Reinke Faces Life

Bees… can be trained in a couple of days to pick up the scent of the explosive in the landmine… When released into a minefield, the bees find their way toward the mines … are too small to detect either with the naked eye or high-resolution video at long ranges. So instead, the team employs a laser emitter that sweeps an area like radar or sonar. When the light hits a bee, it reflects, and sensors are able to tell by the reflection just where the bee is. After sweeping several times, the scientists are able to crunch the data and see statistically where the higher occurrences of bees are located.

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The Obamaites had collected the knives. The Homland Protection Squadron was a combination of squads from the appropriate government agencies: IRS, FDA, DEA, BATF, FBI, CIA, NSA, FCC, FTC, Treasury, and even the Department of Agriculture. The squadron is near 300 men and women. They were on point against drug gangs, Ponzi schemers, and “religious” sects.

+++++

The fat old white man was a retired executive. He’d gotten “religion” during Y2K and had started his withdrawal from the “game”. That’s what he called Wall Street finance. It was a crooked game, where the ability to buy politicians, manupulate the law, and screw the people. He often was quoted that the Street was a “crooked casino”. Y2K was the beginning of his transition. From “player on the Street” to gentleman farmer. He wasnt disappointed that society dodge a dagger by an intense conversion effort. But, he learned a lot about Numian goats, mules, rabbits, farm fish, and even honeybees. It was fun. He invited schools for trips. It was a Mennonite area and he learned a lot. A lot about animal training.

+++++

Homeland Protection’s media review squad eventually found the fat old white man’s blog. He made no secret of his disgust for government. Extremely critical of the Glorious Leader, his holiness, the President for Life. They targeted him for enforcement. And, he did have real estate and, while no paper trail existed, a supposed store of precious metals. It was scheduled for the first Monday of July. It wasn’t til the week before they realized that they had the day off. Fourth of July weekend.

+++++

On Monday the Sixth of July, one car from the FDA pulled up to the front gate. The fat old white guy inquired of the dumbfounded Drug Cop. He asked “Wearz everyone?” “Everyone who?” “Never mind!”

Hairs on the back of his head went up.

+++++

On Tuesday the Seventh of July at 10AM, the entire squadron moved in. Signs at the gate said: “No Trespassing. No explosives permitted in the test area. This is your only warning.”

The leadership grouped up and, after a short discussion, gave the “forward ho” signal. The mob followed the tanks. He was a short hike to the main house. The fat old white man stood calmly on the porch with his hands in his pocket. The leader told him he was under arrest and to put his hands up. The man put his hands up and one had had what looked like a Staples Easy Button. The leader was afraid. Explosives? With that the man presed the panic button in his pocket.

In minutes, the sky was filled with a golden horde. Bees. They descended on the firearms with their minute quantities of explosives. That’s when the cowards made their mistake. Collectively. Individually. They swatted and smashed. That was an attack on the colony. The pheromones of the crushed individuals sent the swarm into a freenzey.

There was no mercy. The insects were overwhelming.

+++++

The local community notified the government that thier squadron could be retrieved at the interstate. Drones showed Amish men in buggies bring bodies from the targeted farm to the interstate. No one was armed. Guns, weapons, and equipment belts lay on the farm where they were dropped.

+++++

The Homeland Security commandos moved in at dark to recon. They had no sooner entered onto the farm then they were best upon.

The next day the Amish brought new bodies to the interstate.

+++++

The President was briefed. The area was declared off limits. They considered how to handle the new threat. The bees were expanding their territory. They were now in a six miles radius of the farm and expanding about one mile per day.

Since peace was mandatory inside their circle, the farm was called “the Garden of Eden”.

Just not to the President’s face.

# # # # #   

General Sanchez and Colonel Achmed were in fits. The invasion hadn’t gotten off to a very good start. The coordinated bio / nuclear attack had been an initial success. Biologicals — the West Nile Virus’ more virulent cousin — had decimated the population. The invasion needed to wait a week for it to die out. It was estimated that only a tenth of the population had natural resistance. The high altitude energy pulse destroyed all electronics. In that week of quarantine, all semblance of government and society was expected to collapse. There were forty similar invasion forces aligned on all four sides. Muslim, Spanish, and Chinese — all aligned to rid the world of the largest imperialist power. It had all been planned and executed without a single electronic communication. Human couriers didn’t allow the Great Satan’s “intel” in on the surprise.

