skin ... what's left to shoot ...

"Support right support right ..." Cartelista Agro 20-mm snips off antenna and carooms broadside slicing our  front wheel. "Got it bitch ..."TATTA-RATTA-TAR ...a lossleader if I ever saw one from an outsized black and silver Picket passing Blondes dear holed  wingman Mobster.

Peachy ... "Dive ... dive ..." bitch is a real submarineer when marmalade flag  comes calling we swerve an alley, hop two metal fences and  yanking about from behind lay  a TOW & three 25-mm rape-shots into Black Bettys ass when ...  we are airborn bouncing off a masonry wall, completing  a turn, peckering another  cartelista Mobster that rattles sonar and 7.62-mm off our ceramic hide ...  andBAZZAM ... are lifted and thrown so far away ... thrown so high that times creeps a pesky pace and only ... free-falling... does my titanium cocoon start vibration-flex with  shock massive and sudden and explosive  as Gz-pass-me-out ...

I lay on the metal shield. Bent in half,  wrapping my body I see one  metal side red and the other white.  Stinks of burn, stinks of chordite, stinks of oil. I croak ..."Alive ..."

Metal shield ... I'm on the white side and when I roll from it clasp  turning over I'm happy not to be carried  away on the red-side where the signetSIX has been  carved ... or etched ... painted white.  Blurred vision ... mebby it says STYX not SIX and mud dust covering me is wet as Hades.  Or not.  "Blonde!"PLING...ZPLING...ZATZATZAT ...  A  tattoo of 7.62 FMJs prices  a name in this dirt-pit. Damn cat don't lick me  ... oh it's the blood ... I'm a bloody mess and my heart feels like an sledgehammer pounded it.  Oh ... 3rd man,  the vigilante ... lost his face ... bugger-all luck. I turn him over and cover with a burlap bag ... lots of burlap  and ceiling 4"x12"  rafters scattered round ... "Blonde!"   Ringing dies away in my head and I look around. Four mud-brick walls and 1/2 a roof.  Sun shines  through one wall ...PLING ... GPLING... I  dive behind a mound of burlap. A 2nd wall , behind me has crumbled to one side. If you can leap over that rubble the bullets cannot follow.

I scavenge 3rd mans 10-gauge and crawl behind rafters to the  flattened frame of our Agro.  Frame flattened, like a giant press has squeezed it, and in death the jaeger weapon  protecting to the end its riders had spit them out  to fates beyond its graphite shell. "Don't moooove!"  Steps away,  an arm moves, and a leg beneath a singed burlap pile.PLING ... ZZPLG ... PINGPING ...   fuck the bullets run high and I burrow ahead, under the burlap under the tattered 4-A and under the body  moving, moving that moves like concrete in ice to tangle of rafters and  open wall. Moans.

Fallen comrade ... "I'm gettin' ya ..." FMJs thump into the  tangled 4x12s and  carving the mountain oak stay tangled  ...  but they're waiting.  What  patience does it take to put holes in a burlap bag ... cause I have wrapped my head in them.

"Fuck you Scranton .." the body speaks.  We gotta stay low, I can't lift her across so she's on my back and exposed.  I blow both barrels of 3rd mans 10-gauge into a pile of burlap and  dust-clouds fill the room.   Bullets follow, but they're everywhere and nobody is there. One-hump two humps three and I'm over the rubble, behind  stone  and inside  shadows skinning the  back wall. Damn I wish Mexican girls were skinny.

"You gonna rape me Scranton?"

"In your dreams, sweetheart."

Blonde looks around. "Not much of  a bunker."

"Wait till the porch has swings and  banister." Strip off Blondes  Aramid/silicon cap:  pulse and breathing yes , bleeding lip yes, broken bone I don't miss one ... no and she whines. Fuck.  Strip the Dragonskin girdle, pin both hands over her head and  jab her ass with two vials of  Make-Me-Live.  "Always wanted to do this, Blonde ... just not here."

There's a moment of  temporal indiscretion ...  then space rules she going stiff ... goes loose ...   goes rude ... goes bright-eye.  Hands touch my face.  She's never had it before and doesn't trust the chemist. "Radar Love Scranton. Got radio?"

Burning blunt. "Count to twenty, then act. The chemistry wears off in two hours." I jam reefer  between her teeth  - -  it smokes and she sucks some - - Bogarts some ...

"Like you huh ..."

