I couldn't find another section to post these in, so what the heck. Here goes!

THE PATRIOTS

PART ONE

Normally the parking lot of La Bamba would be empty at three o’clock in the morning, its black expanse of asphalt shrouded in an early morning fog. But, this morning was strangely different. The chilly, light haze reflected the staccato flashes of red, white and blue pouring from dozens of police cars and ambulances. As if trying to erase some unseen blot on the city of Carson, searchlights from the hovering police helicopters swept back and forth across the scene. Barriers had been set up, and yellow tape crisscrossed the entrance like some hastily devised protection.

In the still of the morning, all was quiet in the parking lot except for the droning of the overhead helicopters and the intermittent hissing and crackling of police radios. Inside the night club the situation was chaotic: moans and screams of pain filled the poorly lit room. Paramedics quickly went from body to body looking for signs of life. The young Latino patrons who were still alive and uninjured sat by themselves on the dance floor; dazed at the horror of the panorama before them. Some of the seriously wounded were immediately put on stretchers and placed into the backs of waiting ambulances.

“Call Central and tell them we need more body bags; lots more,” Raymond Gutierrez ordered his driver. As a young EMT Raymond had only been exposed to an occasional heart attack victim or drunk who had fallen down. However, no amount of training or experience could have prepared him or any of the other paramedics and police officers called to La Bamba. He adroitly tried to keep his balance and avoid slipping in the thickening pools of blackened blood. Moving from corpse to corpse he laid a yellow tag on each one. So far, he and his coworkers had counted out eighty-seven tags. Tears ran down his face as he recognized people he had known back in his hometown in Hermosillo, Mexico. “Why here? Why us?” he kept asking himself as he continued with the macabre task that had befallen him.

The early light of dawn illuminated the parking lot uncovering a scene that looked like a news clip from a combat zone. Three rows of black plastic bags were neatly arranged at the right of the entrance. As the chief of police looked at them, he saw that each row contained forty bodies. “What the Hell brought on this massacre?” he asked himself. “These were just a bunch of kids out for a night of fun, and this is how it ended?

By now, word had spread quickly and families had been contacted. A throng of over five hundred people were all shouting and trying to get through the police barricade. “Queremos entrar! Mi hijo está adentro! Vengo por mi hija!” were just a few of the petitions launched towards the dark blue line of SWAT officers who refused entrance to anyone other than paramedics and members of the police department.

Around eleven o’clock the inside of the night club was empty. The only thing that recalled the events of the early morning was the stench of blood and death. Under the direction of the detectives, small red flags were placed beside each spent cartridge that littered the floor. When they were finished, over six hundred flags had been placed in a twenty foot circle inside the main entrance. They were so close together that no space could be seen between them.

Reporters from the local TV stations frantically tried to glean information from the police department; however, no worthwhile statements were forthcoming from any official source. The only comment made by a spokeswoman for the Carson Police Department was, “The investigation of this tragedy is ongoing; therefore, you must understand that we cannot discuss any details of what occurred at La Bamba in the early hours of this morning.

Millard Washington had been the elected chief of police in Carson for the past eight years. He sat at his desk staring thoughtfully at the blood spattered manila envelope in front of him. His pudgy black hand turned it over several times before he finally bent back the metal clasp and opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper. The chief slowly pulled it out and squinted at it as he began to read. The words reeled from one side of his brain to the other. He broke out in a cold sweat as he started to read aloud:

“The war has begun. The White people of this land will no longer tolerate an invasion of third world scum. This has been the first of many such operations we will have executed as you read this message. It is time for the Mexicans to leave. When the garbage of Mexico and the rest of the world have been cleansed from our land, you and your race will be next.” It was signed in bold letters, “ARMY OF THE ARYAN STATES”

Chief Washington crumpled the paper and threw it as hard as he could against the paneled wall of his office. “Goddamned honky white trash!” he shouted as his three hundred pound hulk rose from his chair. As if reassuring himself of his own personal safety, he pulled out his 9mm Glock and quickly checked the magazine. He strode into the main office of the Carson Police Department and was immediately met with the sounds of ringing telephones and nervous voices shouting both denials and affirmations to unseen callers. He waded through them and threw open the door of the Chief of Detectives.