The Mid Atlantic task force showed up at the appointed time and place. A small seaside beach community on an island just off the mainland. Operations began at 0800 local; delayed two hours as the fleet was waiting for an unexpected fog to lift. Such were the fortunes of war. It didn’t. The motorized landing craft began their runs. Over the dead land, the noise was unmistakable, a wake up call, and call to arms. Someone uninvited was coming.

Unbeknown to the invaders, many survivalists and prepers had planned their bug outs to go to the seaside. Fish, birds, and water. The fish could be caught to supplement; birds trapped. Seawater desalinated by sunshine. Surprisingly, while not friends, there was a modest amount of trade and mutual assistance in the week following the troubles. A rather small island had a surprisingly large number of survivors.

The fat old man was the only survivor on his block. His family, that bugged with him, were buried in the backyard. He heard the engine noise from the sea and thought of Private Ryan. He grabbed his M1A and his ammo and went to a nearby condo. He had forced the doors open scavaging earlier in the week, so it took no time to get to the third floor front, open a window slightly, and start firing at the beach. He could hear he wasn’t alone. About 30 shots in 30 minutes resulted in an anti-tank rocket ending his resistance.

The Greatest Generation had a few tricks left up their collective sleeve. A bunch of loons at the American Legion had a ceremonial howitzer. It wasn’t so ceremonial. They took out the bridge off the island. The VFW had a half-track. It didn’t run any more, but it’s machine gun did. A whole company of invaders found that assumptions about no resistance could be deadly as an 80 year old gunner and and 79 year old feeder got a whole lot of joy out of remembering an old skill.

On the beach, a General and Colonel were getting reports of fierce resistance from survivors. A woman, a child, old vets! Suicidally fighting for no good reason. Leaderless. Without hope. Individuals, pairs, small teams. Damn fog. They couldn’t risk close air in it for friendly fire. The recon found the bridges to the mainland down. That really snafued their plan. As the general signaled the withdrawal, the radio reported many similar failures. Who’d have known that urban drug gangs would turn into such fine light infantry? With automatic weapons too.

Just about that time the American Legion artillery and the VFW scouts had coordinated their efforts. It was their land after all. And, plotting a location with coordinates was a handy skill to have. A runner with a walker “ran” them back. The “location plot” team took out a few more. The American Legion howitzer sent the General and Colonel a special “Welcome to America”. A lucky shot? Devastatingly lucky! Murphy is always around. In this case, the spirit of Audey Murphy. Maybe Sargent York too. As the General lay dying, he thought back to a famous Admiral, awaking a sleeping tiger, and riflemen behind every blade of grass.

# # # # #

Don’t gum up the works

The drunk staggered along the street. He was dirty, smelly, and bedraggled. He bumped between parking meters and cars. Like a sad ping pong match. The police car was at the corner. Illegally parked, of course; the members of the long blue line were on doughnut break. From their “selfless” mission, protecting and serving the entrenched elite. The drunk was an equal opportunity ping pong ball. He bounced off their car, around the corner and away.

+++

It was the death of his wife that set him off. No one much cared about him. But, then that feeling was mutual with him. He was a self-described “tin foil hat patriot”. Who would know if he was a pinhead or a patriot? Who’d much care! As long as he paid his taxes, there was much he could do. Frustratingly, he blogged. He wrote his letters. He went to demonstrations. He voted religiously. But nothing much mattered. It all came to him in an Auto Parts store. He needed replacement windshield wiper blades. A very mundane purchase. After all if was one of the last things you could do on a car without the government’s permission. The socialists had succeeded in making everything with cars either illegal, expensive, or sealed. You could put an additive in your oil; it’s damaging the planet. Gas was eight bucks a gallon, seven of which was tax; taxed like beer, treated liked drugs. The twenty two hundred dollar catalytic converter was sealed shut; the earth had to “breathe” too you know. Global warming. Remember Mother Earth. For the children. The Auto Parts store had some vintage signs as decoration. One was for an old product called Gunk Out. The slogan was: “Don’t gum up the works!”. Next to the car register were small packages of liquid epoxy designed to stick trim back on cars. Their slogan was: “It’ll never be loose again.” On an impulse, he bought five at this store. And went to another store for more.