Take my hit; spit. I think we're not quite aware, in the shock and the dust and the pain, but that's OKey. Digicam  velcroed to my spine ...  an  all-knowing Alien intruder.  I strip it off and wrap the coil around her arm.  Slap voice-data cushion against her neck. "Data goes straight to HRI,  and to BATTLE-MASTER but I won't tell if you don't."

"Slaphappy, copy out to Cactus-one ... 6.6 and searching. "  Digicam whorls away,  as I imagine in the grasp of its satellite masters.  My body cools. We have not stood up, and we stand. We have not been armed and we arm.  We drain the behind-the-knee waterpacs, rip pecan crunchbars. Third-mans bottle of Don Adolfo remains unbroken; it squirts down like liquid honey-bees. And the Mobster grinds up behind us in a rush of dust and smoke swinging open top and side tranches spilling three big men.

"It's about fucking time."

"Same here. We thought you stopped at that tequila mill upstream. One hoe one shot and warm  Tecate."

"Not so different here."   Just a kid, really with a gut, a prison tatto on his neck, a big nose  and a pearl-handle  pair of Colt 38-cal.  "We have a spare seat,  Scranton where our for'ard gunner took a frag ... couple plate are ripped away, so you can see who's shooting .... "

Blonde rides a passing Agro north where a virtue promises damaged lung gets examined, 7.62-cal FMJs are scarce and grad's a dice-throw.  No I don't get a tit-flash no matter what the nights 9,000,00 hit HRI story  claims.  Weinstein has something calculated cause we don't waste time for a crap, but dive south, breaking from a battle  still raging and taking the road less traveled to Tepache.

Mics are on all-round, in the 4-man Mobster. "You figure Mambo King ran this way ...?"

"He'd be dead in an hour if he ran."

We ride  south for hours on a dirty macadem road and only twice do we dodge under ironwood, when jets pass over. They were old Federale  Mig-21s  who might work for anyone ... and can't fly slow enough to see enough ...  I believe at  first we hide from battle, then we  awkwardly choose a new battle ...

"You awake Scranton?  Move your machine-gun ... well  that's close enough. Quite the party we crashed;  rousted 'em good, the combatinas as some call narco.MEX enemies ... all mixed up ... one expat Hollywood company got wiped out, when your Pickets crashed into their Ta Chi bodega. Women died with their mascara ruined.  Just like Santa Monica ..." Our wingmen chatter. Dangling  miles behind a Wheelie sniffs for intruders.

Frost aire could'a warmed the cabin, then and we hesitate. Weinstein chews on the old bone. "Four CIA supplied ranging-radars got captured on the hillside. Your call huh? Clever! Infuriating!  Every cartelista Picket and Wheelie from Hermosillo to Chihuahua will converge on Moctezuma within the week. All their best, hardware and seasoned troopers, Mobsters and Wheelies. Hard men  gonna fight a second battle after losing the first."

"They have the command structure for that?"

"Mexicali Max really doesn't care. Just show him a hated gringo, and show him the money. Kinda like Afgans, but they say Rosary every evening.  Bet even  WW2 aircraft  from Nicaragua will join!  Black Betty's dead ... some say your Agro got her , but I don't believe it.'

"We shot something with a marmalade flag."

"Trust me  Scranton, Niggar pussy is not your style." But, someone  pissed them off ... inflamed LaRaza virtue signaling ... empounded Rawlsian shit-facing.  Anyrate Senior Mambo King  expects a battle royal ... a gringo Little-Big-Horn and all the cartelista klans are joining. To find me here ... exterminate me ... crush-out the disciplined virtues of Western culture that Hollywood Jewboiz find so annoying." Weinsteins chewing on the teflon mic I can tell that ...  "Nice job Scranton very very sweet job, you and the woman.  Fighters. She says you call her Blonde. How fun!”

"Your men die back there. What's on your mind?"

"We might die here; cartelista might bleed all over Tepache. It's a nice town, like Mt. Pocono where  polysluts Schumer, Pelosi, Plaskett, Green and Murray  had gathered with Princetons Sociology Dept to celibrate  Swammi Ngami.  Celibrate Bantu wugga instead of that fuckin-A christ kid and sell the NY governorship. Remember that?”

“HRI published GOOGLE-phone shots from Pelosis camera. She was begging not to have her botox ass ruined.”

“Ha … shot in the head, all of them! Merchantile sluts, they were  put down  by a postman on Christmas Eve ... the Silent Knight, blessed Knight event  socalled by  history-minded militia.  Knight was a militia-mans son:  Seattle dykes cut-out the fathers  tongue and his son figured  his Winchester saddle-gun would speak to the issue like no soap-box."

