 
## Kiss It Bye-bye, Baby!!!

## ipam

Smashwords Edition Copyright 2018 Pamela Joan Barlow Smashwords Edition, License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
A thriller and chiller crime at the right time...

America has become both the land of the free loaders and the home of the criminal brave hearts. An illegal alien enters our American boundaries from many nations around the world without a birthday party invitation. Half of the sons of bitches cross our boundary through an inadequate federal government border security system, while the other half of the bastards breaks the American law and do not leave when their American visa card expires, making all the assholes illegal to live here within our soil.

Then, the American laws are un-enforced by the US federal fucking-government, because the US federal government leaders like to get pissed-on by a set of numerous oversized dicks coming from the wealthy free enterprise corporations that use a lot of cheap labor consisting of many, many illegals to feed their big fat money profits.

Or the US federal government leaders feed the pig-squeaking racial groups that have nothing better to do then dump their smelly pig shit in the face of each true hard-working American, who's true great, great, great, great-grandpa and grandma nose bleed and then died right here on top of American soil as the original gang of Americans.

The foreign country of Canada, you know that big piece of frozen land right above the Great Lakes of Michigan. Plus the foreign country of Mexico, you know the one right below the State of Texas. Both foreign countries are the major funnels for many, many illegal aliens entering into our native country of America.

The so-called elected representatives of the American people within the executive, legislative, and judicial branches of the US Federal Government allow killing terrorists, evil drug lords, illegal aliens, violent asshole criminals, and infectious contagious diseases coming from both human and animal. Those are the real facts.

Now, read about the real American fairy tale, ya'll.
Present day and place

May 3rd Tuesday

8:04 a.m.

Town of Moville in US State of Alabama

(seven miles, north, from metro city Birmingham, Alabama)

Mostly clear sky with five mph winds

68 percent humidity at 74ºF

Forest landscape setting

"Shoot him between the fucking eyeballs, Cam!" the tall green eyed male ordered in baritone timber, folding his arms over his shirt, standing next to the old limestone quarry pit.

Decades ago, the open-pit quarry had dumped massive rock chunks into numerous dump trucks, hauling the limestone to several different locations of rock crushing stations in central Alabama for the creation of concrete. The vanilla colored mixture was currently used in road bridges, private driveways, and traffic roadways throughout the great State of Alabama.

In the 1970s, a heavy violent thunderstorm rained down upon the tiny city of Moville for four days straight like a Bible event, flooding the limestone quarry forever. So the Moville City Council members voted to shut down the quarry site, preserving the land and creating a deep man-made pond for the wildlife wanderers. The man-made pond helped Mother Nature provide both food and water to the deer, coyotes and rabbits.

The final geographical landscape allowed the local teens to visit the water-filled quarry during the late evening hours, hanging out for body swimming, smoking illegal cigarettes, drinking illegal beer, and pretty much, goofing around a fresh water concrete pond nearby a forest full of green woodlands.

"O...okay," Cam was a tall and athletic man with a head of blonde colored hair, a pair of blue eyes, a tone of dark tinted skin, and twenty something years old. He aimed his hand gun at the dark skinned forehead.

The short brown eyed male sobbed with his tears from two red swollen eyelids, running snot from his broken nose bridge. His hands were tied behind his back spine, kneeling on the cool grassy ground. He looked up to see heaven, pissing a bright wet stain onto his faded and torn blue jeans.

Jared leaned down to the short male with a sour frown. "Hey, bubba. Listen to me?" He slapped the cheekbone of the male, leaving a red mark. The male grunted. Jared waved the American flag in the bruised face, saying with a stern face. "Ya can kiss this flag or kiss that gun? Decide now, asshole?"

The short brown eyed male drooled red blood between his busted lips, "Flag."

Jared eased the flag to the male and jerked it away with a grin and a laugh. "Too late."

Cam fired the single bullet at the kneeled male. "Fucking foreigner." He raised a smoking gun from the perfect shot and mouth spat on the dead body.

The dead body rested sideways over the grass. His eyeballs stared up in heaven.

"Strip them naked, take their personal clothes, and personal gold and silver jewelry back to their families in Hometown. Tie these paper notes to them paper bags of jewelry," the tall green-eyed male said, providing a wads of paper to Jared.

Jared accepted and read the paper note. "You. Are. Next." He looked up with a puzzled brow to see Cam. "Hmm. Should it be in them there foreign words?"

Cam shook his skull, staring down at three dead bodies. "Naw. Them peoples will get the message, silently and softly."

Jared was average height and average weight, twenty something years old with a tone of dark tinted skin, a head of brown colored hair, and a pair of blue eyes. He kicks the closest still body with his boot toe, shaking his baseball cap, "Ain't carrying them boys naked in my clean truck bed. I just washed it this morning."

A second tall male with blue eyes moved from the pickup truck and stopped, placing the last of six covered metal buckets on the ground dirt. He pointed to the first dead body. "Drag them bodies over yonder there deep into the land brush and strip them naked and cover with this stuff." He tapped the bucket with a boot toe and a chuckle.

Cam flipped the lid out of one of the six buckets and leaned down, stupidly sniffing the whitish-pasty contents. "Shit. It smells like shit. What's in here?"

"That one's my mama's bacon grease. Ya best be real careful when cursing at my mama, boy?" The tall green eyed male jabbed as finger down to the open bucket.

Cam closed his eyelids, bowing his skull. "Pardon me. I's apologize to your mama."

The second tall male with a pair of blue eyes pointed to the open bucket. "There be three pails of olive oil and three of bacon grease. Cover them bodies from their pretty cow licks to their shitty toenails. Got it, Cam?"

Cam nodded, staring at the first dead body. "Yes sir."

Jared viewed the forest of trees. "Didn't mean any disrespect here. But them boys might be found, pretty soon."

The tall green eyed male said with a chuckle and a grin. "Coyotes, snakes, and maggots will pick that body clean five days tops, if'an the weather holds," he looked up a scruffy blonde whiskered chin to the skyline, scanning with his emerald green eyeballs, seeing the baby blue sky and tons of white clouds.

The second tall male with a pair of blue eyes said in his bass timber with a chuckle and a smile. "Heard tell? There's pack of vicious wild dogs, running and hunting for food around these parts." He turned with a grin to see the woodlands.

"Dawgs'll eat them dead bodies?" Jared pointed down to the dead body.

"Covered in my mama's bacon grease, they will," the second tall male with a pair of blue eyes laughed with his Bama buddies.

9:16 a.m.

Town of Moville (two miles, north, from Birmingham)

Evan's Gas and Food Station on Highway 79

Mostly sunny with three mph winds

84 percent humidity at 74ºF

Rear room setting

"Where am I?" The obese man stood from the limousine, staring with a sour frown at the old gas station.

Three men moved from a parked limousine to a weather beaten side door of a dull concrete rectangular building.

The door opened.

They stomped inside one at a time to country music song that blasted from a set of nine different plasma television screens.

The screens were black colored without a picture.

An older man stood from his chair at the rounded table, extending a smile and a handshake. "Welcome, gentlemen. Please join us around the table. No need for intros. I believe we know persons or reputations." Rich was sixty something years old, standing at six feet and three inches tall. His blonde hair was graying at each temple. He possessed a sun-kissed tinted skin tone from too many outdoor activities with a pair of dancing hazel eyeballs.

Two of the guests stomped and sat at the table into a pair of empty chairs.

The obese man stood in the archway, scanning the interior room. "Why are we here? Is this a conference room here? It looks like a gas station from the outside sign and presentation to me. Am I in the correct meeting?" Wade was an American billionaire, who royally stood like a prince. He viewed the four dull beige walls, and the six tall pillars of stacked un-opened brown cardboard boxes of soft sipped and beer bottles. He turned and stared at nine active television monitors with no sound, a solo playing guitar in a leather chair, the ceiling, the tile floor, and finally the occupied metal chairs.

"Please sit down, Wade. All your questions will be answered shortly." Rich motioned to an empty seat. The door closed.

Wade moved and straddled in an uncomfortable position inside a hard non-padded metal chair. He was five feet and nine inches tall, weighing in at 304 pounds of soft muscles which was elegantly crammed inside a New York City tailor-made business suit. He possessed a tone of pale glowing skin, a head of short cropped black hair, a pair of sad doe brown eyes, and a set of two round rosy crab apple cheeks. The billionaire resided in the State of Massachusetts, placing both his pointy elbows on the table wood, lifted both his hands, cupping a double chin, staring at the host of meeting, Rich. Wade had graciously accepted both a verbal invitation and a physical private jet ride, coming from the city of Boston and down to a rural country town of Moville, compliments of Rich. Rich had suggested a more leisure attire for the small town gathering in rural Alabama. However, Wade always dressed business-like for a business appointment. This particular informal private single meeting consisted exclusively of billionaires, sitting in the rear end of a concrete rectangular room of some un-named American birthed Mom and Pop gas and food station off US Highway 79. The primary purpose was fixing the pain-in-the-fucking-ass to many social, legal, and financial problems in America for the poor hard-working American people. Wade looked over his collar bone to see the closed door, asking a touch of city slicker snobbiness. "Where are the beverage and food waitresses, waiters? I require coffee before an enclosure of the agenda minutes conducted at this early morning business meeting." He turned with a sour frown to see the host of the event, Rich.

Holt stood at six feet, five inches in a mesomorph body type. His naturally wavy blonde hair bounced over his broad squared shoulders. He possessed a rectangle face with a square jaw. Emerald green eyes beamed on his perfect olive skin. He cleared his throat, pointing to the wall. "See that there north wall? There's coffee, sugar, crème, and cheap-ass paper for recycling the cups under the earth dirt for ya'll. This is a self service bar. That means we serve ourselves like my great great-grandpa did in the year of 1863 during the American Civil War between the States." Wade turned with a sour frown to see the wall and then the host Rich.

Dalton was thirty something years old, standing at six feet and five inches tall with an athletic bronze toned body from his many outdoor activities. He possessed a head of black shoulder length hair plus a dark dusting of cat whiskers on a face and was not shaved purposefully. His baby blue eyes danced to Wade's happy un-comfort. "Why did you invite 'Waddling'?" He sipped the soda. Dalton only liked soda and beer, not coffee or tea. He was here to personally kick with a right, maybe a left boot toe too into the asshole billionaires for supporting Rich's grand idea, saving the USA.

Wade sneered to Dalton. "Who are you, sir? Why is he here at all? Why I am here? Is this the proper outlay for a business meeting?"

"Dalton." He stood and extended a handshake to Wade. Wade grunted, ignoring the gentleman's gesture. Dalton chuckled at Wade's snobbiness.

"IT, as in information computer, and telecommunication, Dalton is the 'IT prince' with a capital P." Holt pointed to Rich. "Rich is the IT king."

Wade said with a sour tone. "I know this young man by visual sight and nasty reputation. I want to know. Why am I here, Rich?"

Holt pointed to each billionaire with a cute-ass nickname that was created by him and his Bama-buddy Dalton. He said with a nod and a smile. "Dalton is called the 'IT prince' for his billion-dollar envision of computers. Rich is 'IT king.' Miss Molly is 'food princess.'" He turned and smiled to Molly.

Molly batted the eyelashes at Holt, friendly and flirty like an old southern belle. "Why thank you, Holt! That's the kindest remark any male has complimented me, since 1983." She was sixty something years old with a head of silver colored hair, a pair of green eyes, and a petite body framed that was tinted in a rosy complexion.

"You're welcome, Miss Molly." Holt pointed around the table. "Shelly is the 'construction king' and Miss Ann is the 'retail queen.' Trent is the 'candy prince.' Cole is the 'real estate prince.' Miss Beatrice is the 'trucking princess." And Miss Penny is the 'shit princess." He grinned, nicknaming his southern rebel friends.

Penny was forty something years old, standing at five feet and six inches tall with a tone of dark mocha tinted skin, a head of short dark brown curly hair, and a pair of brown eyes with golden specks. She frowned and leaned over, slapping Holt on the naked forehead.

Holt raised both palms with a laugh. "I am sorry. Miss Penny is the 'shit queen."

Penny smiled with a nod. "I am the 'shit queen.' I am for clarification the owner of numerous cleaning services. Yup. I clean up nasty smelly shit left by a pair of assholes like Holt and Dalton." She turned and winked at Dalton.

Dalton raised his arms with a chuckle. "Yeehaw, ya'll."

Wade slammed both his palms on the wooden table. "I keep informed on an hourly basis of every single latest and greatest business event, occurring inside the US, sir. However, the current question why am I here."

Dalton twisted an empty glass bottle between his fingers, saying with a sneer to Wade. "He's an asshole, Rich. Told ya not to invite 'Waddling'."

Trent smiled. "Waddling, you're the 'Wall Street prince' and now part of our new club formed right here in Bama."

"My name is Wade..."

Dalton said with a sour tone. "First off, we ain't using last names, 'cause we don't want any necessary attention. Okay? Second off, next meeting, ya dress in jeans and boots like Holt." He pointed to the rattlesnake boots in pretty dark maroon hues on Holt. "Got that, Wade?" Nods came from the other billionaires.

Rich sipped on the warm coffee, scanning each face around the wood. "In the US, here lives 1,243 billionaires which is an American increase of 9.1 percent from last year."

"I passed my fourth grade math. Please get to the point. Why am I here?" Wade frowned.

"There are 600 billionaires which are represented by an average of 2.1 billion dollars of personal net worth, giving a granddaddy total of 1.2 quadrillion dollars." Rich smiled.

Holt chuckled. "That's a whole number with fifteen zeros, Wade."

"I know that. I passed out of elementary grade into middle school and into high school and graduated college, sir." Wade said with a sour tone.

Dalton chuckled. "The whole number is front of the zeros, Waddling."

"Shut it, Dalton." Rich shook a skull. Trent and Shelly both voted their security concerns about holding friendly or hostage-like both Wade and Dalton in the same US state, much less, in the same sixty feet square room in the rear of a gas station, before World War Third commenced with a full array of colorful fireworks, since Dalton would act like a true country asshole, while Wade would try to forget his birth spot of life on planet Earth.

Dalton stood and belched, turning with a smile to see Wade. "I need a soda. Anybody wants something like coffee. I'll play waitress for the day." Wade frowned at Rich.

"You're not pretty enough, Dalton, but do bring me soda, any kind." Trent smiled. He was forty something years old with a short cropped dirty blonde hair plus matching facial scruff, a pair of aqua colored eyeballs on a hard weathered suntanned skin. The candy prince liked the outdoors too. Dalton turned and moved to the wall for the required beverage order.

Holt raised his hand with a chuckle. "What are you planning to do with one point two quadrillion dollars, Rich?" He did not reveal the secret of why all the southern born and breed billionaires were conveniently gathered together in the rear room of an old country store. The country store really did sell gas and food items in an isolated backwoods town off of US Highway 79 in the State of Alabama.

Wade said with a sour tone. "May I remind you, rednecks here in the backwoods of Alabama? Net worth is financially defined, including all the assets of the land, many houses, lots of buildings, yards of equipment, and any other business company products, exclusive of the cash. The monetary but imaginary one point two quadrillion dollars are not piled high like a chimney stack outside the local Third National Alabama Bank."

"Thanks for the academic lesson in US economics 101, Waddling." Holt sipped the coffee.

Rich said. "When you add all these great big numbers on a calculator or in your brain, you get four point three quadrillion dollars. The eight point eight millionaires of the USA possess a cash net worth in monetary dollars plus any and all physical homesteads of forty four trillion dollars, making for a grand total of documented wealth of three point five quadrillion dollars at our disposal."

Ann smiled. "At our disposal for what exactly? Why do we need three point five quadrillion dollars, Rich?" She was an elder lady, standing at five feet and seven inches tall with a head of silver colored hair which was pulled back into an old fashioned bun behind the nape of her neck with a pair of soft brown eyes, and a tone of soft pale tinted skin. The skin barely showed over her yellow girly silk blouse. Ann was the billionaire retail queen.

"To pay off the corruption, the greedy, and the selfish shitty folks that's destroying America, Americans, and the good ole US of A." Trent sipped the coffee.

"Since, all the government officials and congressmen are totally lying to Americans about the true financial facts, regarding their hard-working money." Cole nodded with a stern face. He was fifty something years old with a head of black colored hair, a pair of brown eyes, standing at five feet and ten inches tall on his suntanned skin. Cole was the billionaire real estate prince.

"Lack of money," Shelly sipped the soda. He was the billionaire construction king, thirty something years old with a head of reddish blonde colored hair, a pair of mint green eyes, standing at six feet and four inches tall on a slender muscular tone, and a tone of bronze tinted complexion.

"The lack of money leads to a decline of our country and more decline of our culture known as the great and mighty America." Molly frowned.

Trent frowned. "Americans have lost honor, humility, and dedication of personal pride given to them by our forefathers over 200 years ago. That pride was formed from the hope of the fragile colonists, and became the great United States of America."

"Americans believe their well-being is someone else's responsibility." Sylvia stared into the empty coffee cup.

"Ya mean someone else's problem that the US Federal Government can fix." Cole nodded.

Beatrice was sixty something years old with a head of straight brown with natural gold highlighted hair, a heart shaped face, a tone of pale tinted skin, and a pair of turquoise eyes. She turned and frowned to Molly. "No morals. You forget that item on your list, Molly. Morals are definitely absent in the current social setting throughout America."

Albert was five feet and five inches tall with a bald skull a tone of pale tinted skin, and a pair of light brown eyes. He said. "Everyone cheats at everything and cheats each other, starting with the US Federal Government officials down to the corporate leaders, down to the church preachers, and down to the school teachers. A school coach will allow drug enhanced professional and college sports players to cheat with each other. It makes my head spun in a circle."

"Not in good old Bama, Albert. Hell no." Dalton shook his curls with Holt.

"Shut it, Dalton." Rich ordered with a fatherly tone.

"Cheating, the new American way." Penny frowned.

"Ethos, American style," Rich said.

"Ethos doesn't play here, Rich." Wade frowned.

"Aristotle defined ethos, as the ability, in each particular case to see the available means of persuasion." Albert said.

"Correct, Albert. Ethos doesn't play in the discussion of American economics." Wade smiled.

"I disagree, Wade. The dictionary tells 'ethos' is the distinguishing character, sentiment, moral nature, or guiding belief of a person, group, or institution." Cole read from his mobile telephone.

"To cheat, you need a guiding belief of dishonesty. I believe a person possesses the accomplishment to cheat." Beatrice said.

Albert said. "Ethos displays a persuasive appeal of one's character, especially by means of speech. I cheat."

"And damn proud of it if not caught," Shelly chuckled.

"American ethos changes from us to me with two tiny little alphabetic letters." Holt nodded.

Rich waved his hands for attention. "And American ethos is going to change back those two little letters from m.e. to w.e."

Shelly frowned. "That's one letter, Rich."

Trent said with a sour tone. "What w.e?"

Rich stared at the far, pondering Trent's statement. "So, it is."

"To me, I feel that the continuous useless programs of welfare, education, crime, and politics are robbing American's economy." Penny nodded.

"Welfare, education, crime, and politics are raping American's economy. Bingo." Cole said.

Holt pointed with a stern face to see Cole. "Manners, Cole. Ladies are present." Cole turned and nodded with a stern face to Molly. She nodded back a silent forgiveness to Cole.

"What about the huge gap between the 'haves' and the 'have nots?'" Ann nodded.

Albert said. "It doesn't exist, Miss Ann. Some academicians argue that the poor Americans never can attain the American dream, without the aid of the wealthier Americans. The wealthier Americans own and distribute almost all the mad-made and natural resources of the land."

"The single resource of the land is and represents the hard-working American taxpayers' money. Money, a blinded format of US Federal Government benefits called 'entitlements' but also nicknamed as 'free handouts.'" Cole nodded.

"Entitlement is fair, if you are needy." Ann nodded.

"The US Federal Program was nicknamed the 'War on Poverty' and started by the US President Lyndon Johnson in the 1960's, creating the entitlement concept. It has never ended and it continues to conceive and reproduce itself like a one-celled ameba, surviving into the twenty first century." Trent frowned.

"Blow it up with them big battle field tanks," Dalton laughed with Holt.

"Rocket launchers?" Holt turned with a smile and fist bumped with Dalton. "Wait, use the space shuttle lasers." Both Dalton and Holt giggled like a pair of high school farts.

"A good idea gone, sourly wrong. Present day, some Americans believe that an entitlement is given, because you are born as a US citizen. Simply because, the other US Americans owe you something, if you cannot get it yourself through hard work." Molly nodded.

"Not right." Holt shook his curls.

"Damn right, Molly." Dalton nodded.

"The entire concept undermines the assumption that the successful Americans haven't rightfully earned their wealth." Trent nodded.

"Are your referencing my personal wealth?" Wade frowned at Trent.

"Don't continue to follow, Waddling." Dalton chuckled at the snobbiness of Wade.

Rich jabbed a finger in the wooden table. "That right there, the assumption presented by Trent, implies that the successful Americans haven't rightfully earned their billions. And the wealthy Americans have taken all the available free-flowing money and are financial obligated to give it back to the non-wealth Americans," he shook his skull.

"Hey, that's a democracy, equal is for everyone. Right, Rich?" Penny smiled.

Holt said, "Only if, you ain't a billionaire."

Rich slammed both palms down on the wooden table. "We, w.e sitting around this table are changing that asinine asshole assumption."

Trent shook a skull. "Assume that means 'an ass of you and me' which works fine and dandy for most Americans."

"Entitlement is a product of the US Federal Government, not the US American workers. The government thinks Uncle Sam can fix the problem by taking money from the hard-working Americans and giving it to the non-working American. Boom. Bang. Damn. The problem's solved." Cole shook a skull with a smile.

Dalton banged both palms on the wooden table with a smirk. "Hell, naw."

"Taking the money from the American workers and giving to the non-workers, is an economic explosion which reduces capitalism and capitalists like us." Beatrice nodded.

"Management 101, the money you take from the productive workers, the less productive the workers become. The end." Shelly nodded.

"That's socialism. Right, Dalton?" Holt smiled.

Dalton nodded with a smile. "Right, Holt."

"What's the true outcome of an entitlement?" Ann inquired.

"Lazy fucking sons of bitches and asshole licking bastards, who don't work for nothing. Don't wanna do for nothing, because the fucking US Federal Government bleeds their US working American citizens drier than a vampire slayer." Dalton nodded with a sour frown.

Trent nodded with a smile. "I like Dalton's single expressive creative mental thought process, since he reads way too many science fiction novels."

Beatrice turned and winked with a smile to Dalton. "I like Dalton, totally. Are ya married, honey?"

Dalton turned red-colored with a nod. "Yes ma'am. Happily."

The billionaires laughed at Dalton.

Rich smiled. "Don't embarrass the child, Beatrice! What happened to husband number six?"

Beatrice turned with a wink to see Rich. "Number five, he's working on the railroad in Oklahoma. Are you married, Rich?"

"Very." Rich grinned.

"What's the true outcome of entitlement?" Albert looked to see each face.

Wade nodded. "I believe that Dalton's thoughtful reference translates into the massive destruction of safe suburbs and rural communities, inside America, in terms of statistically high crime and more deadly violence."

"You're a racist, Waddling." Ann frowned to Wade.

Trent nodded. "Wade is pinpointing some documented and recorded and very important informational facts, Miss Ann. Statistically speaking, of course, the highest percentage of crime is committed by one particular race..."

"Black people. Gawd damn it, Trent. Use the right fucking ass term." Holt ticked the toothpick between his lips.

Beatrice frowned, pointing to Holt and Wade. "Horseshit to both ya'll, rednecks, Holt and Wade. Helping people, who are colored black, white, red, or yellow skin tones, restores both personal dignity and social structure to their lives. This is called 'human' from the root word of humanitarian." She turned with a smile and patted on the arm of Ann.

"Miss Ann is very human." Holt smiled at Ann.

"Shut it, Holt." Trent turned and frowned at Holt for switching sides in the cat fight.

Wade viewed Beatrice. "All the scientific research which is collected and gathered by the US Federal Government, can be easily illustrated with an example in the city of Houston, Texas. The found guilty and imprisoned inmates come from ten selected zip codes out of a possible seventy five. In Philadelphia, the jailed prisoners are made up of eleven neighborhoods, accounting for ninety nine percent of the crime rate. And in New York City, there are 24 out of 200 neighborhoods that currently locked up in a local or federal prison system."

Ann nodded. "I concur with your research, Wade."

"I don't, Waddling. Show me these reports?" Dalton chuckled with silliness.

"Shut it, Dalton." Rich frowned.

Ann said. "Overwhelmingly, poor people from the low income neighbors are the 'have nots' and will resort to un-acceptable..."

"The word's illegal, Miss Ann." Trent frowned.

"...for finding adequate food and needy shelter." Ann said.

"And mega tons of drugs, and other illegal entertainment sources and resources for their shit and giggles." Cole chuckled.

"So, when the communities are not safe, and schools are not safe, and crime ramparts quickly into the healthy neighborhoods, what can be done?" Shelly frowned to each face around the table.

"Education. Educate the un-educated." Penny nodded with a smile.

"We have free don't have to pay, ya'll. Ten of thousands of public schools for every single American and non-American kid stands along the dirt of the USA. And might I add? These kids are taught by college-based educated teachers in the basic primary academic subjects, such as, reading, writing, math, history, literature, and economics." Cole frowned.

"I failed my college economics class." Dalton grinned.

"Shut it, Dalton." Rich turned and frowned at the young billionaire.

"Hey! When a person can't read, write, or add, you get lots of ignorance folks." Shelly nodded.

"Called dropouts, who ain't employed, and are sent into four-by-four jail cells which is also paid by the hard-working American taxpayers' money, again." Rich nodded with a stern face.

Trent said. "Or goes on the US State welfare system paid with more of the hard-working American taxpayers' money, again, until they all end up dead which can be days or decades."

"I like dead." Dalton smiled.

"Shut it, Dalton." Rich turned and frowned at the young billionaire.

"So, the crime is created when the lack of education leads to a bad behavior, because his mama steals only four gooey chocolate chips as a breakfast entrée for her little boy." Dalton grinned.

"Look at it in reverse, the student does not learn in school. Student A drops out of school, has a baby, and gets on American welfare. She is never employed by any business corporation, earning a set of big bucks and an array of beautiful fringe benefits like vacation and sick paid time off. Student B drops out of school, and robs for their food and their fun, never wanting to work for a big corporation with the big bucks and fine benefits. Since they both can steal, take it all for free." Holt nodded.

"You are mentally disturbed like Dalton, Holt." Wade said with a sour tone.

"Thank you, kindly." Holt chuckled.

"I bet that you don't know this true fact. There are seven million folks inside the prison system." Trent read from his mobile telephone.

Shelly frowned. "In the USA?"

"That's 2.28 percent of all Americans." Wade nodded.

"Seems low to me," Holt grinned.

"Land of the free loaders and home of the criminal brave hearts." Dalton chuckled.

Trent raised his palm. "Okay. We've learned that spending taxpayers' money on the Federal welfare program and more Federal education hurts the US economy and the US Americans. How so?"

Albert said. "When an American gets educated and gets to vote their politician into a US State political office, the first promise of that elected politician is to help his own state or community. He pushes legislation for new taxes onto the businesses and homeowners to pay for that elected fake promise. Then the politicians are required to raise capital money to spend on the local schools, and the local roads while locally employing, the un-employed. Hence, it creates American jobs to fuel the American economy."

Rich said. "Then the highly educated politician gets his power and starts telling his people where to live, what to build, and what business can open or close, where his cash is sent for training, educating, and providing jobs and healthcare into his pocket for his family unit and social friends."

"But the damn Americans didn't fucking like to be told what to do or how to live." Cole chuckled.

Rich pointed to Cole. "Bull's eye. We fight back. We riot. We protest. We can't win, and we left. We pick up our possessions and left the city. Head west, young man."

"Not right. The lower income and poorer people can't just pack up and left. The poorer people didn't fight back. Since they can't fight and stay inside the criminal town." Molly nodded.

Rich nodded. "They wallow in their misery and their self-pity, leading to a solo crime, and many solo crimes, and eventually to total violence within the elected politician's community. Because, a true grit hard working American finds their own way to live their own life, without any type of government intervention, hence the acceptance of the entitlement concept."

"Right on." Holt tosses his fist, grinning.

Rich said. "The educated politician pours all the American taxpayers' money into a dying city to aid the misery fools month after month, year after year, decade after decade, century after century."

"Economic ruin." Trent nodded.

"Economic rubbish." Cole nodded.

Beatrice said. "The American taxpayers' money leads to a set of new government jobs and new government contracts along with a secret abuse of new power, new bribes, and new corruption on top of all the current old power, bribes, and corruption."

"Social injustice for the taxpayers, the workers called Americans." Molly nodded.

"Man, I see the light." Dalton smiled.

"Man, I see the dark." Holt smiled and fist-bumps with Dalton.

Albert said. "The light shines brightly on the employed Americans, when the US government taxes the workers, creates a series of stupid jobs of nothing and then pours the tax payers' money into a set of empty schools. The US government is destroying the very heartland of capitalism in America. Thus, the US Federal Government quashes the US American freedom, creates dependency of citizens, and deters money investment in businesses, and bogs down US economic growth. All these actions lead to collapse."

"The collapse of the great US of A." Shelly nodded.

"Americans today are economically illiterate when they allow taxation of their hard working income, elect politicians, who vote for more bank money debt of US and the influx of foreigners. The foreigners suck and bleed Americans of their own government services, freely, silently and deadly." Cole nodded.

"Americans are experiencing all of the below situation economic failure, unemployment, protests, crimes, corruption, and finally dependency on the US Federal Government." Rich nodded.

"All of this has to stop, eventually." Holt nodded.

Wade said. "Rich, your lecture has not touched on the unions, the government employees, the transfer payments..."

"Good point for a later discussion, Wade." Rich nodded.

"Finale, folks. America has become an open pocketbook for the poor, a gold mine for the rich, a forger of fake paper money for the government, along with a debtor of high and massive legal financial credit notes for the stupid middle class folks." Shelly nodded.

"That's not capitalism it's socialism." Cole nodded.

Albert said. "That is not socialism, either. When the US Federal Government makes up forty percent of the GDP, we are definitely a government-dominated society which is not called a democracy, either."

"So that's fascism then?" Trent frowned.

Albert shook his baldness. "No, the dictionary defines fascism as a political regime of a certain race, who dictates..."

"Americans are a race," said Dalton.

"Dalton's right but wrong." Holt grinned at Dalton.

"We, the people, the Americans are a single race." Dalton nodded.

"Shut it, Dalton." Trent ordered with a brotherly tone.

Rich said. "American has changed into a new type of government which is fueled by a set of fake worthless shit filled toilet paper nicknamed as 'money.' The money totals today at 24 trillion dollars which is way beyond any historical world debt by other foreign country. The debt has been created by the back-walking and sweet-talking happy-faced corrupt politicians and their pissing minions. Every day, the hard-working Americans see them bastards on the screens of televisions, mobile phones, computers, or hear them on the radio and still can't fucking stop, the rash of cash."

"What's that called, Rich?" Penny inquired.

"Totalitarian form of government." Trent said.

Cole shook his skull. "Naw, Trent. That's a government when people kill each other with legal guns and then martial law is declared by the gun toters, a new son of gun president is elected to rule the totalitarian country."

Dalton smiled. "I vote we change from a democratic to a totalitarian one. Ya bring all the guns and I be the new sheriff. What'da ya think about my hot idea, buddy?"

"Stow it, Dalton." Trent ordered with a brotherly tone.

Dalton and Holt chuckled and fist bumped.

Rich said. "Our evolved US Federal Government produces money for their private profit and feeds the US government officials with financial funding, that creates chaos for American workers, chaining them to their work desks, forever."

"To add to your analogy, all Americans will continue to pay their earned money in the format of federal taxes in frightful fear that one day the US government might take over their profitable businesses. When the economy collapses, their personal security deteriorates, creating mega tons of human violence." Penny said.

"Don't think so." Shelly shook his skull.

"I agree with Shelly. The US Federal Government will not take over the businesses, but all Americans must choose their fate, their fascism or their freedom." Beatrice nodded.

"Americans will always choose personal liberty, our birthright set by our forefathers, who are known as George Washington and Thomas Jefferson." Cole nodded.

Dalton raised his fist. "Damn right and with their personal assembly of guns. Did ya know there are 270 million guns registered by Americans? That's about eighty eight guns per one hundred folks, including small children," smiling.

"Only Dalton can quote that factual tidbit, accurately." Holt chuckled.

Dalton said. "America is ranked as the number one nation, possessing more guns in their houses than any other nation on planet Earth."

"Rich, what's the new type of government for Americans then?" Trent inquired.

"Billionaires." Rich smiled. "We, ladies and gentlemen are taking back the United States of America from the fat greedy assholes, who don't do nothing but waste taxpayers' money, feeding their fat asses, while the 'real' Americans go hunger and starve."

Dalton scoots his ass from the hard chair and stood, tossing both hands over a heart with a rebel yelled, because he liked, too. "Yeehaw."

"What's this new type of government you plan to establish for the Americans, Rich? We currently and hopefully for another 1,000 years plan to be a democracy of free people and free enterprise." Cole asked.

Wade gasped and scooted out the chair from his ass, pointing to Rich. "You plan to take over the US Federal Government in an armed coup with hand guns and hillbillies like Dalton. Then you illegally commit high seas mutiny against our nation's solo leader, the powerful President of the United States, and hold all us hostage. So you can pay off the 24 trillion dollar debt accumulated by our greedy and incompetent government leaders to the world's foreign governments. This is the purpose of the today's business meeting," he shook his skull.

"That's a great idea, Wade but sadly no." Rich nodded.

Dalton laughed. "We're taking back America, not taking over, Waddling. Told ya not to invite the Wad o' shit, Rich." He shook his curls, rolling a second empty soda bottle between his fingers.

Holt laughed. "Wad o' shit, that's real good, Dalton."

Rich said. "Sit down, Wade. Listen to my idea. At first, there'll be an authoritative body controlling the newly created US government with the little letter 'G' which will be selected from our little tiny group of assholes."

"I wanna be president." Dalton slammed his hand to his heart with a smile.

Shelly frowned. "Naw, Dalton."

Dalton frowned. "Why not, Shelly? I'm smart, smart enough to make billions. So I can run our new and improved American country," smiling.

Trent smiled. "I vote for Albert. He's smarter than you, Dalton."

"We're the same age and intellect." Dalton viewed Albert.

Holt smiled. "Dalton insulted ya, Albert."

Albert looked down to scan his writing notes, ignoring the howling hicks. "So, he did."

"Who are you, Albert?" Wade inquired.

"Albert is not a billionaire, Wade." Rich viewed Wade.

Wade said. "You mentioned that only billionaires belonged in this backwoods hick cow patty club."

"Albert is one of our many advisors." Rich nodded without clarification.

Wade raised his arms, "Advisors? They have gotten the US in our current troubles to begin with. So I do not think..."

"Naw." Holt pointed to Wade. "You don't think, Wad o'shit. Rich is leader, specifically for that very reason. Now, let's hear him out."

Wade turned and viewed the wall with the beverages.

Shelly asked. "What about taxes in our new and improved government, Rich?"

Rich shook his skull. "No taxes. We don't collect a penny from any American citizens."

"So the illegal aliens pay to us in our new and improved country." Trent chuckled.

Albert said. "Monetary taxes simply transfer the full wealth from the poor to the rich which is called the 'reverse Robin Hood theory."

"A reverse Robin Hood theory, I have never heard of that management concept." Wade frowned.

"My theory, sir." Albert turned and smile to Wade.

Dalton waved his hand. "Don't matter. We're the new and improved Robin Hoodies. We be giving back to the poor from the rich," smiling.

