Oathkeeper: Chapter 2 (Draft)

Chapter 2

“What the hell is that?” asked Sheriff Bear Ellison.

“Well Boss, that is what they call a ‘mine resistant ambush protected assault vehicle’,” answered deputy Kennesaw who was riding shotgun next to the sheriff.

“Why is it parked here?” Ellison asked as he pulled into the garage of the Calumet County Sheriff’s Department.

“It’s ours. It’s a gift from the department of defense.”

“What am I supposed to do with a god damn tank, Kennesaw?”

“Oh, I suppose you could do lots of things, Boss.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for one, you could use it for traffic enforcement. I’m sure the out-of-towners would be real impressed with it when we pull them over for speeding,” Kennesaw quipped.

Sheriff Ellison shook his head. “That thing is a monstrosity.”

“Do you want me to get rid of it? Gunnison would probably take it?”

“Why would DoD be giving these things out?”

“They must not need them anymore.”

“Yeah. Or perhaps they’ll be expecting some favors from us.”

“I don’t like the idea of owing them,” said Kennesaw.

“Seriously, look at that thing. It’s obscene.”

“Maybe we could dress it up with bunting and roll it down Main Street for the July 4th parade,” replied Kennesaw.

“Splendid idea. And when we roll that thing down Main Street, do you think we’ll be cultivating a serve-and-protect image?”

“It’ll probably scare the bejesus out of folks. Maybe Frenchie will have an idea of what to do with it.”

“I’m sure he would.”

“Do you want me to call him?”

“Not just yet. Could you have someone move it around to the back so it’s not so conspicuous. It makes us look like we’re going to war or something. I don’t like that image.”

“Will do, Boss.”

“So I’m curious how you we should handle this situation,” asked the sheriff as they pulled into the garage.

“I thought you just told me, Boss.”

“Sorry, I meant this Alco situation.”

“Well Boss, that’s a tough one. It sure looks to me like Turcot executed that Billy Joe.”

“Yes it does.”

“But then again, Billy Joe executed two people himself, and shot two more.”

“Yep.”

“If you wanted my personal opinion—”

“I always do.”

“I don’t think Billy Joe Rolfe is going to be missed all that much.”

“No, I don’t suppose he will be,” replied the sheriff.

“He probably would have died, anyway. They said he was shot five times in the back. No head shot and there wouldn’t have been anything to question.”

“This is a tough spot for us.”

“Is it, Boss?”

Ellison shook his head. “We both know he probably can’t be prosecuted, even if he did execute him. He’s going to be a hero.”

“I think you’re right about that, Boss.”

“But let’s go have a little talk with him. It’s our job.”

“Why? To go through the motions?”

“Call it due diligence.”

Sheriff Ellison pushed the button that closed the garage and the two of them went into the station. Kennesaw checked his inbox and Ellison filled a styrofoam cup with coffee along the way to the interview room. They came upon a steel door. Ellison knocked, then looked through the portal window to confirm that Turcot was waiting for them inside. He asked Kennesaw if he was ready. Kennesaw nodded. He turned the handle and they went in.

“So am I under arrest?” Turcot asked before they could even introduce themselves.

“No,” answered Sheriff Ellison. “Not at this time.”

“Can I leave?”

“Yes.”

Turcot remained seated, staring at Ellison and then at Kennesaw, waiting for them to say something.

“We need to conduct an interview with you,” Ellison said.

“You mean an interrogation?” Turcot asked.

“Just think of it like a conversation. It’s probably just a formality, really,” Ellison explained further.

“What about? I already told your deputy everything.”

“Yes you did, and we appreciate your cooperation. I just  wanted to chat with you myself, though. This whole thing is going to be a big deal around here. I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t ask a few questions when I had the opportunity.”

“I know what you want to know.”

“By all means, lay it on me,” Ellison said.

“You want to know if I finished him off—if I executed the shooter.”

Ellison turned to Kennesaw.

“Why don’t you tell us about you, Monte,” Kennesaw asked.

“What do you want to know?”