+++

It was the end of a quiet shift. The police pair had been “clocked out” as they drove into the station parking lot. Due to budget crises, there was an automatic badge reader that recorded their status. They just had to refill the patrol car on their own time. The city saved grazillions on the “free labor”; their union had gotten other off-budget concessions. So, their end of shift chores were “off the clock”. Fill up the tank, record the serial number of ammo returned to the armory, lock up their personal weapons until next shift, download their computers to the HQ network. All their problem. Pulling up to the gas pump, the non-driver went to pump. They switched roles each shift. Just like they’d change who was the “bad cop” in their “good cop / bad cop” routine they’d run on suspects. It was all about making their quotas. The gas tank cover wouldn’t open. They were befuddled. They tried knives. They called for help. Finally, the mechanic drilled the cover and cut it off. Four hours later, gas was flowing into their tank. Their car was put out of service for repair. They were being investigated by Internal Affairs for sabatoge. Fixing that was going to be expensive. Especially at government prices!

+++

The next morning, the city’s 311 number was taking calls from irate citizens. There was no where to park. Every other meter on several blocks wouldn’t take money. What’s worse, if the parker ignored the problem, the automated parking meters would sense there was a car parked, that no graft was being paid to the city for that privilege, and a traffic agent was printed out a ticket automatically to be delivered to that car. Maybe it even got there. On some of the newer meters, it would also read the license plate, and mail a three day violation notice to the registered owner. After three days, if the $125 fine was not paid, their license and registration was suspended automatically. After seven days, a collection agency was engaged. After fourteen days, an arrest warrant was issued. All automagically. The older meters still relied on the Civil Servants to eventually get the paperwork where it should be. The law was written for the new meters. May take years but everyone would be penalized in due time. There’d be arrests for eons based on the old tickets; no statue of limitations and no requirement that tickets be done promptly by the government. But, no such “grace period” for the rabble. It was making pinheads into patriots everywhere in society. It was hard to be uninvolved. Everyone was getting into the act!

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It really wasn’t so bad. They were doing OK until the internet got the story. They had suppressed the press from reporting. They were the lapdogs of the politicians. But, eventually, six days later, the blogosphere erupted with the news. Enraged bloggers caught in the mess screamed to Holy Heaven. The the patriot bloggers picked it up. Then the outlawed bittorrenters distributed pointers to how it was done. All sorts of glue sold out in a few days. Then the fun really began. Finally way to late, wweks later, the government suspended the sale of all glue. It was more heavily regulated than guns.

+++

Eventually government ceased to function. Society thrived. But government was “glued” solid. Unmovable. Yes, it was a little inconvenient to get around the “road blocks”. But it was funny to see the mayor’s limo encased in epoxy!

+++

Yes, you really should NOT gum up the works.

# # # # #

[NOTE: This is Johnathan Swift satire, you should NOT do this!]