Rich nodded. "Correct, Dalton. We're going to take back America, giving jobs, food, houses, and some misplaced pride to all the American peoples, especially the homeless living on the streets, on the grassy parks, in the bus stations, under the bridges, and other places, not meant for human habitation."

"And children?" Beatrice nodded. "The children currently are living in the streets. They're going to get homes, food, and an education through our new and improved America."

"Amen." Shelly smiled.

"Albert, explain please?" Rich motioned.

"Why's he the business advisor?" Wade said to be annoying to the other billionaires.

Albert smiled, "I possess both a law and finance degree, serving on the college board of..."

"Halt." Dalton raised his palm. "Albert's credentials ain't for your scrutiny, Wad o'shit. He's part of club selected by our leader Rich."

Rich pointed to the woman by his arm. "I forgot my Southern manners. This is Sylvia." Sylvia was six feet and one inch tall with a slender ectomorph thin body type, a head of black hair, a pair of brown eyes and a tone of brown tinted skin.

"Who?" Wade smirked.

Rich leaned over with a smile into her face cheekbone. "You have to forgive my redneck friend, Sylvia." He pointed with a sour frown at Wade. "He's trying really hard to be an asshole."

"Grade A." Dalton chuckled.

Wade stood, rocking the table with his heavy weight, looking with a sour frown to Rich.

Dalton slid out the chair and pulled out his personal hand gun into the air, saying with a stern face and a serious tone. "Sit down, Wade, before I shoot your fucking toes." He leaned over the wood, invading the air space of Wade with a grin. "Then, you can limp out that damn door, while I target your big fat ass. I've always wanted to complete that particular wet dream, boy." He sat back down into the chair with a chuckle and a grin.

"Wade, in or out?" Trent nodded.

Wade reached down and touched the chair, lifting it and viewing Dalton. "In."

Dalton rested and spun the unloaded hand pistol on the table with a rebel yell and a grin, "Yeehaw."

"Sylvia is my new captain." Rich smiled.

"What's your new title Rich?" Cole grinned.

Rich smiled. "Commander."

"Wimpy, Rich. You should be a full starred general with four stars." Dalton spun the hand gun around and around with an index finger for his amusement.

"How about ten stars? There be ten of us with each a representative of a shining star." Holt smiled for fun.

"Great idea, Holt." Dalton chuckled.

"I like the word, commander." Rich chuckled.

"Commandant." Trent smiled.

"Naw. It sounded like a damn German kraut." Cole said with a sour tone.

Albert said, "The Commandant of Marine Corp reports directly to the US Secretary of the Navy..."

"Don't start your professor crap, Albert. Dalton gets antsy with the trigger finger on his gun." Holt smiled.

"I like kraut and beans with a hint of dill pickle." Shelly smiled.

Molly asked. "What are the three topics of concern for Americans?"

Trent said. "Jobs, schools, and healthcare."

Rich frowned. "Specifics?"

"Food, shelter, and protection." Penny nodded.

Trent nodded. "Right-o, baby."

"That...that's British talk, Trent." Holt frowned to Trent.

"Bloody right-o, duckie." Trent imitated a new British timber with a chuckle.

"Shit. Speak American or Southern? The only two official languages allowed in the new US of A, now." Dalton chuckled.

"Or Dalton'll shoot your fucking toes." Holt chuckled.

Dalton smiled and spun the gun at the trigger finger for show.

Albert said. "There are numerous American dialects other than pure Southern, coming from the US States of New York, New Jersey, California, Texas..."

"Texas is a southern state, the last time I viewed the map on my cell." Trent pointed to his mobile telephone. "See, right here."

"Arizona. Montana." Albert smiled.

"Albert's smart." Trent chuckled.

Dalton waved his left hand, since his right shooting hand twirled the empty hand gun. "Fine. Fine. Ya can speak Yankee talk, Southern twang, Western slang, and West Coast jive."

Trent chuckled. "Who uses that word, jive?"

"I do, buddy." Dalton frowned, spinning the gun between finger pads.

Albert exhaled with a huff of annoyance, "Might I point out? There are nearly thirteen million people, who speak Spanish, residing in the United States."

"Illegal fucking aliens," sneered Dalton.

Wade said with a nod and a smile. "I can understand why Albert is one of our advisors. He is smart, well-mannered, and calm unlike..."

Holt frowned. "Wade, do you speak Spanish?"

"Yes, I pride myself on learning new talents." Wade smiled.

Dalton pointed to Wade. "That right there's proof. My point, aliens do exist and they speak in a foreign language."

"Shut it, Dalton." Rich ordered with a fatherly tone.

Molly said. "Wade is not Southern. I read that you graduated from Princeton."

"Albert came from Princeton too." Dalton said.

Albert said. "Harvard. I graduated from Harvard Law School."

"Ya be born from here. Right, Albert? Bama?" Holt ticked his tongue with the toothpick.

Wade frowned. "But you still managed to graduate from Harvard. That is absolutely amazing. What an accomplishment?"

Cole smiled. "I'm impressed with ya, Albert."

"Wade insulted ya, bro." Holt ticked his tongue with the toothpick.

Albert looked down to see his written notes, ignoring the howling Bama hicks. "So, he did."

Dalton chuckled. "And Waddling dresses like a corporate CEO. Ain't ya hot, man?"

"Wade's forgotten his acquired redneck ways, as well." Holt smiled with the secret.

"He's a Yankee now." Dalton nodded.

Holt frowned. "He's a traitor to the..."

"...not to the USA." Trent said with a sour tone.

"To the Alabama flag, the great State of Bama." Holt nodded.

Wade rolled his eyeballs, "My home of country tobacco chewing gun, waving backwoods rednecks."

"Yeehaw." Dalton rebel yelled and clapped, since the hand gun safely rested flat on the wooden table.

"Please, do not start the rebel yell this early before lunch, Dalton." Cole smiled at Dalton.

Albert smiled. "Dr. Sylvia, you're a physician based on my limited datum, so far."

Sylvia turned and smiled to each billionaire. "Surgeon by trade and will be commanding all the medical, health, and clinical relations."

"What about family pets, domestic animals, and wildlife?" Trent asked.

Sylvia said. "If the biological, genetic, or chemical life form breathes or reproduces, and I rule it, totally," chuckling.

Dalton slammed a chest with a smile. "I can breathe and reproduce all at the same time."

Holt chuckled. "Dalton's an outer space alien."

"Yeehaw." Dalton rebel yelled for extreme fun.

"And an asshole," Trent smiled for his fun.

"That's Wade's awarded title. Don't confuse the hillbilly cabinet members, bro." Dalton smiled.

Shelly shook a cropped skull, "I don't like us being called a cabinet. Cabinets are finely crafted wooden furniture, holding my nice great-grandmother's decorative forty eight pieces of bone China. Can't we be a committee or...?"

"Department?" Trent smiled.

"Council?" Dalton grinned.

"Like a mind-reading council." Holt said with a nod and a smile.

"Are you a sci-fi fan, Holt?" Shelly inquired, nodding.

Holt nodded. "Big time science fiction fan, since I'm from Huntsville. Ya know it's the home of the outer space center and all those big long white rockets soar upwardly into the cold black trusses of space and stars."

Trent frowned. "I never heard of a sci-fi redneck."

Albert smiled. "I think that's regarded as an oxymoron."

Holt chuckled. "Wade's an oxygen moron. Is that right, Albert?"

Dalton raised both arms into the air with a grin without the hand gun. "Double draw, an oxygen moron and asshole!"

Albert said before the hot topic became too heated and dangerous for Wade. "How about board, panel, chamber, group, body, party, force..."

"I vote for force." Trent nodded.

Cole nodded. "Yeah, a task force."

"A life force." Holt smiled.

Dalton grinned. "A death force."

Cole yelled at Dalton and Holt. "For gawd's sakes. Shut it both ya'll, redneck fools."

"Back to business." Rich smiled.

"Berrington." Dalton smiled.

"Mangrove." Holt gasped.

"The topic is healthcare." Molly said.

Rich nodded. "Medical health care will be free to all Americans in the new US of A."

"Who's going to announce this to the greedy doctors?" Trent asked.

"Dalton is, waving an American flag in his left right and a loaded pistol in the right." Holt chuckled.

"Yeehaw." Dalton rebel yelled.

"Captain Sylvia, what's your role in the new and improved America." Trent asked.

"I plan to solve the healthcare issue forever." Sylvia chuckled.

Rich turned and nodded to her. "Sylvia is the former Assistant Surgeon General and Chief of Staff, past vice president of the American Medical Association Board of Trustees..."

"Rich?" Sylvia shook her curls.

"Yes ma'am." Rich turned and smiled to Sylvia.

Sylvia said with a nod and a smile. "I am honored that you want to share my accomplishments with the boys and girls, but I feel that this meeting should be more concerned with addressing the primary issues first with most immediacy."

Cole nodded. "Concur secondly, Rich."

"Thirdly." Shelly nodded.

Trent asked. "Ya from Bama, Miss Sylvia?"

"Yes, born and raised in Black Belt, before I ruled as the Assistant Surgeon of the Core." Sylvia grinned.

Albert said. "In the year 1798, the US Congress established the US Marine Hospital which is known today as the US Public Health Service. The service had provided health care to the sick and injured merchant seamen. In the year 1870, the Marine Hospital Service became the first national hospital under a medical officer. The medical officer was given the title of surgeon general. Dr. John Woodworth was appointed as the first supervising surgeon in 1871..."

"You're a boring person, Albert." Holt chuckled.

"Thank you." Albert nodded. He was five feet and five inches tall with a bald skull, a tone of pale tinted color, and a pair of light brown eyes.

"I believe the point here for the Bama rednecks, the Assistant Surgeon of the US oversees the military, not ordinary Americans." Wade nodded.

"Wade gots a brain like the scarecrow." Trent smiled.

"Gawd, that's why he's a billionaire." Holt ticked the tongue with the toothpick.

Albert exhaled, "Actually there are more than 6,500 officers actively participating in the military, including the Bureau of Prison, US Coast Guard, EPA, HCFA and..."

"You're a very boring person, Albert." Holt smiled.

Rich smiled. "Ah. The real mission of the US Office of General Surgeon provides a rapid and effective response to all health care needs, including sick folks with advanced health care science."

"Are we're going to buy hospitals for all the sick people in the new US of A, Rich?" Shelly nodded.

"Naw. We're going to steal them, all of them." Dalton smiled.

"Figures." Wade viewed his new finger manicure.

"Rich likes that word, steal way too much." Trent grinned.

"We create the new and improved US of A and provide free healthcare for everyone. What else, Rich?" Shelly nodded.

"We take over the trucks, hauling dry and wet goods back and forth across America." Rich nodded.

Beatrice smiled to each face. "The trucking industry is involved in the transportation and distribution of all and every commercial and industrial of wet and dry merchandise across the US." She was forty something years old, standing at five feet and six inches in height, with a tone of dark mocha tinted skin, a head of short dark brown curly hair, and a pair of brown eyes with golden specks.

Wade looked up with a sour frown to see the rebel-leader. "Rich, what about the animal carcinogens inside the diesel fuel?"

Albert said, "In 1988 and 2002, the National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health created by the US Environmental Protection Agency..."

"Just say EPA, Albert. Everyone knows the EPA." Trent said.

"Not illegals," Dalton shook his curls.

Trent viewed and frowned to Dalton. "Every American knows the EPA, boy."

Holt nodded. "Good clarification, Trent."

Albert said. "Components of diesel exhaust have been linked to health effects of lung cancer, chronic bronchitis, and aggravated asthma along with the many greenhouse gases, contributing to global warming throughout the world."

"Albert's smart." Holt chuckled.

"What about air pollution, Rich?" Wade asked.

Albert said, "Air pollution is the biological human release with other living creatures of chemicals, particulate matter or biological materials..."

"He means anthrax," Trent nodded.

"He means nuclear toxic waste." Holt said.

Albert said, "Biological materials that cause damage to the natural environment..."

"Nuclear bomb does that too." Dalton grinned.

"How about a nuclear war?" Cole frowned.

Albert said. "All these are a threat to human earthlings, the planet Earth, and all planet Earth life, in general."

"Albert's not an optimist." Holt ticked his tongue with the toothpick.

Albert said, "The major primary pollutants produce sulphur oxides, nitrogen oxides, carbon monoxide, carbon dioxide, toxic metals of lead, cadmium and copper, chlorofluorocarbons, ammonia..."

"My maid uses ammonia on the floor way too much." Holt turned and grinned to Albert. "Am I going to die, Albert?"

Albert said, "And other smelly odors, such as, garbage, sewage, and radioactive pollutants."

"Albert's too smart." Holt chuckled.

"You're going to die from a nuclear explosion caused by a radiation decay of radon from the local nuclear plant in North Bama." Dalton smiled.

"Miss Beatrice, please explain the trucking industry currently?" Rich turned and nodded to her.

Beatrice turned and nodded with a smile to each face. "The trucking industry pays out 120 million dollars in money paychecks to the working employees."

"Retail stores, hospitals, gas stations, garbage disposal, construction sites, banks, and other stuff depend upon trucks to distribute and delivery." Albert said.

"If you bought it, then a truck brought it." Beatrice smiled.

Albert said. "Within the commercial freight activity, the primary mode of transportation is trucks, hauling 11,712 tons estimated by the Bureau of Transportation Stats of 2002. These stats compare to 2,000 tons for rail; 1,700 tons for water; 3,500 tons by pipeline, and 600 tons by airplane."

"Albert's smart." Holt chuckled.

"Trucker drivers delivery daily and weekly to retail, commercial, and government entities, while the merchandise rolls into the hand, the mouth, and the stomach. A hospital employs the 'just in time' inventory system for their medical utilization supplies. A gas station requires a delivery of fuel, several times per day. A grocery store has perishable food items deliver, every two or three days." Beatrice said.

"Lots of deliveries," Rich nodded.

"By trucks," Beatrice nodded with a smile. "The trucking industry contributes about five percent to the Gross Domestic Product of the US economy, providing all type of wet and dry and moving goods to manufacturing, construction, farms, wholesale, and retail trade industries. Over eighty percent of the major and minor cities rely on trucks to deliver their fuel, their clothing, their medicines, and their other needed or desired consumer goods. That's ten million drivers of trucks out of 300 million American peoples."

The sound of claps came from the billionaires after her speech.

"What about the cross-country railroad system and rail cars?" Wade asked.

Beatrice nodded. "Firstly, railways in the US are used primarily for bulk quantities of cargo over long distances. Secondly, trains carry the bulk quantities to a distribution center that doesn't have any direct access roadways to the railroad station which could be miles from a factory plant or medical facility."

"The USA is unlike the continent of Europe, where folks use the available and free public transportation to traverse every trip around the town." Albert nodded.

"Americans like their pretty toys and imported oil." Rich smiled.

"So the trucking industry is about to change in our new and improved USA." Wade said.

"Wade's smart." Holt chuckled.

Rich nodded. "Gentlemen and ladies, we're going to increase the use of trucks throughout the US for moving wet, dry, and live inventory to all businesses."

"Using a very simple, yet economically sound strategy, the business company will receive the good, sell the merchandise, and reduce the overall cost thus, employing more people." Penny smiled.

"Making Americans happy campers." Trent smiled.

"Yeehaw." Dalton yelled with happiness.

Cole frowned. "Are we advancing electric hybrid semis, as well?"

Albert said. "The electric hybrid vehicle stores non-petrol energy by using an array of electric batteries plus regenerative brakes which goes backward to a progressive foot-shifting process. This process forces the truck driver to shift through ten to eighteen gears, optimizing the power of the engine and fuel economy for very long hauls."

Wade jabbed at the table wood with a sour frown. "May I point out? The US Department of Transportation and the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration regulates the entire trucking industry. A driver is limited to a specific number of daily and weekly hours..."

Dalton banged his fists on the table for attention. "For safety of them and us. Think, man. We hire lots of people to drive and deliver lots of stuff around the entire USA county and interstate roadways. People employed. Goods delivered. Americans happy. USA prosperous. The fucking end," chuckling.

"Dalton's, the man." Holt chuckled.

"Research has found that the automatic transmission on a semi-tractor trailer has more benefits to the machine and the man rather than your 'save the economy' suggestion Rich." Wade frowned with annoyance.

Dalton pointed to each billionaire. "You're missing the point, Wad o'shit. We are working to get workers and jobs to boost the American economy."

"Amen." Trent smiled.

"The American way, American." Holt smiled

"What about monetary dividends from company stocks invested in America?" Wade asked.

"An idea conceived only from the Wall Street prince." Dalton turned and frowned to Wade.

"What about monetary dividend paying stocks, dividend held? Dividends are the biggest contributor to cash and investment in American's future. Some investors enjoy the physical cash flow from their stock paying dividends while avoiding any future business loss." Wade said.

"His nickname is Wall Street prince." Trent frowned with confusion.

"Wade made his billions on Wall Street." Dalton smirked.

"So, you are the unidentified one percent that the other ninety nine percent Americans wanna hang by his manicured toes from my grandpa's 110 year old oak tree." Trent chuckled.

Wade nodded. "I made my money by investing in the old blue-blood S&P companies plus the new innovative enterprises on Wall Street. I'm smart and wise with my stock options."

"Damn lucky." Dalton exhaled.

Wade said. "Some investors believe that the current operating companies will raise dividend payments, boosting the stock prices and growing the economy."

"And some like me don't, Wad o'shit." Dalton shook his curls.

"What about treasury bills, Rich? They're the meat of the US economy." Wade said.

"That's for a later discussion, Wade." Rich nodded.

"Go back to first base, I'm kinda lost. What about that 'reverse Robin Hood theory?' Ya mentioned it about thirty minutes ago along with no collection or payment of American worker's taxes in the new and improved America." Shelly asked.

"No taxes, ever." Dalton nodded.

"Okay, Dalton said no taxes." Shelly nodded. "So we kick the IRS Department out on the manicured green lawn to stop all tax operations. Then what?"

Trent questions. "I like that idea. But what about the other true working folks, who have home mortgages and monthly electricity bills to pay?"

Ann said. "They're working people with nice families, children, and home mortgages."

Wade jabbed a finger at the table wood again. "I'm in this thing only, and I mean only if..."

"Hold your spit, Wade." Holt frowned.

"That should be hold your shit, Wade. Remember? He's re-named Wad o'shit." Dalton chuckled.

Wade stood as his chair bounced ass-backwards from his legs.

Rich ordered. "Sit, Wade. Down, Dalton. Before, I whip your ass with my alligator belt."

"You can try, daddy?" Dalton ticked his tongue with the toothpick as he and Holt giggled like a pair of high school girls.

Rich motioned to Albert. "Albert, this is your circus."

Albert said, "We will not collect any type of federal, state, city, county, property, or personal taxes against any..."

"Revenue is needed to support an economy, not even three point five quadrillion dollars can support the United States of America, Rich." Wade said with a sour tone.

"I'm getting to that financial explanation, if you'll hold your shit, Wade." Albert said with a sour tone too. "Required revenue will be collected..."

"What kind of revenue? You mean money. My money?" Wade said with a sour tone. "We're back to holding the billionaires hostage for their riches, Rich."

"Hush, Wade." Rich turned and frowned at the young billionaire.

Albert said, "Revenue will feed the unemployed people..."

"...like the newly unemployed poor starving IRS folks," Shelly grinned.

"...and all the other homeless and un-employed peoples." Ann nodded.

"We're going to steal the money." Rich smiled, since the billionaires were too anxious and eager to hear the entire plot.

"Steal? From whom, Rich?" Cole said with a sour tone.

"The Saudis, right? By military force, right? Can I have a gun like Dalton's but bigger? Okay?" Shelly wiggled his fingers and his ass in his chair as Dalton and Holt hooted.

"Stand down, cowboy." Rich turned and frowned to Shelly.

Shelly frowned. "Hey. I'm the redneck here. Trent's the cowboy from Texas."

"What are you, princess?" Holt turned and smiled to Ann for flirting fun.

"Your Highness, peasant." Ann smiled in the pretend play fun.

"The Japs? We steal all our monies from the Japs." Cole ticked his tongue.

"Naw." Rich said.

"Who then? Who do we steal from?" Shelly asked.

"Break into Fort Knox?" Cole grinned.

Dalton shook his curls, "No need, boy. We be owning it all when we be the rulers..."

"...of justice and right and might." Holt fist bumped with a chuckle to Dalton.

"Rulers like leaders? Like gods? Like dictators?" Wade said with a sour tone.

"Dick likes taters. Tater tots, right?" Dalton laughed.

Shelly ordered with a brotherly tone. "Shut it, Dalton."

Cole frowned. "Break into the US Treasury Department, and steal all the new bills and coinage?"

"Naw, not right, guess again, Cole?" Dalton shook his curls.

"I'm tired of guessing just tattle tale to me, Dalton." Cole viewed Wade with the same mental thought.

"Rob banks." Rich smiled.

"Robbing USA banks?" Cole exhaled.

"Naw, foreign banks," Dalton smiled.

"O, I like keep talking, sweetie." Beatrice smiled to Rich.

Rich nodded. "Our new army..."

"No army too military, rigid," Trent waved his hand.

"Ole American." Holt frowned.

"New task force." Dalton grinned.

"Do not start that shit again." Wade flung a hand at Dalton.

"Okay, Wade. I mean Wad o' shit, Wad of panties, or Waddled his diapers, dripping with baby shit." Dalton laughed with Holt.

"Is your nickname Wad or Wade?" Beatrice smiled for fun.

"No." Wade read the local newspaper, ignoring the silly hillbillies.

"No? Which is it not Wad or Wade?" Penny smiled for fun.

Rich shouted. "We march into the foreign banks."

"Using the front door or back?" Cole grinned.

"We march into the bank, using the front door, wearing masks." Rich said.

Wade shook his skull, reading the newspaper. "I'm not doing this."

Dalton raised a fist near his sneer. "You chicken shit, Wade? Told ya! His true name and purpose, Wad o'shit."

"Not you personally, ass wipe! Our new army will be robbing the banks." Holt said with a sour tone.

"O." Wade viewed the newspaper.

Trent ordered. "Please continue, Rich! And Wade, please kindly shut the fuck up with your opinions until we all understand the fully loaded hand pistol action plan."

Rich nodded, "March in, wearing masks with fake guns..."

"Water guns are best suited. No killings." Cole nodded.

"No blood." Ann nodded.

"Only fainting or crying." Beatrice nodded.

"...and a couple of tasers." Cole smiled.

Dalton grinned. "I'll use a taser. No one gets hurt."

"Shut it, Dalton." Cole ordered with a brotherly tone.

"Then we request kindly all the money." Rich smiled.

"Alarms? Police? Real guns?" Trent said with a sour tone.

"Hell bells. What about the real bullets, firing from the real guns from the real police that hurt and kill you deader than a door knob." Cole said with a sour tone.

"Our well-paid and personal contacts inside the bank will ensure no real bullets and no real deaths." Rich nodded.

"Not simple to me." Wade viewed the newspaper.

"Too simple. Too easy. Too brilliant, buddy. Rich is the man." Dalton chuckled.

"We rob the banks, using some inside employees and grab all the money." Trent smiled.

Cole waved a hand. "Okay. Okay. We succeed. We get the monies. Then what?"

"We're trillionaires." Dalton smiled.

"Shut it, Dalton." Shelly ordered with a brotherly tone.

"We blow up the banks." Dalton smiled.

"Hold up. I do not like that idea." Trent shook his skull.

Cole raised his palm. "Whoa. Backup. Your stupid ass plan got Americans killed for monies that they don't need. A second point of your stupid ass dangerous plan, people become un-employed that already have jobs. And a third stupid point of your stupid ass more dangerous plan, people get hurt when fired upon for no good reason."

"Albert has the good reason." Rich pointed to Albert.

"We hoard the monies and pay nice working people for their new jobs." Albert said.

"What kind of new jobs, Rich? That is America's problem. There are no jobs, no monies, and no houses." Shelly frowned.

Beatrice shook her curls. "For jobs? Ya say death jobs like killing the bank managers of foreign banks. That's wrong, Rich."

Rich said. "Jobs for the new employees who work for us billionaires, building houses, construction at first."

Cole frowned. "At first, I take it that there are more steps to get the new and improved America up and running full time, Rich."

Rich nodded. "This is a short term project, most definitely. About what time frame do you guess, Albert?"

Albert scratched a clean shaven face with set of nicely manicured fingernails. "I'm estimating roughly three months."

Wade looked up with a confused brow and pointed at Albert. "I'm getting very confused with all the steps before and after robbing the banks for money."

"Because, you are an asshole, Wade." Dalton smiled.

"What is the primary goal here, Rich?" Cole asked.

"Our goal is to bankrupt the US Federal Government." Rich said.

Silence invaded the room.

Wade frowned. "Bankrupt us, all the American people?"

Dalton shook his curls. "Naw, Wad o'shit. We bankrupt the government of the USA, holding the Americans hostage for their food, their houses, their jobs, their clothing, their gasoline, and their other precious items for living a normal life in good ole US of A."

Cole shook a cropped skull. "I can't image what will happen when we bankrupt the US Federal Government, Rich."

"Albert, can you answer the man's inquiry?" Rich said.

Albert exhaled with a huff of worry. "We don't exactly know for certain, but we can make some educated hypnotisms."

Wade said. "You're going to take a wild ass guess about the impact of bankruptcy on an individual American's life and his family."

"Actually, why didn't you take a stab at it, Wade?" Rich smiled.

Wade raised one finger into the air with a worried brow. "Checking and saving accounts gone. Nada. Zippo. Zero. Inflation hits. Bang. Boom. Zap."

"I like his special effects." Holt smiled.

"The dollar is worth, maybe fifteen cents," Trent nodded.

"Or less," Cole nodded.

"The US Federal Government," Penny said.

"Our US Federal government," Ann said.

Beatrice nodded. "Our US Federal Government will print more fake money when they can't pay their bills to our bank creditors which are the numerous foreign bankers in foreign countries."

"And the problem's there. Print more money, the money decreases the value of the dollar to the worth of a nickel which is five cents or five pennies or five nothings." Shelly said.

Dalton nodded, "Right, man."

"Your bank account is wiped clean when you spend all your money, buying one loaf of bread for two hundred dollars based on five cents for every dollar." Trent said.

Rich nodded. "Very good. What else?"

Cole said. "Well, if bread costs two hundred dollars, I need to feed my family, then I will sell her diamond ring, my gold watch, the twin set of antique chairs, and lots of detergent soap flakes. And I will sell the single jeweled hairpin my grandmother used to wore in her pretty silver bun."

Shelly nodded, "Copper is already a popular cash cow. Hell. Gas will be hundred dollars per gallon..."

"Or more," Holt nodded.

Dalton nodded, "Shit, folks will suck it straight out of the tanks."

Wade frowned, "For drugs?"

Holt shook his curls, "Naw. People will siphon gasoline from cars to drive automobiles, Wade. I thought you attended Harvard."

"Last chair," Dalton smiled at Wade. The last chair in both music and law meant that you were the worse flute player of the entire flute section or a lousy attorney for your innocent client in the court room proceedings.

Albert turned and winked to Wade. "I'm first chair, buddy. And it only applies to both lawyers and musicians."

"Folks will be bantering for food, services, medicines, a pair of shoes for a coat, a single glassware for some additive Columbia imported black roasted coffee." Cole said. "I need some coffee." He stood, moving to the beverage bar without a smile.

Ann nodded. "People will get depressed and sad, drinking alcohol, consumption of drugs."

"Or beating their poor wives, children, and pets?" Beatrice nodded.

"If our US Federal Government goes bankrupt, Americans will not be happy campers. There will be rioting, looting, violence, and killings for the items to trade for the vital necessity of food." Shelly nodded.

Holt said. "Because, the local police force is paid by the local government fund money from the local taxpayer base and all them boys and girls don't work for free."

Wade nodded. "A new dangerous lifestyle."

Dalton raised his empty hand gun. "More like a new deadly lifestyle, the new American way. Glad, I own a damn gun, lots of guns," chuckling.

Penny nodded. "The US Federal Government will increase the US Federal taxes immediately. Since the US Government needs to pay a president, 400 congressmen, 100 senators, three million military soldiers, and two million employed federal employees."

Molly said. "Not including, all the government employees at the US State and local city levels either."

Trent said. "The elderly and poor people will receive no more Medicare, social security checks, welfare monies, food stamps, and other similar government assistance checks."

"The US Federal Government doesn't have money. So the US Federal programs will cease, halt, stop forever." Shelly said.

Cole said. "As taxes and inflation escalate, the US economy will crawl into a hole..."

"And die." Holt said.

Wade said. "The United States of America will dive into a mega depression with businesses closing, stock markets tanked, and rabid unemployment everywhere throughout the country."

Trent nodded. "Folks will be planting and growing and eating vegetables from their backyards."

Holt grinned. "Plenty of rich clay soil here in Bama."

Dalton frowned. "And wearing their dog's fur to keep warm in wintertime..."

Rich shook his skull. "We are not going to let that happen, ya'll."

Wade frowned. "The US Federal Government is the USA."

Rich shook his skull. "The USA is the people, the farms, the jobs, the houses, the businesses, not the government. Our Founding Fathers didn't intend for the US Federal Government to rule our lives but protect our assets."

Dalton stood and pointed to the directional north which was Washington DC, the nation's capital and shouted. "Kiss my ass or asset for the ladies present, Mr. President of the United States," nodding.

"Sit down, Dalton." Rich ordered.

Trent inquired. "Tell us more of the upcoming bank robbing, Rich?"

Albert said. "The bank is a financial institution that accepts cash deposits and channels the deposits by lending activities through the capital markets that connects the customers with any type of capital surplus or deficit."

"I like the term Americans rather than customers, Albert." Rich said.

Albert said. "The oldest bank still in existence today is the Monte dei Paschi di Siena in Siena, Italy since 1472."

"His eye-talian accent sounded funny to me." Dalton chuckled.

"Sounds normal to a redneck, Dalton." Holt chuckled.

Shelly nodded. "So we rob all the foreign banks of money only US bills, not foreign currency."

Cole inquired. "Are these foreign currencies in those foreign banks listed in the thousands, millions, or billions? What volumes of cash are we talking about here?"

Albert answers. "A very small percentage of cash represents the standard international currency exchange rate in which, Americans don't really give a shit about. For our robbery, we're only fascinated by the fractional US Reserve Banking System which holds a small reserve of funds deposits and lends out the rest of cash for a company's profit-making."

Shelly nodded. "The small reserve of funds, ya mean cash."

"Except at the Bank of China." Wade smiled.

Albert nodded. "Very good point, Wade. The Bank of China has opened banks here in the cities of Birmingham, New York, and Los Angeles. An American can moved in, open an account, and convert American dollars to more valuable and hotter Yuan."

Dalton said with a sour tone. "Un-fuckingly American."

Albert said. "The Yuan is good for a US low dollar valuation and a good harmful effect on the American economy."

Dalton said with a sour tone. "Un-fuckingly American."

Albert said, "For years in Washington DC, the president and members of congress has criticized the Chinese government for maintaining an artificially Yuan value. The Yuan value gives the Chinese companies an unfair competitive advantage by increasing and employing better work jobs to there from here in the USA."

Dalton said with a sour tone. "Un-fuckingly American."

Albert said. "You can't write a check or pay a service from your new Chinese bank account or use your ATM card either in the US or China. However, you can deposit your hard-working American dollars which are automatically converted into the Yuan. If the value of the Yuan rises, so does your Chinese bank account. You can withdraw all the dollars, making a profit which is insured by the American Money Insurance which is known to all Americans as the FDIC."

"Sounds like a perfect American savings account for hard-working American people." Cole said. "Not."

Holt inquired. "Do we rob the Bank of China, Rich?"

"Yeah. All foreign banks." Rich nodded.

Wade nodded, "May I point out to you, rednecks? These foreign banks contain American monies with American bank accounts...."

"...and generously covered by the FDIC." Albert nodded. "In June 1933, Congress created the FDIC. Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation, the basic mission is to ensure a safe, sound, and competitive national banking system that supports the citizens, the communities, and the economy of the United States..."

"Naw." Holt shook his curls. "The function of the FDIC is to reprint and repay back real crispy new US minted dollars bills into a person's bank account that might possibly got robbed by some smart bank robbers," chuckling.

"Uncle Sam is smart." Trent smiled.

"Rich is smarter." Holt winked at Dalton.

"Yeehaw." Dalton rebel yelled without waving the gun.

"When do we execute the first robbing of foreign banks, Rich?" Cole inquired.

Rich looked down to his mobile telephone, counting ass-backwards. "Five, four, three, two, one," he looked up with a smirk to see each billionaire.

10:51 a.m.

City of metro Birmingham

Banco of International

19th Street and 2nd Avenue

Mostly cloudy with sunshine

Four mph winds and 85 percent humidity at 88ºF

City street setting

In the 1980s, the city of Birmingham was known as "the business center of the South." During the 1990s, the acquisitions of major and minor banks created stood alone mega banks, where people conducted money affairs.

The function of a bank uses all the deposited hardworking dollars of the customers inside their bank accounts to pay their living expenses with cheques, ATM card, or credit cards.

Today, the US and non-USA banks stand and guard piles of physical cash for usage in hourly monetary transaction, such like, a driver buying gasoline from a local gas station or a homeowner buying a new house from a local constructor.

The Banco of International Financial Institution was a tall building of four floors with beige window treatments. The garden displayed a set of pink, red, and yellow petunias flowers on the parallel gardens bed between a set of red colored bricked entrance steps. A manicured green lawn held an efficient sprinkler system, keeping the vanilla sideways wet for tromping shoe soles from the parking lot and into the double glass doors of the bank.

Slow and fast cars hustled through the traffic lights, coming and going around the city, minding their own business.

Cam nervously tapped his moccasin boot heel without any music on the car mat, waiting for the final text on his mobile telephone from Rich, staring at his mobile telephone. "See the word, banco on the building. That's means 'bank' as them foreigners said, honey poo."

"The gloves are funny feeling, Cam." Tessa was a petite girl with a head of red colored hair, a tone of pale tinted skin, and twenty something years old. She wiggled her fingers, admiring the dark brown artificial-looking skin on her hand. The artificial glove started at her middle finger, going all the way up to her elbow. Both elbows hid underneath a green grass-stained and clay red colored dirty white cotton short sleeved shirt. The stained-colored shirt stretched over her chest, falling down to her waist, and the shirt tail fell outside a pair of dirty cotton grass and clay stained beige pants too. The pair of pants tripped over a pair of brown soft moccasins, covering her naked toes.

He continued to stare at his mobile telephone. "Kinda like them prosthetic arms that lots of them wounded soldiers gets from battle."

"Can those latent finger things get traced to us somehow? I don't wanna go to jail, honey poo."

"Naw. Not latent. Something diff and un-traceable per boss man, Tessa." Cam turned and scanned the clock on the console of the truck. 11:00 A.M.

The mobile telephone sounded with a beep with the new text: Go.

His typed a text and signaled the other paid operatives both males and females of different weights and heights that hurriedly paced across the busy city from an array of different geographical directions.

The males and females were dressed like Tessa and Cam, coming west across from 19th Street from the bank parking lot, south from city of Birmingham free parking garage, east from rear end of 18th Street. They moved southwest, coming from a set of parked cars on the empty corner grassy lot which was owned by the city of Birmingham.

The carefully selected team of bank robbers converged as one unit, halting and huddling for two seconds in front of the shiny clean double glass doors of Banco of International.

Each person was dressed in a pair of worn dirty faded blue jeans, dripping with red clay dirt clumps and tender baby green grasslets along with a pair of worn and scratchy brown work boots, and a slightly dirty red dirt and green grass stained white T-shirt. Each skull of the team displayed a solid colored baseball cap, covering partially two eyeballs, a nose bridge, and the tops of two ears.

Each person held a plastic toy shotgun in a classical horizontal bank robbery pose in a left hand.