"Man picked the right box to consult ..."

Our Molester rolls to a stop between two saguara cactus and the outriders bunch close.  "That one-mans 357-cal strike shattered progressive illusions of  white yeoman sloth,  cowardice and legalistic pedantry. The Trotsky bitches would not seize power and citizens not forfeit liberty by  simple failure to act."

I remember ...  like the day before yesterday ... how progressive twinkle-me-cherry lights pinched out across the land, sobbing itch-slits filled the media-chairs at WIRED, JEZEBEL, NEWYORKER, CNN & MSNBC ... and in  homes, taverns, union-halls  and libraries of  citizen yeoman  carols of liberty were sung, rifles were cleaned,  ammunition boxes loaded and millions of armed  republicans  took to the streets. "You have another knight in mind?"

"Well La-de-Da white boy you still haven't stopped talkin', soap-box or pill-box." Jill!

Weinstein apologetic ... "She patched the drivers throat ... and took his job."

"Been wondering, lil' Ms Muffin just what you can't do … never gonna do the first thing for me ..." That catches a half-bake sneer.

Weinstein breaks in.  "Play on your own time boys and girls. Wha'cha gonna do, Scranton?  Banski can't crush Sacramento cause rebeleers threaten   Silvercoins southern flank. Silvercoin can't advance till Genas wedge drives at the western Sacramento hills. But, Weinzman can't thrust ... till her own western reserves are safe and fresh beyond sniping . And until Bad Puppy convoys  and men are denied to rebeleers  encirclement threatens those SandPoint reserves."

Our Molester has found an ironwood thicket and Weinstein removes to a steep sandstone rise. He's playing binoculars all over the  121 rectangular irrigated  garden blocks that grid  the entire Tepache formation.  No mistakes allowed here, by the overseers. Willows pockmark the fringes, but I bet they're seaweed cousins. Cropland lies beyond and a grass landing strip finds high ground to the east.

"We're clear  if the  OXXO gas station proves empty. Cartel mans and arms it every second Wednesday and Thursday except months with 31 days. Then it's manned  every  Friday."

"Armed with what ... clear for what?"  In the distance  beside the bar a neon  sign dances  flash green: Reposada Che Anejo: Amanecer hasta el Anochecer.

Back in the Mobster we lurch for'ard ... slower ... slowly ... slow ... 'til we're rumbling  down the long narrow incline with our four Agro scouts at the corners.  "Feed the Puppy!"

Humping a Mobster in full attack compares nothing like the downhill race-feel of an Agro half on-the-ground half above it at twice the speed cavorting from one curved race  to another  while Battle-Master levels a target into 25-mm tracers. "Targets acquired at 1500-m!"

"Fucks-a-duck you attacked knowing  cartelistas  were waiting !"

"I'd look pretty stupid  commanding  $6-million dollars worth of armour to attack an empty shed!" We hit a log revant and bounce over ...


"Break right Ranger-2. On my mark 4...3...2 ..." Sky weaves a skein of blue seamless silk. Ripping macadam we're closing. At 75 yards AI senses evil releasing eight flares; the  red-tail TOW finds middle of the eight ...  we five disappear  from silicon in a blaze of white phosphorus. Our 25-mm and 43-mm fire high, at rear-support while  7.62-cal spray sheets-of-lead into  the gas station. One gas-pump, then another spit tongues of flame.

Sunlight speckles the frame, where 20-mm cannon has penetrated across both walls and through. A sun-sieve ...  "It's cinder-block. Bust in the wall!" A wish not a command, but  lead by a Picket now for'ard with the  reserve Wheelie we power through. Fuck around all you want, but nothing works like hitting something really really hard.

Smashed beams and charnel everywhere. "Finished," Wiping a soot blackened face.  "We're finished here," snaps Weinstein."  Look around. Four dead cartelista, a wrecked NORINKO and smashed WW-2 76-mm anti-tank weapon.  They never stood a chance, but obeyed Pattons rule: die for your cause not  me for mine. Two  Agros have  lost IR sensor and our Mobster front right tire is regrowing. Weinsteins face is buried in his iPOD; his troopers, most of whom are Mexican vigilante have migrated to the next-door and a rush of early music.

"What did we finish?"

"Lets drink on that till sundown."

We bury eight men: two ours,  a pretty-boy aspiring actor from Silverlake, the other a peon widower from Jalisco.   The dirt is dry and hot and easy to dig 6-feet and an old man leaves his bodega  carrying two woolen rugs ... to say graces.