# # # # #

It was cold. So cold. He’d never been so cold. The heat in the house was set to 40. People had to fend for themselves, but the pipes had to be kept from freezing. How many decades had they struggled? He mused as his body tried to warm the bed and blankets. More than two. The “carbon tax” to prevent “global warming” was the event that had started them down a road to “hell frozen over”. But, other things had set the stage. Even the children and grandchildren were impoverished. They all lived with him. He wept. More than a decade ago, his proud son was beaten by “the economy” and came home to live. The son brought his wife and three children. Couldn’t earn enough to feed everyone; never mind shelter, clothe, or anything else. There was no work. Debt crushed that once proud son and bankruptcy left them nothing. For awhile, it was OK. There was enough work from time to time to pay the bills. But “the economy” was in a death spiral. On their little plot of land, they resurrected a “victory garden”. Some victory. Not much of a garden. He and his wife moved to the first smallest bedroom so that the five refugees could have the largest room. At the time, he groused at his sainted wife that “it was temporary” and “we could take the second larger room”. Her response was: “I see worse times ahead.” That scared him. He began to take some modest steps for “worse times”. Cut the cable. Watch expenses like a hawk. Sell stuff. Hide other stuff. The polictics of “soak the rich” sounded too much like class warfare of the Nazis and Communists. He knew from a survivor of the Shoah and another from Cambodia where that led. He hid some stuff. Above the refrigerator coils. In clocks and appliances. Curtain rods. Nothing paper. He acquired some unpapered assets. Anything with a paper trail would be lost. An abandoned prized car in the backyard covered a multitude of metal detectable “sins”. As “the economy” worsened, his daughter and once proud son-in-law arrived with their three kids to take the middle small but larger bedroom. Again for a while it was OK. The taxes were oppressive. But when you have no income, there were no income taxes. Corporations were heavily taxed to make it up and they raised their prices. So people, who had nothing, paid the taxes hidden in products or went without. There was a a lot of going without. “Global warming” need to be fought more. Despite the ever colder winters and quick cool summers. No one told the king he had no clothes. The rich left for Europe and other destinations. Taking their wealth with them. They had no allegiance to a Titanic that was going down. Despite their particular part in the political lunacy that led to the sinking. They were cheerleaders in the hysteria! Hollywood “celebrities” left if they could, but there was nobody with any money for “art”. Their Sodom and Gomorrah wound down to drugs and prostitution. Just like the whores and grifters, we always knew they were, but were btoo blind to see. “Sports celebrities” fared even worse. Without any attendance, teams folded. Millionaire third baseman, quarterbacks, and dribblers were flushed into the toilet bowl with ordinary people. In some ways, he was “lucky”. During one of the many crisises, he bought a low emission vehicle, so they had a car. It was a modest profit center. They could get to the store, the doctor, or to work if there was any. Six adults and one neighborhood sharing one car made scheduling a nightmare. But survivors cooperated. It was a life raft. There were plenty of cars around. Just none that were “road worthy” according to the government. “Global warming” had ruled all the non low emission models off the roads. For the children, of course. That and the price of gas was in the three digits. Yes, OPEC had finally made an oil based currency and the American dollar was a stone around their neck. American “national debt” ensured the dive to civilization’s history book as a footnote about the American experiment with “liberty”. In every tragedy, some do well. The politicians were always “saving us”. Funny how they seemed to always have government transportation, food, and lodging. So too, the bureaucrats that served them, with their paychecks and gold plated pensions, did well. And, the toadies and hangers on, who lunched at the ever declining public trough. This was all not without some unpleasantness. The various “disturbances”, that the servile media did have to report, were always crushed. One could see nearby cities on fire. The prisons were overcrowded with all sorts of economic, drug, and other non-violent crime. “Hoarding” became a capital crime. As was non-payment of taxes. Unless you were politically connected. For public safety, all the guns were collected. Not us “public”; the “public servants” weren’t very safe! The howling of the NRA, GOA, and honest men were to no avail. Of course, if you can’t keep guns and drugs out of prisons, then the collection wasn’t very complete. It amused him. The thugs came a searched the house and seized his registered guns, a few gold coins, and what they called “extra food”. But as with most things done by government, they did NOT find the unregistered guns, the various stashes of gold and silver, and the caches of food. One neighbor was pointing out stuff for the thugs. A week later, he took care of that Quisling. And, his family. That was the end of snitching. A twenty two to the back of heads was a necessary ‘rodent elimination” project. He was not alone in the clean up effort. Anyone in the neighborhood who worked for the Government often met a similar fate when the employer was identified. Live too high on the hog and it was obvious where your bacon was coming from. And, of course, wretches, who had even less, came to prey on them as wealthy. He’d had learned a lesson from Western farmers. The men of the neighborhood watched out for their own. On any given day, half the folk slept for their night watch. In a way, it was, in a way, a modest profit making activity. These modern day looters were often packing heat and carrying treasure from an earlier heist. They no longer had need for it as they went to their eternal repose in the fields, cisterns, or abandoned cars. Shoot, shovel, and shut up was the “standing order”. Yes, it was hard times. And, hard men had starving families. He worried for his family as he aged. The wife passed. And he aged. His pensions, modest social security, welfare, and his “hidings” were the sustenance that kept them alive. The churches and poverty pantries had long since given their last. Welfare was a joke. They were wealthy, because they had a place to live. Civil unrest was even decimating the police and bureaucrats. He limited what he ate because there really wasn’t enough to go around. And, he’d heard that low calorie diets made you live longer. They needed him as a “cash cow” to live forever. Each day, with each child, he walk once around the block. Exercise was good for a long life. He listened to the child and then would tell them of the “good old days”. Gas, food, and fun was abundant through out the land. But there was a cancer in men’s minds that blinded them to the threat that their fellow man presented. It was a long walk. And getting longer. Or was he going slower. And, the children getting bigger. Homeschooling in addition to government schooling. There was not much to do on the cold dark nights. Electric was too valuable to waste on anything as frivolous as TV. The end of daylight signaled bedtime. At least a bed full of bodies was warm. He, of course, was alone, in that smallest of bedrooms. What would become of his family when the “cow” died? It was so cold. He fell asleep crying: “Noooo”!

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