They moved through the rotating doors as group.

The city street was quiet and calm.

Cam nervously tapped his gloved fingers on the steering column. His fingers were hidden inside a pair of peach-colored elbow fashion gloves, going all the way up and underneath his red and green-colored stained short sleeved shirt too. He sweated, watched, and waited in worry and eagerness for the final act.

11:11 a.m.

Pickup truck ride of Cam and Tessie east on First Avenue

The baseball capped males and females quickly dashed out the doors, toting extra large cloth bags. Each team rapidly moved to their assigned vehicle for their getaway escape path.

Cam cut his eyeballs to the clock. 11:11 a.m.

He turned and smiled to Tessa, "Yeehaw." He cranked the truck and cautiously steered onto the city street, purposefully following an older red pickup truck, his designated mark.

The traffic of cars, buses, vans, and trucks flowed smoothly along an almost empty city street, absence of a police car as a host of colored bank robber vehicles zoomed nosily away from the robbed bank.

The red pickup truck displayed a white colored paper car tag in bold black typed words, showing the name of a local Alabama car dealership. Since the owner of the truck did not possess a proper Alabama driver's license, an Alabama car insurance card, and an Alabama metal car tag paid with his earned US American dollars for paying the State of Alabama Department of Motor Vehicles for a real Alabama license plate.

The owner of the red pickup truck was an illegal alien from a foreign country, such as, Canada, Mexico, Israel, Great Britain that lived, worked, ate, slept, shitted, and drove on all over the local city streets of Birmingham in the US State of Alabama, freely and dangerously.

The window of the front passenger side on the red pickup truck dropped down. A dark skinned gloved arm dangled a cloth bag and tossed it out the window. The bag flew and dropped down into a thick patch of tall yellow and green weeds at an unclean and trashy city road intersection of US Highway 31 and First Avenue.

Cam smoothly drove through a traffic light, cruising at the legal speed, following his designated mark and not stopping for the tossed bag.

Another scout would acquire the bag and the money a little later.

"Can I talk now, Cam?" Tessa asked. Cam had requested her to watch the streets, the doors, and the windows during the sweet bank robbery and not to talk, chew gum, drink a soda, or play on her mobile telephone. She willingly complied for her man with a sweet smile.

Cam drove with a nod and a smile to his girl. "Yeah, honey poo."

"Who they, Cam?" Tessa pointed the vehicle ahead of Cam.

"Illegals?" Cam did not want to reveal the true plot, getting his girl in trouble with the local or state law enforcement agencies.

"Illegals like them folks from them other places like Mexico, Cuba, Iran, India, and Canada. All them folks robbed the bank today before our lunchtime. That's a hoot, honey poo," she popped her bubble gum. "When do we get our money, honey poo?" She popped the safety belt off, sliding next to Cam, touching his kneecap, and popped the bubble gum between her tooth molars.

"After we eliminate them, boss man said no witnesses alive that is," Cam drove and winked to Tessa.

She popped her bubble gum. "Can I do it?" Tessa reached and pulled out a lady hand pistol from her handbag with a grin and a giggle.

Cam drove with a smile and tailed the truck. "Yeah, honey poo. I be your proud honey bear, if'an ya take the killing honors. But boss man picked me personally to do it. That okay with ya, Tessa?"

"Okay with me, honey poo. Where we going? Not back to Boville, our home town, since it looks like east to me. We goes to Georgia to buy some lottery tickets, Cam?" Tessa turned to see the strange buildings and road signs.

"Rendezvous spot is Vain Hills, off Fifty Three Street." Cam said.

"Rendezvous, what's that word?"

"Fancy word for 'kill illegal on this spot.'" Cam laughed as Tessa giggled.

The red pickup truck traveled through a traffic light with the tail of Cam's borrowed truck. The truck turned off the road into an open parking lot and stopped. The truck parked perpendicular to a patch of manicured green bushes and trimmed maple trees in the woodlands landscape. Then the "illegal" killed the truck's engine, dropping down the driver's window, watching the parking lot for people, birds, cars, and tree leaves.

Cam stopped and parked his truck perpendicular to red pickup engine hood on the corner of parking lot in front of one of many abandoned buildings in the industrial area of Birmingham. He slowly scooted out from the truck cab, walking around the front bumper of his truck, watching for any nosy un-welcomed folks around him or his truck. He wore a pair of loose cotton brown pants, a pair of brown soft moccasins, and a dirty white cotton T-shirt with an old and worn yellow baseball cap.

The cap hung low over both his eyeballs and his nose bridge.

Cam approached the illegal and halted at the open window of the red pickup truck.

A dead partner from the successful bank hoist rested sideways in the front passenger seat with a single bullet shot through his left eyeball.

The alive illegal did a good job, following the plotted, planned, and performed vocal instructions, eliminating the extra bank robber plus their immediate family members. And all the dead family members of the dead illegal were bleeding inside their private residential place before eleven am today.

Cam gently touched the collar bone of the illegal, grunting the vocal signal without any set of whispered secret words.

A vocal sound exchange meant to hand over the real bags of stolen money from Banco of International.

The illegal slid the real bag of money through the window into the arms of Cam.

Cam accepted and grunted from a heavy payload of cloth and swung around, moving back to the truck, opening the tool box with the empty space, placing down the money bag in the long container, and swung around, moving back to the truck.

Cam made six foot trips back and forth to his truck from the pickup with the six heavy bags of real cash money and coinage.

On the sixth trip, he reached and pulled out a hand pistol that was hidden underneath the folds of his extra-long shirt, lowering and hiding the gun between his arm and his leg strides, approaching the illegal.

Cam stopped in front of the window, shoving the pistol and shot into the left eardrum of the illegal and a second bullet into the temple and the neck muscle, making three whamp noises from the silencer on the pistol barrel.

The illegal body slumped sideways to the right, falling over his buddy to the front passenger side.

Cam pivoted and moved back to his borrowed truck, scooting inside, cranking the truck.

He and Tessa nervously turned and drove away from an empty parking lot, cruising at the speed limit, scouting for any police cars.

The next pit stop with the money bags involved retracing their tire tracks west on First Avenue, turning right on Forty Eighth Street, paralleling a set of railroads tracks into another empty parking lot.

The old industry center of Birmingham displayed eight rows of four-story steel and brick warehouses, housing a set of antique and abused heated soldering equipment which was made of battered and burnt clay brick fire furnaces. The old steel furnaces were fired during the herald days of steel manufacturing near the small town of Boville in the 1970s.

Cam drove into the empty and bumpy parking lot and killed the engine, sliding an ass out of the truck with Tess, moving to one specific abandoned building and popped open the rusty lock.

The door opened.

He and Tessa entered and stopped near a burning furnace.

They swiftly removed their clothing items which consisted of moccasins, shirts, pants, baseball caps, and a set of artificial elbow gloves and tossed all the flammable items into a slow burning fire inside a bricked oven.

They stood naked, watching the fire.

Cam flipped a green switch to ignite a hot and heated yellow and blue flame, burning all the soft clothing items, quietly and quickly. He observed the dying flames and gray ashes, dropping down the switch, extinguishing the hot fire. Then he cautiously used a set of long metal tongs, carefully racking and scraping the hot gray ash into a few inches of cold water inside a metal trash can to cool the ash remnants.

He impatiently waited as the heated contents absorbed the wetness completely.

In glorious nakedness and carefully positioning, Cam lifted the heavy trashcan between a set of padded heat-resistance gloves and body apron. The gloves, the apron, and the equipment had been provided on top of the work counters. The gloves protected his fingers and his hands but not his chest. He slowly carried the trashcan and placed it inside the rear truck bed.

And he secured a fitted lid.

He swung around, dancing side to side in full nakedness, entertaining his naked girl Tessa as she giggled.

Then they danced together for a few seconds and separated with a chuckle. They kissed and pull backed with a smile and a laugh.

Cam and Tessa moved and left the building, entering the truck cab, dressings inside the cab in their usual clothes of boots, jeans, and shirts.

Cam leaned over and kissed her face, pulling back with a smile, turning and cranking the truck. He drove and circled the parking lot, driving east on First Avenue outside the city limits of Birmingham, maneuvering along an old horse trail which was created in 1800s by the early pioneers of Alabama.

He slowly back tracked and winded the truck to the east, to the west, and to the north over the bends and twists of a couple of county rural roads which were not traveled by the county police sheriff patrols.

12:03 p.m.

City of Charville (four miles north of Birmingham)

Charville Apartment setting

He arrived at the second pit stop in a small rural town of Charville, avoiding any police road blocks of the successful bank robbery this morning.

Charville was surrounded by numerous cotton and crop fields with numerous tiny communities wedged between the rolling brown hills and the green low valleys. The local folks were employed by the farm crop plantations that barely made seven dollar per hour, digging and picking out buried fresh vegetables from the soil or picking fruit off the plant vines. These workers lived in apartment complexes or mobile home residences, where the living units recorded high turnover rate of unemployed occupants, shifting in and out the apartment units as the productive and paying hard workers moved or transferred to other US small towns.

Cam stopped and parked the truck in an empty spot on the side parking lot of the residential Chartle Apartment Complex which resided on the city street named Chartle Avenue. He scooted out the cab, moving in his worn but polished cowboy boots with an occasional nod to the true apartment residents.

They real apartment residents stood at a metal mail box, looking down and unhappy reading their outstanding financial invoices and numerous junk mail trash piles which had been delivered by the USA Postal Service.

The high and wide square shaped silver box contained a set of vertical rows of tiny squared individual postal mail boxes for each paying rental resident at the Chartle Apartments, where people received their daily housekeeping bills.

Cam cleverly spotted an individual mailbox without a cluster of folks, moving to the metal box and stood, purposefully rattling the metal door with squeaking noises, magically producing a white envelope which had been hidden inside a left side pocket of his jacket.

He displayed it in the air with a smile and a nod.

Cam wanted the tired and overworked residents to think that he was one of them that lived in one of the two bedroom and two bathroom rental apartments at the Chartle Apartment Complex. He spun around, moving from the mailbox, casually strolling, whistling a country music song, and stopped at the cab of the truck with Tessa in the passenger seat.

Cam entered and reversed his truck from the parking spot and drove it another several hundred feet, parking in a new car space. The truck stood beside a fifty feet tall and fifty feet wide semi-new electric blue-colored metal trash dumpster behind a set of decoratively greenish-yellow faded painted twin wooden gates.

The ugly gates hid an uglier disgusting nasty smelling garage bin that was filled with hundreds of discarded green and white plastic bags, brown and white cardboard boxes, shiny aluminum cans, three pieces of old furniture, and more human garage from the paying residences at Chartle Apartment Complex.

Cam moved around the truck bed, stopping and dropping the tail gate, lifting and toting the cool downed metal trash can that contained the ashes of all the burned clothing from the illegal murder. He stopped and tosses it down into the deep dark trenches of the blue metal garage bin and slapped both hands side to side, rubbing off the pretend dirt and grime from his finger pads.

He grinned, swinging around, strutting back to Tessa for a final destination trip to Moville and lunch with his girl.

One of the many Jefferson County garage trucks would pick up the smelly garage contents tomorrow at three in the morning and dump the secretly hidden burned clothing evidence inside the trash pile off of Creston Road with the other smelly green trash bags from 557,000 other folks that lived within the surrounding the metro city of Birmingham.

No one would ever suspect those artificial hands and fingers were inside that trashcan from that apartment trash bin.

12:09 p.m.

City of Moville (two miles south of Charville)

Evan's Gas and Food Station

Rear room setting

Wade rested a face down on the table, touching both his forehead and his lips to the surface with a sissy whine. "We're going to be captured alive and breathing and the buried alive and not breathing for this sinful deed committed in eyes of Holy God."

"We robbed both the American and the International foreign banks, Rich?" Molly said with a worried brow, staring at Rich, the rebel leader.

"We should surrender and plead not guilty." Ann said with a worried brow too.

"I'll lose everything my home, my money, my wife," Wade knocked his forehead on the hard table.

"Waddling's married?" Trent turned and viewed Cole.

Cole turned and looked out the glass window. A flock of red birds chased after each other for freedom and fun unlike him.

"I guess if he's going to lose his wife." Sylvia said and stared with a worried brow at Wade.

"She has cancer. That's so terrible. I'm so sorry, Waddling." Beatrice patted his arm with a nod and a sad frown.

"Naw. We fight, not surrender." Holt looked to see each pussy billionaire with disappointment, shaking his curls.

Dalton sniggered and slapped the arm of Holt. "Right, man. We fight for our right to par-tee..."

Sylvia leaned over to the bald spot of Wade. "We're helping the American people now. But you can talk to me about losing your wife, Wade."

Wade lifted his face from the table, turning with a confused brow to see Sylvia. "I'm not married. I meant, if I was married." He turned and frowned at Rich. "How could you execute this terrible plot against our government?"

"Our evil government," Dalton growled.

"Dalton, shut the fuck up." Cole yelled with annoyance, staring at the flying birds of freedom.

Rich exhaled, observing the defeatism of the billionaires, pointing to each face. "We are sitting here at this very table, representing or controlling or holding or owning, if one of them word fancies your butthole over eighty eight percent of the companies in America from the shipping industry to sporting goods, banking to bots and cable to candy. We, without your approval or not, Wade are taking back America."

Wade pointed to each billionaire, saying with a nod and a sour frown. "I add with my powerful shock and confusion that you have implemented us, who sat here at this very table without our approval. Period."

Dalton smiled and slapped Holt on the arm. "We be brothers and sisters in the arms of battle. So fucking enjoy, ya'll."

"Dalton, shut the fuck up." Cole yelled, turning with a sour frown to see Rich.

"But to rob our own Americans, our own banks with our own monies?" Trent lifted and slapped his palms down to the table surface in frustration.

"To get their attention?" Rich smiled.

Wade wiggled side to side with a sour frown. "O just great. We, us, you, and me have got attention and detention of jail time, foreverly."

"Look at it this way. We got lots of money and a great set of legal lawyers just in case." Beatrice smiled, liking the plotted and executed plan of the rebel leader Rich.

Shelly said with a nod and a smile. "What are we stealing next, Rich?"

"Foreign investors in the US," Rich smiled.

"Bye bye." Trent smiled.

Wade frowned to Rich. "Have all you rednecks considered the historical fact that the foreign capital investment in the United States raises the US Gross Domestic Product..."

"Gross Domestic Product, say GDP." Holt exhaled. "We are rich bastards here, Waddling."

"High GDP makes the US residents live a better lifestyle." Wade nodded.

Beatrice shook her curls. "Wade, please show me what US residents live a better lifestyle here in Birmingham, in the state of Alabama, in the USA? Since the foreigners have invaded and stole our American lands here in the USA."

"Rich people buy new cars; poor people do not." Holt nodded.

"Thank you, Holt for answering Wade's test question. Wade, do you have an opinion here?" Beatrice said with a lady sneer to the Wade.

Trent answered to Beatrice and did not like Wade either. "Erosion of neighborhoods, no yearly company bonuses, no brand-name beers, lots of high unemployment, massive college student debts, young adults living with their elderly parents, and a high credit card debt for young, mature, and elderly adults."

Wade nodded. "The US affiliates associated with the foreign business companies have a long history of paying higher wages than..."

Holt frowned. "I don't give a shit about foreign, illegal, or associated affiliates."

Dalton chuckled. "Ass fuck the white lilies."

Holt chuckled. "That's good, Dalton."

"What's that called, Dalton?" Shelly smiled.

"Cursing redneck style, I believe." Wade frowned.

Holt said. "Naw, dumbo. His eloquence prose?"

"Anagram?" Ann smiled.

"I don't think so." Sylvia frowned.

"English prose rhythm, right, Albert?" Trent smiled.

Albert nodded. "The English prose was written by scholars a long ago rather than the jabirus jive jargon used now days. Two of the greatest prose styles belonged to the nineteenth century British Ruskin and Pater. Pater was beautiful words of..."

"Anagram prose, right, Albert?" Shelly chuckled.

"Naw. An anagram for the word 'prose' uses five letters, consisting of e. o. p. r. s." Ann smiled.

Trent looked down and typed on his mobile telephone. "Ya can form numerous words from the root word of prose. The other words include pores, preso, ropes, spore..."

"Miss Ann and Trent are right. An anagram is a word or a group of words that can be rearranged into a set of other words by re-jumbling the alphabetic letters." Shelly said.

"Re-jumbling? That ain't a word Shelly." Dalton frowned.

"Not an anagram, it's a puzzle skill." Holt said.

"It's a redneck skill." Wade laughed.

"Yeehaw," Dalton rebel yelled and raised his arms without leaving the chair.

"Back to business." Rich ordered with a stern face to the silly billionaires.

"Berrington." Dalton smiled to Holt.

"Mangrove." Holt smiled.

Three fist knocks echoed inside the small room.

"Who's there?" Holt smiled at Wade.

"The authorities?" Wade scooted backward from his chair as it hit down on the floor, standing in his expensive shoes. "O gawd. They're found us. I can't believe this," he turned with a sour frown and pointed to Dalton and Holt. "My life's ruined by you, ya'll rednecks." He back peddled from the table and stumbled his fatness over his chair as the billionaires chuckled at the silly male.

"Ya'll see? Wade's a redneck. When he gets nervous, he defaults to his original country twang, Bama style." Shelly chuckled.

Dalton stood and slapped Wade on the collar bone, shoving his fat ass back to the table edge. "Relax, Wad o'shit. Rich just ordered us lunch. Hope ya like fried catfish, hush puppies, and barbeque, southern style," he chuckled and moved to the door, opening the metal frame.

Cam smiled and entered, carrying numerous paper products which held good smelling food.

Holt and Trent stood from their chairs moving and assisting Cam. They arranged and shuffled the numerous bags and boxes of food into a line of individual food items on top of an empty bar counter which was lunch buffet for the billionaires, redneck style.

The other billionaires stood and shuffled away from the table to the bathroom or outside for some fresh sunshine or to their private limousines for a personal or a professional task.

Rich sat and flipped numerous dials on a set of numerous remote controls that activated nine plasmas televisions screens. The television plasma screens were anchored and bolted on the side wall without the ear blasting volume.

Ann sat and stared at one of the screens. "What's happening, Rich?"

"Lunch is served." Trent swung around with a nod and a smile and motioned for the lady rednecks first like a southern gentleman.

Each screen displayed a similar picture.

A group of huddled females, holding both their purses and their children. Or a lonely male holds one or two flat empty bags between the hands. The females, children, and males stand in a semi-crooked line, showing off their moving lips in silence.

Since, the volume control was off on each television screen.

A bank manager stood and crossed his sleeves, guarding the front door of the bank with two sidekicks that were composed of a set of bigger bank employees with both biceps and bullets.

Since, the banks on the television screen also had suffered one of many bank robberies at 11:01 am, this morning.

The bank manager shook his skull with a negative answer and did not allow a person into the bank, thumbing to a party of armed police guards that held a shotgun for some serious drama.

Cole waited his turn to collect a plate of good-smelling food, viewing the television. "Long lines of Alabamians, hoping to withdraw cash, before the bank doors closed."

"I agree." Shelly swung around and toted an oversized food platter back to his assigned seat.

"Bank panic?" Holt spun with an oversized food platter and strutted back to his assigned seat too.

Ann stared at the television, swallowing her food. "When people do not trust their bank, their banker..."

"...their government, their congressman, their senator, their president," Dalton chewed and swallowed the food, sitting in his assigned seat and staring at the television screens also.

Albert said between the bites of his food, sitting in his assigned seat, staring at the television screens too. "A true bank panic occurs when the money depositors feel that the bank is unable to meet withdrawal requests..."

"Say cash, Albert." Holt sat in his assigned seat and shook his curls at the pomp and shit of an academic educated asshole, charging into his food.

Albert looked at the television screen. "This in turn causes a 'run on the bank' in which a large number of depositors..."

"Americans." Rich said for the properly educated asswipe and chewed his food.

"The depositors attempt to pull out all their monies, causing bank failure in epic proportions." Wade chewed his food, staring at the television screens.

"On December 23, 1913, US President Woodrow Wilson signed the Federal Reserve Act, creating a decentralized central bank. The decentralized central bank balanced the competitiveness of the private banks with people mistrusts of evil financial institutions." Albert sucked down the sweet tea with a fresh cut lemon slice.

Cole said. "In 1933, President Franklin Roosevelt took the US off the gold standard and used for the first time 'fiat money.'"

Albert said. "The Roman government began the practice in first century AD of fiat money which ended in the devaluation of the coin and eventual the collapse of both the Roman currency and the Roman economy. Denarius, the official named coinage of Rome was hundred percent pure silver. By 100 AD, the silver content was only eighty five percent of the pure silver mineral."

"Why did the Romans mix other metals with the pure silver? That doesn't seem smart." Trent ate his food.

Albert said. "The greedy Roman emperors devalued their own country's currency to create low monthly billing invoices for the poor air conditioning services. Then they turned around and two-faced back-stabbed the working class, using the extra coinage to increase their own personal wealth," he chuckled.

"That's stupid," Beatrice chewed.

"What's stupider?" Shelly smiled.

"That's not a word, Shelly?" Holt frowned.

Shelly said to Holt. "What's stupider as I educate the stupid hick on my right is that the denarius coinage contained only 0.02 percent of silver at the time of Roman's collapse. Then nobody accepted it as a medium of exchange for any more merchandise goods or air conditioning repairs," he chuckled.

Sylvia said. "The country of China did almost the same thing. They used copper to create coinage and then they ran out of the element of copper. The China bank treasury switched it to the element of iron and then the iron coins were over issued."

"Like over printing a set of US 'paper doll' dollar bills in Washington, DC." Ann sipped the sweet tea.

"The iron coins were over issued and fell in a monetary value to almost zero." Sylvia ate her food.

Albert said. "To carry the history lesson further, in eleventh century AD, the bank of the Chinese Government issued paper money in exchange for the iron coins, so the iron coinage could be exchanged for gold, silver, or silk."

"We should use silk as a basis of our new currency for the new and improved US of A, Rich." Dalton ate his food with good southern gentleman manners.

"Naw, Dalton." Rich ate his food.

Albert said. "Inflation took over. The people and the trade greatly increased except the paper notes didn't grow with the economy, pushing the wealth Chinese families into financial ruin. Then it set man against man in a vicious civil war for both food and shelter."

"Albert's smart." Dalton smiled.

Albert said. "In France, the fiat money concept was swiftly grasped by John Law. He introduced the concept of paper money, solving Louis, the fourteen's three billion livres of legal debt. The debt lingered like house dust after his death which ironically was owed to other foreign governments but not us, Americans. Sorry, Dalton. Then his son Louis, the fifteenth required all his peasants pay their real estate property taxes in paper money."

"Ah naw." Dalton ate his food.

Albert said. "The paper money was backed by gold and silver coinage until the hard working France men and women wanted their precious money coins returned back into their Louis the fourteen's commode. Commode is a fancy term for a side table with front cabinets. Then the France government created more paper money, making the country's currency over supplied with a worthless value of negative ten or more."

"Wow. Do those English words sound familiar? Over supplied? Over issued? Worthless value?" Cole slurped his sweet tea.

Albert said. "In post World War One, the country of Germany owed everyone money for starting the fist fight and causing the ugly war. The only way to pay back Germany's national debt was by printing more of their current currency called, the mark."

Dalton held his mobile telephone near his ear. "Hmm. That has a familiar US ring tone to it and it's not my cell phone either," chuckling and resting his phone on the table surface.

Albert cut his meat. "The fiat money failures continued throughout the globe. In the year 1932, in Argentina; the year 1992, in Finland; the year 1994, in Mexico; the year 1997, in Hong Kong, and the country of Russia, in the year 1998, these are numerous examples of failed fiat money adventures. And I can go on and on and on..."

Shelly cut his food. "The scary thing, present year, the USA has lots of those same failure characteristics of fake money with national high debt, too."

"On my ring tone?" Dalton chuckled.

Albert said. "The great historical United States attempted the fiat money concept too in the year 1690, using the American Colonial notes. Yes, paper notes from the first thirteen colonies were issued in the state of Massachusetts and traded for gold, silver, corn, or cattle. Then the folks began issuing their own paper currencies which was not backed by the cows and calves," he chuckled.

"Folks needed to eat, too." Dalton belched.

Albert said. "During the Revolutionary War, the new US Federal Government issued paper money to finance the war, calling the new currency, a continental. The crash of the continental from inflation ended the paper currency and started the distrust of paper money until the year 1913. By 1914, most of the foreign countries throughout the world were on the gold standard. The US dollar official gold price was 20.67 dollars per ounce, while the UK official gold price was 4.24 pounds per ounce. So the exchange rate of 10.00 dollars was 4.25 per pound of sterling. This gold exchange rate maintained the system by transferring bars of real gold from the city of New York to the city of London, creating a system of checks and balances, preventing the onset of inflation. Everything was chugging again fine until World War One, when the US entered and maintained the solid footing of its gold standard. At the time of war, people spent more gold and silver coins for goods and services, resulting in a set of inflated merchandise prices with the imports coming directly into the US."

Cole smiled. "Ah. Let me guess. Those financial acts made the gold standard higher for the US Federal Government."

Albert said. "Through the roaring 1920s, the US economy boomed, while the European economics suffered greatly from high costs and higher expenses incurred due to World War One. Then in the year 1929, the US economy blew up when the stock market crashed, causing the historical USA Great Depression. In the year 1933, Roosevelt realized that the US could not maintain a gold bar worth of 20.67 dollars per ounce, because at that low gold price all the foreign governments could buy up every minted US gold bar. So Roosevelt forced the US citizens to sell their personal gold stuff like bars, coins, and jewelry to the US Federal Government. Then he adjusted the gold price to the world's price of 35 dollars per Troy-ounce.

"This effect increased the money supply and leveled a set of inflated prices, coming from the importing goods of all the foreign countries. The adjustment of the gold price didn't solve the primary problem of inflation, thou. By the year 1970, inflation was at 306 percent over the US dollar. Gold was only at 35 dollars per ounce. Time for another adjustment of gold, but wait, no American citizens possessed a physical piece of gold stuff. So in the year 1971, President Richard Nixon ended the US gold standard concept, and the price of gold increased. The US Federal Government held all the gold nuggets, so to speak, and sold the gold nuggets back to the US Americans at a higher gold price of the 35 dollars per Troy-ounce, making a great big money profit. In the year 1980, when the inflation rate rose in the US, and the price of gold fell, because this was one of many foreign governments slick manipulation of their gold price coupled with a panic of fear of gold. When gold is in demand, it value becomes low in total worth."

Albert sipped the sweet tea. "Now, fast forward to the present year, the gold prices are increasing due to the demand of the commodity items like Dalton's sweet yellow corn ears inside his crop fields. Secondly and primarily, the level of fear has re-entered the stock market. So we learn that people fear a high inflation, a stock market collapse, and a housing market collapse in which, all will make the great US dollar become a lousy ten cents, causing the gold price to climb higher."

Wade sneered. "Your enlightening US American history lesson was not funny, Albert. Everyone should remember that gold is the key wealth in times of uncertainty."

Rich nodded. "Keynes, a US economist said that the US Federal Government should bury bottles full of money in old mine shafts to spur its economic growth."

"Beer cans are best." Dalton chuckled.

Albert said. "Today, the Fed which is the US independent central bank uses greenbacks to maintain a twisted value of the US dollar, and reports directly to the US Congress about banking and economy concerns, issues, problems, and recommendations for the American people."

"That concept turned out well, didn't it, USA?" Holt finished his meal and placed a toothpick in his mouth, ticking it side to side over his closed lips.

Albert nodded. "One central bank of America to better serve commerce and government, quotes Alexander Hamilton."

Trent frowned. "Alexander Hamilton died at a most infamous duel at dawn in 1804. Is that significant, ya'll?"

Albert said. "Hamilton died of a fatal wound, while Burr escaped unharmed."

"Dueling and other violence acts have never been an intelligent way to solve a problem." Wade frowned.

"What do you think, Rich?" Shelly frowned.

"I got a better saying. If your money bends when you put it into your pocket, then my friend, you are holding the wrong kind of bartering material." Rich smiled.

"I collects gold." Cole nodded.

"I collects silver." Trent nodded.

"I collects beer and soda cans." Dalton belched and pitched the soda into trashcan with a smile and a chuckle for fun.

"Turn up the volume news blast on the television screen, Rich." Trent pointed to the screen.

The television reporter wore a red blouse with her blonde hair, saying with a nod and a smile into the camera lenses. "This is the first look at the live video footage, coming from one of the many local banks robbed which occurred precisely between 11:01 am and 11:11 am, this morning. This particular footage is located at one of many downtown Birmingham banks along nineteenth street in down town Birmingham. Watch this, ya'll!"

The video on the television displayed.

Bank robber one enters the door, short in height, with a white baseball cap over his face, exposing his dark skinned chin and neck. He wears a dirty greenish-white shirt, and a pair of reddish clay dirty blue jeans.

Bank robber one struts quickly across the tile floor of the bank lobby as bank robber two stands and guards the glass doors, surveying the outside city streets. Bank robber one raises his shotgun directly at a bank teller in the middle of the teller counter, shouted in baritone timber. "Robbery. Get down."

Twelve other bank robbers come into the bank and are dressed in similar attire, holding a single shotgun, shouting in baritone timber in union also to the bank customers and employees. "Get down. Get down."

The twelve bank robbers circle around the lobby, guarding the bank staff and bank customers.

The female customers scream. The male customers curse. Hand bags, backpacks, and other personal items like the mobile telephones nosily drop and echo little pings on the tile floor of the bank lobby.

"Open the vault." Bank robber one shouts as the bank manager hustles his ass to the steel door. He clownishly fumbles for the correct key in his two shaky hands, inserts, and opens the steel vault.

Bank robber one motions with his arm to the other bank robbers.

Then the other bank robbers rapidly dash on soft brown moccasins into an open vault one at a time, and one-by-one the robbers sprint out the bank in the bright sunshine.

The outside camera video of the bank records a bright sunny sun day with twelve bank robbers, toting armfuls of bags which are overstuffed with US dollar bills of various denominations.

Bank robber one turns and moves away from the open vault, scooting to the doors, and stops, turning to the bank manager, saying with a baritone timber. "Thank ya'll, kindly. And remember, your money is covered by the US Federal Government." He swings and leaves the bank to the sunshine of a bright day.

The females scream and the males curse on the floor of the lobby in the bank as people and personal items slowly lift from the floor.

The television screen switched back to blonde haired and smiling television reporter.

Rich cut off the television volume with a remote control devises.

Dalton stood, raising his arms with a smile. "We gots the money," he sat, finishing his meal.

"We're in the money. Dum, dee, dum, dee, dum, dum," Holt sung in a nice baritone harmony and slurped on his beverage.

"How many bank robbers were used, Rich?" Shelly grinned.

"Thirteen folks at each bank robbery, because it's an unlucky number." Rich smiled.

"Naw. The number is not unlucky. I was born on the thirteen day of August." Penny frowned to Rich.

Rich shook a skull. "Sorry, Miss Penny! I meant that the general number is unlucky for them but very lucky for us. Do you agree with me, Miss Penny?" Penny smiled.

Cole smiled. "You know to me that baritone trombone timbre of all them speaking bank robbers recorded by the bank camera sounded so familiar to my ears. Don't it, Holt?"

All the eye balls turned to stare at Holt.

Holt fist bumped with a smile and a chuckle to Dalton.

"Where is the money, Rich?" Trent asked.

"Secret, asshole," Holt frowned.

"Where is it in case you disappear suspiciously, Rich?" Shelly winked.

Dalton smiled. "Inside them empty beer cans, inside them iron ore shafts, around the USA countryside. Damn it, Trent. I just told ya that shush, shush secret about ten dang minutes ago."

"Spill the plan?" Trent frowned.

"You mean, the used plan." Cole chuckled.

"You mean, the successful plan. We're the bank robbers, now." Holt wiggled his eyebrows up and down with a smile and a chuckle.

"Yeehaw," Dalton rebel yelled and then sipped the sweet tea.

Rich nodded. "We hit all the banks across the US simultaneously on the east coast at 12:01 pm; central time at 11:01 am; mountain time at 10:01 am, and the west coast at 9:01 am."

"How many banks?" Cole said.

"Here, in our part of the US, there are thirteen major banks with fifteen unique locations. That's 195 banks within the surrounding city limits of an inner and outer geographical four star corners of Birmingham, Alabama." Rich nodded.

"Okay. How many banks across the USA?" Cole frowned.

Albert said. "According to the FDIC, there are 6,202 federal-insured commercial lending institutions in which thirty five houses less than one hundred million dollars in assets. The rest of the banks hold between one hundred and one million to one billion dollars."

"Assets? You mean money like in cold hard green cash." Trent nodded.

Albert said. "The goal of the Fed is to push liquidity..."

"He means cash." Holt said for the smartass academic for translating for the smartass billionaires.

Albert said, "Cash to push liquidity through the banks to the customers, so the FDIC only shuts down the banks that are corrupt or can't meet their operating expenses. Thus, the cash is recycled into a banking system to the old banks, once again."

"So we plugged the system." Trent ate his pie.

"Yeah, we fucked the system." Dalton chuckled.

"The Fed had ordered banks to lend to the consumers with a below sewer interest rate. Yet, the greedy bankers hold the cash from the Fed." Albert said.

"How much cash, Rich?" Trent inquired.

"Great question, Trent?" Cole chuckled.

Albert exhaled, "Excess supply reserves..."

"Speak English, Albert." Holt said to the smartass academician.

"Excess cash is one point six trillion dollars from an estimated ninety nine point eight percent of the robbed banks around the US, this morning, at eleven central time, of course." Albert sipped his warm black tea.

Trent exclaimed. "Man. O man. O man. We gots one point six trillion."

"Close enough." Rich nodded.

Dalton pointed to the television. "Hey, George is on the tube."

"You have named incorrectly as usual, Dalton, an important figure of our society which in this case is the President of the United States." Albert smirked and slurped his tea.

Dalton smiled. "Naw, the first president of the Colonies was George Washington."

Holt smiled to Albert. "Don't confuse the boy. He's mentally dangerous already without the hand pistol." He viewed the television.

"I don't like your insult, Holt." Dalton waved his empty hand gun.

Rich turned up the volume as all the eyeballs looked and the eardrums listened.

The President of the United States said to the camera lens. "American citizens, today, the US banking industry has experienced an unbelievable travesty, a robbery in a first class caliber of inconceivable imagination."

"Yeehaw," Dalton rebel yelled, viewing the television.

"Banks, all across our great nation have been robbed at gun point from the metro city of Seattle, Washington to a small town in Key Largo, Florida," the president looked down and read from his note cards and not staring his face to the television camera lenses.

Rich shook his skull. "Liar. We didn't touch Key Largo. Clearly, his writing White House staff hasn't traveled down the islands of Florida. We robbed Key West, not Key Largo."

"We did?" Shelly frowned.

"Very successfully," Dalton nodded.

The president read from his note cards and not did view the cameras. "I offer my advice freely. Do not be alarmed, Americans."

"Too late for that, bubba." Holt chuckled.

The president read from his note cards and not staring in the television cameras. "The FBI, Homeland Security, state, and local police law enforcement agencies are working with the local and state bank officials to apprehend all criminals and associated masterminds in this..."

"Hey, George. The brilliant genius mastermind is right here next to me, pal." Dalton pointed with a smile to Rich.

Rich laughed with the billionaires.

"Let me assure you, Americans. The FDIC, the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation guarantees the safety of all cash deposits in all member banks up to 250,000 dollars. So far, I have been informed that 99.99 percent of all the robbed financial banking institutions currently are insured with the FDIC. The FDIC serves to protect consumers, especially in this tragic instant. As the printed black and white signs quotes, deposits are backed by the full faith and credit of the United States Government." The president looked up and smiled at the cameras.

The television flipped the screen off the president and to the local reporter.