“I suppose we’d like to know what makes Monte Turcot tick,” Kennesaw explained.

“Are you a cop or a shrink?”

“Probably a little bit of both sometimes,” Kennesaw said. “Just humor us, Monte. I’ve only run into you once or twice. I can’t say that I know anything about you, really.”

“I’m not very interesting.”

“It says here that you’re a veteran.”

“That’s correct.”

“Thank you for your service,” said Ellison.

Turcot turned to Ellison. “Service to who?”

“To your country,” explained Ellison. “You fought for our freedom.”

Turcot laughed. “I fought for KBR’s bottom line. Your freedom didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Ellison looked perplexed. “Do you want to talk about that?” asked Ellison, “your experience over there?”

“No. I don’t.”

“So why did you tell us that, then?” asked Ellison.

“Because you wanted to know about me.”

“What was it like?” asked Ellison. “How long were you there?”

Turcot leaned back and popped his knuckles. “Seriously? If I’m not under arrest then I need to get going.”

“I’d like to know,” asked Ellison.

“Four years.”

“How are you different, now?” Ellison asked.

“I’m conditioned,” Turcot answered.

“Can you explain that?” asked Kennesaw.

“What is this, a tag team?” asked Turcot.

“We’re just having a conversation. That’s all,” Ellison said. “What does that mean…conditioned?”

“Becoming a professional, modern, combat soldier involves an extensive re-engineering of the mind.”

“Interesting,” said Ellison.

Turcot pointed to his head. “We unlearn how to think. Thinking introduces delay…indecision. That can be fatal.”

“So you react?” Ellison asked.

“No. We act. We learn how to take action.”

“Did you think about what you were doing in the Alco?”

“I acted.”

“What were your actions based on?” asked Ellison.

“The sound of gunfire.”

“Of course,” replied Ellison. “So you heard gunfire and you returned fire?”

“That’s right.”

“How many times did you shoot Billy Joe?” asked Kennesaw. “Do you remember?”

“Who’s Billy Joe?”

“Billy Joe was the shooter,” answered Kennesaw.

“I don’t remember.”

“You shot him in the back,” Kennesaw suggested.

“That’s right.”

“But then once in the head?”

Turcot didn’t answer.

“Was he threatening you?” asked Kennesaw. “He had two pistols.”

“I thought he might fire.”

“So…” Kennesaw continued, “Billy Joe had a pistol and you shot him in the head?”

“Sure.”

“Did you feel as if you didn’t have any choice?” Kennesaw asked.

Sheriff Ellison turned to Kennesaw after he asked it.

“That’s right. I acted. I ended the threat.”

Kennesaw turned to Ellison. The sheriff nodded towards the door.

“We’re going to step outside for a moment, Monte,” said Ellison.”Do you mind? Do you need anything while you wait?”

“How long are you going to be?”

“Just a couple minutes.”

Ellison and Kennesaw left Monte Turcot in the interview room and went down the hall a bit, out of earshot. Ellison leaned his brawny frame against the wall and sipped his coffee. He pulled his sleeve up and looked at his wristwatch.

“What’s your watch telling you, Boss?” Kennesaw asked.

Ellison crossed his arms. “It’s telling me that you did a fine job of leading him along.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted, Boss.”

Ellison gave him a sour look. “I guess we need to decide how far to take this,” he said.

“Even if we did think he finished Billy Joe off, you think any jury around here would convict him?”

“That would be the DA’s call.”

“If Chalmers takes it on. But if he did, he can be a real pain in the ass. He won’t like our process much, either.”

Yeah, he’s got a lot on his plate. I doubt he’ll take this on. It’s a sure loser.” Ellison pondered for a moment. “What do we know about Billy Joe Rolfe? I don’t know his family.”

“They don’t have anything. His folks rent a place on the south side, a couple miles south of the prison. I think Billy Joe’s dad works there.”

“Have they had any trouble, any run-ins?”

“DUI, I think. Domestic a couple years back.”

“They ever lawyer up on any of that?”

“Not that I remember. They plea bargained out.”