"Your mouth dry Scranton?"

"It was wet last week."

Jill.  "He ain't say'n it whistled, but it did ..." Snarky bitch. She smiles at Weinstein. "Half finished bet not." She knows Weinstein ...

Dark now.  Gas-Fire put out.  A 30-mm toting  Mobster has pulled  up between gas-station ruins  and bar. Generator whines; AC and ice-maker thump thump thump ... Six women brought down from Hermosillo  run the bar, women who yesterday were cartelista gunmans whores, but no longer. They have changed from slut dress to more traditional festive colors and form, and our troopers rave over them like Madonnas. We sit together, the three gringos happily drinking  in a Mexican desert bar and a waitress serves only Tepache.

Weinstein laughs and puts down the iPAD. "Good boys and girls ... I knew they wouldn't let me down." He looks up and raises a cold mug. "To the girls we left behind, and the ones we never loved."

I snark. "Which one is that?" Several bold local girls, fearless black-eye beauties  have swung through the bar doors to bravely chat-up the troopers.  Bravado voice and doe-eyes mark them well, but men so long at sea in the sand-desert know only to float them near with  mesquite toasted  lamb  and .. and the  iced tepachi shots.  Do the girls flash an ankle or a smooth bare throat? Do the men croon songs of love?

A band has re-taken stage,  local musicians  a  trumpet, a guitar , marimbula and a bandalon.  Perhaps a daughters proud father.  Set to mugs of  iced Tepachi  they  restart with a polka that never ends.

"Ya know Scranton ya got a bad attitude about  females. SJWs threw my father in jail for fucking too many  careless women, and the same clique slammed me into Soledad for the same reason ... 'course my women were younger, but they all  had plenty so no matter ... "  He eyes the locals casually ... A long gulp drains the mug and leaves frost-fingers running down the outside. "Betcha don't know how the locals brew this stuff. Supposed to be pineapple rind, sugaroot and cloves, but local farmers tricked the ag-inspectors."

"Didn't know cartelistas had any."

"Jalisco State thugs will snatch a farmers property and  jail him for growing agave! Course that's just what the Tepachi farmers do, out at the deep water-pool beside the dormant volcano. It's 500 irrigated hectare,  7 miles outa town and 50 years outa anyones attention. Agave, pineapple and ginger get grown there , and all blend to make Tepachi tepachi the best  fermented cold drink between Tuscon and Mexico City.  Put in swamp-cooler ironwood  spas and Ristorante ... I believe this city will bloom!"

"You know this."

"I know the drink and the water. That's where this-morning  I sent the 50 teen girls and 100 boys from Cananae."  Weinstein pushes up,  walks to a window and  swings it open.  We follow. "Out there ..."

"Yeah you feckin-A kidnapped them!"

He points south  under a star-field. "Some people need to know I'm here, but most don't. Especially not the 5 cartelista cholos that hang out at the volcano water-hole waiting to rape girls come there to swim." Breathing ... breathing into the hot desert air ... "As planned,  those fifty girls all  stripped and rushed to the water-hole simultaneous.  The cholo horn-dogs  rushed after, imagining them a church group from Hermosillo. The 100 boys then gung-ho  after and drown the  five bastards.  Boys wrapped  jockstraps around  terrorist  throats and strangled them saving their sisters virtue ... and earning $75  a person. A months wage for 5 minutes of  justice."

"All dead?"

"All that I know."

"You tricked the children into murders."

"Like Trotsky  NYC  schmucks  tricked parents into feeding their daughters Niggar rape and their sons pederast coaches?  Better say I misdirected the cholos into suicide. Think how long the American yeomanry  allowed Rawlsian perverts and legalist pillpullers use our field-of-dreams as a sewage plant.  We let them butt-fuck  our thoughts and sell them back to us as fear!  Cultural flowers of a thousand years and million tries were buried under the  progressive shitpile of perp, perv and prick ... feeb, felon fool  !  The pervs had rights to shit on us, so the  judges brayed and progressive SJWs bellowed.  Overpowering, the stench of  boolean lust. Law precedes culture crows the Jewboi professor, justifying every Stalinist thought-crime huckster since  Moses & Alcibiades. Pimped big among academics and media_sluts,  until the yeomanry started to butcher them out,  sniggering legalist by drooling molester ,  put-down one bullet at a time before rot bore deeper to the core."

"Not many Jews say that."

"Ha!  Jews can say anything; ever tried censoring an atheist Jew? Or fuck his wife? What's it worth to Jane White, that I remove  cartelista rovers from her southern flank?"