"Printing par-tee," Dalton stood with a smile, dancing side to side at the table.

"The dollar bill will be worthless." Trent exclaimed.

"Excellent, our plan's working." Shelly smiled.

"Worked, past tense, brilliantly," Holt nodded to Rich.

"Since, January first of the year 1937, no bank depositor has lost any insured monetary funding as a result of a failed bank." Albert sipped the new cup of hot tea.

"Click George off," Cole ordered.

"What's the next step to bail, build, and bruise out a new and improved US of A Rich?" Trent inquired.

"We create a new banking system which will be technologically advanced, so a gang of billionaires assholes can't do this again." Rich laughed.

Cole read from his mobile telephone. "Let's see. The US dollar is currently worth fifty five cents in England; eight six cents in Australia..."

"Man, I visited Australia down there, very pretty and nice." Dalton ate the pie.

"It is sixty eight cents in Europe," Cole read from his mobile telephone.

"The good news, it's worth 16.84 dollars in Mexico." Dalton looked down and read from his mobile telephone too.

"Shut it, Dalton." Shelly said with a brotherly tone and finished his coffee.

Dalton looked up with a smile to see the faces. "I visited there too. Nice. I got a great tan along with my pretty Julia. I can tan easily not like Waddling. Do ya ever tan, Wad o'shit?"

Cole said. "Looky, the rotten tomato rock bottom low currently valued US dollar means that imports are more pricey for the American companies, utilizing raw materials and auto parts from other foreign countries. The company expenses skyrocket and then the profits go down, hence employees lose their US paying American jobs."

"The recession," Holt flicked the toothpick to the side.

Trent said. "And to complete your college economics 101 lesson for the day, the declining value of a dollar drove the inflation rate and the cost of oil and gas for our big ass cars."

"Big ass foreign cars, ya mean?" Dalton smiled to Wade.

Beatrice nodded. "The good news is that more foreigners visit our country for playful entertainment and fun leisure."

"Kick their asses out now," Dalton thumbed over his collar bone.

Albert nodded. "The major cause of a low US one dollar is the government trades..."

"Trades ain't a good word. Use the word, buy." Holt nodded.

"The government buys material possession things, coming from the foreigners." Albert said. "A smart business wants the best deal, hence the USA is the best deal at the moment. Our US Federal Government buys material things without using cash, gold or silver coins, instead relying upon a monetary credit of T-bills. T-bills are the money, coming from hard working American people plus the cash loans directly from the foreign banks."

"We know all that. You're lousy point being, Albert." Cole played on his mobile telephone for fun.

"When the imports drop, and the cash flow decreases, the US pennies inside the US piggy bank causes a recession. We're currently experiencing this, tonight." Shelly said.

Albert said. "The weak dollar hinders the foreign investment and forces the T-bills owned by the US government to pay out higher monies to our non-USA investors, the foreign governments. The cash..."

"...which doesn't exist," Ann said.

"Because, it is plastic play cash." Penny nodded.

"The cash is printed again by the US Federal Government, covering the US T-bills yields, and then roller coasters into higher American payments on their mortgages, cars, equipment machines, buildings, and American-made merchandise, goods, and services." Beatrice said.

"Therefore, the foreign merchandise is cheaper for their pocketbooks, since they are paying through the nose for new mortgages, higher US Federal taxes, American cars, parts, and services." Molly nodded.

"We're stuck on the iceberg." Holt nodded.

"Right, that iceberg doesn't melt only floats forever." Dalton said.

"So we find a new iceberg bigger, better, stronger, and longer." Rich nodded.

"How so, Rich?" Trent frowned.

"We halt all imports, coming from the foreign countries, such as, Japan, England, and China, while blocking them fucking ass foreign governments, banks, and businesses." Rich said.

"You mean that Wad o'shit can't buy his favorite new shiny European automobile or eat his favorite yummy imported French lamb cheese sticks before watching his American television program on Saturday night. Sorry about that, Port-a-potty," Dalton chuckled.

"The F-150 is an awesome truck, American-made. Ya know, Wade?" Holt smiled.

"Once people like Wade surrender their foreign-ass imports, the American workers on the American assembly lines in the American companies will build American products again. The American products will be in high-ass demand by true American consumers." Shelly smiled to Wade.

Wade showed his balding crown, playing on his mobile telephone. "What about oil imports? Have you thought about the imported gasoline in your awesomely F150, Holt?" He chuckled.

"Later discussion, Wade," Rich nodded.

"Gold is valued at 823 dollars per Troy ounce, up nine percent from next week, Rich." Cole read from his mobile telephone.

"When gold appreciates, the American dollar declines." Shelly said.

"However, history has proven that the weak US-dollar doesn't affect the investors buying stocks, bonds or real estate, because the interest rate is low and the demand is going to eventually increase for both the consumers and the investors." Albert said.

Beatrice frowned. "So why mark the US dollar high or low, if the overall impact is nominal to Americans?"

"Exactly, the US dollar is only a measure of a monetary worth to a consumer for purchasing his wish list at Christmas time, Miss Beatrice." Trent nodded.

"Because, greedy Wad o'shit desires all his foreign imports, not just the yummy French lamb cheese sticks." Dalton laughed.

Penny said. "Imports interfere with the American dollar and the American merchandise."

"What do we do about them foreign imports, Rich?" Trent frowned.

"How are we going halt any foreign imports, Rich?" Ann asked.

Rich smiled. "We blow, the right choice of English. We explode literally into zillions of little tiny fiery flames and burning gray ashes all the foreign owned businesses on our American soil. Then we send all the legal and illegal aliens right back to their native-born nation, wiping wet hot tears from sour faces and wearing shitty black white diapers on smelly asses."

"Yeehaw," Dalton rebel yelled, spinning his empty gun in the air with his right shooting trigger finger.

Wade frowned. "I do not understand, Rich. How are you?"

Dalton pointed to Wade and each billionaire. "We, not you, not him. We, Americans, Waddling."

"We are all in this together until the end of the old USA, and the beginning of a new USA." Rich nodded.

"I need some more gas relieve medication." Wade slapped a hand into his racing heart.

"I need a beer." Shelly frowned.

"I need a whiskey." Penny frowned.

3:01 p.m. (eastern time zone)

Washington DC ( 742 miles northeast from Birmingham)

White House cabinet room setting

Overcast clouds with fifteen percent rain precipitation

Seven mph winds with 56 percent humidity at 75ºF

"Mr. President, sir," the Chief of Staff sat in a chair inside the room with the freshly painted shiny beige walls.

The beige walls complimented a stark white wooden door, three rows of glass window panes, and a white ceiling, trimming around the interior space of the cabinet room. The cabinet room held twelve unique richly dark colored leather chairs seats, currently holding the asses of the Secretary of State, the Vice President of the United States, the National Security Adviser, the CIA Director, and the Secretary of Defense.

Each cabinet member stared down at a hardcopy layout of a gigantic USA geographical map, slumping its paper body lazily over an oval conference room table. The USA map was prettily highlighted with a set of tiny red flags that represented each bank robbed.

The president leaned to the map, saying with a sour frown and an angry tone, jabbing a finger at each flag. "Look at those city listings New York City, LA, Atlanta, Miami, Tampa, Seattle, Nashville, Montana, Flagstaff, Dallas, and on, and on, and on it goes, and goes, and goes. The fucking list of geographical locations don't stop coming. The updated bank robbery tale grows worse, and worse, and worse, and worse. What are we doing about this problem? Anyone? Everyone?" He looked up to see his cabinet members.

"The gathered and collected intelligence information is rolling off continuously from our mobile telephone units, our office desk laptops, our agency computer databases, our telephone landlines, and our fax machines, sir. My staff is analyzing all the results viewing, reviewing, and will produce a new updated US Federal Government report within the next forty five minutes, sir." The CIA Director said with a frown of determination.

"Explain to me why we can't ID these bastards, now?" The president looked down with a furious brow and pointed to the map.

"We did," the Chief of Staff pinged his US Federal Government report in his hand.

"Biometric has identified the finger prints," the National Security Adviser viewed the president.

"The US biometric technology is the best hi-tech nation in the world, sir," the Secretary of State smiled.

"Actually, Japan has the best biometric technology in the world," the Secretary of Defense chuckled.

"And what does the second best biometric technology nation in the world conclude, ladies and gentlemen?" The president viewed the National Security Adviser with annoyance.

"They're fake, sir. The finger prints picked up from various persons of mystery," the CIA Director pinged to his official CIA report.

The president frowned to the CIA Director. "How can finger prints be fake or faked?"

The Secretary of State pointed down to the USA map. "Take the city of here our US capital city of DC. One set of many bank robbers finger prints were lifted cleanly and clearly from the bank doors and bank tables. The bank robber's finger prints showed that the collected prints were composed of inmate prisoners housed inside the local jail cells throughout the DC district."

"Unbelievable," the president dropped his mouth, looking down to see the zillions of physical tiny red flags of robbed banks, this morning.

"How do you make a set of fake human finger prints?" The vice president asked.

The Secretary of Defense said. "You can use common household items, such as, a bottle, a door knob, a glossy sheet of paper, but the glass bottles work the best. And,, the fingerprint kit can be ordered over the internet paid by a credit card or a bank account number."

"So these are internet bank robbers?" The vice president frowned.

The Secretary of Defense shook his skull. "From the fingerprint kit, you sprinkle a white powder over an impression object like a glass bottle, and lift the sucker's clean fingerprints. Next, you use a digit camera and then reproduce a fingerprint, printing it out, using a laser transparency slide. The printer black toner releases a liquid residual format, leaving a nice format quite similar to a letter block style on a piece of nice expensive business stationary. You spread a thin layer of wood glue over the particular laser printed computer fingerprint, let it dry, and peel off the glue. The hard glue print is cut down to size and glue it to a human finger pad or adhere to a fake skin surface. You have a set of ten fake human finger prints."

"Did we find all the peeled glue fake finger prints from each and every bank robber in America?" The president looked up and asked the Secretary of Defense.

"We found tiny fragments of one modeling mold cast, making up two or three fake finger digits created from dough," the CIA Director said, since the CIA laboratory boys and girls were clueless to the exact method too.

"Cookie dough? Are you referencing edible cookie dough from the baked good section in a grocery store?" The vice president chuckled.

"Probably, some kind of rubbery substance dough used for a fun birthday celebration party with kiddie games," the National Security Adviser nodded.

"This isn't a fun birthday celebration party with kiddie games," the president yelled.

The Secretary of Defense said. "Our brilliant genius mastermind used cookie dough to mold a set of fake ten finger prints, and carefully glued each finger pad to a pair of rubber gloves. Each bank robber wore the rubber gloves during the bank robbery."

"Unbelievable," the president shook his skull.

The National Security Adviser said. "The biometric devices are prone to spoofing attacks which can defeat them..."

"Beat 'em," the vice president chuckled.

The Chief of Staff smiled, "This is definitely one type of spooky kookie attack. It must be illegal aliens or a gang of zealot religious nuts that secretly live and hide here in spy-cells."

"Our laboratory researchers have tested real dead cadaver fingers on the fingerprint reader. It passed with an acceptance rate of ninety four percent, each and every time, sir." The National Security Adviser said with a nod and a smile. "The perspiration on a set of real fingers can detect a moisture pattern on any type of live finger tips. When that data is added to the fingerprint reader, the spoofing falls to only nine percent."

"Unbelievable," the president shook his skull.

"Did we find any more real or fake cadaver fingers?" The vice president chuckled.

The CIA Director shook a bald head. "No, sir."

"Did we find any layer of moisture on the molded kookie dough of the real prisoners, who were really the victims of this type of spooky kookie attack?" The president frowned.

"No, sir." The CIA Director said.

"What did we find, ladies and gentlemen?" The president yelled.

"Only small tiny pieces of molded kookie dough on the floor tiles at each bank," the Secretary of Defense nodded.

"Any leads?" The president exhaled.

"No, sir." The CIA Director shook his skull.

"Any clues?" The vice president chuckled.

"No, sir." The CIA Director viewed the President of the United States.

10:16 p.m. (central time zone)

Town of Moville (737 miles southwest of Washington DC)

Evan's Gas and Food Station on Highway 79

Clear night with moonlight and bright stars

Three mph winds with 80 percent humidity at 77ºF

Rear room setting

The redneck billionaires stomped through the hidden doorway behind the gas station, dumping their individual cowboy hats and handbags to the wall corner inside a lonely sitting chair. They greeted with smiles and handshakes, dancing around the table, dropping into an empty chair.

"What's the next step after we robbed the banks this morning?" Shelly yawned and covered his mouth.

Wade straddled a pair of fat legs in a new pair of dark blue jeans, a pair of burnt orange ostrich cowboy boots on his fat toes, and a brown wool jacket over a light blue button dress over his fat tummy without a necktie. He was a legalized Massachusetts resident but birthed as an Alabama redneck, a long time ago. He moved and slid out the metal chair, scraping the poor legs tabs and sat, placing both his elbows on the table surface with a grunt, and cupped both his hands underneath a double chin, staring Rich. "Why are we meeting in the dead of the night like a bunch of confederates, rebels, hoodlums, gangsters, or criminals?"

"Rich, I told my grandchildren that I would be home for the weekend." Molly smiled.

Rich nodded. "Miss Molly, you will. Our meeting will be both informative and sweet."

"He didn't say short." Albert smiled, resting his notepad in front of his dress shirt as he was the official secretary of the billionaire meeting.

"What are you reading, Holt?" Trent smiled with the answer.

Holt read out loud, pinging the paper article. "Listen to this US Federal Government shit. The current US weekly foreign imports of goods and services plus the monthly foreign money aid has exceeded the overall US export of goods and services by one point two trillion dollars. These massive deficits are financed by US investment in foreign countries more than foreign investments in US assets. What does that mean, Albert?" He looked up with a frown to see Albert.

Dalton frowned. "We pay them our US dollars to get stuff plus we pay them our US dollars to get nothing, and then we borrow back our US dollars back, and still get nothing. And finally, we owe the entire fucking world twenty four trillion dollars that we, Americans don't fucking have." He shook his curls in frustration.

"Dalton should be an economist." Albert smiled. "He's absolutely correct."

"I like being a billionaire, bestest," Dalton smiled with yellow-colored food bites between front teeth, eating the snack at the late night conference table with the other billionaires.

"Get this gawd damn garbage. The US sends our money into the foreign countries to buy their land, their equipment, and their buildings, totaling 202 billion dollars. Sixteen percent of the foreign buildings are owned by the United States Federal Government and eighty four percent by the other US private companies. That's the problem with America. Our US Federal Government sends all them foreigners' our money. The money is needed here in the good ole USA for good ole USA jobs, for paying good ole USA homes, for the USA homeless, for good ole USA food, for hungry, and for good ole USA medicines, for sickness." Holt sneered, waving the paper.

Wade swallowed the food. "The fourteen percent of the 184 billion dollars is labeled properly as war, Holt. You are a rebel redneck, sonny boy. I thought ya'll's would highly approve of that physical, yet violent concept. War, battles, tanks, and soldiers are needed to stop terrorism and secure all the valuable land, where all the field oil rigs sits, exploding tiny bits of dino shit patties into smooth mink brown crude oil. Our US Federal Government has sent both USA money and USA resources, back tracking to the 1970s, after discovering dinosaur shit in them foreign country hills of Saudi Arabia. So do ya'll hicks wanna race your diesel F-160 or not, hillbilly?" He laughed as Holt hissed at Wade.

Albert said, waving a piece of paper. "In contrast, the US invests the money of 202 billion dollars into a particular foreign economy, and the foreign nation sends us...US. Get my pun of us, the people...U.S., the United States. They send us 166 billion dollars back that is eighteen percent less than our input cash of money directly applied to a foreign economy. Allow me to clarify the foreign countries, please. Inside this here US Federal Government released legal document, the British Government held the most of our pretty landscapes within American soil, since the Colonial times of 1776. I guess King James left a set of long term provisions, using a last breathe upon his death bed which was dictated to both former President George Washington and Dr. Thomas Jefferson. The British Empire owns twenty seven percent of America with 640 named British companies. Enjoyed that one. The Canadians have 435 companies here. The Germans are numbered at 150, and the French is totaled at 113. Japan has on twenty one percent of 'old' America with 94 Japan companies. The foreign companies make the American homeowners of USA lands, USA buildings, USA equipment, and USA workers, thus the new poor slaves of America."

"Ya got that fucking right?" Shelly nodded.

Rich shook his skull. "Ya got that fucking wrong. We're going to change all that and more."

Wade frowned. "May I point out? The us, U.S., United States attracts visiting business foreigners, because one, our low taxes..."

"Because, the overworked and underpaid working middle class pays with their blood, sweat, taxes, not gawd damn foreigners," nodded Dalton.

"Damn straight, Dalton." Holt nodded.

Wade said. "Two, the greater US consumer wealth..."

"...comes with the fucking billionaire only. The average joe can't afford all the new gadgets, because he worries about feeding his children first, and his spouse second, and his damn dogs third. The bread winner starves for the love of his or her American family."

"Damn straight, Dalton." Holt nodded.

Wade exhaled with a huff of annoyance. "Three, the varied labor productivity, because the foreigners or specifically the foreign companies here use the abandoned buildings, the rusty equipment, the empty plots of land creating new patents, copyrights, trademarks and provide worldly nicey-nice goodwill for us, the USA, as the host country. Foreign corporations lower the cost of capital inside the plant factories, making it cheaper to produce a higher quality product like your F-160, hillbilly Bob. America, Americans, and an American economy receive the higher wages of shared salaries, nice fringe benefits, and plenty of paying and working jobs. One foreigner company raised the labor productivity, the money income, and the steady stream of employment for people all over the US landscape and allows the foreigners to buy more land for more products for more workers. Workers are better off with cheaper and quality stuffs, using your hillbilly slang."

Dalton nodded. "Okay, Wad o'shit. Let's say your argument's valid." He pinged the paper. "I read this juicy US Federal Government crap too. It says here that the US Commerce Department, ya know those shit asses that measure the value of the US dollar and switch the stock market, upping the dollar valuation in June 1991, probably to cover their asses. Anyways, let's adjust the GDP down. You lower the US one dollar for the differential math in the foreign dollar exchange rate between Japan and Britain. And finally, let's clarify that this shitless data has been historically trended, since 1980 over thirty fucking years, if you're academically challenged. Now, that's a good business trend model. Right, Holt?" Holt nodded.

Dalton nodded. "Right. This is the basis of my verbal retort. Ya agree, Waddling? Good. Waddling agrees too. Ya tell me, man? Why my buddy Cam, who's a smart and hard working hillbilly, can't find a job with his supreme varied employable skilled talents as a graduate from an American high school? Second, why Cam can't buy the latest and fun-loving entertainment electronic devise without sacrificing his daily food meal? Three, why Cam can't buy a house with a declining standard of living? Allow me.

"One, the foreigners control their foreign fucking companies and don't give a rat's ass about loyal and smart Americans. The foreign companies even bring in their own cheap-ass laborers with them to work in the cheap-ass factories, leaving the average American Joe out of a job on American soil. Second, the foreigners abuse the financial, economic, social, mental, physical, and spiritual control. The gawd damn lazy-ass pussies in Washington DC, our people-elected government representatives, get all the hidden foreigners' kick-back monies. Then the lazy-ass pussies in Washington DC deposit all their personal kick-back monies into their personal private USA plus their personal overseas financial bank accounts, filling their fat guts with food, and then shit lovingly onto our poor helpless Americans. Then the Washington DC royalty, the congressmen and women plus sleek senators sit blind, deaf, and dumb on their kingly and queenly thrones in DC, working half their productive time in an air conditioned and heat warming three-structure building paid by hard-working Americans, while the same Americans struggle for a loaf of bread and a bottle of spring water made in Tampa, Florida. Shit. I'm tired of this fucking crap. I'm tired of any and all foreign pissing sissy pussies, here in our American land and on our American soil. They need to go back home to their fucking native country abuse and use their native people, not Americans."

The sound of claps echoed from the billionaires.

Dalton exhaled and sipped the water. He did not want their praise but their part in taking back America.

"Yeehaw." Holt yelled with a smile.

"Excellent church preaching sermon, Dalton. We're going to do just that. We successfully hijacked the money from almost all banks," Rich grinned.

"Where's my money, Rich?" Trent grinned.

"Safe, Trent." Rich smiled.

"Yes, our billions were gone when the economy collapsed. Don't worry, ya'll! George Washington, Junior will kindly replace them. Don't pout, Trent. You can still buy your new F-160." Shelly chuckled.

"My billions are safer than yours. I bet ya, Shelly." Trent smiled to Shelly.

"What's he mouth spitting about, Rich?" Shelly frowned.

Rich grinned. "I transferred all our billions twenty four hours from the US banks into many, many Cayman Islands financial bank accounts right before our highly plotted and successfully executed non-armed biggest baddest US history robbery in two centuries. All the billions are safe. Now, we got double our pleasure from Mr. President during the planned activation of the brilliant FDIC regulation. The FDIC will insure that all greenbacks are restored onto each and every American bank account for each and every American people, including us greedy and smartass billionaires."

Wade shook his balding skull. "That was not a pretty portrait Rich. People, all this afternoon until sundown, our citizens of the USA were panicking, standing in the hot sunshine, waiting impatiently to withdraw their hard-working USA money from the USA banks. Then they surprisingly find out they cannot do that. Then the police surrounded the bank entrance and forced all Americans to go home, suffering the financial consequences. We have created a bull bank collapse with inflation running up beyond the moon ray even as a billionaire, I won't be able to afford food or gas for my vehicle. Thanks to Rich and company. You do realize that people do not or cannot or will not be able to buy food stuffs or find jobs. This is our fault. We must correct that past terse action and support our fellow Americans."

Dalton smiled. "Don't spoil your white lace panties, Wad o'shit. Rich has a great plan. All plans come in stages like getting fat. Ya were once skinny right, Waddling?" He chuckled.

Albert said. "Rich, I would like to point out that your sneaky electronic bank transaction has been or will be or is currently being noticed by the US Federal Government investigatory agencies like the CIA, the FBI, and the other mixed English alphabets..."

"Berrington." Dalton nodded.

"Gage." Holt smiled.

"Shut up, rednecks." Cole frowned at the silly young men.

"Albert it is really called the Latin alphabet, not the English alphabet, where all our letters come from." Holt ticked the toothpick to the other side of his smirking lips.

"Naw, Holt." Cole looked down and read from his mobile telephone. "The Greeks stole it from the Romans, who conversed in Latin. The Greek alphabet comes from the two words 'Alpha' and 'Beta'..."

"Naw, Cole." Trent looked down and read his mobile telephone. "The first alphabet came from the Phoenicians. The first two letters were 'Aleph' and 'Beth.' Then the blonde and suntanned Greeks stole it form the sunburned and black haired Phoenicians, baby. The Phoenicians lived on the coast of the Mediterranean which is now called Lebanon. They were a trading and seafaring culture, working with both the Egyptians and the Sumerians. Their alphabet consisted of twenty two letters with no vowels like ours. This is the origin of the first alphabet. So you should say the Phoenician alphabet." He fist bumped with a chuckle with Cole.

Ann said with a nod and a smile. "The history of the alphabet started in ancient Egypt. By 2700 BC, the Egyptian civilization presented writing formation which contained twenty two hieroglyphs which was represented with syllables also."

"Thanks, Miss Ann." Holt nodded.

Albert exhaled with a huff of frustration with the billionaires. "Thank you very much for the world history lesson. Back to business."

"Mangrove." Holt nodded.

Dalton smiled. "Berrington."

Albert exhaled. "Actually, linguists do not know how, when, and where the languages of the world began, diverged, or mixed..."

Rich lifted his palm with a sour frown. "Thank you for the academic discussion. Please continue with the past thread, Albert."

Albert nodded. "I was saying. The bank robbers of the trillions will be questioned eventually, after the US economy uplifts from the shitty sewer pond. How are you going to explain the money financial transfer before the robbery and then the double dripping of greenbacks, while the rest of America suffers and pains for both jobs and food? I agree hundred percent with Wade's economical forecast of sky high inflation and loss of many, many jobs for Americans."

Rich smiled. "Think of it as a wake-up call to the Americans. Stop, look, and listen to what's happening in your country, in your state, in your city, in your neighborhood, in your home, and within your own biological family unit."

Wade said, "Fights. Kills. Murders. These physical violent events occur every damn day, in every damn city, and in every damn country. No one can stop that, Rich. But we caused this. If we are discovered accidentally, then we will become public enemy number one with all the American peoples. They'll hang us from the highest and oldest oak tree on Ruffer Mountain here in Birmingham, Alabama," he chuckled.

Dalton rapped his fist on the table surface with a smile. "See, told ya'll. Waddling be born and breed right here from Bama. He just can't remember it only the pretty floral landscape around B'ham. Right, redneck?"

Rich said. "You know suffering's good for the heavenly soul. Folks are both worried and anxious about their native born American country now, because they shore didn't give a shit about nothing, yesterday." He chuckled.

"Can't save good folks, if they ain't suffering, Wad o' shit. Don't you go to church and read your Holy Bible. Mr. Holy Jesus Christ taught us that simple concept." Dalton smiled.

"Ya'll rednecks are impossible." Wade stared down with a sour frown at the cold coffee, pondering a late night meeting.

"Everyone's suffering now." Shelly nodded.

"Except them foreigners," Holt frowned with bitterness.

Rich said. "I, in your honor first and your surnames second and your bank accounts third, have been buying plots of land from the southeastern corner of Miami, Florida, up to the northeastern point of Portland, Maine, over to the northwestern wet spot of Settle, Washington, and down along the US pretty beaches of the foreign country of Mexico. The plots of land are paid by a combination of our billions plus our other stolen trillions. We own land, warehouses, farms, abandoned business, schools, churches, playground, and gravesites all over the entire USA landscape, including some bodies of water and ranges of mountains. Moville, our first 'Greek' alpha project is almost filled with a set of true red-blooded Americans, who are truly dictated to the land and the 'family community' concept. So you see we, billionaires have been saving the USA all along, Wade. Dalton, do me the honors?"

Dalton nodded. "Shore, Rich. We have created a series of new towns with a simple concept of math. One square mile is 640 acreage of land. We divided 640 by sixty four families for ten acres of land, holding a house, a field garden, several storage sheds, a yard, some playground equipment, lots of woodlands, a swimming pool, if desired. There is a solar shed for electronic services of fresh spring water wells, the sewer tanks, an emergency electricity lightning system, and other daily family survival needs. For example, Alabama is 210 miles east to west in a geographical direction, and 329 miles north to south. That computes into 52,423 square miles, consisting of 50,750 square land miles, and 1,673 square water miles. We left the water in the equation, since we technically own the larger lakes and rivers for pure selfish greedy billionaire domination. It is called a fair trade. So 52,423 square miles times 640 acres equal 33,550,720 blocks. We named them the word 'blocks' for simplicity or simple minds like Waddling. That translates into giving out ten acres to each family unit, totaling 3,355,072-peoples..."

"There are 4,802,000 people living here in Alabama, Dalton. Who are you kicking out off the Bama red clay soil? Where will they go and live?" Wade frowned with confusion at Dalton's illogic mathematics.

"I be damn. Wad o'shit is smart." Dalton chuckled.

Holt said. "Based on that stupid-ass response to me, he's a dumb shit. The number 3,355,072 represent the individual family units. A family unit includes a mama, a daddy, the teens, the toddlers, the babies, and their damn dogs and silly cats, and tons of shotguns, Waddling. A single household of 3,355,072 is based on our best US Federal Government census reports."

Dalton pressed the button, dropping down a white screen from the ceiling. The white screen displayed an electronic block-like grid, showing visually up and down geometric vertical and horizontal lines, criss-crossing the entire state of Alabama. He pointed to the map, saying. "We have a map of our blocks here. Now, the real bank account money is gone bye-bye. Real people are truly going to lose their real good paying jobs, because George Washington, Junior is a dumb shit and don't know how to run the great USA except into the fucking shitty sewer tank."

"No opinions, Dalton just the facts." Cole frowned.

Dalton pointed to each billionaire. "We buy up all the lots, lands, acres, abandoned houses, and structures, and we turn around and give it back, but the catch is..."

"Finish, Dalton." Cole frowned.

Dalton said. "The catch is that the billionaires own everything. So if one of our beloved but below 'family units' don't pull his or her or its weigh inside the new block community, then they are gone far, far away into another galaxy."

Rich nodded. "Dalton has highlighted the overall plan. We own the land. We recruit the folks, the working and suffering folks, who are desirous of a good home and a safe life for their family unit. We don't take some bullshit interference from any government level official either or any leech sucking lowlifes, who shit in your toilet paid by the punk-ass US Federal Government. The recruiting is our job. You find any family unit and bring the entire shitting carload of folks, giving them an entire block. Ten acres held a lots of cow shit for growing the pretty flowers and folks for planting the pretty flowers. We have determined that an average family unit will need to hold about six to ten people, including grandparents, aunts, and uncles to do all the required manual and electronic hard productive work."

Holt said. "The work and workers will monitor and maintain their own individual solar house and accompanying land acreage. Things. like Americans, used to do on the weekends mow the lawn, garden for vegetables, instead of running down the street to the local grocery supermarket along with cleaning our houses." He laughed as a billionaire like the other billionaires around the table that did not mow a lawn or a clean a house. "Sorry, bad pun. Each family unit will be assigned a specific paying or non-paying job inside the block community, such as, a mail person to deliver mail stuff, a teacher to teach kids, or an engineer for the solar mechanic stuff. There's a shit list of paying jobs and pretty opportunities for the family unit to contribute and keep the community both active and production. If not, then the family unit goes far, far away into another galaxy..."

Rich nodded. "Look, this is a new and different concept."

Albert shook his skull. "Not really, Rich. You are describing the New World with the new Americans, the pioneering life style with perfection in the year 1609. Americans had to live and work the land for food to eat, shelter to sleep, and adventure for fun like our famous earlier American explorers Daniel Boone, Mr. Lewis and Mr. Clark. We are digressing back to a simpler state of living and better safety for the younger inactive and lazy generation of teen male and female rednecks. No more cable, cells, and crap electronics that block the growing and active developing intellectual IQs, the future American citizens."

Rich nodded. "We are the new American space-age pioneers. The family unit will have the best of everything that our money and our technology can buy with the three point five quadrillion dollars. This includes solar air conditioning and heat plus hot water along with a set of nice new shiny appliances inside the kitchen, an underground storm shelter for not so nice tornados and bad nasty-ass weather. They will receive new furniture and furnishings, plenty of fresh home-grown food, and zillions of physical, mental, and social activities at the school for learning and fun, at the church for socializing and entertaining like in the 1950s. however, the family unit cannot left the block community, ever. Well, let me take that back, they can leave. Once gone, once blown. We do not accept chicken shits or angry rejecters. We will gate the entire land mass with a physical array of solid cement blocks with them spiky pointer thingies, that Dalton likes along with armed guardians, who don't take any shit from little assholes for no single weird-ass reason during a twenty four hour day and night shift. The people protection and animal security will eliminate everything and everyone, very well. Right, Holt?

"Any and all sneaky thieves of the night will get a big bang of vocal gun powder plus a bright pretty flash on bones and flesh, because the US economy is going to suck like a basket of rotten eggs left over from last year's church Easter egg hunt. Folks will become desperately deadly when there's no food and no hope."

"Desperately deadly? Ya should be a writer of crime stories, Rich." Cole chuckled.

Dalton nodded. "We each own and live in a block community, too. Rich gots Moville. I gots Hoville..."

Cole shook his skull. "Rich, why ya let the man do silly things like that? You call your block community name Hoville, Dalton? I believe that we, billionaires should veto Dalton's block name description."

Rich raised his palm, grinning. "Wait up, Cole. Dalton created the block city naming scheme. We okay I did. Moville is the proper place of my birth and my family community. I allowed Dalton to continue the naming sequence. We got Aville, Boville, Coville, Doville, Eville..."

Holt slapped his chest with a grin. "That's me." He and Dalton laughed, fist bumping.

"Jeezus, I get it. Okay, alright." Cole waved his hand with a grin.

"Just go with flow, Cole." Trent leaned with a grin to Cole.

"Aye, aye," Shelly smiled.

"The US land square miles is 3,536,294 timed 640 equals 2,263,228,160, and divided by 10 acres is 226,322,816 families. Now, the US households grand total number is 114,236,000, since Wade's an asshole." Dalton smiled to. "To keep the mail delivery simple for the Bama rednecks, we assign a starting number of block one to our first family in the city of Moville, until the geographical plots of land blocks are totally filled. In Hoville, I start over with block one. That's me. Dalton Dean. Block One. Hoville. Alabama," Dalton grinned.

Rich grinned. "Does everyone understand our family community and block system? Good. We ain't taking land from the rightful landowners. We will buy the land, once the landowner can't pay their mortgage or taxes or gets burned or gets shot for dead. Let me emphasize here and now. Things are going to get hot and heated around here, before it gets better. We give the rightful land to the rightful owner. This is America, land of free and home of the brave. The brave desires their rights as citizens like our forefathers signed in 1776. Now, our next step, everyone is so impatiently waiting for, since we just fucked them or her or him or foreigners big time in their pocketbooks. This here report shows the top fifty foreign corporations in America. The 166 billion dollars of our assets, our land, and our buildings belong to various companies, including oil, car dealerships, car factories, electronics, supermarkets, medical supplies companies, banks..."

"We got the banks." Cole frowned.

Rich shook his skull. "Not yet, we got their money. We want back our American soil. There're office machines, television stations, car tire companies, drug companies, even a couple of US northern states, allowing business foreigner companies to supply with electricity and gas services. And, there're the beverage companies and a few beer companies."

"Not mine, no fucking hell way." Dalton hollered. "I drink only American beer and tons of it."

Rich yelled. "Thanks for your obtuse useless feedback, Dalton. We plan to..."

"Foreigners invest in our ski condos, our Hollywood film studios, and our ship yards. Man, I didn't know this bull crap." Trent read the report.

"Blow them fucking suckers, all to hell and then back up to heaven. Yee-haw." Dalton clapped and yelled. "Then I can be the new president of our new and improved USA."

Trent leaned over and scrubbed with a finger across Dalton's black shaggy whiskers, chuckling with amusement. "You're mean like a rattlesnake and too scruffy to be president, Dalton. Shave that fur, boy."

Dalton slapped the hand from his face. "Man, ya touch me one more time? I'll bitch-slap your ass to the north corner, Trent. Tell him, Rich?"

"Play nice, Dalton." Rich viewed Trent. "Don't inflame the kid, Trent."

Holt smiled, "While he's holding an armed weapon..."

Cole grinned. "I agree with Trent. You're too mean, Dalton. Waddling'd make a great new president. He's got both style and presence. What'da ya say, Waddling?"

Wade frowned with annoyance. "I say..."

"Yay." Trent grinned. "Great answer, Wade. Your new job only requires one solo pretty appearance to Americans. Ya'll see nobody likes the old government and won't be fancy to the new government, since us, Americans don't wanna kiss your ass or your balls forever more," he chuckled.

"How much money ya got before Rich's investment procedures in the Caymans, Waddling?" Dalton grinned.

"I'm worth over five billion dollars, sir." Wade said with a nod and a smile.

"Holt's get twice that much before the investment." Dalton chuckled.

Ann frowned, pointing to the report. "Rich, please pardon my interruption. In studying the foreigner business company list, I am very concerned and worried about attacking establishments specifically labeled as supermarkets. Food is needed for everyone even pesky foreigners. Then there are the medical supply companies listed here. Food and medicine are essential in life especially for young sick and healthy children. I don't mind eliminating, such company holdings, as electronics, equipment machines, and office suppliers. These can be physically restored, easily. But I am very concerned about the other essential businesses to sustain all Americans in the long-term."