“What we got?” he barked to the three plain clothed officers.

“Well, not a whole lot, yet,” replied the chief of detectives Alfonso Gibbs. “We got nearly seven hundred 9mm and .45 shell casings. Outside of that, nothing. Zero, zip, zilch. We done turned them all over to the state police forensics lab and we’re waiting for some information from them. Besides that, none of the Mexicans are talking because they’re scared shitless.”

“Fuck the state police!” shouted Washington. I want to know who the white trash mother fuckers are who did this in MY town!” he continued shouting.

That afternoon reports on the national news channels informed the public that a series of armed assaults had occurred in seven cities in the southwest. In a two hour period, a total of over nine hundred Mexicans and Latinos had been gunned down in several night clubs and movie theaters. The president was scheduled to appear shortly and make a statement on the events. Reports were also given that nationwide all the highways leading to the Mexican border were congested with cars, trucks and hijacked buses full of people trying to escape the apocalypse that had rained down upon them.

PART TWO

James Anderson looked across the breakfast table at his older brother. He slowly put his coffee cup back on the saucer and asked him, “Are you sure we can trust this guy?”

Clifford smiled and said, “Jimmy, he’s a jew and he likes money. We give him what he wants; we get what we want; and that’s the end of it. No questions asked.”

Clifford’s wife cleared away the breakfast dishes and James laid out a road map. As his finger traced the route, he commented, “It’s about nine hundred miles from here to Calgary. If we push it, we can make it in one night. That is if we don’t have any problems getting into Canada.”

Janet Anderson turned from the kitchen sink and said, “If I were you I wouldn’t worry about getting into Canada. I would be more concerned about getting out with all the fish you are going to catch.”

Clifford chuckled and replied, “That, my dear wife, has already been planned and accounted for.”

Later that evening, the two brothers put all sorts of fishing and camping gear into the back of the pickup truck. As dusk began to settle over Roaring Falls, they pulled out of Clifford’s driveway and headed north. They would be in Calgary by morning.

Going through Canadian customs was much easier than they had expected. A turbaned Sikh politely asked them the purpose of their visit. When they explained and pointed to the fishing and camping gear in the back of the truck, the agent welcomed them to Canada and motioned them on. A few hours later they were walking down a residential street of Calgary looking for the address of Aaron Blume.

“This must be it,” said Clifford. “328 Westphallen Avenue is what I was given.”

James stepped up and rang the bell of the modest looking bungalow. After a few nervous seconds the door opened, and he and his brother were met by a short, fat, balding man in his fifties. The burnt out stub of a cigar was firmly planted in the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, whaddaya want?” he asked in a shrill, nasal voice.

“Are you Mr. Blume?” Clifford asked.

“That’s right,” replied the repugnant and smelly man. “Who are you guys?”

James said, “We’re the Fisher brothers and we are here to buy some fish.”

Suddenly the jew’s face lit up and he said smilingly, “Oh, yeah! Been expecting you! Come on in, come on in!”

Blume ushered the two brothers into a small office that obviously hadn’t been cleaned in years. A battered desk, some plastic covered kitchen chairs loaded with dusty boxes and papers filled the room.

“Look,” said Clifford, “We’ve had a long drive and are a little tired. Let’s get down to business and get this over with.”

“OK, OK,” Blume quickly replied. “Let me show you what I got.”

Aaron Blume placed a large briefcase on the desk and opened it. He turned it around so the contents were facing Clifford and James. In it were two Ingram submachine guns. One was in .45 caliber and the other a 9mm. Clifford and James expertly examined each weapon satisfying themselves that they were new and unfired.

As they replaced them in the case, Clifford said, “Nice, very nice. But, we didn’t drive all the way up here for two guns. You said you could get me forty pieces and two hundred thirty round magazines.”