Rational men ... tasty tepachi ... limped flesh ... Perhaps the bars AC was actually starting to lower temps. I feel something change in the worlds fabric and slip my hand onto the soft flesh of Jills thigh.  Perplexed by submission I attend Weinstein directly. "I was ordered to ask you ..."  Warning klaxons howl from a Mobster. A shout  echos that Azteca Kings might have heard!  And air fills with the whine of random bullets seeking.

Sounds of a thousandsBTDAT ... BZAGT ...random noises scratching ... shattering windows and door ...

"Shoot them!" And in a rattle of peckerwood flashing bayoneted SKS  a half-dozen cartelista gunmen smashing bricks and  thornbrush crash round and thru our  neon-cyphered tepachi-flavored  bunker.

The 30-mmZCAT...ZACT... just snickers andZATC...CZAT... snickers ... Funny what you think and see ... not men at all or targets for sure , but blurred hacking images that creame in your gunsight and vanish one into another while hoping they're enemy. And bullets plucking at your skin looking for a soft-way ... how many ways can a protein fold before it folds a protein?  Needs only one way ... eh ... like FMJs lucky  soft-path.  Our revolvers bark.  Flailing bullets tear a guitar to pieces. The big guys are shooting too ... howling.  Tall fat Weinstein  with a cowboy hat, pair a'  long-nose Colt 38-cal ... blazing silver bullets got a long Jewboi  nose  to shoot off  we three ... must be the Boys from Syracuse come to clean-up Carthage.  I believe that dream ... at the end more Agros must join cause I see Jill and the 4 local girls tending a fallen trooper.

Hell? You think about hell being  bright and hot and noisy from the screams of burning teenagers;  bawling teen lovers  and  pederast popes.  It's glaring bright and hot and dusty under the blue-white lamp. Pressure on my  neck  ... I need contact!  Something doing the hallucinogen keeps me arms length away. Time moves slowly. Voices. Voice.

Hell? Somebody washes me.  Back and forth.  Sponge. Being moved isn't so bad ... it's the sway and jerk when the moving stops. You think about hell being  all pink-shine and wispy-warm from the screams of burning teenagers.  Beat of an engine.  Weightless - - it's not everything a reporter can be. Whistle-me-Dixie ... away, away ... away down south ...  Not here. It's dark and cold and quiet. Still ... I'm nekked. Something plastic covers my mouth ... another tube sticking in my neck ... and my arm.

One story has Einstein sitting on a photon with Jerry Garcia and Mickey Mantle.

"Will, pay attention! Thirteen million hits on the mud-hut battle. Gone viral, like ass-fucking a spark-plug-wire. Every plastic surgeon in the country is screaming for banner ads.  Seal-3  had admin yesterday and doubled the rate. Oh yeah,  get well soon. I  got a promotion to adju. Captain and baked you dumpling stew and ... and Banski's not much of a lay." ---K---

***  AKA  major XXX over BG quantaquanta ser-274 proof 102 permie alphacharliedelta-BANG43:  Post once and delete%$& "Gina swarmed past Roseville and Silvercoin's cut through to Sacramento Marina.  We are well served. Don't quite know what you did ... it's still confused out toward Modesto , with units as likely to stand as  withdraw,   but the rebeleer armoured attacks have stopped." ***

***  22W- post once and delete%$& "Fuck you, Scranton." ***

"Docs say you'll live. If I didn't  bring you along you die.  Fight like a fucking berzerker, even after the slug pounded good for you.  We're all damaged and misplaced. Return to militia lines ASAP and godspeed. If Banski can't use you I can."

"Oh lovr.  Done good for a white boy. Your  electro-charts don't flip like they did yesterday, from hour to hour  and temperature stable. I can't see a reason for modesty.  Like my hand there?  Say yes, lovr! Good! Life goes cheap these dayz.  Solly spllng. Damn Mexican bar ... you fed me enough Tepachi  got engine-burn.  I damned near bit your arm when your paw  touched my leg that far up ... Then into the shooting thank gawd you  had reloaded my Colt ;  your 4-A took the shotgun slug  chest high meant for me. Com-mon - - I'll move closer cause your  blood's cold and my skin's warm. That's a baby ... Anyrate  swear I saw the slug coming straight on; nothing special  I respond  0.04-sec &  see 20/10!  Really put a dent in your chest. That's when your heart stopped ... then or later, but not much later. Lucky our Mobster stood at the door, with  blast-kit and syringe. Less than a minute mebby, your heart stopped beating before I got that needle into it."