Rich nodded. "Miss Ann, you're perfectly right in your humanitarian concerns. We ain't evil. We be devious. We will physically set the fiery explosives in certain strategic spots in a physical building without workers, of course. No murders. We have pinpointed scientifically engineered computer analyzed spots inside the building that's owned by the foreigners, where the explosion bombs will be placed with a range of minimal structure damage. Ya'll see those US buildings belong to the American peoples. We just want the scummy foreigners to left permanently both our building and our country."

"So we attack the physical pumps at the gas station and not the specific building, itself." Cole nodded.

Rich nodded. "Sorta. I plan to blow part of the foreign owned gas station like the bathroom sinks and toilets, the cigarette display case with some glass window panes but not the automobile equipment or the food stuffs. Then our loyal and productive rebel-looters will rob the damaged building of all physical merchandise, leaving an ugly half concrete outer shell. The exterior concrete wall will be decorated with the two English words in the capital letters, GO HOME. After two weeks, Dalton, who's our official company lawyer, will go and run down to the specific county court house and buy that crap at one dollar per square mile, using our nest egg funds. We patch it up and give it to a conscientious American family, who wants to own their very own piece of America while creating jobs, creating money flow, and creating our new America."

The sound of claps echoed from the billionaires.

"You, the man." Holt smiled.

"You, a genius Rich." Dalton chuckled.

Wade exhaled with a puff of annoyance. "May I point out? There are literally thousands upon thousands, upon thousands of gas stations and food supermarkets without the mathematical counting of each piece of metal of thousands, of thousands, of thousands with electronic shops, car dealerships, insurance companies, and other retail shops?"

Dalton nodded. "Yes, Wad o'shit. We be sending the message like writing an advertisement in the skyline. Ya don't use the entire sky, just the message."

"O." Wade frowned with puzzlement, looking down to read the paper report.

Trent raised the green plastic card. "We have another source that identifies the current infestation of fucking foreigners, compliments of our lovely US Federal Government too. This is not an ATM card, for my personal bank account that one's silver. This is called the EC-6 for 'evil companies 666.' This little green card is a go-to card, giving a foreign country permission to invade, infect, and infuse their insect tentacles into our land, compliments of our spidery US Federal Government. The program is called Alien Immigrant which includes some alien immigrants from the foreign countries of India, China, South Korea, Britain, and others."

Holt nodded. "The EC-6 card and the alien immigrant program was created, voted, and approved by the US Congress. Please note that our congress has voted several times to keep it going even when the foreign alien prospects dried up. Then the vote actively increased the influx of very large numbers of alien immigrants into our USA major and minor cities, citing a recent invasion of aliens in some of the US States of eastern Ohio, western New York, Vermont, and Pennsylvania. So their infected major US city will be getting a great big gift from an evil and vile anti-Santa, this year." Holt chuckled.

Ann said. "This US Federal Government article states that a single American child costs 277,000 dollars to feed, shelter, and cloth plus adding into the equation an inflation rate, making the total monetary amount of 287,000 dollars. How ridicule? Children are not commodities to buy and sell. The report further explains that the monetary amount of 287,000 dollars doesn't include any medical emergencies like a child's broken limb or semi-annual teeth cleanings or a life insurance policy. Why would a child need life insurance? High income families with extra pockets of revenue income always give their child fun types of expensive electronic devices, while a low-income child only gets food and some borrowed clothes. Then there's the entire expense of a four year university at 29,657 dollars per year which is not calculated into the money equation at all. I simply do not understand."

Rich nodded. "We will change all that, Miss Ann. All American children will receive food, shelter, and clothes, free of charge along with a good education for a good job to prepare them as good standing USA adult. Okay? Are we done talking? We gotta plane to catch. Follow me, this way," he stood, assisting Miss Ann from her chair.

The billionaires moved out the building to the night cool air. They boarded four numerous helicopters, compliments of the rebel leader Rich.

The helicopters lifted up and soared underneath a yellow moon in the dark blue Alabama night sky. These smaller helicopters were used both daily and nightly by numerous billionaire executives all over the world to ferry to and from a heliport, in and out around the major and minor world cities.

May 4th Wednesday

12:46 a.m.

Cheaha Mountain at 2,400 feet elevation (60 miles south of Birmingham)

Clear sky with bright stars and moonlight

Seven mph winds with 40 percent humidity at 55ºF

Mound peak setting

Each helicopter landed one at a time on top of a flat peak tabletop of Cheaha Mountain with an elevation of 2,400 feet elevation and above the cotton fields in Moville.

Rich dropped down and out the door of the helicopter, turning and assisting Molly down onto the beautifully manicured grass with several rows of lighted poles of illumination. She smiled, scanning the new landscape. "A raised platform on the peak top of a mountain made of stone rocks and gray limestone with a set of sequentially elevated solid footsteps staircase like a Mexican ziggurat structure but smaller and cuter like my sweet three-year old granddaughter," giggling.

Rich escorted Molly to the seating theater, saying with a grin. "An earthwork or a platform mound supported a fixed structure or a social activity. The Mississippian Indians of North American used the same type of earth mounds for the chief's private house, the public temple social gatherings, the funeral mortuary site, and a hot spot for dance activities, Miss Molly. The mound is layered with a single row of grass sod, brown rocks, and red clay dirt, and multiple layers of sod, rock, and clay for a desired summit height. I decorated the steps with a flatten layer of gray limestone to the mountain peak for both foot safety and boot convenience. Our mound is ten feet high and twenty feet across for our late evening social activity."

Trent stepped down from the same helicopter and smiled, moving to the seating theater too. "Sometimes, the mounds were filled with bones of the dead or valuable items like fresh spring water and stocked catfish. What's in your mound, Chief Rich?" He chuckled.

"Or in your mind, Chief Rich?" Cole chuckled and escorted Ann.

Rich turned and smiled to Cole. "Greenbacks, smartass." He looked forward, saying with a grin and a nod. "A lovely scent fragranced landscaped spot of birches, oaks, and beech trees, cloaked within a deep thick dense forest of both altitude and latitude, scattered with an assortment of small and large mammals on one particular bald spot rocky ledge. No hiking trails available. I bushwhacked and broke many chainsaw teeth on this thick woodsy shit of gnarled thickets and endless forested dense timber."

"Where's the day spa and double tennis courts, Rich?" Cole chuckled.

"Where are we?" Wade stepped down from a second helicopter and stomped forward into the black darkness to the seating theater, frowning with confusion.

"Not Oak Mountain, 'cause there ain't no par three for my golf clubs." Holt jumped from the platform of the helicopter with a laugh, sitting and elbowing Dalton, who had leaped first.

"No beer," Dalton said with a frown, scanning the pretty dirt mound of expensive silver rocks and red clay, moving to the seating theater.

Rich said. "Cheaha Mountain comprises fifty two percent of the Alabama topography which is a total of 13,633 square miles. The highest point is 2,400 feet right here. There are 244 miles of trees and birds, going north to south directionally, and 148 miles going east to west. We're two hours east of Birmingham and right off Interstate 20 in the Talladega National Forest."

"Can't see the trees for the forest?" Dalton chuckled, moving to the seating theater.

Rich stopped and pointed to the four duck-patterned yellow and orange chaise lounge chairs between two tall tables.

Each table contained three tall stool chairs, three yellow duck-patterned rubber placemats, three tiny tin pails of cold bottles of beer, and three brown wicker baskets of peanuts, pretzels and peppermint candy.

"There's beer." Dalton stopped and pulled out the chair and sat with a grin, grabbing a cold beer from the pail, screwing the lid open, and sipped, slamming the bottle to the table, nodding and grinning at his table mates Holt and Cole.

Rich moved and lounged in one of four long chairs with his boot heels, resting on top of the duck-patterned fabric, motioning for a glass of wine from a professional team of male waiters. Rich was smart enough not to employ pretty southern belles around dumb young rednecks Dalton and Holt and more dumb old rednecks Cole and Trent.

The waiters wore a pair of new jeans and a pair of polished cowboy boots, moving and serving each redneck lady first with a tray of chilled glasses of wine as the females giggled over the full attention and full entertainment.

Trent raised a wrapped peppermint candy with a smile and a nod. "Ya remembered? I'm touched, Rich."

Rich pointed to one of the four television monitors which was mounted on top of a free-standing metal pole that were planted like a row of individual tree saplings in the red dirt. The earth mound overlooked a green and brown valley which was far below the mountain peak.

"What's going on here, Rich?" Cole turned and viewed the television monitors, seeing a faint outline of the block community called Moville which were torched in a series of vertical and horizontal geometric lines colored in both red and yellow tiny bonfires. The fire blazed hot in a familiar color scheme of thirteen horizontal lines of red and white with a square of fifty electric blue stars, outlining the American flag.

"Burning down them cotton fields, chief?" Wade sipped on the wine, sitting at the second pub table with Shelly and Trent, watching a lovely soft and silent fire burn in the cool night air in the fields of Moville.

"Burning down the house." Dalton laughed and stood, saluting the fiery American flag, a symbol of might, fight, and freedom for him and his Americans. Then he placed a right hand over his heart, singing with a smile.

The other billionaires stood, copy catting Dalton. They all softly sung the familiar Star Spangled Banner, the national anthem of the United States of America.

The fiery American flag burned down to tiny pink flames.

The billionaires sat, partaking of the food treats and the alcoholic beverages.

"What's next, Rich?" Shelly smiled, enjoying the view and the wine.

Rich looked down to see his wrist watch, counting ass-backwards with a grin. "Five, four, three, two, one..."

1:07 a.m.

City of Hometown (65 miles northwest from Cheaha Mountain)

Starry sky and moonlight

Four mph winds with 61 percent humidity at 68ºF

Pickup truck interior of Cam and Tessie

Tessie rubbed the warm bottle of water over his face, stimulating body sweat.

Cam tossed a handful of dirt on his fake blue and torn police uniform, sitting in the car, and slid out of the un-marked car parked which was located around the corner in a dark alleyway, away from the targeted gas station. He stood and ran in place, pumping both his kneecaps into his face, building up a real panicked body and voice for a real live show inside the corner gas station. He moved and jogged around the car three times, feeling both energized and excited. Then he ran down the empty alley way and hit the empty parking lot of the selected gas station.

The time was very early morning without visible sleepy customers, who usually brought a gallon of petro gasoline or a gallon of sweet milk at his store.

Gas station interior setting

Cam ran and burst through the front glass door of gas station, dashing to the middle space between the aisle of soda cans and candy bars, parking in front of the cash register and a deaf store clerk, who looked down and played on her mobile telephone.

Cam shouted and raised his arms with an ugly distorted face. "Bomb. Bomb threat." The female store clerk looked up and dropped her mouth in fear to Cam. He slapped his fake police uniform, shouting with panic and alarm. "Police. Boom. Bomb. Bomb, in here. Get out. Run for your life."

The petite female store clerk reached and grabbed her handbag, cuddling her mobile telephone to her chest, rushing out the door. She ran around the building corner to her car, sliding inside, cranking the engine for 1.2 seconds, and raced from the empty parking lot.

Cam turned to see the older model car burn rubber down the city street, heading north, and laughed, pulling out his mobile telephone, typing a text: Burn U.

Next, the team of rebel-arsons, wearing a fake mask of artificial dark skin rubber over a face, a throat, and ten finger pads and up to both elbows, invaded the selected gas station like an army of fire ants on a dead tree. Each arson toted in both gloved hands a palm-sized homemade plastic bomb.

One plastic bomb was planted inside the bathroom, near the front windows, on top of the cashier counter, on the cigarette shelf, and at the front door.

The rebel-arson had been ordered to avoid the horizontal shelves of food stuffs, thousands of tiny cool beverages inside the cold refrigerators, and other valuable food, drink, and merchandise for some fun stealing later. The rebel-arsons huddled and signaled a single text message on their individual mobile telephone to the boss man. Then they quickly left, slapping back muscles and chuckles with each other.

Cam led the devoted and dissatisfied rebels back to the empty parking lot, where the rebel-arsons slid to their individual vehicles and left the city street.

Pickup truck interior setting

Cam rapidly moved back to the car, sliding his ass into a cloth seat, turning with a smile to see Tessa as she giggled. He started the car, slowly driving across three city streets, and parked inside an empty parking lot for both observation and safety.

He cuddled Tessie and his cold beer.

The clock displayed 1:32 A.M., a new morning.

Cam carefully watched for any innocent pedestrians moving along the empty city streets, seeing only empty city streets. Since yesterday's bank robbery of every bank in American in board daylight, every citizen stayed home inside their four cozy living room walls during the evening hours watching television, if they could afford it.

Cam chuckled as Tessa tickled his chest. He slurped the beer and burped.

The sounds of a boom, a bang, a ping, and a ting echoed in the night. The homemade bombs prettily exploded into an array of cute colorful fireworks and not being the Fourth of July which was America's birthday. The bombs sounded with a zillions pops in a vivid wild tint of crimson red, electric blue, and chick yellow, bright white, and dull gray, and finally midnight black smoke.

Cam heard the sirens and whistles of fire trucks.

The police cars appeared, rolling in from the side city streets, flashing blue lights for the same emergency situation around the quiet city streets of Birmingham, the entire state of Alabama, and the entire nation of America.

8:02 a.m.

Town of Boville (four miles north of Birmingham)

Chism Warehouse

Cool temperatures with mostly clear sky

Four mph winds with 69 percent humidity at 73ºF

Rear room setting

Inside the warehouse, a large room was filled with furniture and boxes. The rebel billionaires sat around the table, eating the morning meal.

"All good natured charity work starts, today." Rich finished breakfast which was provided by Trent at the storage warehouse, and scanned with his pair of blood shot eyeballs to see the tired faces of Molly, Penny, Ann, Cole, Trent, Holt, Shelly, Wade, Albert, and Dalton also.

Dalton finished the scrambled eggs, shifting the dirty platter to the side, chewing the eggs, and slowly pulled out his personal hand gun from the leather hostler. Like a little mischievous kid, Dalton rested it flat on top of the table surface and spun it around and around with his index finger like a toy in front of his chest.

Trent kicked the chair from his legs, standing and leaning over the table surface, and grabbed the hand gun with his shooting hand which was sensitive to fire arms, double checking the safety clip. He looked up with a sneer to Dalton. "Boy, ya bring a loaded pistol into my establishment ever again? I'll tan your hind so red, Julia won't recognize them pale butt cheeks."

The billionaires chuckled.

Dalton stood, kicking the chair from his ass, pointed to his gun with a growl. "My butt cheeks are tan. Give it back. I'll leave it in my damn truck."

"Where's your damn truck, boy?" Trent snarled to Dalton, holding the gun.

Dalton thumbed the door. "Parked outside..."

"On my property too. Ya get it back when you depart my premise after our important meeting, son." Trent frowned, swinging and strutting to the wardrobe chest. He gently wrapped the gun in a cloth and tenderly placed the loaded weapon inside the wooden drawer, pivoting back to the eating table.

"Hey, man." Dalton back stepped from the table, jabbing a finger at the closed drawer, holding his precious weapon.

"Sit down, Dalton." Rich smiled.

Dalton turned and lifted his fallen chair from the floor, sitting his ass in the soft leather, folding arms with a sour pout.

Holt chewed on the toothpick. "Anyone else armed? Betta turn your gun over to Trent, before he has a freaking heart attack and dies upon this here eating table. Then we lose his billionaire dollar jackpot," he smiled to Dalton.

"Presence is always favorable over absence." Albert chuckled.

"Nice fireworks display last night, Rich. I enjoyed the view and the action." Cole sipped the coffee.

"I enjoyed stealing all the food stuffs and decorating prettily the exploded buildings, this morning." Dalton stood and yawned, stretching his arms. "Where're the sodas, Trent? Over here?"

Trent pointed to the food table on the side of the wall.

Rich smiled. "Phase One is completed, my little belles and beaus. We got them foreign monies. Phase Two is completed. Since we got them foreign buildings. Phase Three..."

"We got them attention, Rich. Ain't ya worried that we might get caught doing something illegal? Since we're doing something illegal." Cole chuckled.

"That redneck statement, doesn't make sense, Cole?" Albert grinned.

Trent said. "Naw, Cole. In Rich's explanation, we are a given like in the math of geometry. We got men, women, weapons, and plenty of pissed-off attitude, aptitude, amplitude, and altitude, in case folks snoop around in our illegal business." He slurped the cold beverage.

Rich nodded. "We re-employ both hard working and honest goodness real Americans around the nation and put their boots back into the American red clay dirt by helping the helpless, sick, poor, outcast, mean, sweet, nice, innocent, rich, greedy, selfish, and holy. Cole has nicely accumulated food, beverages, fruits, vegetables, dry goods, wet goods, and small items like paper goods, and tons of other goods, coming from various wrecked retail stores and newly evacuated foreign buildings. So we play superstore, today. Hundreds of empty semi-tractor trailer rigs and big trucks are being loaded right now with all that merchandise. And we are handing it out, free of charge. We will set up in every church, every school, and every mall parking lot. Give it all away."

Wade viewed Rich with confusion. "Hold up there, son. I thought that we were going to give all the free of charge merchandise to only the current herds of hard-working Americans. If you allow all these big trucks into all these open spaces, each and every mogul dog and hungry puppy will greedy fetch and retrieve all the free merchandise. Then there will not be enough food items to go around the third block of houses, Rich."

"I be damn. Wad o'shit is smart." Dalton chuckled.

Rich said. "I'm IT King, Wade. We request a very simple procedure like an ID. Since good folks carry some type of ID with them, displaying with some type of household address. We'll limit, filling a car to the brim to one physical address and use some fancy digital equipment to record, track, and trace the free social event with our rebel IT boys and girls. Since we trust, employ, and service all the rebel boys and girls. One per household, exclamation point. We let our technology rule for once. Now, I need volunteers to men the trucks and act as US Goodwill Bama Ambassadors."

"I will go, Rich." Molly stood with a smile and a nod.

Trent stood, shaking his skull. "No. No, Miss Molly. You can't go down there into that massive mess of meanness. It's going to be a bunch of loud wild animals along with outrageously dangerous folks just having fun and being their true mean selfies."

Molly smiled. "Poopy socks. I had stood with my fellow American sisters and brothers and heard, saw, and listened to all the same lame excuses from them financial bankers. The bankers were ordered to lie by our US Federal Government, and the bankers shut down and locked the knobs on the bank doors, the other day. I'm proud to serve my fellow Americans in this time of need. They are mamas with their children out there in the heated sunlight. And might I point out? This is also very dangerous for them mamas and babies, gentlemen. I'm going to protect their motherly interests, since they can't. Which truck is mine, Rich? And I come armed." She reached and pulled out her lady hand gun from the handbag, lifting and displaying it with a grin like Dalton on her thumb and trigger finger.

The cold gun barrel pointe to the ceiling and away from her new friends.

The sounds of hoots and claps came from the billionaires.

"Rich, we should pair Wade with Miss Molly for security protection while offering a good public relations exposure of this mess. Let all the nice and naughty Americans see both types of billionaires, a Wall Street playboy and a glamour princess, who work together to support and unite the good ole US of A." Cole smiled to Molly as she giggled.

Dalton stood, moving and turning to the rear door, and grabbed and opened the door knob, shouting. "Cam."

Cam appeared to Dalton, standing in the archway with a grin and a nod. "Sir."

Dalton thumbed over his collar bone to Wade, ordering with a smile and a nod. "Take him and Miss Molly down to the first church around the corner out of Boville, first. They're giving away a mess of free stuff to anyone, who has a valid ID and only one physical address. No returners." Cam nodded as Dalton said. "You got your law badge?" Cam lifted and showed his badge as Dalton said with a grin and a nod. "Good. You find Sheriff Carmichaels and tell him? Wade and Miss Molly are Rich's VIP special guests. And they're under your and his protection. Or Rich will be highly pissed and beat his butthole. Got that, boy?" Cam nodded as Dalton ordered. "Secondly, you talk and explain the same thing to all them boys and girls, that's deputized to aid the local police officers with any violent protestors or vicious fighters. Okay?" Cam nodded as Dalton said. "Aid. You do not start any redneck fights, boy. If I hear, otherwise?"

Dalton was a believer in both justice and rightness equality for every red blooded true American.

Cam repeated his vocal order with a nod and a stern face. "No fighting. Yes sir. And's help Sheriff Carmichaels and the local police. What about them foreigners, sir?"

Dalton shook his curls. "Leave them be. Let Carmichaels handle any and all protesters or fist fighters for the time being. We're helping all peoples, today, whether Americans or not. They're just worried about their missing money and feeding their families like the rest of America. They're scared and afraid. That's all. So, you and your boys and girls be especially nice and friendly and then just explain to the visitors that everything's fine and dandy, move along, and get your free stuff for today. Got that, Cam?" Cam nodded as Dalton said with a smile. "Good man." He turned and viewed Molly, saying. "Miss Molly, this is Cam. He's going to drive you and Waddling to the nearest church, and protect your persons. You provide free goodies to all them mamas and their little babies, as long as, you want Miss Molly." Dalton slapped his hand on Cam. Cam turned and smiled to Molly also.

Molly smiled, waddling her queen-sized body to the archway. "Rich, ya'll boys have thought of everything. I'm both impressed and honored."

10:01 a.m. (eastern time)

Washington D.C. (735 miles northeast of Moville)

White House cabinet room setting

Overcast sky with ten percent rain precipitation

Ten mph winds with 20 percent humidity at 55ºF

The president twisted the desk chair from his desk, seeing the famed White House Rose Garden. The garden was getting wet from the rain drizzle. Then he exhaled with a huff of frustration.

He slowly stood and neatly pressed down with his hands the lined ceases in his trouser, slowly standing and moving to the door, and stopped, jerking the door knob open, stomping out of the Oval Office.

He moved down the hallway and entered the cabinet room, seeing the famous dark colored wooden oval table and a set of matching brown-colored leather chairs, a centerpiece gift from President Richard Nixon in the year 1970.

Each seat hugged an ass which was wiggling with nervousness inside the leather seat. Each seat held an engraved brass placard that showed the current employed cabinet member that was screwed on the outside the back rest of the wooden chair.

He moved to the head of the table and stopped, looking to see each person.

The Secretary of Defense held up a handful of tiny slips of paper with a sour frown to the president. "Do you know what these are, Mr. President? The powerhouse country of China, located in the Asia Pacific region, has many calls of many demands of their money. It seems that the United States of America has forgotten to pay our monthly invoice of a big gawd damn international bank note, totaling an unhappy tune of 1.926 trillion dollars. Or let us round it up to a gawd damn whole math number of two trillion US gawd damn dollar bills."

The president slid into the chair, sitting and showing a sour frown.

The Secretary of State sipped on his imported gourmet cup of coffee and said. "Mr. President, I have warned you time and time again, sir. The country of China is a particular worry to the USA, because of its vast economical dynamism and raising rapidly military ships, supersonic fighter jets, and great big weapon stores. Least, we not be forgetting that the country of Iraq threats us too on an hourly basis, disrupting our continuous oil supply. How in the galaxy will we function without petroleum for our limos, Mr. President?"

The Secretary of Agriculture smoked a smelly cigar pipe and blew out the smoke, saying with a smile and a nod. "Food. Does anyone understand that nasty four lettered word? Americans need food to eat, before we can pay any fucking foreigners our USA monies."

The Secretary of Energy sipped on her cold soda, saying with a nod. "Since our solider boys and girls are home from their overseas war operations, we need to update and upgrade our intra-weapons here in America, but I cannot. Since I have received numerous cuts in my money funds that come from the American taxpayers for the upkeep of the USA nuclear program, Mr. President. I need my funds restored to operate all twelve submarines, not to mention the eighty percent completion, but twenty percent incompletion of the first ever nuclear-capable bomber aircraft. The USA might find that bomber useful, if the nose of China keeps stinging our buttholes with their vile vicious threats of an invasion upon American soil."

The Secretary of Health and Human Services smirked her bright red lipstick with a giggle. "On American soil, China is actually threatening to invade the United States of America. Ha. Ha. That's funny, Mr. Secretary of Energy. I'd predict that the concentrated attack would be some type of cyber warfare or terrorism. Mr. President, I believe that we need every man, woman, and child to donate their precious red blood to my local and regional offices at a local American Red Cross facilities in every city. Let's release a press statement. Every person, including man, woman, teen, and child also needs to buy and donate a can of food and a bag of staple like a package of potato chips to my numerous and empty food banks. Since I'm currently in charge of feeding the stupid idiots that never plan for any type of urgent threatening emergency, be it Mother Nature or man-made."

The Secretary of Veterans Affairs sipped on his bottled fruit-flavored water beverage and cleared his throat. "Mr. President, since you have returned our military personnel from all over the world, I run amuck with wounded soldiers, who live on a daily basis inside my over-crowded clinics, emergency rooms, and limited hospitals. They won't go home. Some don't have homes. Some don't know where home is. Some don't have families. And I have paid physicians, nurses, and technicians, who are living, eating, sleeping, and shitting in the over-crowded narrow hallways, in the employee's working spaces, and every single spot and place on a dirty tile floor, but the heated kitchen cooking area, and hotter boiler rooms. I need more taxpayers' money to solve this problem."

The Secretary of Treasury raised his hard copy report. "Sir, the latest calculations place the US dollar monetary value at thirteen cents, Mr. President. That's the numbers one and three. A single loaf of bread costs 153 dollars. Gasoline is 125 dollars per gallon but not many people drive their cars, now days. All profitable business company offices have reduced their productive working hours of operation from five working days down to three working days and it does not include the closed hours for weekends of Saturday and Sunday. Some business offices are temporally closed, awaiting for a grand re-opening, Mr. President. Unemployment waves at 89.9 percent, a new high for our USA history textbooks that my grandson will study in fifth grade, sir. I feel once the US Federal taxpayers' monies are re-distributed around the US Federal government departments, and we will see that high unemployment double figure swiftly drop like a dead eagle shot by a redneck from the baby blue sky in Bama next year or so, sir," chuckling.

The president was five feet and eleven inches tall with a head of light brown graying colored hair at the temples, wearing a designer yellow sport shirt and was not smiling. "Thank you for coming and supplying me with more headaches. I will consider all your recommendations and advices and budgets. Please return to your offices, jolt down any more creative ideas to save the USA and send by email to me or the vice president. Good day. I would like the Secretary of Defense, the Vice President of the United States, the Secretary of State, and the Secretary of Treasury to stay for an additional impromptu White House administration meeting."

The uninvited cabinet members stood and left the room.

The president raised and fired up a cigarette, placing inside his mouth, inhaling. He puffed out a white stream of smoke, leaning forward across the table without smiling. "Well are there any leads, clues, hints or executions yet of these fucking American bastards, who stole all my money from my banks in my country? I'm a laughing stock to the prime ministers and heads of foreign governments, all over the fucking world and up my earlobes in smelly horse shit from the American people. I can't breathe any air and taken to smoking again. I haven't smoked since 1981. They want to hang me, not impeach me. Good Lord. I spent all my time, my money, and my career to become the President of the United States. Look, what happens? Why's this happening to me?" He looked to see each cabinet member. "Well hell, share talk to me."

The Secretary of Treasury grinned. "Steal from China?"

"We accomplished that magical feat. They called. They want their money back, as soon as possible," the Secretary of Defense smiled to the Secretary of Treasury.

"Steal it from Great Britain and give it to China. Get those bitches out of our buttholes," the Secretary of State exhaled.

"We don't have to steal. We can borrow," the vice president chuckled.

"Steal another twenty four trillion dollars for the missing twenty four trillion? Did you graduate grammar school, Mr. Vice President of the USA? A fucking ass fourth grader knows not to borrow, after stealing from his mama and daddy but go directly to his grandma for gawd's sake," the Secretary of Treasury fumed with frustration.

The vice president said. "Get our money back from the fucking bank robbers. This will solve all our immediately butt painful homegrown issues coming from our foreign bed mates and American brethren. Who are these assholes always, Mr. Secretary of Defense? You defend our front and rear ends," chuckling.

The Secretary of Defense lifted with a grin and a nod his single sheet of paper near his face. "The FBI has picked up a couple of solid leads, based on a couple of current events that preceded that successful bank robbery. And the Bureau has followed and identified some important pieces of the numerous arson explosions, coming from hundred of legitimate foreign businesses across the land of American, last night. These are reliable sources from a couple of resourceful informants. The first piece of hard evidence is a yahoo country club, a gathering of some well-known billionaires in Birmingham, Alabama, one of the bigger metro cities in the state. The meeting was held at a local gas and food station on US Highway 79. The list of names," he handed the single paper to the president.

The president accepted and read the paper with a listing of the prominent names, parting his lips, and said with a sour tone. "Some big names?" he inhaled on a fired second cigarette.

"Some bigger bucks?" The Secretary of Defense smiled.

The president puffed out the smoke, "So you believe these assholes plotted, planned, and performed their fuck job on us, the US?" He looked up with a puzzled brow to the Secretary of Defense.

The Secretary of Treasury shook his skull. "They are billionaires. They give away millions of dollars of free goodies to crying, whining people this week, after we closed down all the American banks. And we haven't done jack shit about the vicious arsonists that burned down thousands upon thousands of legal and profitable foreign businesses that worked and were located throughout our great nation. How can you suspect them of performing evil, Mr. President? They're pitching in like the rest of Americans during this asshole preventable crisis."

The Secretary of Defense smiled. "The billionaires are using their billion dollar bucks, brains, and brass. Yes sir, Mr. President. I believe that they're the responsible party and parties, stealing American monies, probably stashed inside thousand of coffee cans around their old stinky outhouses," he chuckled.

The vice president shouted. "Fucking flying fairy tale, Mr. Secretary of Defensive Man. We don't have one electronic or physical photo or an audio recording or a written legal brief, but one single lousy ass vocal tattle tale meeting of ten or so people. Ya know this is America? If I remember from my eleventh grade American history class the First Amendment from the US Constitution guarantees every American freedom of religion, speech, and expression. Translation, people, with or without post-graduate degrees, every American citizen has the right of any freely social event, any fucking where, any fucking how, and any fucking time, for any fucking American or Americans," he turned with a sour frown to see the president. "Be very gawd damn careful here, Mr. President."

The Secretary of Treasury smiled. "Gossip, lies, or trailer Bama trash. Forget it all, Mr. President. Americans have vocally, electronically, and physically are waving their hand weapons below the American flag pole and demanding all their money in either paper, gold, silver, or the yuan. So we have complied immediately. And they got it back, yesterday. I am so proud and so pleased to exclaim. All financial monies have been placed back inside their personal bank accounts. So, everyone's happy, again."

The vice president chuckled. "Wouldn't they have been tailed, tracked, and trialed by now down there in the South?"

"It's trailed, not trialed, Mr. Vice President." The president said. "The trial will come later, after these dumb shits confess and communicate. Then they cough-up all my fucking ass money, saving all our butt-holes from a galley neck tie hanging, coming from the second balcony of the White House."

"I suggest, sending some of my military folks out there to seek and to score silently and get your money back, Mr. President," the Secretary of Defense smiled.

"Mr. President, I strongly suggest that the Secretary of Defensive Man take my most seasoned and trusted IRS agent as a new team mate of your newly created SS guard units. He is very good with rich people," the Secretary of Treasury grinned.

Mr. President fired up a fourth, looking at the fire.
Ten weeks later

July 20th Wednesday

10:05 a.m.

City of Gardenville (two miles north of Birmingham)

Peter's Grocery Store

Clear sky with sun with four mph winds

85 percent humidity at 89ºF

Parking lot setting

Pamela touched the bicep of her husband, holding their six month old son on the hip. She felt the taunt fleshy output of his vigorous weight lifting and intense fitness exercise that did not truly fool her smart neurons.

Preston rose each morn before sunshine, intensively scouting with two eyeballs and two eardrums. A hand pistol tucked down into a fit waist, a shotgun inside a left hand, and a rifle in his right hand. He slowly strutted along his private real estate property line, consisting of land, water, and homestead. He secretly hunted for any and all vile vicious uninvited invaders, any rude wondering wanderers, or one stupid fool. who might be messing with the wire fencing. The wire fence surrounded and protected the cows and the dirt grounds which were also protected by a gang of stray dogs. He watched for love and protection in regards to his wife Pamela and their precious toddler son.

Pamela dropped her eyelashes down to see his nervous sunburned and calloused hand that tapped a silent rhyme against his thigh. The thigh was outlined in a pair of faded and torn blue jeans. The jeans outlined a trim and fit waistline which was belted in cow leather. The worn and torn cow leather belt surrounded a short-sleeved slightly red clay dirty and green grass-stained white shirt. The shirt was filled with a set of muscles on his six feet and four inched frame. A deeply sunburned bronze complexion highlighted a square jaw line which was thickly dusted with a set of black whiskers, a pair of pink lips, a sharp nose, two highly arched rosy cheekbones, and the bluest of blue eyes. His wavy black hair was parted on a left side, falling partly into a left eyeball and partly around a forehead with the rest of the hair cut short around ears and neckline. His ears were not dumbo-sized like her friend Arthur which made her man, a hundred percent perfection. She grinned at her husband and the father of her child.

Preston had lost a good paying job along with the tens of millions of other hard working Americans. He spent all his free time, roaming the privately owned land, cutting down fallen trees, wetting the yellow dried grass, preventing the start of a forest fire, hunting for any people poachers, housing stray dogs for protection, repairing the house, feeding the wild animals of deer and rabbits for future food stock, gardening the rows of a new vegetable field, and trimming the blooming fruit trees, and fruit berry bushes. Then he jogged around at morning, noon, and evening with his daddy.

They traveled down the private gravel road with a shotgun, two hand pistols, and a hunting knife for trouble, and then they eliminated that trouble that stupidly sot to harm his wife, his son, and his family members.

At night, Preston did not need much sleep as his wife or his son while trying to relax by enjoying a book or pacing the room for readiness of any small or large trouble which came his property, his place, and his person.

Nine weeks ago

The US Federal Government declared financial bankruptcy that made all employment jobs disappear into thin air like some sick magician's trick. The US economy left people without any type of money income to pay for the basic commodities of a previous decent lifestyle. The basic commodities included the home mortgage, the electricity, the water, the food, the gasoline, the television, the telephone, the vehicle notes, the vehicle repairs, and health, dental, house, life insurance. The new lifestyle didn't leave much for an type of nicer luxury items, such as, medical physician visits, dentist visits, house repairs, delivery of local newspapers, national magazines, entertainment musical discs, movie disc, clothes, shoes, education, and other expensive fun stuff.

Eight weeks ago

The American banks shut down, denying the American people their American money deposits of green paper cash due to the greatest bank heist of two centuries. The clever bank heist had robbed all the USA and International banks all at the same tick-tock time.

A bold team of bank robbers entered the building with hand guns, and left out the door with numerous hand bags of cold hard cash in money denominations from one dollar to hundred dollar bills plus the heavy and hefty gold and silver coinage.

As the people slowly heard with eardrums the hot juicy gossip, they dropped the coffee cup on the kitchen floor or in the work lounge, racing to the banks. Then, they came and found sealed, bolted, and locked closed doors at their private personal bank. The people sadly viewed the long semi-crooked human chain of heated and hot-tempered Americans that waited for their hard working cash to be quickly withdrawal from a secured bank account to eat food with their kids and buy gas for their cars.

The local policemen and women arrested and cuffed the human hotheads while the children played nosily on the vanilla colored sidewalks. Elder folks quickly fainted from various medical conditions from sun poisoning to heat strokes in a hot sizzling month of May.

All the American bank managers under the orders by the President of the United States issued a single slip of paper to each bank holder, guaranteeing that your bank account was federally insured by the US Federal Government.

Seven weeks ago

The FDIC insurance activated and executed its solo purpose painting, printing, and producing blocks of new green and white tinted paper money. Then, the President of the United States of America issued and flooded an already tanked USA economy with an additional twenty four trillion dollars of paper debt which was the estimated amount of the stolen greenbacks by an un-known and un-apprehended criminal mastermind.