Blume smiled and with the same shrill, nasal voice told the brothers their order was complete and waiting. All they had to do was give him the cash.

Clifford said, “We have the money, but you don’t get a penny of it until we see forty Ingrams and the magazines.”

The greedy jew smiled and removed the blackened stub of cigar from the corner of his mouth. “Come back at six o’clock, and we can finish up everything.”

Contented that their fishing trip was going to be a success, Clifford and James agreed and left. Later that evening, they were again in the seedy little office of the jewish arms trafficker.

Blume pointed to the four cardboard boxes in the hallway. “There they are, my friends, forty of the best salmon ever caught in Canadian waters.”

Clifford looked at the jew coldly and said to James, “Open every box and make sure the count and condition is correct.”

James went out into the hallway and began stripping the packing tape from each box. There were exactly twenty 9mm Ingrams and twenty in .45 caliber. The other two boxes held one hundred magazines of the respective calibers; all were brand new. He came back in and informed his brother that everything was in order. “It’s all there and perfect,” he said.

“OK, Blume, here’s your money. Fifty thousand dollars,” Clifford said as he put the five bundles of banknotes on Blume’s desk.

The ecstatic jew quickly thumbed through each packet and put them in the middle drawer of his decrepit desk.

The two Anderson brothers immediately loaded the heavy boxes into the back of the pickup and covered them with sleeping bags and fishing rods. They were starting to leave when James said, “Wait a minute, I think I left my lighter in that guy’s office.”

Clifford turned off the engine and puzzled, he watched his brother go back up the sidewalk. A couple of minutes later, James returned and threw five bundles of one hundred dollar bills on the seat.

“What the Hell did you do?” Clifford asked.

James mimicked the squeaky, nasal voice of Blume and said, “Well, I thought it would be a shame to let that filthy kike keep the movement’s money, so I put a big bagel hole between his eyes. Besides that, you know I don’t smoke, so shut up and drive.”

Clifford smiled and said, “Little brother, sometimes you make me proud!”

As they neared the US border, Clifford turned off on a side road that led to a heavily forested area. An hour later they returned back to the highway and continued southward. As they drove into the customs station, both brothers fit in perfectly with the rest of the fishermen, hunters and tourists who were heading home. They proudly showed the young ICE agent the cooler full of cleaned salmon they had purchased at a packing house on the outskirts of Calgary.

Once within the US, Clifford let James drive while he showed him the old deserted logging road that went northward. Their cache of contraband was still safely hidden in the brush where they had earlier left it. Once again loaded into the truck, the two brothers headed for Roaring Falls with their precious cargo.

PART THREE

The Roaring Falls Coin Collector’s Club did not meet very often, but when they did, their meeting was always held at a local motel. Announcements had been passed around to the members that a meeting would be held on the last Sunday of October.

At nine o’clock some members had already gathered in the lobby and were engaged in causal conversation. Some had only met that day; others had known each other for several years. By ten o’clock everyone was seated in the small banquet room and Clifford Anderson walked to the podium placed between the two rows of tables. He quietly called the meeting to order and began a roll call. All eighteen members were present. Including Clifford and his brother James, twenty young, able bodied, White men were gathered for the meeting.

Clifford calmly, and with a clear and determined voice, began to address them.

“Gentlemen, I have called this meeting to inform you that we are now prepared to initiate the operation that we have all patiently waited, trained and planned for. All of us have made sacrifices in order to reach this point in our lives, and it is now our duty to see that those sacrifices have not been made in vain. We shall not squander our hard, and sometimes dangerously, earned resources through a lack of planning and preparation. You have all formed teams of two in your respective towns and cities. My brother will now give each team an envelope. In it you will find the location of your target and the date and time for the execution of your assignment. As you can see, our initial assault will involve large concentrations of Mexicans and Latinos. This operation will unleash a chain of events that will result in the liberation of our land and return it to us, the rightful owners and inhabitants.