“Any union connections? Any connections to the commissioner or the state? Any rich uncles or other benefactors?”

“I don’t think so, Boss. But I’ll have to go check it out.”

“All right. Well let’s go back in and talk to Turcot.”

The two went back down the hall, knocked twice on the steel door and went in. Turcot was right where they left him.

“Well, Monte,” explained the sheriff. “It doesn’t look like we have anything else for you at this time.”

“So does that mean I’m free to go?”

“Yes,” answered Ellison. “Kennesaw can give you a ride back if you need it. Thanks for coming down.”

“Are you dealing with all this okay, Monte?” Kennesaw asked. “You’ve been through a lot today.”

“You can either run around and tamp out fires all your life or pick up the torch yourself.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean by that, Monte, but will you do me one small favor?” asked Ellison.

“What’s that?” Turcot answered.

“Would you stick around town for a couple weeks, or at least let us know where you’re going if you leave, just in case there are any follow up questions we need to ask you.”

Oathkeeper: Chapter 1 (Draft)

           There was a troubled, twenty four year old fellow by the name of Billy Joe Rolfe who decided one day that he had had enough of this world and that, while making his journey into the next, he was going to take a few “motherfuckers” along with him. Billy Joe acquired two 9mm pistols, the first from a sporting goods store called Ralphs, and the second, one week later, from an acquaintance who drove forklifts alongside him at the lumber yard on the outskirts of town.

            The town (mentioned above) is Calumet City, a small village of 2,000 year round residents located in a high mountain valley in the shadow of the snow-capped Continental Divide. Her streets are lined with cottonwood trees and ponderosa pines. It has one stoplight at the intersection of SR 24 and Main Street. Her residents are an assortment of ranch hands and day laborers, pensioners, prison employees and aging hippies. But despite her Mayberry-esque aura, the burgeoning violence of the quaint village and surrounding county would become a flashpoint for awakening.  According to the Calumet County Sheriff’s Department records, Billy Joe’s final day began with a stop at the home of a Winona Larroquette where the two of them partook in some recreational methamphetamine. Rolfe complained of not being able to attain the desired high—common for users already taking anti-psychotic medication. Although Miss Larroquette acknowledged that she was available and attracted to the swaggering and sinewy Billy Joe, she was adamant that their relationship was not of a sexual nature. He was there for about two hours, leaving Miss Larroquette’s trailer at roughly 3:00 p.m.

            Rolfe then drove to the Alco general store which is located on the north edge of town.  He parked his cream colored Chrysler K Car in the nearest handicap space, exited his vehicle, and made his way towards the front door where he was confronted by a Mr. William Forte, a World War II veteran who admonished Billy Joe for parking in said handicapped space.

            Billy Joe responded by shooting Mr. Forte in the chest.  Mr. Forte, confined to a scooter due to his diabetic Charcot Foot, fell over onto the crosswalk and died within seconds due to massive aortal trauma.

            Billy Joe then made his way into the store.

            Inside the Alco, a Mr. Montgomery Turcot, himself also a veteran of the U.S. Army and the conflict in Afghanistan, was trying on a pair of Wrangler jeans in a dressing room. He heard the report of Billy Joe’s initial shot but it did not immediately register with him that it was gunfire. He did not hear any screams or commotion of any kind after the shot that took the life of William Forte in the crosswalk so he proceeded to finish fitting his Wranglers.  It was at the moment he was to push through the saloon doors of the dressing room area that he heard the second shot from of Billy Joe’s 9mm’s, a bullet that took the life of fifteen year old Brianna Copeland. 

            Brianna had just purchased two pair of stockings and some cosmetics and was leaving the cashier when Billy Joe ended her young life.  She was planning to attend the Calumet County High School homecoming dance later that evening.