Preston with his dad and his mom, Pamela's dad, and his best friend Arthur, all carried a set of personal hard copy paper bank statements to prove a personal bank account along with six duffle bags for the re-printed cash.

One for each collar bone plus a bag in each hand that made six duffle bags total. A visual hand pistol nicely displayed across the chest cavity of Preston inside the gun pouch that warned protection of his loving family and his non-loving cash during the withdraw process of all cash.

And then, Preston closed his bank account down foreverly.

Preston had been thrifty for years with his money which was a learned trait as a scout. An honorable organization and a more honest daddy encouraged and practiced that concept into Preston's neurons since elementary school. He huffed and puffed at toting 151,650 pieces of green paper which had been marked with the money denominations of twenty dollar bills, tugging very heavy on his two collar bones and his two cupped fists.

Preston toted 1,125 tiny stacks of cash which totaled 3,001,297.00 US dollars. In real US dollars, it was worth 265,000 dollars for two adults and one baby to continue receiving both food and heat.

When the US Federal Government re-printed the money bills, they limited the denominations to five, ten, and twenty math numbers for the ease of payment to the bank customer and the solo trip for the bank customer out the bank doors.

Adding twenty four trillion dollars to the outstanding US National Debt of twenty four trillion dollars, the total amount equaled forty eight trillion dollars, the new total monetary debt amount. The old USA government owned to the foreign countries, such like, China, Japan, Great Britain, and too many other nations too much money. The math translation was 186,794.13 dollars per man, woman, teen, child, and infant who resided in the USA for paying off the new USA National Debt before wiping the slant clean down to zero dollars and zero cents, the new American nightmare.

The mighty US dollar value equaled thirty five cents and plunged down hourly which created a Milky Way galaxy-size depression in the USA.

In the State of Alabama, a loaf of bread was valued at 21.00 US dollars. A gallon of gasoline was valued at 73.00 US dollars, and a gallon of sweet milk was priced at 26.00 US dollars.

The crime sprees jumped up to quadruple digits as good hard working people worried and went to church a couple days of the week to pray to Almighty God's salvation in Birmingham, Alabama.

Birmingham was listed as one of the fifth worse cities in the USA before a depressed US economy. An assortment of violent and vicious local crimes consisted of murder, rape, burglary, assault, and robbery in the city limits that hoarded 300,000 residents plus the surrounding county population which increased the total to 750,000 people. And the people needed jobs, food, water, shelter, and safety.

Six weeks ago

The US Federal Government shut down all the public-owned elementary, middle, and high school buildings, libraries, city halls, and state departments, consisting of automobile license, beer tax, beverage tax, business license, car tags license, drivers license, fishing license, gasoline tax, lodging tax, sales tax, and land property tax offices. Thus, all type of people lost their US Federal Government jobs with the working office of the road and transportation department for building and maintaining roads and highways.

The justice courts closed the court gallery archways and unemployed all the state and federal judges and their working staff member. All American fair justice and legal law matters were immediately transferred to a new establishment which was ordered by a Presidential Executive Order and called the Secret Service Guard or SS guard unit. The SS guards were a unit of loyal devoted armed men and women, who were approved and employed through a single channel which came from and to the President of the United States.

So, the unemployed people slowly moved back home or marched on sneakers around the city sideways in protest as wild-ass drivers wrecked cars which harmed and killed people.

The dad of Preston was employed accountant, working most of his life to pay for a house, food stuffs, and electricity for summertime and wintertime months, and swiftly lost his only paying job. So he hung around cleaning the house, helping out like a housewife at home.

The mom of Preston was employed as a nurse as she continued to perform her nursing duties at a local hospital for both payment of cash and charity of care.

Five weeks ago

The US Federal Government shut down all the city and county fire departments for emergency fired and medical rescues, the health departments for recording the legal birth of babies, and death records of people the county clinics for immunizations, tuberculosis, sexually transmitted diseases, dental examinations, laboratory tests, and drug dispensing.

The US Federal Government closed all the state-owned medical centers, Medicare and Medicaid offices, family planning clinics, the environmental health departments, monitoring a town's air pollution, animal bites, food safety, and sanitation services, except for the local sewer treatment plants and associated and employed skeleton support staff employees.

So, the unemployed people walked back home or marched on their sneakers around the city sidewalks to protest the government shut-down. More homeless people roamed the city streets, more home and business structures burned down to the red clay dirt. And more stray, hunger, and abandoned family pets roamed freely in the city streets. And finally more people died from heat and sun poisoning.

The dad of Pamela was an engineer who lost his job and hung around cleaning his house, doing minor chores, since his wife had died many years ago and his only child had married one year ago.

Three weeks ago

The US Federal Government shut down all the local and state police and sheriff offices, the Social Security offices, the Post Offices, and the Cyber Crime Office. Some local small businesses closed store doors and boarded the windows with wood.

Or the resourceful store owners bantered the valuable merchandise for money or food.

More unemployed folks walked back home with less marching sneakers to protest around the city sidewalks of the closed city hall buildings. And more folks carried a personal arsenal of weapons, such as, a hand pistol, a rifle, a knife, a hammer, or a screwdriver for personal body protection from a gang of roaming thuds and ruling gangs of both murderers and thieves.

The frightened neighbors established a neighborhood watch for protection and safety with an evening town curfew, mostly for the robbers and thieves of the night life.

More homeless people roamed freely with lots of stray and hungry family pets that ran wild and free through the empty city streets of Birmingham, Alabama. However, less people died at night, since the young or elder were already died and then ascended into heaven with mercy.

Preston and his friend Arthur each lost a good paying job and collected a final paycheck of the last recorded productive hours plus all accumulated vacation hours plus the government pension plan which totaled for the past three years. After fifty five percent US Federal taxes were taken out by an executive order of the President of the United States for doing a good job for Uncle Sam, twenty six year old healthy and unhappy Preston sped to a local bank on his new transport, a racing bicycle. He cashed out his single paycheck and rushed back home to Pamela and infant son, hugging her and the baby.

Preston tenderly kissed her crying cheekbone and promised in a worried baritone timber. "All will be okay, honey. I love you, Pamela."

Two days ago

The Bama Electricity Company, the Bama Gas Company, and the Bama Water and Sewer Company presented a single sheet of paper for money payment, demanding the money in cash, gold or blood (cash was preferred, thou) from the using customer. The cash was needed for the Bama businesses to pay the suppliers, creditors, and employees, too.

Three loud door fist knocked nosily interrupted suppertime.

Preston stood and strutted from the dinner table and stopped, standing and jerked open the wooden door on the front porch with a left fist as his right hand hid a pistol. He narrowed his eyelids at three persons who were almost kissing the door's archway with their smelly bad breath. One wore a company shirt with the Bama Electricity black and red logo, lifting a single sheet of paper in his fist with a smile and two eyeballs at Pamela.

She quickly retrieved the pistol from Preston's right shooting hand, recognizing the familiar three employees from the Bama Utilities Company. She shuffled backward on a pair of naked feet, hugging the baby within the dark and cool part of the living room. She didn't like engaging socially with the two gun-toting serious-minded "don't fucking think about it" SS guards, who stood with exposed shotguns between the short bald fat male.

The US Federal Government had ordered three weeks ago all the military personnel back to the United States. Then, the president had immediately decided, executed, and ordered like a kingly dictator all military soldiers to work as "peacekeepers" in various authority positions. A peacekeeper was a personal armed escort for order and protection of the newly created "money collector" of the US Federal Government that owned and operated electricity, water, and gas companies.

Preston snatched the single paper, looking down with a stern face, viewing the white colored invoice. The black numbers and letters showed 1,500 dollars for electricity; 0.00 dollars for gas, and 500 dollars for both the water and sewer service for thirty days of usage. Plus, a new upfront payment of $2,000 was required for the electricity which was due now as a good paying customer. Or you could experience a shut off of all the electricity, gas, and water at midnight. Preston looked down with a sneer at the short fat pale skinned male. "What, no pennies?" The silence lingered between the four men as Preston snorted at the three crooks. "Be right back, bubba!" He swung around from the front porch, moving through the kitchen, out the garage door, through a side garage door, and outside in the back yard. The dogs barked friendly and wagged tails for happiness and love.

Preston squatted and patted the furry skull of each dog with a smile, lifting the dog house up from the dirt, tilting it on its rear end. He reached down, searching into a deep dark semi-circle in the red dirt hole, and carefully drew out a single tin can of coffee from the dirt pit. Preston placed the coffee can beside a kneecap, returning the dog house to its upright and proper position as the happy dogs ran around the back yard, having fun and playing with each other. He hugged the coffee can into the chest like a baby and stood, turning and moving to back into the kitchen, and stopped, standing at the breakfast table. He slowly drew out the cash money and carefully counted 4,000 dollars with no cents. He hid his cash money underneath the vicious dog's fangs and dog's house.

He turned and moved across the rug from the kitchen, stopping, and stood in front of the open door of the front porch, extending the money to the short fat pale skinned male for the full payment of continuous cooling air conditioning waves from the heated summer and the warm showers for his stinky biological life form.

One day ago

The rest of the local, state, and national private business and industrial companies closed the office doors, the factory plant doors, and the bathroom executive stalls, releasing more un-happy and un-employed people. The private hospitals shut and sealed the front doors and emergency doors without receiving any type of paying patients, and released the working and talented physicians, nurses, and medical personnel. The medical staff had been bartering their clinical skills for food, gasoline, or money. Collina was the mom of Preston, who lost her nurse position at the local hospital but enjoyed visiting her only grandchild more often and babysitting for her son and daughter-in-law with joyous love.

In conclusion, the US Federal Government sliced off the ten fingers and the ten toes of Uncle Sam with their fellow allies, such as, Canada, Great Britain, Australia, China, Japan, Mexico, and the rest of the cultural, social, and financial world governments. The USA permanently ended all diplomatic, legal, and financial business relationships, legal obligations, and social promises to the world.

Present day and place

10:10 a.m.

Peter's Grocery Store

Parking lot setting

A single bullet sharply echoed through all eardrums from a single hand gun. The shot accurately hit a moving male. The male tumbled forward on a pair of slow sneakers and landed on a face, falling on the hard asphalt parking lot next to a tall tree. The parking lot was almost empty as the shooter slowly back pedaled into a dark shadow on the cool brick of a tall building.

All the grocery, drug, and merchandise retail shops had beautifully combined under one single roof top building which was surrounded by armed paid fools, who could shoot straight twenty four hours per day or night to prevent a store crime of thievery, looting, or arson. Since the owners of the retail-shop employed and paid a limited number of skilled staff members for certain tasks, such as, a team of fire fighters for fires, a team of accountants for money counting; a team of physicians for health matters; a team of pharmacists for drug dispensing, a team of dentists for teeth cleaning; a team of cashiers for money collecting, and a team of shelf stockers for merchandise displaying. There was a team of veterinarians for family pets, herds of live goats, chickens, pigs, and cows that lived three city street blocks inside a livestock warehouse for fresh food, ya'll.

So, a person stood in a long line and impatiently waited for your turn to enter the store which was monitored by the two eyeballs, the two eardrums, and every loaded shotgun of the paid shooter for an act of food stealing or fist fighting. If you were caught, you were tossed out on your ass or killed on a bloody spot that really depended upon a happy merciful store owner for stealing his food item or fighting in his parking lot.

The only requirement to enter a store was to "show the money, honey." A second requirement only two people from one family-unit was is allowed in the store for carrying out all the purchased merchandise. So, you showed your wad of cash and prayed that you had enough money to cover your desired food purchases. The paid armed guards were posted about seven feet away for an accurate shooting target range on the exterior freshly painted yellow wall. The guards covered all the windows, the doors, and the dead grass for the protection of the valuable merchandise only. If you started or ended a fist fight in the parking lot, no one else fuckingly cared, and hopefully you possessed a weapon to defend your sorry ass.

On top of the heated parking lot of the store, the armed guard swiftly trotted to the dead body and viciously lifted and slammed the skull of the male down to the hard pavement, creating a thrilling demonstration show. He reached and retrieved a large bag of sandwich rolls and four red apples that had scattered around the parking lot pavement from his single accurate gunshot murder. He stood and swung around, smiling and lifting both valuable prizes, and cuddled the food like a baby to his chest, walking back to an awaiting and observing grocery store owner.

Preston cuddled Pamela to distract her from the sickeningly bloody sight, admiring her wavy black hair that was pulled into a long ponytail. Her slanted eyelids were sprinkled with moisture, covering her cornflower blue eyeballs underneath a set of short dark bangs. Her complexion was a tone of pretty olive colors with a set of tanned kisses of light brown freckles that ran across a button nose and two undusted cheekbones. His caressed her shirt, feeling her two fleshy tissues that overflowed against his chest on her tall frame of five feet and ten inches. He whispered into her eardrum. "I love you. Stay put under the tree shade. I'll be very quick." He cut his eyeballs over her collar bone, scanning a large sweaty crowd of folks, who wished and wanted in the grocery store for food too. "Then, we go home."

Pamela sobbed with tears. "I know why we're all here. You saw...something."

Preston whispered. "I love you. I want you and Buckaroo safe. I can't be in two places at once." He kissed her forehead and surfaced with a goofy smiled. "And I get lonely waiting my turn in line at the grocery, doing a woman's job. Your presence always cheers me up."

Pamela said with a sour tone. "Only baby formula, we have plenty of baby diapers."

Preston looked down and smiled at her frown. "Getting baby diapers for both you and Ilenn, too. Me and Arthur be best pals until the end. We watch each other ass. But, I like watching yours better so soft like a..."

"Preston!" She blushed.

"You need fresh milk to continue feeding the baby and dog food..."

"The dogs aren't..."

Preston leaned down and rubbed his scruffy whiskers to her cheekbone and pulled back with a grin. "I won't let them starve not until we can't eat ourselves. We might need to eat them. Just kidding! Sick joke. The dogs love us. They protect us too at night. I got three big duffle bags. I am strong muscle-man and I can carry over two hundred pounds without breaking a sweat from doing all my pushups and sit ups and weight lifting exercises, since I'm jobless. I promise." He kissed her lips and pulled back with a smile and a nod. "I'll get everything on our grocery list. Then, we go home where we will be safe and sound. My parents are coming over for supper tonight. They can babysit at their place, while we play house tonight." They kissed.

Inside the grocery store, on aisle number four of flour, sugar, and vanilla, an elderly lady slid a sandal on a pile of yellowish spilled liquid over the tile floor, falling down to the tile, and landed flat on her back spine. Many pairs of angry shoe soles and boot heels stomped on her face, chest, breasts, and legs as she bleed her red blood over the clean shiny hard tile floor from her teeth, lips, mouth, ears, and nose holes. The grocery store owner moved and pointed to the red bleeding elderly lady on the floor. "Dead one here. Bring the mop and broom."

The two male clerks moved and stood over the female, squatting and jerking the dead body from the grocery store floor by her arms and her legs. Then they dumped it down into a metal shopping cart. They slowly moved and left the grocery shop, walking outside into the hot and heated morning, crossing an empty city street, and halted. They lifted and hauled the dead body up and out of the metal shopping cart, tossing the elder woman on top of the hard concrete in front of an abandoned movie house. They swung around with fist bumps and laughs, rolling the shopping cart back into the grocery store. The elderly lady softly whimpered for help and breathed once, twice, and thrice. Then she quietly died from the hell in Birmingham, Alabama on planet Earth, ascending to peaceful heaven.

Underneath the veranda of the store, Preston pulled back with a smile and a wink, releasing Pamela, waiting her stand underneath the shade tree, turning and strutting to the guarded archway, and lifted and showed with a grin his large wad of cash money to the doorman.

Interior setting of the grocery store

The doorman signaled with a set of two finger pads for Preston to enter with a silent permission. Preston quickly dashed around the store, stuffing each individual grocery item neatly into an oversized cloth duffle bag on a collar bone. He quickly raced down each aisle, carefully selecting in a specific order: the baby supplies of formula, diapers, twenty tiny glass bottles of soft baby food, first. On the second round, Preston captured the heavy small bags of flour, sugar, pasta, and a gallon of sweet milk for Pamela's health, eight cans of dog food for pals, and finally a six-pack of cold beer for his treat. Then, he moved and grunted with his stored treasures like a Christmas day, reaching the finish line at the cash register, unloading his precious commodities with a nod and a smile.

The store clerk grabbed and rung up each individual item using rocket space light speed with the sensitive electronic eye as Preston verified each musical beep for each item. She finished the scanning and said in a monotone voice, "2,821 dollars even and no cents." Preston carefully counted out the exact dollars from his wad of cash. The store clerk eye gleamed the pretty bundle of money, saying with a sour frown. "I make thirty six dollars an hour, buys me one loaf of bread for five people."

"Understood," Preston looked up with a nod and a smile to the sour puss faced female.

The store clerk snatched the money from his extended hand, rapidly recounted and recorded the final sale, presenting the important paper receipt for proof of his cash purchases.

Preston gathered the three duffels over both collar bones and swung around, moving out of the nicely air-conditioned grocery store, fighting with his pointy elbows and his boot toes through an angry pissed off crowd of poor and hungry customers. He marched forward with a smile to Pamela, carrying the heavy bags of goodies.

Parking lot setting

She stood and cuddled the baby underneath the tree, waiting and worrying for Preston. The situation was too dangerous for her and the baby to tag along with Preston inside the grocery store.

A smelly ugly big male moved and stood behind Pamela, reaching and grabbing her pretty ponytail, and held a sharp steak knife blade against her swan throat. He saw the husband, who was approaching out of the grocery store and toted the three bags over his collar bones. The three bags exploded with yummy goodies inside its cloth guts. Preston halted ten feet from the male and his wife as the baby cried for attention. The male said with a sneer and a sour breathe to Preston. "Gimme food? She don't gets hurt. Fair trade, dude."

Preston growled with a set of curled lips and carefully drew out the hand gun from the leather pouch which had been hidden behind the shirt with a shooting hand. The gun was tucked into his blue jeans waistline. The ugly male wiggled the silver in the bright sunlight only a few precious inches from her neck. Preston mentally calmed the nerves, falling back on his FBI training, and swiftly whipped the pistol into eye view, firing a single bullet into the eye socket of the male, left side. The ugly male dropped the knife from his killing hand and as, the hand nerves viciously separated from the brain neurons. Then, he stumbled backward, flinging both arms and both legs like a new chicken dance, landing with a silent thud on a back spine. His rear skull bounced once and twice like a dead damn corpse.

Preston tenderly returned the gun back into the hidden pouch and gently dropped the three heavy duffle bags from his twin collar bones onto the dirty sidewalk. He strutted and hugged a crying Pamela and a crying son, whispering into her tears. "Alright, baby! You're alright, honey. See, Buckaroo even smiled or probably burpy gas? Either way, we go back home, now." Dalton moved and stopped behind the young adult couple, slapping a hand on the collar bone of Preston. Preston turned and swung a distorted face with a growl to the stranger.

Dalton extended a hand with a chuckle in friendship to the young man. "Calm down, scout! Asshole's dead. I'm Dalton."

"I'm mad." Preston quickly shifted his shooting hand behind his back, feeling the cool metal of the pistol inside the rear of leather belt.

Dalton turned with a smile and nodded his cowboy hat to the lady. "Is this your girl and your baby?" Preston nodded in silence as Dalton said with a smile to Pamela. "I got a two year old son, himself. Love the shit out of the little bugger! I'm not going to take anything. I promise, boy." He chuckled. "I saw your fast draw. Impressive, son. I'm impressed with you. I strutted over to make you an offer."

Preston desired to leave and remove Pamela and the baby from any more danger. "I don't think so, man."

"I got a safe place, a safe home community for you, your wife, and your child from here. It's far, far away from this crap show. Just look. Just listen. That's all I ask, man. My truck is this way. Just follow me and keep that gun handy, boy." Dalton swung about, moving to his parked truck, hoping the young couple tagged along.

Preston reached and retrieved the stuffed bags from the sidewalk, turning and looking at her. They stared and nodded to each other in silent communication to look and listen to the middle-aged cowboy's proposal.

11:05 a.m.

Town of Moville (Six miles north of Gardenville)

Evan's Gas and Food Station on Highway 29

Sunny hot afternoon

Rear room setting

Molly, Albert, Rich, Holt, and Ann sat around the table in an cool air conditioning room, working on the next plot to take back America. The door opened, emitting in light, heat, and more bodies to the small space as the eyeballs turned to see a new set of guests who were led by Dalton. "Fuck them?" Dalton flung his cowboy hat in the corner on top of the chair cushion with Holt's and Rich's.

"Dalton?" Rich frowned at the young redneck, seeing the new young couple with a baby.

Dalton moved to the eating table with a sneer and a sour frown to Rich. "Pardon my French, I mean American. Gawd damn nosy reporters. They're everywhere like fucking ass dog fleas. Took me fifteen damn minutes to drive my pickup truck down here and park at the food and gas store. Can't we just shoot them motherfuckers all to hell, Rich?"

"No, Dalton. Sit your ass down! Intro our company, please." Holt smiled at the young couple.

Dalton held out the chair for Pamela. Pamela sat with a stern face, holding the baby, observing all the new faces. Preston slid out the chair and sat next to her, observing all the new faces too. Dalton reached and grabbed the chair beside Pamela, pointing with a smile to Preston. "This is hot shot Preston, his pretty wife Miss Pamela, and their six month cute-ass boy," chuckling.

Molly smiled at the cute infant. "Awe. So sweet, a little baby. May I hold him!"

Ann frowned. "Be respectful, Molly. New mamas are overprotective like a lioness with their newborn cub. Just coo silly like me." She tilted a face with a smile, looking at the baby, who possessed a head of black hair like his parents on a tint of soft pale baby skin with a set of big blue eyeballs. Pamela smiled, bouncing the baby up and down inside both arms as he wiggled side to side for all the new faces, too.

"You can have my chair for the cooing, ma'am." Preston stood and smiled, scooting it open for Molly like a true southern gentleman. She stood and shuffled her queen-sized body in the new chair. Preston assisted her to the table edge, moving and sitting in an empty chair beside Dalton. Dalton smiled and slammed an elbow into Preston for fun.

Molly chuckled, "Nice and mannered young man, too. Thank you, Preston. I'll just coo at the baby. I promise no touching, dear." She leaned to Pamela and did not touching the baby but looked with a silly grin. Pamela nodded and smiled at the two elderly ladies for respecting her air space with her child as the baby cooed, drooled, smiled, and jumped up and down on his naked toe bones like a jumping bean with the undivided attention.

Holt smiled at the baby as he was a daddy too, "Go, Dalton."

Dalton said with a nod and a smile. "Yeah, yeah. Preston meet Rich, Holt, Miss Molly, Miss Ann, and there be some other missing folks, including dipshit Waddling." He viewed Holt. "He shitting in the bathroom, Holt?" Holt shook his curls as Dalton chuckled. "I invited ya'll here to see 'Our Town.'"

Albert smiled. "Good morning, Preston and Miss Pamela. It is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance. I am Albert. Since my grouchy redneck friend always uses his improper southern manners which was not taught by his Southern breed mama. The term 'Our Town' is a fictitious story about an average citizen's every day live, scripted by play writer Thornton Wilder in the year 1938. The script is a three-act play with little scenery, no stage set, a set of working curtains, and a set of minimal stage props, such like, a podium and a single chair for a single vocal narrator. Since you are both the actor and the stage manager."

Rich stood and moved to the big map on the wall, covering seventy percent of the white plaster, and pointed to the blue dot. "Ya'll are here in Moville. In this here place, we use first names like Rich, Dalton, Holt. I'd like to recognize that this here particular map was drawn by our own artists, not computer CG garage. See the beautiful details of lakes, mountains, railroad tracks, shopping stores?" He moved and sat, pointing to the art work on top of the table surface. "This is a miniature pic here on the table for your viewing pleasure. Moville is a family community. I define community as the entire family that lives, works, and plays in 'Our Town,' including mommies, daddies, teenagers, children, sisters, brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandmas, and other family members. Ya'll understand."

Pamela said with a nod and a stern face. "I've heard of ya'll on the television. Ya'll are those billionaires that re-built, re-structured Moville." She handed the baby to Molly, who willingly accepted. Then, Molly stood from her chair with the help of Wade. Her and Ann shifted away from the table to entertain the babe in a far corner of the room. Preston scooted and sat next to his wife, again. Pamela pointed down to the wall map, saying with a nod and a stern face. "Moville is about eight miles in longitude and ten miles in latitude which is comprised of many farms, farmlands, crop fields, and various livestock pens. I read that all of you own every square inch of this property, including the lakes, the creek stream, and the forest woodlands. You have purchased the land mass when the economy fell." She turned with a stern face to see Preston. "Do you know who these people are, Preston?" He nodded. She nodded, swinging a stern face back to Rich, saying with a serious tone. "You have created your own little paradise here in Bama, your own little universe. Congratulations. I think. I listen. I learn. I don't understand. Why you don't help our fellow Americans, instead of gobble up natural resources for your pleasure and fun? Americans are suffering and starving. Our government's useless. We, Americans should work together to help each other, to support each other, and to bring our great nation back to the days of resourceful and pride.

"Preston and I both work very hard to make our house a nice home for our newborn, watch out for our neighbors, and help our friends, because we do care about our family members, our good friends, our real estate property, and our USA country. Beaus and belles, ya'll have pegged us wrong. We cannot invest in Our Town. We're similar to the rest of Americans, struggling and scraping by with our wits, wisdom, and rights as humans. I'm so sorry for wasting your valuable time. We will leave now, ya'll. Preston!" Pamela stood and Preston stood beside his wife, hugging her body.

Dalton slapped both palms on the table with a nod and a smile. "She's smart just like my Julia. I like smart, brave, bold women. If we had a female president, then our great country would not be in this gawd damn mess." He turned with a smile to see Pamela.

Wade turned with a chuckle and a nod to see Dalton. "So, that's why Dalton is a shit ass at every one of our business meetings. Pistol whipped at home by the man of the house." Dalton stood, kicking his chair backward as it hit the wall paint. He reached and touched the handle of his hand pistol to fire at Wade for that vile insult to his person and his loving and devoted wife Julia. Holt reached and cupped a hand on the pistol of Dalton, shaking his curls in silence.

Rich ordered with fury. "Sit down, Dalton," he turned with a smile to see Preston and Pamela. "Please retake your chairs, Miss Pamela and Preston." Pamela and Preston nodded and sat back down in the two chairs. Rich said with a nod and a smile to them. "I got more explaining to do. Believe this or not? We are working together, Miss Pamela to accomplish the same goal, here in Moville. Now, we are invading Blount County next. We plan to incorporate the small cities of Moody and Pell City, as far east, as the Georgia line. Then we go up there into northern Alabama to the small city of Athens then into the Tennessee and Mississippi lines, building a new America. We want you and your family to be part of this plan."

"Gimme them action, not words, Rich." Holt nodded.

The door sounded with a knock and opened. Cam stood between the wooden frame, saying with a smile and a nod. "Rich, them reporters are waiting for ya out by the gates."

Rich stood with a grin and a nod to Cam. "Excellent timing, Cam! Thank ya, kindly." Cam nodded and back stepped from the door, returning to his position of guard duty around the gas and food station for any unfamiliar vehicles or unfriends. Rich clapped with a smile. "Show time, folks. Preston and Miss Pamela, please join our bus tour with Dalton and Holt. Miss Molly, are you coming with us?" Molly shook her curls, playing with the baby. Pamela stood and turned, moving to Molly, whispering into her face. Molly and Ann whispered back with a nod and a smile. Rich moved around the table and to the door. "We're going to present the first family community of Moville to the world, well, our limited USA world for any curious listening fellow Americans. I believe that our planned press conference will answer and address all your wandering questions. Shall we, folks?" He left the room.

The party left the building, walking through the gravel, and stopped. There was a set of shiny clean white golf karts in a row which was occupied with a sunglassed and cowboy hat covered driver, except for the first and the last one. Dalton moved between Pamela and Preston to one of the golf karts, pointing to the vanilla colored seven foot concrete wall, saying with a nod and a smile underneath his cowboy hat. "I visited the city Miami a time ago, a real pretty city with lots of pastel baby colors like candy pink, mint green, and chick yellow. I don't care for a pink painted house, but I enjoyed the ornate secure system, a thick tall concrete wall with them evil looking pointy sharp steel spikes drilled and bolted on top like a medieval fortress during King Arthur's ruling time."

"Dalton, the billionaire sci-fi nutty Bama redneck." Holt walked between Dalton and Preston.

Dalton turned with a sneer to see his Bama buddy Holt. "I be a lawyer, a leader, and a lover..."

"Boys, behave." Rich moved beside Pamela.

Dalton touched and steered both Preston and Pamela to the last golf cart in the row, pointing and talking about the upcoming golf kart tour. Holt and Rich veered and climbed into the first golf kart. Rich started the engine and putt-putted forward and across the gravel road of US Highway 79 to the front gate of the block community of Moville. Dalton drove the last golf kart like a chauffeur following behind Rich as Preston and Pamela sat together in the rear bench, pointing and talking about the new sights. Rich stopped the kart, sliding the vehicle to the left in front of numerous television communication vans that were parked over the loose gravel pavement of US Highway 79.

11:11 a.m.

US Highway 79

Gravel road setting

Rich and Holt emerged from the kart, moving to the small scattered huddles of television reporters that showcased a set of nicely dressed people with a set of smiley faces to match. Each reporter stood and desired a peek-a-boo at a newly created block community called Moville. Rich stopped and stood in front of the closed gates. The gates were guarded by numerous Moville males and females, who wore both smiles and shotguns. Rich lifted his arms with a smile and a nod to the television reporters and the crews. "Welcome to Moville. I'm Rich. I will select two names among ya'll." He turned to see Holt. "Where's the hat?" Holt presented an upside down cowboy hat that held a set of tiny folded slips of paper. Rich looked down, picking through the slips of paper inside the hat. "This hat contains all your names. I promise, since I am a honest man. Two names will be drawn from the hat. Then you bring all your cameras and flash bulbs and cell phones with your TV crew. This will be the only solo opportunity to see the inside pretty folks and glorious gust of Moville." He looked up and pointed to the seven foot concrete wall that was decorated with a set of steel embedded spikes that kissed the barbed-wired fence on top of the smooth bright yellow paint. He chuckled at the gates. "That's our security system. Yeah, it looks harmless. But them spikes are real and sharp, gut a cow in thirty seconds flat. So behind these dull rained stained walls is beautiful Moville." He pulled out his hand and read the slips of paper. "Okay. I drew the first name of Miss Elisa Claver. Come on down." He flipped his hand with a nod and a grin.

The female reporter clapped with a smile, raising her hand, saying with a stern tone. "I'm over here. Move the crew. Set up your cameras, start recording stuff. Now!" She moved with a smile and a nod to greet Rich, yelling at her television crew. "Move it. Move it. Follow me. Hustle, folks."

Rich looked down and read the second slip of paper. "The second name is Mr. Adrian Jenkins." He looked up with a smile. "Please move beside Holt." Holt raised a hand as Rich said with a nod and a grin to the other television reporters. "Thanks to other media types for coming here today. I'm very sorry that your name wasn't drawn, but life sucks." Rich chuckled, handing back the hat to Holt, pointing down to the gravel road. "Please go home. Or go and report on lost dogs or lost jobs or someplace else but here. You stood on US Highway 79. Or what's left of it. Your vehicles can drive down this rough road through the outer wall of Moville, landing north to the small country town of Hayden, outside the city limits of Moville. However, you're not allowed to hug the grassy median strips or the smooth pavement shoulder ways, because you can't see a damn thing over the erected walls. So please move along back to your jobs and homes and leave us the hell alone." Rich turned and pivoted to see the first television reporter. "Miss Reporter."

"Call me, Elisa." She extended a hand which was filled with semi-precious jewelry rings with a nod and a smile to Rich.

Rich ignored the flirting bitch, saying with a stern face to each reporter. "Miss Reporter and Mr. Reporter." Dalton, Holt, Pamela, and Preston moved and huddled around Elias and Adrian as Rich instructed. "I begin our tour. So ya take notes and take pictures of anything and everything. This will be the only time ya'll are ever invited into Moville. We don't like media, reporters, or tattle tales."

Elisa smirked with her dancing eyes at Rich. "There seems to be a news story behind those words Mr..."

"I'm Rich," he pointed to his party. "Dalton, Holt, Miss Pamela, and Preston." He pointed back to each reporter. "You are Miss Reporter. You are Mr. Reporter. Get it? Got it. Good. We're a family community. The community includes everyone's relatives, such like, mama, daddy, children, sister, brother-in-law, aunts, uncles, all limbs of the family tree. The community is designed to love, support, protection, and preservation of the family unit forever like them hardy rednecks of the old deep South and them crazy cowboys of the wild, wild West."

Elisa/Miss Reporter smiled. "Our society..."

Rich sneered to Elisa/Miss Reporter. "No questions until the end of my Sunday school sermon, I'll address them. If I don't, ya don't need to know. Currently, the American society sucks, leaves folks to fend for themselves shelter, food, jobs, health, education, socially, morally, ethically lacks commitment, compassion, strength, endurance. The only way to be strong is together, not divided. The small town of Moville brings families together under one roof, literally." He pointed to down to the road.

"See that there road? Once gray paved with asphalt. That's US Highway 79 which is owned by the defucked and defunked road and transportation department of the great State of Alabama, running through my city of Moville." He viewed and smirked to Dalton. "I, by law, and based on my damn lawyer, cannot remove the US highway, and must allow the free traffic flow through my town of Moville to the city of Hayden, north and south, back and forth, from and to the metro city of Birmingham.

"Okay, I says. So I ripped up that nicely paid gray asphalt and dumped a big batch of shattered limestone rocks and tiny stone gravel, tear up a car's underbelly in ten minutes flat, driving a wild-ass speed limit. Do I give a damn? Naw. I don't want a nosy reporter or a curious asshole to wander around the town of Moville.

"Miss Reporter, I can see that you want a verbal fight, see it in your eyeballs. If ya weren't a reporter, I'd invite you to live in Moville, because we only invite fighters, tough ass wipes, who want to work hard for a living, raise their kids in clean air, clean water, clean food. The folks of Moville work along the side other good hard working people of Moville with good values of morality, ethnics and not the shitting trashy lazy motherfuckers that steal, freeload, or do nothing. In return, our Moville residents are happy, healthy, and damn proud to be Americans." He pointed to the roadway and the gates. "From there to there, the road lines up even-steven with them concrete blocks. That's seven foot high, taller than me, keeping the happy residents in and the unhappy folks out for safety and protection. There's only one gate, over there. The iron gates with a double pair of guards with a triplet pairs of guns. Both the guns and guards smile at ya, before shooting ya dead. Bang. The rest of township is concrete blocked from outsiders and some wild mammals that live in these squirrely parts of the rural country." Dalton and Holt chuckled, since the billionaires own the land. The reporters were the unknown wild animals that invaded Rich's block community of Moville.

Rich smiled. "We model our township like a regular business, since we're successful businessmen and women in our own rights. Dalton, he's president. Holt is vice president and keeps our president in line. Miss Molly, you can't meet her. She's busy attending little ones. Don't wanna be perturbed. Miss Molly is our secretary. I'm the treasurer. I find all the monies for Moville pay for all this stuff."