Cigarette? Sure, gotta powder-my-nose now. Be a minute ...  not even ... city lights have come on again and the hospital generator stopped. Peace at last ... dear gawd happy day it's peace at last.  Yeah baby ... I'll check your shoulder-slag.  Didn't know you carried a 25-cal SNS. That the one your Spanish friend gave ya? Real nice leather grip. Ooops .. last Camel Straight is crumpled  to dust. I'll look around.

"You smoke too much weed, Scranton. Lucky you have any brain-cells to kill!  Shit, my hand shakes now ...  really need a smoke? Me too!  Can't believe I'm recording this on your DigiCam. I think I shut-off the transmit switch.  Christ we only have Virginia Slims, but I'll break off the filter."

Sorry ... sorry guys you're not Al, Mickey and Jerry. Not the boys from Syracuse at all . You're Cthulhu rise upAzathothfrom R'lyeh visiting Yog-Sothoth.

"Suck it good, baby.  Sweet ... Yeah, suck my fingertip!  I'll Bogart the last crum if  nurse-Ratchet stays at her desk, then bleed smoke into you mouth.  I'm legal med anyway ... caretaker! Ha! Your lungs made a weird sound on the second hit.  Kinda weak, but I'll be careful. Oh yeah I was say'n, slamming the needle into your heart was a thrill.  Dust and chordyte and  blood ...  ya got a heart cold and hard and skinny as  stone; I needed to punch three times before finding a place to inject.  Mebby the slug-shock turned your heart to granite, but mebby not. You fought it, Scranton  physical-like ...  fought salvation like  too much evil  shit went down and  now death was the better option.  Moma told me about men like you,  men that seem dependent , but kick a womans ass  she gets too bossy.  But, that time I jammed-in the epinephrin and coke and nitro ... couldn't stop me and once on  Weinsteins jet the med-quips were excellent. A make-me-live, salt-drip and low-temp chamber sucked the life right back into you. By the time our jet landed at McCarron and  guard-troopers cleared Weinsteins Escalades you were as-well-as at the hospital and even a pork-chop can't die after admission to intensive care."

"What's the frown, baby.  No I don't think you're a pork-chop ... or chopped liver. I know I'm naked ... you too except for the wires and tubes.  Mebby my hands are cold. Feel this?  You're more an ass-man than titman, but I got enough. Yikes your leg jumped out of the white sheet.  I'll be gentle know that.  And Los Vegas isn't the worst town to have a broken heart. That's funny ... I'm laughing. So is Weinstein, cause boss of Sin City and a leather lounger fit him lots  better than pilot seat of a Mobster.  Fits the Militia lots better too, I hear, but  details  that every fighter knew yesterday are now on the QT. The city just surrendered to him,  Las Vegas & the dam cause Weinstein had people in place, at the casinos and at police stations to smooth his entry.  When his  L1011 fleet flew in from Mexican airfields surprise was complete! What happens here stays here, and I guess the cartelistas never thought Vegas could go its own way.  Not prepared to fight either, as  cartelista gofasts are all sucked down to Moctezuma for a battle never will happen. Sure, Scranton even an  Army-brat medical knows that much strategy.  Be there first with the most.  I know  yesterday Weinstein made-the-rounds of local casinos and manufactures ,  like he was looking for one in-particular soon as the jet landed, but mums-the-secret-word."

"How would you know, right? OKey ... alright.  HRI's your gawd; take a night off  ...  steel it  right up and make the girl-friend happy. Wife doesn't care ... I hacked enough of your email to know.   Your BP and heart rate are poking along. I like that. Plenty of upside. Brought a goose-down blanket  cover us both . You like?  Kinda got all over ya, but you've been try'n ta get all over me since the minute we tumbled from that micro-copter in the Sierras. Not wery subtle Mr Mo.  Save that subtle for HRI, explaining why Gina Weitzman coptered into Caesars Palace this afternoon.  Pals in security run ragged , covering all the ambush vectors. Escalades flying into the parking lot!  In and out that's her.  Like you if I gave easy like I wanted ...  you would'a been fast ... too fast then for a patient girl ... would'a stuck my po bare black ass in a snowbank an done yo thang.  But now  you got O2, I've got poppers  and Salvia ,  it's 9-PM and before the MRI  tomorrow morning we jellyroll all night."

We're home with another HRI, though only telling 3/4 the story. Returning to port, Ladies and gentlemen good night.