            Mr. Turcot surveilled the front of the store from where the gunshot originated. From his vantage, he could just see the cashier’s raised hands. Then there was another pop and the cashier’s hands dropped. Turcot watched as Billy Joe, 9mm’s in each hand, dressed in a navy blue New England Patriots hoody, crossed an aisle towards the front end of the store, making his way towards pharmacy. Turcot immediately felt for his own sidearm, a Kel-Tec P-32, unlicensed but holstered in his waistband at all times. Turcot drew it from its holster, cocked it, and made his way towards the underwear aisle which stood between him and where he believed Billy Joe was headed. He heard more shouts.

            “No. No. No. No.”

            Pop Pop Pop

            Turcot leaned against the shelves of boxer briefs and athletic socks, trying to breathe quietly. He looked at his pistol which seemed inadequate for the task. He looked right and left for the shooter. He deduced that the gunfire was either two or three aisles over. He assumed—and prayed—that Billy Joe was still moving towards the pharmacy.  If so, he could come up behind and surprise him. But Turcot also saw the front door in the opposite direction. He could make a run for it. In seven seconds, he could be outside and safe. But Monte Turcot couldn’t bring himself to flee.

            Turcot crept to the edge of the aisle the pharmacy. He peaked around the corner. A woman was hunkered down there, against the racks, with her hands over her head. He quietly snuck across that aisle to peak around the next row of shelves. No one was there, but he heard more shouting and pleading. He put his back to the shelving and listened. He looked left and right. Nothing. He peaked around the next aisle. Nothing.

            Pop Pop Pop

            The shots were coming from one aisle over. Turcot took in a breath and exhaled slowly. He peaked around the next aisle stocked with toothpastes and floss and other hygiene items. And Billy Joe in the blue hoody was standing there, back turned to Turcot, 9mm in each hand.

            Billy Joe looked left and right, unsure of where he would find his next target. Turcot aimed his P-32. The thought of yelling “freeze” never even entered his mind. He fired five times into Billy Joe’s back. Billy Joe crumpled onto the floor, dropping both pistols and letting out a long, wheezing squeal. Turcot walked up to stand over top of him, pistol still aimed in case Billy Joe had any fight left in him. Turcot kicked each of his 9mm’s away. They slid off down the aisle, out of reach. Turcot turned him over and knelt down with one knee on his chest. Billy Joe’s face was that of a scared, young boy. He was pale, sweating, wide-eyed, teeth gritting, gasping for air, weeping.

            Someone screamed. Then screamed again, and again, and again, and again. Hair raising screams. Someone else ran past behind Turcot, towards the front of the store.

            “Call 911! Call 911!” a voice shouted.

            Billy Joe, the terrified shivering boy shooter, stared at Monte Turcot with glistening eyes, pleading for mercy.

            Another voice screamed near the register.            “No, baby. No, baby. No.”

            Turcot heard more footsteps coming up behind him.

            “You got him!” came a husky male voice from behind.

            Turcot didn’t turn.

            Billy Joe didn’t move, except for his quivering.

            “No. No. No,” someone cried at the register.

            “Hold him down there,” the voice behind Turcot ordered. “The police will be here any minute.”

            “Wait!” Turcot barked. “You go out front. Tell them fucking donut munchers not shoot me.”

            “Yeah, okay. You got it.”

            Turcot heard the lumbering footsteps jog off towards the front.

            “No baby,” someone sobbed near the register.

            Turcot slid his hand beneath Billy Joe’s neck and cradled his limp head off the floor. “Do you hear that?” Turcot asked.

            Billy Joe didn’t answer.

            “I said did you hear that?” He asked as he squeezed Billy Joe’s neck.

            Billy Joe nodded with his eyes.

            “That will be the last sound you ever hear…motherfucker.”

            Monte Turcot lowered his pistol into Billy Joe’s temple and pulled the trigger.

“So you think you’re a ‘real’ president, now.”

ObamaKarzai

Putin and Obama Face Off in Ukraine

Faceoff

The Story of Your Enslavement

More Stefan Molyneaux brilliance.

Sportscaster Decries 2nd Amendment

Re: Bob Costas.

Progressive Bob lectured us futbahl fans on “gun control” at halftime of the Sunday Night game. Quoting another “progressive” (bourgeois socialist) sports jockey, Jason Whitlock, Costas lamented “If Jovan Belcher did not possess a gun, he and Kassandra Perkins would still be alive.”