He spun around to see Cam, lifting his arm with a smile and a nod. "Open the gates, Cam. See here?" He pointed to a row of vehicles. "We got these cute little golf karts on the roadside, driven by our Movillians. Don't ask them any nosy questions either. Ya'll get bounced from here and sent home. Understand?" He turned with a stern face to see reporters. They nodded. Rich said, flinging his arm with a grin. "Good. Load up your gear and your folks. Take as many golf karts, as you need. We're parading through the township for your newscast and pictures one time and back here, where you leave permanently." The reports and the television crews slowly moved to numerous golf kart and stored the camera equipment. Rich turned and bowed both arms, huddling with Pamela and Preston, saying with a smile. "I'll like to invite ya'll to ride with Dalton in the last kart. He can address all your concerns and questions Miss Pamela and Preston." They nodded as Rich said. "I'm required to narrate as a tour guide based on my damn lawyer. Since the outside forces are outside. Enjoy the bus tour. We would've done this anyways with ya'll, but this'll be damn more fun entertaining with them pesky reporters. Afterwards, we can gather at the gas station and chat some more." Rich turned and nodded to Dalton, swinging to his kart, passing the other karts with the television cameras and television people. "Ya'll loaded up? Ready to go Mr. and Miss Reporter?" He did not bother to heard the response. "Good." Rich slid into the first kart with Holt, pointing to the button. "Do I hold this down?"

Holt said. "Naw! Flip the switch up. You talk. Your echo will bounce around all the karts except for Dalton's. So, he can convince Preston and Miss Pamela to live here." Rich pressed the gas pedal, putt-putting to the lookout guards.

Entrance gate of Moville

11:33 a.m.

The Movillian guards slowly opened the double iron gates, using both a set of electronic computer signals coupled with their hands and arms. The gate door opened. They stood in two lines beside the gates, exhibiting both smiles and upright shotguns to each golf kart. The reporters whispered into the microphones. The camera lenses recorded the historical event as the karts rolled over the gravel and onto the smooth pavement.

Rich drove and studied the console dials, saying with a smile and a nod. "They're a young handsome couple with a cute infant. Dalton doesn't normally recruit, or his recruitment, usually leans toward a set of single forest does and bucks. Why, they special in Dalton's heart?" Rich nodded to each lookouts guard and led the parade of karts through the opened gates into Moville.

Holt turned with a grin to see the nose profile of Rich. "Right about that, Rich. Dalton gets the single folks. Miss Molly's heart falls to the single mothers and children. You get the elder people. I drag in the married families. That's why we mash together, so well. We're each biased being a human trait but bonded to help our town together. Dalton witnessed Preston shoot a guy, trying to rob them of food groceries."

"Jeezus," Rich nodded and passed a second guard house of more lookouts guards for this special tour bus trip of a photo bomb session, showing off digital pictures of mean guards with big guns. Rich hoped that the digital pictures of the visiting television reporters will prevent a dumb jackass or two from investigating any more block communities for shit and giggles, without losing their stupid lives for silliness. Since, a Movillian lookout guard shot first, asked questions never like Austin Bartholomew Berrington, the fourth. A favored book badass character inside the Quartet novel, Austin. When Rich had time to relax and read without saving Americans in America.

Holt said. "Dalton was galloping over to help. Miss Pamela and the baby were cooling under a tree shade. Dalton saw the invader stalk behind her skull. Preston appeared out of thin air, whipped out his gun, and hit him bull's eye in an eyeball, all calm and controlled. Then Preston immediately comforted his wife and child with a tiger's protectiveness. Dalton thinks he might be a former military warrior the way he handled the gun and the moment." Rich nodded as Holt said. "A good lookout guard, I agree. But Dalton wants him to manage the ranch."

Rich slowed the kart next to the rows and rows yellow corn fields, so the reporters could snap new pictures with their electronic equipment. He said with a sour tone, shaking a skull. "The horse ranch? Lots of responsible for a young man that looks like a teeny bopper to me." He tossed a friendly hand at the farm workers as they smiled and waved to the television cameras.

Holt grinned. "You're getting old, Rich. I agree with Dalton. We want young people to lead our town with fresh ideas and fresh approaches. The horse ranch has lots of experienced horse people to attend to the farm matters, even if Preston's a sissy city boy. But they need a bold assertive leader. Miss Pamela ain't your typical pretty girl. She's got a smart head on her twin shoulders along with being a good partner with Preston. The horse ranch requires both a lady and a knight to run the royal establishment. Preston has proved his coolness, common sense, and control along with his instinctive and loving protection of his family. That's what we want leveled headed hard working folks that cares about their family over any type of wild-ass teen partying coupled with wilder stupid jackasses. I like them, a lot."

Rich smiled. "I like your factual information. Let's see how well Dalton does and how impressed Miss Pamela is with our town." He hit the button. "Good morning, this is Rich. You are entering Moville. Please note armed and guarded sentry posts with real people and real guns. You may snap pics. Warning, this is private property. No trespassing allowed or you die, very sweetly." Rich and Holt chuckled. Rich said. "This little road is usually designed for cars and trucks. But I have alerted our residents of your presence. They're circle around us, doing their private home and farm business. Please look to your left and right at the nicely paved streets, running north to south, or south to north. However, your brain functions. They are numbered for ease of location, especially for the precious little children.

"We are very overly protectively of our young'uns. They learn at early ages where they live, where the shops are, where not to go. These are very important rules for growing active little baby minds. The streets ain't named Maple, Martin, or Marshmallow. We selected numbers, because Moville is expanding in the geographical directions of north, south, east, and west. As our town grows, the community will grow, and the streets will increase with a number for ease of a home location and a home transport of goods and services. Yes. I can read your pathetic pitiful fragile minds. There was a proposed naming convention but totally fully vetoed. We ain't vain here, only functional. Write that word down, functional."

Rich pointed to the green pastures, hay mounds, water ponds, where two cows are having some romantic fun. He said. "Bull pen. A bull fucks a cow produces a baby. See it?" Holt and Rich chuckled. Rich said. "I love being a country boy. Anyways, both sides of the roadway contain hairy bally bulls. For ya city slickers, we don't eat all the bulls for dinner, mostly the females. But these will be eventually supper for all Movillians. The land is divided into blocks of 64 acres. For ya'll mathematically challenged, one square mile is 640 acres. We chopped the mile into evenly 64 perfect acres in one mile. There are ten of something, such as, bull pen, cow pen, people homes, chicken houses, pig pens, and ten other structures. We placed the mean bulls near the ugly gravel road, in case an outsider gets jackass curious. Bulls don't like smelly people. They like to eat grass happily inside their bull pen. But if ya aggregate one, he'll charge. That means, the bull wins." Rich and Holt laughed. Rich passed the first and second resident houses on each side of the roadway. Rich pointed to at house, saying. "This is our first resident Miss Sally and her husband Reginald along with their immediate family tree. The house is four-story, squared-shaped, four garages on the left, and two storage garages on the right, all made of red brick clay with silver tin roofs. This is the mostest cost saving and efficient means to build a house. No fucking decorations on the house. This model is used throughout Moville, because it is functional. Remember, that word. I told ya to remember that word, functional. Look to your right. Same fucking house. Same fucking design. Same fucking function and home to one family unit. No originality. No individual characteristics. Who gives a damn? They don't.

"The very top level floor houses the equipment for the hot solar panels. Yes. All houses heat and cool with solar energy, coming from the free sun rays that reduces and sometimes eliminates the need for Bama Electricity. The first level holds a kitchen, a living room, a play room, and a library. The second and third levels are the private bedchambers and bathrooms that dump the turds into a sewer tanks and water system. The turds tanks are located behind the house, feeding the pretty grass with shit. Yes. You can tour one but later on our way back from viewing the center of Moville. You can see parked inside the cool shaded garages are solar cars. Yes. I used that word again. Yes. Solar energy has existed for years upon years, decades upon decades, folks. Your fucking ass US Federal Government loves fucking with the American people, and sleeping with the petroleum oil whores. We do use and need gasoline and petrol oil for various farm purposes. Yes. We pay the 73 dollars per gallon like the rest of America. But we have teams of brilliant genius engineers, working to eliminate the expensive oil products from our daily lives. Let's keep moving."

Rich pressed the gas pedal. "The next block are the cow pens. Now, this block is owned by another nameless Moville, cause it ain't your damn business. Nice folks. Stop here. View the same design. Each house is beautiful brick dark red-brownish clay. The color of the brick varies a tiny bit from mixing and baking the mineral ingredient, but that's about it. If you haven't figured out the purpose here, you be dumb or stupid. The purpose is family, a capital letter F. Family comes first. The family is warmed and cooled from the cold and hot weather temperatures with their own solar equipment inside their own house. We honor family privacy from their family neighbors. You can't pick your family, but you can pick your neighbors. Each home is separated by ten acres of livestock pasture or crop farm lands and the pasture lands are owned by the family unit. This is their food for the year and years to come. Each block has 64 acres. Why? The acre held a homestead, consisting of the vegetable gardens, the flower gardens, the wild life of deer, rabbits, squirrels, even snakes....nature...natural. Fresh air. Fresh water. The family can trap and hunt their own supper as well as eat their own rabbit and deer. Some love' it. Some don't. Move along."

Rich pressed the gas pedal, saying into the microphone to the reporters. "We will zoom down the street at ten miles per hour, so you can view the center of Moville." He turned the kart and drove down a new street. "This street holds a church, a school, a hospital, a food store, a clothing store, an appliance store, an electronic store, and other merchandise stores. This street intersects west to more homes, south to more homes, and new construction of people homes and cow pastures, going north of the center street of Moville. There's one church, a big square two-story long sucker. Ain't it? A cathedral auditorium held 50,000 people for weddings, baptisms, deaths, and everything. Yes. One church. One God Almighty.

"Brother Ledell and his wife Sister Flora are nice folks, providing good preaching. All have a good time, worshiping and singing to Mr. Almighty God, Mr. Holy Jesus Christ, Miss Holy Spirit, and our heavenly company. No one works their jobs on Sunday, because it's the day of rest like the Good Lord promised. We do have a small set of skeleton crews to check the livestock. Incidents and accidents do happen, but we're prepared like a smart camper scout. I ain't going to introduce ya, cause Brother Ledell's busy saving souls. The church is opened twenty four hours for soul saving like Brother Jesus wants. We got all types coming to worship, the one and only God Almighty from the Protestants to the Catholics to the Jewish faiths to the Muslims. We got some atheists that come for the delicious barbeque on our Sunday afternoon picnics. We work and play together as God's creatures on His Earth like He enjoys. Yes, we do. I can read your mind. We have some nice homosexual couples with their loving families. Since ya'll fucking media types like to cause gawd damn trouble. Put that in your fucking article? Move along."

Rich passed a playground area and pointed to a big structure. "School. One school with lots of fancy computers for the children to learn at their own pace. Since we got smart PhDs and smarter elderly wise grandmas and grandpas, all teach our young'uns both manners and materials. In the old America, people tossed the elder folks away like a set of dirty diapers. Here, the elder folks are wise, all-knowing, valuable assets to our young minds even to me. All children attend all day for both learning and playing, while the adults work. Teens school are only half-days and learn a new trade for their future job in Moville. Everyone here has a job and a purpose to serve in Moville.

"All children need love, need attention, need education, need discipline, and need to learn and to grow into responsible adults. All the children here are every adult and teen Movillian's responsible in aiding them to become a productive and valuable adult. The adult will raise their loving kids, who will eventually take over the adult jobs, some day. The school is also a trade center, teaching any type of new skills for any adults with continuous school education for the adults to acquire higher forms of education. But that's not needed to live or work here in Moville. Move along."

Rich putt-putted the kart down the center of an empty street and pointed to the twin buildings. "Hospital. One hospital for everyone, free of charge. Think about it. Church is free of charge. School is free of charge. Hospital is free of charge for all Movillians, filled with teams of brilliant physicians, surgeons, nurses, mid-wives, therapists, technician, and medicines for everyone and open twenty four hours. Enough said."

Rich pointed to the next tall and wide red-bricked structure. "Food store is obvious. All homes have their own fresh vegetable gardens and blooming fruit trees along with groves of fruit for the obvious reason to live off the land functionally especially with the devaluing of the US dollar. Homesteads use and barter food as well like good neighbors. Nothing goes to waste. Even the old gardens are dug out with rotten crops as feed for the goats, pigs, cows, and horses. We re-use everything, not once, but twice. The food store has items that we don't make. This ain't the year 1863, ya'll. We don't boil lye soap or melt wax for candle light. Jeezus, get real, stupid folks. We provide bags of staples like flour, sugar, spices, cooking oils, and other household stuff along with bottles of beer, wine, alcohol, and other stuff for our Movillians' daily living. We do carry cigarettes but greatly discourage due to medical health reasons. We truck items from the inner guts of Birmingham wholesale or retail stores that are open and buy them like you do with the highway robbery gold prices."

Rich pointed to a row of bricked and steel warehouses. "The buildings are warehouse designed for functionality. You remembered that word, right? The equipment store for any piece of equipment needed which is too difficult to explain in a short time period left on the tour parade. So basically, I'll use an example. You can buy a new lawn mower here or fix a broken lawn mower here. Move on. A clothing shop, we wore clothes. Move on. These warehouses provides everything you every need in one spot for Movillians like a small town. Move on.

"Yes. That is an electronics store. Most curious, since the teenagers love their little tiny electronics. Currently, there is no internet connection. Since the computers are available as a student learning device or a family entertainment tool. We have vetoed any and all mobile telephones. Yes. Some Moville staff members carry them for medical and livestock emergencies. Yes. The kids are the losers and nag, quiet frequently loudly and way too often. Because our lovely US Federal Government has deflowered and devalued the fucking dollar in turn makes the total expense cost of one single mobile telephone plus the associated internet service fees, howling outrageously expensive for an average family unit in America. Since no one has no money but the billionaires. Therefore, only certain persons carry a cell. However, we have found out that we can live without it."

Rich chuckled, circling the kart, and drove back down the city street to the first residential house, stopping the kart on top of the smooth pavement, and stood. The reporters, Holt, Dalton, Pamela, and Preston moved and gathered around him. Rich turned to see each reporter with a stern face. "Now, we interview Miss Sally and her husband Reginald. You can ask all questions you want. I play referee. If'an I don't like your question, I will beep, beep." He chuckled with the Holt, Dalton, Pamela, and Preston. Rich smiled. "Ya'll got that? Beep. Beep. Ya stop or ya go! This party's for your affair, not mine. Understand?" The reporters nodded in silence agreement. Rich said. "Good. And don't ask for a first, middle, or last name of the family members. No names. Got it. Beep. Beep. Please follow me." He turned and led the party, moving over the nicely paved driveway and stopped at the front porch.

11:46 a.m.

Block Community house interior setting

Rich knocked on the front door underneath the front porch. Sally opened the door with a nod and a smile, swinging around, moving deeper inside her air-conditioned and nicely decorated house. Rich and his party followed her to a living room setting. Sally stopped and sat between her two daughters, smiling to her husband Reginald. He sat inside a wheelchair between the two sofas. A set of mixed and matched chairs was scattered around the room which had been provided for the reporters, Rich, Dalton, Holt, Pamela, and Preston. Two chairs sat in front of the big plasma television screen.

Rich moved and sat in the dining room in front of the television screen. Elisa moved and scanned the room, sliding in the dining room chair in front of the television screen as her crewed worked on the camera lenses beside her. She turned with a smile and a nod to see the faces of Sally and her family member. "Very pleased to meet ya'll. Thank ya'll for allowing us into your home. Large rooms in here. It looks like an auditorium inside this house, very deceiving from the outside." She thumbed to the side at her crew and the television cameras. "May I record for my program? I am..."

Rich said with a smile and a nod to blonde-haired Sally, thumbing to Elisa. "This is Miss Reporter, her crew, and Mr. Reporter and his crew, Miss Sally. Please answer whatever questions you desire. Then we are finished. I thank you for allowing us to bother you for a few minutes of your busy schedule. Please go, Miss Reporter." Elisa swung a nasty frown to see the nose profile of Rich as Rich, Dalton, Holt, Pamela, and Preston slightly smiled and softly chuckled.

A black-headed teen girl hollered without stand and raised her bruised arms and her hands. "I hate this place. If ya want a story, ya can start here. I hate school, learn, study, read books all the time. I go to school half-day and spend the rest of my free valuable time picking, planting, and pruning the vegetable garden, the flower garden, the stupid grass, feeding the dumb animals, and cleaning up after my family members around this big old house plus my bedroom. Big ain't it? Well, it ain't big enough for me. I wanna move back home where I was born, not there. I can't left Moville. I'm trapped here until I'm eighteen years old, the legal age of an adult in Bama. Then I'll run away far away from here and them. Get out of here. Do my own thing. I don't get to spend time with my old friends or eat fast food junk food or watch TV or rent movies, or go to the mall or anything. I hate it here." She crossed her arms underneath her armpits with a sour frown as her mama leaned over and patted the kneecap of her angry daughter with a smile and a nod.

A head of dirty colored blonde hair on the pre teen girl nodded an she sat, hugging on her mama, saying with a smile. "I love it here. Don't listen to my sister's sassy words. I love my teacher and learn more new subjects than at my old school. I heard tell that all the schools are closed because of the economy. We're lucky to go to school and get educated. I'm going to be a veterinarian and help all the animals around here. I love animals. I have rabbits, cats, horses, goats, and dogs. I feed all the cows and chickens and help out around our new house as much as I can. Then I get tired and go to sleep. The next morning is more school and more work. The work never ends."

A blonde headed six year old male grinned and pointed to the window. "It's cool here. There's lots of them slaughter houses for killing the cows and goats and pigs for food. We went there a couple of months ago. Blood's everywhere. I'm in the first grade. I think about my job here in Moville, a lot. Thinks, what I's like and what I's don't like. I's like to eat. Man, we gots hamburgers, steaks, chicken. We sees the chicken get killed, too. This place is a real farm with live animals, we kill and eat. I's don't get to kill them, eating animals, yet. When I'm older, I's be helping out more. Right now. I's do all my chores, go to school, and learn what I's want to do to help around the farm, at my home and learn, not to do. They get mad, if ya don't follow the rules. But Daddy says the rules are good and keep my safe. I believe my daddy." He turned and smiled to his daddy.

The grayish-black headed sister of Miss Sally said with a nod and a smile to Elisa. "To add to the children's tall tales, we all live under one roof. The atmosphere was different and difficult at first. We owned a nice house, close to here. The economy became overwhelming for our financial needs. Ya'll see. When Sally told us about Moville, we packed our bags and moved. I work every day and have my own chores and duties here too."

The brother-in-law of Miss Sally said with a grin and a nod to Elisa. "You should understand that the Moville community is different from other places. It is a family community, all the family is related by blood. We live together, work together, and make family decisions together. Think of it like in the old timey original thirteen colonies of America, when everyone worked and helped out their families and their neighbors and not just in time of a crisis but in time of survival. I don't have to preach to ya'll. Present day life is the survival of the fittest. Our stupid US Federal Government caused this messy problem, giving away my hard working nickels and dimes to a bunch of free loaders, who don't want to work or earn any keep for themselves than pass that idea down to their free loading punk kids. My kids work and go to school in Moville, a safe place for my kids. And my kids will not leave and will work here like me also."

The white-headed mother of Miss Sally said with a smile and a nod to Elisa. "I babysit at the church. The church is big and filled every Sunday with people. I teach youngsters to quilt like my mama taught me and include lessons of glass canning and freezing food for the wintertime. I haven't practiced those skills in years, when I could stop by the local grocery store. We don't get lots of news, this way. I don't really give a toot. The world is evil. Evil people live and prey off nice folks. I know some of these nice folks, just trying to survive and help their kids and grandchildren. Then what happens? They become victims of these greedy lazy no-gooders, who take, take, and take everything a person has earned."

The gray-headed father of Miss Sally said with a nod and a grin to Elisa. "We have seen some bad things there in B'ham. We can't believe the economy is so bad. People gots no jobs. People gots no food. People steal everything or worse people kill to steal everything." He turned with a nod and pointed to his relatives. "Them are my blood family. Teenagers are difficult and nags all the time, but I love her. Moville has saved my family from the bad things outside those safe concrete walls. I'm happy to be invited to Moville."

Sally patted her child on the shoulder, saying with a smile and a nod to Elisa. "My family members have provided some interesting truths and facts. They are true. Holt, over yonder, invited us to tour Moville. We saw the land and understood that this was a farm. This ain't the city with clothing malls or junk food places or movie houses for a Hollywood film. Our old neighbor was nice and sorta safe until," she exhaled with a puff of worry. "No decent place is exactly safe from them wicked invaders and sneaky thieves, I guess. We toured the house and loved it. We toured the warehouse of equipments and supplies for the home needs. We accept the fact that we are required to work to live here in this house, in this community. Moville community members contribute to the farm in certain ways. Our family unit, as it is termed, is based on a self-surviving need, not like all the family members go to the local grocery store around the corner and pick up supper for the night. Our dinner comes to us. It's caught, if you wish, to use that term and prepared by us. We own and eat cows, chickens, and pigs. The animals are slaughtered each two weeks for food. We eat what we kill, not the opposite. We use what we need, not waste. We all are up at the crack of dawn with many farm chores and work duties. We can also call for help, if there is any type of crisis or dangerous trouble. But, basically, we depend on each other on our own family unit for anything and everything. If one member of the family unit doesn't work, then the entire family unit suffers.

"We can't call a maid service or work overtime for some extra money. We aren't paid a penny as part of the family unit. Holt has given us the land, the house, the cute solar cars, the bicycles, all the furniture, and the delicious animals. We can take any item from the vendor-stores. You just toured in the center of Moville. All the merchandise is free of charge, in return our family-unit contributes to the unity of the town. This is the new concept of family-unit. It had existed, since the colonial times, when a colony depended on each other colony. The children find some of the rules hard to follow. Our new style of living is different and unique but better and what's happening outside these concrete blocks."

Blond-headed Reginald turned with a smile to see his wife and his children and looked with a smile and a nod to see Elisa. "I work as a postal carrier," he banged both his mechanical legs. "The point, I work. When I came back from war, I couldn't find a job. I wanted a job. I wanted to work. I like working. I like to use my muscles and my brains. I wanted to be the man of the family. There were no jobs. The economy is poor. Employers are not hiring. Holt has provided us more than hope. We have work, our jobs, a house, our land, good neighbors, and most of all, my family is with me. We hope our young family members will join the community of Moville, accepting their new responsibilities as adults. We aren't just responsible for our family. We're responsible for God's land and God's creatures. People seem to forgotten that. I saw war. I saw folks blew up their own houses, own buildings, and own people for what...hate, greed, and plain old meanness. America is no different from those people across the ocean. Americans are mean to each other for what...hate, greed, money. We're no different from the folks in war.

"Our American war is sneaky and cunning like a fox. They steal while decent people work hard for something and then it's gone in a flash," he snapped the finger with a sour frown. "There's no stealing or taking or getting stuff for free here. We work for everything we earn here. I'm proud to work and work a hard day, and enjoy the evening with my family, not my nostrils in a computer or gossiping about so-so and no-no. Family comes, first. We talk, laugh, interact, learn, and teach each other. I enjoy having my elder kin here with us. Thanks, Holt for this opportunity for me and my family." He turned with a smile and a nod to Holt. Holt nodded and smiled back to Reginald.

Elisa exhaled with a puff of frustration, jabbing a finger at Reginald, saying with a sour tone and a sour frown. "I can't believe what my ears are hearing. You don't get money for working. You don't own this house. Your children are up at the crack of dawn working on the farm. Ya know, there are child-labor laws..."

"The US Federal Government is the one interfering in my life with my family." Reginald jabbed a finger with a sneer at Elise. "What's a government for? Protection of citizens. Open your eyes, Miss Reporter. I protected my country, my family, and you, lady. I was proud to be a soldier in the military, but I came back. My US Federal Government wants more for me...my children...my grandchildren...more and more and more of everything. Ya know what I don't understand it? Why's the government need my money, my land, or my family to perform more tasks for them? We ain't at war. We have peace. We need jobs. We need technology to decrease oil usage for cars, and stop air pollution over our heads, and save the land we pee on. Land is a fixed thing, lady.

"After the US Federal Government contaminates it, the land's all gone into a shit barrel of a waste land, never to be used to grow food crops or raise a set of play ground swung for your grandchildren. What about my children and their future? I have the right to fight for that. So lady, I don't need the government to rape me of money, steal my land, and sale my Indian corn ears to the foreigners, when we have our own American people without food, shelter, and medicines. I got my own family to shelter, feed, and protect. Ya know what, lady you can't do that for me either. The US Federal Government isn't going to do that for me. We live in the land of opportunity, but opportunity has hitch hiked to the moon."

Elisa sneered. "You should be very careful and very ashamed as a former military warrior. You're suggesting treason as an American citizen. I'm proud of our country and I applaud our US Federal Government. The president is doing the best he can with the limited resources available to him. You do know that a group of foreign crazy zealots stole all our USA money from our USA banks, and forced the President of the USA to re-print trillions upon trillions of American dollars. Once that group is found and our USA money is recovered, the US economy will drop back into a normal mode. Your US government can help find you a job by forcing some good senators to pass law bills penalizing the bad employers, if they don't hire you, immediately. And that will happen really soon, once our economy will be returned to normal in a few more days from now. I've learned from my secret source that the president knows who has stolen our money and will return it to the US Treasury Department. Thus, the president will eliminate these evil vile foreigners." She smiled and pointed to the angry teen. "Ya know, sweetie I'll come and do an exclusive personal face-to-face interview, making you famous too?" She turned with a sneer to see the nose profile of Rich. "So you tell me what you hate about Moville and their evil leaders?"

Reginald said with a sour tone, jabbing a finger to Elisa. "This is the muck and smuck, I'm talking about. You media reporting news people invade our lives and influence our children with your wild racial ideas. Did I not just say to you? This is a nice place to live and breathe without the hassle of the US Federal Government's interference in our daily lives. I like it here. I'll preach about it to my fellow warriors, so they can get the chance like lucky me to move here and embrace the community, the land, the nature, and the work. You're as bad as the government, lady. I use that term very loosely, since I have family members present. When was the last time, you reported something sweet and nice about someone sweet and nice and not dirt, trash or garbage that pollutes young minds into thinking family is bad? And your life consists of cheating everyone, including friends, neighbors, and family. You can't answer that. You want to report crimes of murders, rapes, hates, robbers, and deaths caused by bad vile evil folks. My kids and my elder folks don't need to see that sickening trash on the TV programs. They want to hear about good events like big picnics, singing choirs, and foot races with other fun families. I want that for my kids too."

Elisa said with a sour frown and a sour tone, jabbing her manicured fingernail at him. "Wake up, sir. You have been utterly brainwashed into thinking that Moville is a family community. You work for free for them. They are billionaires, who use your hard working prosthetic limbs to make them more money. The only people getting rich in this stinky economy are the richer people. He is Richie Rich and is the IT King, making billions and billions off the electronics that you own. He has created a special little universe here in Moville to use and abuse you. And you are..."

Sally stood and pointed to Elisa. "Please leave! Rich, remove those people from my home."

"Yes ma'am." Rich stood and jerked Elisa by the arm from the chair and quickly moved and entered the dark hallway. "Time to left, Miss Reporter and Mr. Reporter." Holt, Dalton, Pamela, and Preston help gathered the television gears and cables from the floor. Rich pushed Elisa to the front door. "This way, please. Your tour has ended, Miss Reporter and Mr. Reporter."

Elisa shouted, moving to the closed front door. "I have more questions for Sally and all of her family members. I have the right of news casting."

Rich opened and shoved Elisa out the front door onto the front porch, saying with a sour frown over her hair roots as he was taller. "No. You're finished. The tour has ended." Holt, Dalton, Pamela, and Preston shoved and moved the two television crews and Mr. Reporter out of the living room and through the front door also. The front door closed.

Elisa hollered, tossing her business card in the air. "Sally, please call me! Here's my business card. I promise to help you, young lady. Gimme a call, use my card." Holt, Dalton, Pamela, and Preston corralled and moved the two television crews and Mr. Reporter to the line of golf karts also.

Rich moved around and led Elisa back up the line of golf karts, saying with a sour frown. "She doesn't own a cell phone. She cannot contact you. You cannot come back. Your interview is finished. Load up fast. You're out of Moville. Thanks for coming to visit, ya'll." He halted at the first golf kart and turned to watch that the two television crews and the two television reporters enter the golf karts. Dalton slid into the last kart with Pamela and Preston, cranking and putt-putting his kart as the leader of the parade of karts, moving away from the house and to the iron gates, and left Moville alone.

12:08 p.m.

US Highway 79

Gravel road setting

The gates closed. The parade of golf karts stopped and parked on the gravel pavement of US Highway 29 as Dalton, Rich, Holt, Pamela, and Preston shuffled out from the golf karts and moved, standing in front of the closed gates, wearing a sour frown and crossing their arms as a row of protective guards too. They also listened to the yells and whines of the television personnel. The drivers of the golf karts moved back to the individual television vans and stopped. The crews moved out and unloaded all the television equipment from the golf karts and into the rear of the vans.

She stood in the rear of the van, watching her crew unloaded the heavy television equipment, piece by piece into the rear of the vehicle, exhaling with fury, and swung around, seeing Rich and his associates. She sneered, sliding into the driver's seat of the golf kart, pressing the gas pedal, speeding to Rich. Then she slammed on the brakes, skidding across the loose gravel. The billionaires chuckled without rudely pointing to Elisa. The kart halted. She exhaled, wiping the loose curls from her makeup face, scooting out the seat, marching in her designer shoes to the billionaires, and jabbed her manicured fingernail at Rich, shouting in angry. "You run a dictatorship, not township. You rule these people like slaves. You're not any different than an 1860 cotton plantation owner, Mr. Richie Rich. You have provided a house, without any chance of leaving the family community. You don't pay them any money which is scare. And you don't feed them meals which is not grown by their two naked calloused hands." She exhaled, jabbing her manicured fingernail to each billionaire. "What good are you, you, and you, too? I recognized each one of your faces. I know each one of your names IT King and IT Princes. You're getting richer and rich off our depressed US economy. Ya'll have got so much money to spend and abuse, so what's left to get? Build a ship star, probable's too dangerous. Why not build your own kingdom with working servants. You make me sick. If I wasn't a southern lady, I'd vomit on your shiny cowboy boots, Mr. Richie Rich, Mr. Holt Hanes, and Mr. Dalton Duncan. Then you demean people by not using their Christian names. I'm putting all this valuable information inside a front page newspaper article, buddy. By the time, I have finished, no one will move to Moville, short for 'mo' money for villains.'" Dalton chuckled at the clever anagram from Miss Reporter and kicked Holt on the ankle for fun. Holt chuckled then elbowed Dalton for silence and respect, if he could do that. Elisa jabbed her manicured fingernail at each billionaire, saying with a lady sneer. "The villains are you and all your little evil billionaire friends. Then wait and see, everyone'll be leaving for greener pastures."

Rich exhaled, shaking a skull. "Miss Reporter, you and your crew work for one of them named billionaire, who's getting richer off our depressed USA economy as you just elegantly pointed out. How else can you afford a pair of the newest designer shoes, your excellent and expensive facial makeup job, and this here title of news reporter position? Tell me, Miss Reporter? What would happen to your shoes, your makeup, and your job, if people like me, him, and her tune you out of our lives, foreverly? Then, we elegantly elect to explore reading about world literature, using a set of old fashion books or converse with a scientific medical concept with some old clinical physician or we perform center stage at a child's play with our talented kids as the superstars rather than watch from a blinded city street alley way, your televised crap that my billy-goat won't suck on. Ya'll see, Miss Reporter that all Americans have opened their closed eyelids and eyelashes and smelled with their stuffed nose holes the smelt of stinky shitty trashcans filled with lazy ass wipes. The same lazy ass wipes, who don't think, don't care, and don't do for themselves, expect hand-outs free stuff and everything for nothing without working as achieved by our forefathers in the year 1776. This is a time of evolution and revolution in America. Please highlight those particular American words in your piss-poor article. Because, the good ole rouge southern rebel said to you, I don't really give a gawd damn fuck. Good day, ya'll." Rich nodded with a sour frown.

The Moville residents, with and without guns, stepped forward and herded the unhappy television reporters back into their television vans. They watch and stood along the gravel road, fingering the direction into the depths of Birmingham on the white gravel US Highway 79."

Rich stepped forward and turned with a smile and a chuckle to see his old and his new friends, moving and standing in front of Pamela and Preston. "That was fun, ya'll. I hope ya'll are hungry. We got a nice spread of vittles back across the way." He thumbed over his collar bone to the gas station. The old and new friends smiled with a nod. Rich turned and led them back to the gas station and into the rear of the building across the gravel pavement of US Highway 19.

12:12 p.m.

Evan's Gas and Food Station

Rear room setting

The food items look like a series of high mountain peaks and low valley bottoms, resting across a horizontal bar counter, consisting of brown-coated fried chicken, black saucy beef barbeque, greens beans, yellow sweet corn, fresh baked golden biscuits, and tons of cold bronze sweet tea as full plates and wiggling asses seat around the table as the chewing lips enjoyed the food.

Molly and Ann smiled and appeared in the room as Molly toted the baby in her cuddled arms. The baby smiled, cooed, and drooled from his full tummy, grunting and burping like a happy bear cub. Molly handed the baby to Preston, saying with a smile and a nod. "We fed little Buckaroo. Hope ya'll don't mind? He was hungry. And, my, my, my can he eat."

"Like his daddy," Preston grabbed and cuddled the baby to his armpit, wiping the mouth drool and baby food from Buckaroo's tiny face with a wet cloth that was supplied by Ann. The elderly ladies smiled around the baby.

Ann grinned and patted his soft baby arm. "Is Buckaroo, his real name?"

"No ma'am. It's a nickname. He's Preston, Junior like his daddy." Preston smiled at his son, moving and sitting back in his chair. Dalton moved and pushed a baby stroller forward to the table for Buckaroo's catnap. Preston tenderly tucked his son into a set of blue soft blankets inside the baby stroller and placed a tiny blue one over a floated stomach. And then Buckaroo closed little eyelids for some fast slumber.

Rich finished his lunch meal, wiping his mouth, saying with a nod and smile. "Everyone finish the grub while I talk. I hope ya'll enjoyed the tour. I wanted to expand upon Miss Sally's and Reginald's description. And it is all rootin' tootin' true. Moville provides free of charge everything you see the land, a house, two cars, and all the furniture. You can pick the decorating and color styles you want, but we are limited. We require each family unit to be self-sustaining within the block community. The family, even the little ones from age of five, is assigned some type of minor or major work details. Adults handle the big jobs. Teens go to school and learn a skill or trade to contribute to the block community at the age of eighteen years old or the grown teens or young adults can leave our proud community and fend for themselves. Harsh. I know. Life sucks. And life is tough. Teens need to learn that now and not find out too late, depending upon their mama and daddy forever. Moville institutes the family unit, the family values, the family time, the family discipline. Pretty much, the family is everything. We do not invite people without their extended families. But here in Bama, that's not a problem. We are not heartless leaders. We work with these snobby PhDs to evaluate folks for the right type of jobs with their silly tests and such. Reginald didn't get to brag, because he's not like that in his humble personality. He is one of our gifted inspection officers over all the solar gear. He said mail carrier as his first assigned job position, and proven willing to do something more. He studied and tested with our solar engineers and deemed highly exceptional in the area of thermal processes.

"Reginald contributes his valuable assets to Moville, delivering the home letters and packages. He visually inspects the solar control panel and instrumentation for any dangerous or deadly problems while eliminating that heavy task for an untrained homeowner and safeguarding many, many lives on a daily basis. Ya'll see that all homeowners learn the first three weeks about simple tasks, such as, gardening, planting, cropping, and animals for maintaining their homestead and feeding themselves along with complex routines of the solar gears and solar technology. They own the rights to their home. And they sound the alarm, if something bad happens. Miss Sally is correct. We do own all the land and property, just temporarily. The community is family oriented and family maintained.