Our small group is the spearhead of a much larger group of likeminded patriots who, following our steps into our sacred commitment, will quickly execute other planned operations. Please read your instructions carefully and memorize them. When you have done so, you will kindly return your envelopes to me.”

Each team opened their envelopes and read the few cryptic lines printed on the piece of paper. In unison they all smiled and shook their heads in confident agreement. The time had come, and freedom would soon be at hand.

When they had returned their envelopes and instructions to Clifford, he continued with his talk.

“There is no turning back, gentlemen. If anyone has second thoughts about what he must do, that assignment will be cancelled and both team members will be removed from our ranks, permanently. I am sure I make myself very clear on this detail, so there is no need to discuss it further.

I will now give a key to each team. As you can see, these are locker keys.
In your list of instructions some of you saw the word, bus station, some saw train station and others memorized the word airport. In the corresponding lockers you will find your makeup kits, disguises and four weapons for your assignment. Each team member will be armed with two Ingrams of the same caliber. Do not lose your key. The success of our operation depends on you having all of these tools in your hands.”

After he adjourned the meeting, he called aside an old and trusted friend. Alan Whitcombe had been a lieutenant in the US Army and had seen action in two desert wars.

“Alan, what do you think of the other members? Especially the newer ones.” was Clifford’s immediate question.

“Well,” replied Alan, “according to the intelligence reports I have and from my own personal observation I think we have assembled a group of determined, competent and trustworthy men. I am sure they will do well. They all know what is at stake, and never again will they have the opportunity to serve our race in something of this magnitude.”

“Those are pretty much the same conclusions I have come to,” replied Clifford. “It has been a long road, but we are finally on our way. Good luck, and take care, my friend.”

EPILOGUE

Carolyn Wills walked into her fifth grade classroom her arms loaded with the usual assortment of texts and papers. All twenty-eight of her students immediately came to their feet and greeted her.

“Good morning, Miss Wills!”

“Good morning, students,” she replied. “We will start the day with the pledge of allegiance to our flag.”

All of the children turned to face the red and white flag of the Aryan States and began.

“I pledge allegiance to the flag of my Fatherland and to the Precepts of our Patriots. May no force ever turn me from my duties to my people and my nation. I will always remain vigilant to ensure that its unfurled beauty does forever grace our sacred land.”

After the students were seated and Miss Wills had finished the roll call, she said, “This morning we will continue our study of the early history of our nation. I am sure everyone read the chapter I assigned, but before you open your books, I am going to ask a few questions.”

The young teacher continued, “Who can tell me how many men were in the original group of Patriots?”

Karl immediately raised his hand. “I can Ma’am. There were twenty men in the group.”

“That is correct, Karl,” replied Miss Wills. “Now, who can give the names of the leaders of the first group of Patriots?”

Elizabeth raised her hand and stood up. “The leaders were the Anderson brothers, Clifford and James, and Alan Whitcombe.”

“Very good, Elizabeth. I can see that you and Karl have read your assignment.” As Carolyn continued with her questions, she asked, “Who can tell me what they did and why they are important?”

Leonard’s hand flew into the air and as he was standing up the words tumbled out of his mouth, “They ran all of the Mexicans out of our country, Ma’am.”

“You are right, Leonard. Can you tell me what else they did?” his teacher asked.

“Yes Ma’am,” he replied. “The Army of the Aryan States sent all the niggers back to several countries in Africa and they confiscated all the property of the filthy jews before hanging many of them. The rest were sent to live in Israel.”

Their teacher then asked, “Who can recite a well known phrase the Patriots used?”

Eric raised his hand and said, “Everybody knows that one. Those are the Patriot David Lane’s famous fourteen words.” He closed his eyes and slowly recited, “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for White children.”

Miss Wills stood up and smiled at her pupils. “All of you have given very good answers. Before we start reading the chapter on the Precepts of the Patriots, I would like to know how many of you have a grandfather who fought in the Patriotic War?”

Like small white rockets, every hand in the class shot into the air.