Ooh, you are so enlightened, Bob. Thank you for educating us dumb, redneck futbahl fans. If
only we lived in NY or DC and thus had the capacity to reason like you we would all be so much better off. I so believe it is the righteous duty of aging, milquetoast, androgynous sports jockeys like you to intersperse their observations on men playing games in tights with ideological instruction whenever the opportunity presents itself. Thank you, Bob.

Hmm, but perhaps if Kassandra Perkins had possessed a gun, she would still be alive, today. Uh oh, now that complicates things a little, doesn’t it.

Note:
Sunday Night Football is, of course, broadcast by NBC, a company formerly owned by GE (a company bailed out by TARP and owes guvmint a lot of favors), and whose crony/flunky/corporate welfare junky CEO Jeff Immelt is Obama’s Jobs Czar.

The lattice of corporatist interconnections is extensive. Always consider the messenger before considering the message.

A Prayer for Armistice Day

A prayer for “Armistice Day”:

“”O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle-be Thou near them! With them, in spirit, we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it-for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.”

-Mark Twain

Every Nuke Ever Detonated

All 2048 of them…

Not Voting For Romney (or Obama) is a Vote For The Republic

The GOP wonks, you know, the guys who mocked libertarians, disqualified our delegates, banned Ron Paul from the convention, ridiculed us for being anti-war and pro freedom… yeah, the neocons, the guys who take money from banksters, pimp for the military industrial complex, supported TARP, the bailouts, stimulus, QE1, 2 and 3… you know, the gang of DC cronies who call the Constitution “just a g-damn piece of paper” (G. Bush)… yeah, those a-holes…

Now these cream cheese fascists want us libertarians to be nice to them and vote for their John McCain 2.0 (sock puppet Mitt Romney).  The audacity of these republicans is unbelievable.  I must laugh at you!  Ha Ha!  I laugh as Romney and his phony free market elfen sidekick gets annihilated in November.  I laugh, but I rejoice as I know that a Romney loss brings us one step closer to finally killing off the corruption and rottenness in the GOP.  Good bye Romney, take your Goldman Sachs donations with you.  Fuck You McCain, I don’t thank you for your service. I think you should be returned to Vietnam to finish out your sentence in a POW camp.  See you later AIPAC.  Bulldoze Arab houses on your own dime.  Later Sununu and Senor and Wolfowitz and Cheney and Rumsfeld and Rove and Kagan and all the Trostkyite, neocon republicans (former communists) who thought that they could spread democracy and Americana by the barrel of a gun.  Good bye.  Good bye.  Good bye.

Thanks a lot for everything you’ve screwed up, neocons.  Thanks for two ten year wars that accomplished nothing but get 6000 Americans killed.  Thanks for the deaths of 250,000 civilians.  Thanks for creating an imperial presidency that rules by executive order… oops, then the Hawaiian took office… oh shit.  Thanks for “W” the 3rd worst president in our nation’s history.  Thanks for voting for the president’s right to kill anyone for any reason, anywhere.  Thanks for FISA, the (anti) Patriot Act, the nazi-ish DHS, porno scanners, wiretaps, The Bernanke, Predator drones, trillion dollar deficits, Obama, no child left behind, and 9-11.  Thanks neocons.  You failed.  You failed on every level.  Fail.  Fail.  Fail.

Now, after the wooden, trust fund puppet gets his clock cleaned by the Kenyan, we can start to plan to rebuild a country rooted in freedom… And after the mystery man from Chicago runs the great “indispensible” ship into the ground, we can cut the millstone of Washington DC loose from our necks and liberate ourselves from our Potomac, feudal lords.  We can shine the light of freedom upon the scurrying, rat lobbyists, and the pimp-like career politicians, and scatter them back into their filthy holes.

Just maybe.

Just maybe, if… when… after Romney loses, we have a chance at restoring our Republic.

Anarchyland

Great video….


Anarchy Land by khydraa

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