"If for some reason, the teenager becomes a teen problem with her teen attitude, the family handles the teen problem, not me, not teachers, not supervisors, and not the US Federal Government, or the block community leaders of Moville, either. The family problems are dealt within the family unit. If the situation becomes too serious, the self-elected leaders of the block community, which is us, will ask the family unit to leave Moville. We can't do that when you own the land and the house. Yes. This is a very different community concept, but all the family units have agreed to our terms. Yes. We have kicked the shitty weeds out onto the gravel highway screaming and wailing to the heavens. Hell yeah. We will do it each and every time." Rich sipped his beverage, studying the young couple.

Rich nodded. "The family unit agrees and understands our rules, not really laws. If you decide to accept our invitation, ya get some land, a house, and bring all your house and personal possessions. And additionally, you can pick from our warehouse any item or items you want. Right now, the merchandise is compliments of us. We are billionaires. We don't deny that fact. But ya can't take it to heaven either. There's plenty of money and plenty of supplies for everyone. We haul the stuff right from the retail stores of Birmingham and smaller towns that are struggling with money but have lots of good merchandise. We love doing it. It's like giving back to the community. Excuse my silly pun.

"Ya can bring along all your relatives from mama, daddy, sister, brother, grandma to Aunt Betsy. The more, the merrier. We're fair with the older folks, but we've found that the elderly folks enjoy working in special crafted jobs which boosts their self-esteem. And we, young stupid hicks need them and want them and even cherish them until their physical time leaves this earthly bound plane. And we like animals, all kinds of animals. We adopt all animals, even strays. If the strays are older or troublesome, they become feed to other animals. Life in the jungle. We don't waste precious resources. We use everything once, twice, and thrice, until it's all gone like our pioneer ancestors. That's pretty much the big deal. You get stuff and we get your labor of love. Your turn for any posing questions? I know they drumming inside your head."

Pamela said with a smile and a nod. "I understand your community concept and applaud your brave decisions and bold actions. I admit I like the entire concept, but we make decisions together, first most. Second most, ya'll kinda hinted that the Alabama families are not a problem. So that means there are other block communities with other family units? Where's and who's in charge of them? And where do you live Rich here in Moville?"

Rich grinned. "Very good questions, Miss Pamela. Your honorific title is for respect from the little children that you are the teaching adult, and they are the learning ones." Pamela nodded as he continued. "Our elders are always called, miss and mister. And we insist upon good table manners for all children and adults."

"Except for Dalton, we can't potty train the monkey." Holt turned and smiled to Dalton.

"Nor his side kick Holt, but we continue to try really hard." Rich frowned at Holt and smiled at Pamela. "If you accept our invitation, then you'll be entering a world modeled like the 'Old South' with ladies and gentlemen, the honor of family, friends, land, and community. I live here. Moville is my birth home many, many moons ago. As I grew rich with money, I purchased the of land of my birth place and the surrounding country farms. I love the country life. I plan to die here, if the Good Lord's willing. Holt and Dalton both live here, north and east a bit. The rest of the billionaires seem here or not seem here rule over other block communities throughout the US States. Moville is the alpha dog model, working out the kinks of research protocols and procedures. We have over 2,000 block communities. Some US States like Texas are bigger. Some US States like Rhode Island have only one. The family unit concept has to be accepted to work and worked to progress. If the family doesn't follow the rules, the community suffers.

"And the information, I'm sharing ain't really top secret, but who ya going to tattle too. The US Federal Government?" He chuckled. "Naw. We don't look, listen, or lean to the government. We're rebels in their eyes. We don't give a damn, either. The US Federal Government is in big shitty mega trouble, so they don't care and can't do anything about it. We billionaires scout outside these concrete walls for all types of families. We got married couples, older couples, same type couples, single couples with children, but the only requirement is bringing in your kin to help with the farm chores. Two married people can't perform all the work that's required for six to seven adults. That's the catch that scares people or maybe it's hard work that scares people in our slick lazy society. I'm no psychiatrist, only a billionaire." Rich chuckled.

Preston said with a worried brow to Rich. "I agree with Pamela. Ya'll are doing some novice stuff, but I'm concerned about the US Federal Government's part. So you or we do not pay the required State of Alabama plus US Federal taxes on the land property and the sales taxes on the merchandise goods, and work taxes to the Federal US Government. Even given no money exchange, I would think that our government authorities would be noseying around here, finding ways to tap into a man-made rare richly resource as a current homeowner with a job. Ya'll little girls and boys concerned?"

Rich smiled. "Yes, the US Federal Government is a concern. We haven't talked to them about our block community concept. Honestly, the banks got robbed, and the economy went to shit. We're busy, doing our best to get afloat like the rest of the Americans. People are seeking and finding shelter, some food, paying high electricity, water, and transportation outlets for the essential needs. The biggest pest is security and the safety and well being of you and your loved ones as the single issue, since Adam ate that damn apple. Honest, your skills got Dalton's attention. Dalton?"

Dalton chewed and swallowed his food, scanning the faces around the wooden table. "Preston defended his wife and son from a nasty kniver. I saw the guy and was galloping to the rescue. I don't enjoy sneaky assholes like that attacking no body. I was too late. Preston whipped his gun out and shot the guy right in the eyeball," he viewed Preston. "Look, Preston. Times are fucking weird and gawd damn dangerous. No one doesn't blink an eyelash anymore. Crime is part of poverty and poverty is part of the depression. I thought that you and your pretty wife and cute son might be interested in our block community, our new family unit concept. That's all." He ate his food, chewing.

"That's not all, Dalton. Shit. Don't fucking lie." Rich grinned to Dalton and viewed the young couple, saying with a nod and a smile. "Preston and Miss Pamela, Dalton's a good family man and provides his share of invitations to Moville. He's got great eyeballs and great instincts. We don't have just a plot of land like Miss Sally's. We're interested in ya'll running our big horse and cow ranch, fields of growing crops along with roaming horses."

Preston raised both palms, saying with a worried brow. "Whoa, sir. I love the country but born a city slicker. I hunted and tracked with my grandfather and my daddy but small stuff like rabbits, deer does, and a couple of young small four-point bucks. Don't have any know-how about a horse or a ranch or a horse ranch."

Rich smiled. "Your know-how is needed here, Preston. Your leadership skills are along with Miss Pamela's bravery and your family unit protection. Ya'll see, Preston we invite the family unit, but the family unit like yourself wasn't raised like a monkey in jungle like some people." He turned and grinned to Holt and smiled back at Preston. "You can teach people a new skill, but you can't teach people to face much less react to a single dangerous situation. The danger is what you face every damn hour at your place, currently. Burglars, thieves, invaders, shooters, knivers, an assortment of crazy and desperate people, who want to steal and harm, because they're lazy and mean or just damn mean. Reginald is a wonderful worker, and a good husband, and a family man. And he served and sacrificed for his country. I'm proud he and his family are here, but I can't rely on him for basic block community protection. I do not reference our silly US Federal Government pests either. Holt, Dalton, and I'll handle these vile critters from a purely legal and financial point of view. Instead, I'm referencing the entire family community with smart and strong block leaders to both lead and protect the block community. I fear. I fear that this mess ain't over yet. And this is the start of the breakdown of the United States of America. But like you and Miss Pamela, this is our land, our home, and our country, and we should be prepared to defend it with live and knife," he nodded with the billionaires.

Rich continued with a nod to Preston and Pamela. "Reginald is correct. Our American war is both subtle and shitty with sneaky folks just plain downright mean to each other which unfortunately includes us, innocents. And, as a tough shit ass, I plan to do something about it, not sit around and be a victim. So, through my vocal grumblings, Preston and Miss Pamela, we offer you the horse and cow ranch land and all the responsibilities." He raised both his palms. "You rule the ranch. We got lots of seasoned farm hands that just need a leader and some good common sense guidance, since they like doing all the work, but you'll learn something useful."

Pamela nodded. "I understand. I agree. I'm wondering how far Moville travels. Are you planning to purchase more farms around here up north or down south, and how soon, Rich?"

Rich nodded. "Good question. We negotiate daily with folks around here. We go up to the city of Warrior next that's where Dalton lives. Then we go out passed the city of Pell City in the east, right now. Holt's there. We stop at a small town of Fultondale so far but plan to hit the city of Gardendale, and other small towns around there later in the year. We build the houses but that takes lots of money and time and resources. Some people don't want us. Some people want their own land but that's not part of the deal. So we just wait until the times are bad and we attack, so to speak. Buy their land and give it back with a lot better benefits. Is that any acceptable answer to your query, Miss Pamela?" Pamela nodded, rocking the baby stroller with her foot, turning and viewing Preston. Preston nodded in silence understanding too. Rich viewed and smiled to Buckaroo, who was sound asleep in the stroller. "Something to pass along to your young'un. So please think about our proposal? Before we vacant the room for your personal chat, are there any more questions? And you can move in immediately. If you accept, we sure hope, ya can get the keys to the barn and spend the night there tonight. We can haul some twin beds in. Right, Dalton?" Dalton smiled as the billionaires stood and left the room.

Pamela stopped rocking the stroller with a sleeping Buckaroo, viewing Preston. "You, first?"

"Do we decide today, right now? I guess so." Preston viewed his sunburned and calloused hands and looked down at the table surface and back with a smile and a nod to see Pamela "I like it. I feel safe here. I like them. I do know who they are. Did Miss Reporter make ya think that this is all a scam or a money making deal?"

Pamela said. "Naw. She did provide some good academic arguments especially for the outsiders, who don't understand the rules. I do agree with the rules of weeding the free loaders out of the system. I'm willing and believe that I can learn new skill or trade. I'm concerned about running a horse and cow ranch. I'm a city girl, not a rodeo queen, Preston. You're more comfortable with outdoors living not I. I guess that I would be required to can and preserve food like my great grandma did in the 1800s. I can do that too. I guess that I would be doing something like that in another six months, if the US economy doesn't upgrade to civilized again. I can't change what's going to happen to me. I don't have a job and don't think that I'll working as a computer programmer ever again."

"They have tech jobs like Reginald. Maybe, ya can study and become one of them, honey. I parallel your feelings. The US economy sucks. I'd like to work as a FBI agent, not Roy Rogers, but I do love the outdoors. I'd like to give it try. Ya know if we don't like it or do bad, we kicked out." Preston chuckled and leaned over, kissing her cheekbone and pulled back with a goofy grin. "Go back to the old homestead and hunt for them furry rabbits that I'm been doing for two months. Yum. Yum."

She wiggled out of their love embrace and popped his bicep with a grin and a giggle. "You. I like rabbit stew. But your land and your house? Your grandfather gave you that house, Preston. You'll work the horses and land but have big responsibilities here, not there. Your..."

"Us." Preston hugged her with a smile. "Our house and our land, everything I own I share with you, honey. I caught it when you mentioned about their purchase of land further south, another year. Honey, we can't wait another year. There might not be a house in another year. There might be the land, but if I can't pay..." He exhaled, pondering losing his land or losing his wife and son. If a vicious attack by a few crazy folks hit him while defending a plot of dirt? He stared with a smile at Pamela, the love of his life. "I'm willing to sacrifice the land for you and Buckaroo. Rich, Dalton, and Reginald stated over and over again family first. I put your and Buckaroo first for everything safety, shelter, food, health." He kissed her. "I'm muscle-man. Muscle-man wants the horse ranch."

She said with a grin and a giggle. "Alright, muscle-man, I concur with all your sappy mushy love words. And your mama and your daddy and their land and their house? My daddy will not go easily, but his neighborhood's getting really dangerous. He mentioned four robbers last week, plus five break-ins. I was planning to talk with you about my daddy moving into our house. This is a better solution. He's depressed after losing his job and me in the same year."

Preston nodded. "Good. I think this is the best solution for Pruitt also. He lives with us at the ranch, put his butt to work. Problem solved. My parents'll move along with us. Daddy hints way too much and too long about the danger that he sees around the property lines. He has offered for us to move-in with him and his mama. She's itching for babysitting Buckaroo, since the hospital closed. I can convince them easy to move here to Moville. Daddy'll be sad about abandoning his house and his property too, but there's always high hopes it'll be retrieved in another year. So we agreed hundred percent to run a horse and cow ranch. We can start moving tomorrow. That okay with ya, honey?" She smiled as he said. "We talk to our folks, tonight. Help get them saddled and moved. I have another thought and I hope you agree with me."

"I can read your mind. Arthur and Ilenn? Yes, of course, ask them? How'll you explain them to Rich and Dalton?" She frowned with puzzlement.

"Protection factor, honey." Preston grinned.
July 21st Thursday

8:31 p.m.

Town of Moville (horse ranch of Preston and Arthur)

Clear sky and moonlight with bright stars

Four mph winds with 88 percent humidity at 95ºF

The house was designed in a V-shaped pattern with a sharp point. The sharp point represented a sloped front porch with three tall brick squared columns to support a four-story structure. The top floor housed the solar panels and gears for the air conditioning and warming heat, hot water tower, and solar power into the house for cooking and cleaning appliances and not beauty. On the front porch, thirteen red bricked steps marched up to a set of double green metal doors for both protective and endurance and not beauty. The high windows measured from the fourth floor down to the first floor with a series of thick doubled pane glass covered by heavy white cloth drapes for both protection and endurance, coming from the sunlight in the summer and the coldness in the winter and not beauty. The double front doors led to a great room which measured 150 feet across by 300 feet wide and by thirty feet up and to the cathedral ceiling. The ceiling contained an array of four sky lights that bombarded numerous rays of bright sunlight or moonlight down on the light colored wooden floor for endurance and not beauty. The great room was a combination of a kitchen, a dining room, and a living room setting, all wrapped together for a good time partying of fifty people and less for endurance and not beauty. The master bedroom wing consisted of four private bedrooms and bathrooms which was the grandest space in the house and it was assigned to Preston, Pamela, and Buckaroo, and the second married couple Arthur and his pregnancy wife Ilenn, since the babies needed the most silence as newborns.

The second bedroom wing contained numerous private bedrooms and bathrooms also which was assigned to Hudson, Collina, Pruitt, and Tanita. The third bedroom wing of bedrooms and bathrooms were given to Trithenia, Rajall, Aronanita, Shonna, and Ayana. The west side of ranch displayed a row of five garages with a solar car. Between the first garage and the kitchen door, there was an overhanging veranda. The only wall of the veranda displayed three separate sinks and three garden hose pipes. The garden hose pipes, water, and soap detergent were used for cleaning off the smelly green cow shit from the smelly dirty cowboy boot soles before entering through the kitchen door as dictated by the ranch mistress Pamela.

Preston stood in the middle of a great room that was decorated with bright reds, dark greens, and dull grays which covered the flowered-and-flora fabric patterns on the chairs. The chairs stood between a set of twin striped gray and white sofas. Pamela and Ilenn had hand-picked the soft fabric pattern from the Moville warehouse, and Arthur and Preston had hand-hauled the heavy crap into house. He switched his eyeballs from his fugly ugly furniture to his loving family members, exhaling with a huff of nervousness, patting a full stomach with a grin and a nod. "A month or so ago, I was the big man, working for a US Federal government agency. Now, I'm here. I'm a little nervous. Everything has moved so swiftly..." Pamela stood from her chair with the baby, moving to her husband, leaning and smiling in his face with a set of whispered words. Then she gently rested Buckaroo in his hands with a smile and a nod. Preston smiled and stared down at the sleeping features of son with a tummy filled with good food and safe from invaders for the night, looking up with a smile and whisper to her smile. "Okay? I love you, too, honey." He kissed her lips and they surfaced. She swung around, moving and pulling a heavy chair from the side with two lean biceps.

Arthur jumped up from his chair and moved, grabbing and dragging two chairs for his two friends, Preston and Pamela, and parked the chairs in the center of the great room. He turned with a wink and a grin, and slapped the collar bone of Preston for their victory, spun around, moving back to his wife. Ilenn sat on the sofa, patting her expanded tummy with their unborn child.

Pamela turned and sat, leaning over with a nod and a smile to her husband for support and love. Preston sat in the chair, holding his son, and cleared his tight throat, looking up to see the new residents of horse and cow ranch, and said with a nod and a smile. "Thanks for the encouragement, everyone. We are here together in this fine house like a mansion with fifteen bedrooms with seventeen bathrooms. I feel like a king with my queen. Thanks for the invitation, coming to Moville with us. We finally got all the furniture and most of our boxes and suitcases unloaded. I can't predict the future. The future looks better than two weeks ago, when the US economy collapsed into the toilet. I admit. I was scared, first time in my short life. Scared for Pamela, for my parents, for my son. Then good luck or Almighty God came along and helped us, all of us. I believe in hard work. I'm willing to work since being out of work for almost forever, three weeks or so. I'm willing to work with my hands, learn a new skill, and stretch my talents to the sunset. I guess. I went to college and got a computer programming degree, not used anymore. Can't buy a beer with it," he chuckled. So we are master and mistress of a horse ranch here in Moville, Alabama. Tomorrow is a new day for all of us. This week started out strange, different, kinda like the first day of football practice. Right, Arthur?" Arthur chuckled. Preston smiled. "Doc poking and probing ya with instruments, Buckaroo squawked and hollered. But I'd be mad, if a doc shoved a thermometer up my butthole. Wait. Yeah, they did on the first day of Moville orientation. I squawked and hollered like a baby, too," he laughed with the family unit. "I supposed to tell ya'll that everyone got checked for hair lice and ticks, part of the immune thing. I'm okay with it. Didn't cost me a dime from my dwindling bank account. I came out all clean and healthy. Pray daily to Almighty God for my good health in this tanked US economy. Everyone's healthy. I supposed to report.

"Second thing, we all got tested by the PhDs. The tests helped evaluate our motor skills like eye-hand coordination and strength of endurance. And finally, we all got IQ tests. I supposed to tell ya'll that they're just tests. The single big building with the lonely word, school is for all of us. There are lots of training programs, if you want to learn a new job. But they want you to work your assigned position for six months. I'm okay with that too. I get lots of many training sessions, since I've never handled horses or crops before. Tomorrow, I'm in a mini-type prep course for farmers, me and Pamela. That should be a hoot. Right, honey?" She nodded as he continued. "But I'm doing all this for this little bundle of joy, my son." He looked down with a smile to see his sleeping infant and back to the family unit, saying with a nod and a grin. "The sacrifices will be noted in the American history book for my son's enjoyment during his teen years. My house had belonged to my granddaddy Kingly. I loved him and loved his house and his land. Granddaddy left for me to care for. If the economy hadn't bottomed, I would be there now with Pamela and Buckaroo." He choked back the tears of sadness. Pamela bowed her chin, wiping off the tiny bits of wet moisture from her eyelashes, wrapping an arm around her husband, who copied her same emotional and mental sadness and loss as hard-working unemployed Americans. Preston looked to each faces around the room, saying with a sad frown. "I admit that I cried when I moved the last of our furniture into that old truck, probably never seeing my place again in exchange for both safety and freedom for my son and my wife. I'm very happy my daddy and mama came along with Pruitt, Pamela's daddy. Welcome. We couldn't live here without ya'll being close and safe with us. And then there's Arthur. Arthur and me have been together, since little things in our kiddie day care school, where I beat his ass so I could swung on the monkey bars." Preston chuckled.

Arthur shook his baldness with a smile. "Preston, ya got that reverse, bro. I beat your ass, and ya surrendered the monkey bars and been following me ever since." He sat at six feet and four inches of body frame, weighing in at 257 pounds of African-American muscles from his neck muscles down to his leg calves. He flashed a smile with a pair of dark brown almond shaped eyes on a heart shaped face with a set of big dumbo ears which was the only detraction, making him 99.99 percent perfect male in Ilenn's eyeballs. Ilenn felt the baby kick like a stubborn mule in her belly button and punched her fist into the hard chest of Arthur for both attention of her person and her anger for getting her pregnant.

Preston smiled. "I give you the following part, man. We will be debating the monkey bars under the veranda later, buddy. Arthur's the brother that I never had, and sister, too." Arthur shook his baldness. Preston laughed with a nod. "Are so? Remember, when we entered that beauty contest dressed like a couple of ugly girls? Ya won first place. I always tell the truth, Your Honor." Preston chuckled.

Ilenn turned and curled her lips, saying with a sour tone to the nose profile of her husband. "Beauty contest? Dressed like a girl?" Arthur leaned down and whispered to her angry face. Ilenn was five feet and six inches tall with a head of long black curly hair. Her mink skin was swollen over her eight and half weeks of expanded belly, carrying their first unborn child. She possessed a set of pink lips and a pair of brown eyeballs, staring with angry to her husband.

Preston said with a nod and a smile with glee. "Arthur and I followed each other from grammar school to football games to Gina's sports car. We graduated college and worked together at Cyber Crimes which died with the rest of the US Federal government agencies. But we're back. Right, Arthur? This time it's more like the famous Home on the Range theme song. Nope. I can't sing or hum the song either. I'll let Arthur do that. Back to my un-prepared speech, I'm supposed to mention that tomorrow is the start of the work week. Look, we take this real slow. The most important item, the horses need to groomed and fed, and the rest of animals need breakfast and dinner, including the mammals around the room. So that's our biggest priority for the day. And we get lots of helpers too. Folks have regular jobs here on the ranch. And we're assigned buddies to assist us with the horse and farm chores. Sorry, kids. Ya go to school at eight in morning, but you can wear whatever outfits you want, except for nudity and naked feet." Pamela punched his bicep as Preston turned and smiled at her. "That's what the paper said, honey.

"I think I've covered everything. O. And I'm supposed to remind the three rules. Your work job is your responsible. If ya need help, please let me know, since I'm boss man. Okay? Assistance can be arranged. Second rule, you can't go out the twin iron gates without permission. There are trucks that haul food and merchandise stuff from Birmingham. If ya feel claustrophobic, you can spend the day gathering home supplies, but let me know first. Because, I must arrange a substitute player for your work in advance. The third rule, you can leave Moville anytime but will not be invited to work or to live or to stay permanently. That there is free will, folks. Your choice? Okay? Any questions for me?" Silence lingered in the room. Preston wrapped an arm around Pamela and cuddled his sleepy son to his chest, looking with a nod and a smile to see the faces. "Why don't we intro ourselves properly? Tell us something about yourself? Since we're going to spend the rest of our days and nights together. I'm Preston Kingly, boss man. I've sliced my stomach and spilled my guts for ya'll, but I'm proud to be invited to Moville." He turned and smiled at his wife. "Pamela, your turn honey?"

She looked with a smile and a nod to each face. "Pamela Kingly, new mommy. I feel sad about leaving our house too, but it was quite dangerous for us. I feel safe here immediately, but I feel somewhat overwhelmed with the work load. I'm willing to learn new skills and apply them the best that I can. I'm grateful for all of you joining us. We worked great tonight with dinner as a female team. So we let the man-folk clean the kitchen." She smiled, since the kitchen had been cleaned by the women-folks already who did a better job. "Thanks for all of ya'll being here too. I'd like to introduce my daddy, Pruitt Craft."

A head of gray colored hair and a tall figure did not stand. Pruitt sat in the single chair, turning with a stern face to see each new person. "Good evening, everyone. I love my daughter, her husband Preston, and my new grandson Preston, Junior. Strange, not being at my own house in my own living room. I must admit. My neighborhood was becoming much less secure for my person. I feel I am too old for change, but circumstances change even when old thoughts don't. I am here to support my daughter and my loving family. Thanks for listening to me."

She was tall with a head of black colored hair, standing up on her naked feet, looking around with a smile and a nod to each new face. "I'm Collina, Preston's mama, and this bag of bones on my left is Hudson, Preston's daddy. Preston is our only child. Buckaroo is our only grandson, and Pamela is our only daughter. So we gained a wonderful partnership of family members in our life. We're pleased as fruit strawberry punch to be here with our family and our new housemates, but ya'll, now, are our new friends too. I'm a nurse if that interests anyone. The hospital here is very well supplied with medical equipment, medicine supplies, and excellent clinical staff members of physicians, nurses, and such. I work there since they closed the outside hospitals. But I also have a second career as a 'medicine woman' which I like to term it. I work with a group of researchers, who gather the local earth green and brown plant life for scientific examination of treatments of new medicines from cancer to arthritis. Our lousy US Federal Government had too many restrictions and regulations for new and undiscovered scientific breakthroughs in medicine but not here. Thanks for inviting us to join the block family community." She turned and smiled at her son. "But I can't imagine not being near my precious grandson. Well I can talk all night. Dear?" She sat.

A tall, sixty something years old man with a head of grayish-black hair stood with a smile, saying. "I'm Hudson. Thanks for us being here too. I was a dull accountant with peaceful intentions all my life. I abandoned my property, my house along with Preston. I hope to retrieve that land from whoever gets it but not going to lenient about it, here and now. This is our new home, a grand house at that. I can only count numbers and do some hunting, fishing on my land. Working with horses will be both scary and thrilling all at the same time, but I'm up to the challenge and will make the best of it. I'm very happy to be with my family in the family unit, wouldn't have it any other way. Thanks, folks." He sat.

A tall, sixty something year old woman with a tone of mink tinted skin stood with a smile and a nod to the see the new faces. "Tanita, being Arthur's mama. So's very proud of my boy, his wife and that kid not yet here, but any day now. I worked for the government, but it all went to...hel...out the door. So's I gots my other girl with me, named Aronanita and her two girls Shonna and Ayana." She sat on the sofa, wrapping her arm around Shonna, whispering to her face.

A petite girl with a tint of mink colored skin stood with a nod to see the new faces. "Hi. Shonna, ten years old. I feel funny being here, not at my home too. I like being out of school but miss my neighbors. I don't wanna go to school tomorrow, Mama. Since we gots out in April, not going to the fifth grade. And can't see my old friends being too dangerous, 'cuz people have guns. And steals your things and breaks into your homes. I guess. I get to make new friends here in Moville but miss my old friends." Shonna turned and frowned to her mama Aronanita. "See my old friends for a bit, please, Mama?" Aronanita shook her curls as Shonna sat with a sour frown.

A tall girl with a tone of mink colored skin stood with a grin and a giggle to see the new faces. "Ayana, I'm thirteen. I live in the real world, unlike Shonna. Our neighborhood falls apart every day from lots and lots of bad crime and death. I like it here, getting clothes for free and pretty things for my room, all for free. I'm bored and wanna make some new friends. Ready for school too." She smiled and slapped her jeans. "See my new jeans with the butterflies on the legs." She sat, turning and slapping her sister for meanness.

A tall, sixty something year old woman with a tint of mink colored skin sat in her chair, turning with a nod and a grin to see Preston. "I be Tanita's sister. I be called Trithenia. I not repeat my sad story. I's will work hard and be parts of this here family thing. This be my boy named Rajall. Sixteen, last week." She reached over with a smile and patted Rajall on the arm.

Rajall did not stood but slumped forward in his chair like a piece of folded paper. He possessed a six feet frame with a tint of mink colored skin, a pair of long skinny limbs and legs. The legs wore a pair of faded and destroyed blue jeans paired with purple sneakers and green shirt. He said with a frown to Preston. "I's talks for me's. Rajall, sixteen. When do I drive a car?" He raised his five fingers. "There be one, two, three, four, five in those garages. When me's a license?" He turned with a smile to see his nieces. "I be's driving to school tomorrow, so's don't, bother getting a ride on a bus."

Preston turned with a puzzled brow to see Arthur and returned back to see Rajall. "I...I do not have any answers for you, Rajall. I'm sorry. Those are some very good questions thou. I'll ask Dalton about all that tomorrow. Okay? I'll ask about a sixteen year old acquiring a vehicle license and driving other folks to school around Moville."

Arthur turned with a puzzled brow to see the nose profile of Rajall. "We were all coached about our individual needs and expectations, Rajall here in the Moville community. Did your coach provide any type of driving and vehicle information to you? She must've noted that you were of driving age also."

Rajall closed the eyelids, placing his hands behind his skull, leaning his skull against the gray and red flowered-patterned chaise with both sneakers on the top of the fabric. "Nope. She whined about school and farm stuff."

Trithenia patted Rajall on the arm, saying with a smile, and stood, scanning each face around the room. "I's thinks we shall all pray in the mornings and the evenings to our Lord God and Brother Jesus. Bow our heads," she bowed her chin with her new family unit, and said. "Praise be to our Lord God and Brother Jesus for us, folks sacrificing our shame and misery. May our Lord God and Brother Jesus keep us safe always. Thanks be to our Lord God, and Brother Jesus. Amen."

July 22nd Friday

10:02 a.m.

Horse ranch of Preston and Arthur (west pasture and pond)

Clear sky and sunny with five mph winds

82 percent humidity at 87ºF

Arthur and Preston corralled the herd of pregnancy slow moving mama-to-be cows, driving them into a barbed wired pen for safety from the mean bulls, any un-friendly female cows, and roaming hunger coyotes. Preston rode off on top of the black colored horse, checking on a new batch of baby calves and their mamas as Arthur rode around the new pen for any issues with the cows or fencing for both safety and protection.

"Arthur," an invisible body shouted in the far distance on top of a golden colored Palomino stallion as Dalton waved his cowboy hat for attention. Arthur swung around, looking for the person who shouted out his name, spotting the waving hat plus a pair of golden horses. He circled his white Appaloosa, galloping to the running horses. "Hey, kid." Dalton smiled being a billionaire asshole. He slowed and parked his horse in a lazy triangle with Arthur and a mysterious second rider on top of a second Palomino horse. Dalton wrapped his reins around the saddle horn, tipping back his cowboy hat up from his two sweaty eyebrows, looking with a worried brow to Arthur. "Looky, I shoot straight. You're a nonsense kid." Dalton reached and shoved the mobile telephone between him and Arthur. "Tell me what'da ya think ya see there?"

Arthur dropped the reins over the saddle horn too, grabbing the mobile telephone, lifting it up to his face, and saw a dark figure.

The dark figure is scaling the seven foot high concrete guard wall during the moonlight at night.

Arthur thumbed and clicked to the next digit picture/

A torn dark-skinned red bloody gash on the left shin bone of a tall slim figure.

He clicked the next digit picture.

An enlarged overview picture of a dark-skinned leg with a diagonal red bloody gash about five inches long.

He clicked on the next digit picture.

Rajall.

Arthur gasped, looking up with a puzzled brow too see Dalton. "Shit. What happened?"

Dalton pulled off his hat, wiping the brow sweat with the cloth. "Couple of my boys caught that there particular intruder half-way between your ranch and my ranch. They fired some shots from a rifle. Then let that bugger get away but not before a lookout flashed pics of ya know for a better ID along with some better security purposes for any future, uh, visits. Well we found out that there's a natural vertical lift of Mother Nature's stepping stones made from solid gray limestone which led over that there part of the gate wall. He must've searched for days to find it. We busted it down thou. No one'll climb it ever, twice. This morning, he showed up at the hospital with a bad bruising and some bleeding cuts. Glenn treated him and reported it with a security note. Ya know to me? It didn't take us long to add two plus two. Secondly, ya might not know this tidbit of medical data, since it's private. But Rajall has a big bad drug problem." He pulled and pinged the paper with a nod. "It was discovered during his first health examination. His mama was informed being that he's a minor and she's the guardian. Rajall was given, in the health clinic, some medications to aid in his long-term drug recovery. Apparently, the drug problem's bigger than we anticipated. We think he might've contacted some, uh, old friends from the outside the gates from his old neighborhood. They must've drove straight to the Highway 79 location and picked him up and might be providing him with more, uh, drugs. I'm sorry, Arthur." Dalton shook his curls, looking at Arthur.

Arthur returned the mobile telephone, dropping his eyelids down to the saddle horn, and looked up to see Dalton. He understood that Rajall had violated ten of the block community codes. Arthur had learned from the horse ranch orientation session on his first day of working as a rancher in the Moville yesterday. He exhaled with a huff of worry, saying with a sad frown and a nod. "We can have our stuff packed..."

"Naw." Dalton flapped his hat up and down, hollering with a sour frown. "Hell naw. Naw. Naw, not you and Miss Ilenn, I'm sorry to scare ya, man. I'm being an asshole here. We give everyone three strikes. And you're out like in the old defunked baseball World Series. Rajall needs help to overcome his drug addiction," he turned with a stern face to see the second male on the second Palomino. "Tell him, Glenn!"

Glenn said with a nod and a smile to Arthur. "I'm Glenn. A physician employed at the hospital, one of the drug rehab docs. Rajall needs to come every morning to see me and stay at the clinic, get monitored for about two hours, and then released back to his home. We don't want him around the other kids at school. Do you understand?" Arthur nodded. He smirked. "Kids are smart, sometimes smarter than us, wise old owls. They notice little things, sometimes, swifter than the school teachers. So he stays home all this week, taking his medication. He does a few farm chores around the ranch home keeping his muscle strength and lung endurance up while working off the drugs intensity. We're not being nasty mean, just careful. Some of the folks get rowdy when you mention drugs and stuff. Do you understand?" Arthur nodded. Glenn said. "Drugs are like cigarettes and alcohol. The temptation's great but with support and monitoring Rajall can overcome all of this. We have a very good medical center along with outstanding clinical staff professionals and social monitors here. Some of the best I've seen in a long time. Rich doesn't just spit nails. Movillians helps each other. But this is really up to him, Arthur only Rajall can change this thing, not you. Ya understand me, son?" Arthur nodded.

Dalton fidgeted inside the saddle, "You understand my position and the security factor, Arthur. His shitty little friends are not invited ever here. Actually I'm more concerned about his social addiction and the medical one. You can't take 'ass' out of asshole," laughing. "And, man if'an I find someone else hanging like a damn ape on that barbed wired, their butthole's zapped by my lead powder. I don't give a shit, who them shit asses are. Look, I'll take blame for this," he chuckled and viewed the physician. "Well, Glenn will."

Glenn shook his cowboy hat. "Thanks, Dalton."

Dalton viewed Arthur. "Look! No one's to blame here. Rajall needs medical counseling and medication. Now, the reason we came to ya, cause you're like the 'man of the house.' This is your call. Your decision? Preston will never know from us. He doesn't need to know. This is your family unit. Do ya dig?" Arthur nodded.

Glenn said. "Miss Trithenia was given Rajall's medical report and told about this delicate clinical situation. And she's slightly addicted herself. In that package I've provided both the medical reports for your eyeballs, only. Ya know seeing is better than hearing, sometimes. They both need to attend the medical clinic for three weeks."

Dalton said. "That's what Glenn wants to do first. We recommend that you bring Miss Trithenia and Rajall every morning to the hospital. There're detailed instructions for ya to read and do. We'll transport them back home. Since they're getting treated, they can't do their jobs either. Technically, that means the work falls or splits between the rest of the household members. But remember, we told ya that everyone helps out everyone. That ain't just shitty words from my foul mouth. We act and preach all at the same time. We're sending some nice elderly ladies to assist Miss Pamela in place of Miss Trithenia's work load and to relieve Miss Ilenn's of her house duties. She's due in two weeks, so probably crabby, bitchy. My sweet Julia was bitchy from day one. I love that girl but the nagging," he laughed with Arthur. "Miss Ilenn needs rest, food, and stay away from you. So to cover for both Rajall and Miss Trithenia, we're using the baby as the excuse. No one knows. And no know needs to know. You're the man. You tell anyone you want even Preston. Ya'll boys are really good friends. But this is your decision to handle your way. I just gave you some good recommendations, hoping you'll follow them. And this is going to take time, Arthur. Just be patience. Call Glenn for anything day or night. His cell number is there on top of the medical report. I gave you this cell phone for this family emergency." Dalton handed the mobile telephone as Arthur accepted the phone with a nod.

Glenn said. "Arthur, you're an intelligent and educated young man. Do not use violence. Please be kind. Be patience and be understanding. Sometimes, it's so easy to get mad and beat the hell out of something. This is not that time. That's why ya got the cell. Call me. Well call me later, after the kid cools down. I'm riding around the ranch for a while being off work, starting now. Do not hit or yell or whine. Be firm. Explain, these are the next clinical steps in both their rehabilitation processes recommended by me, their physician and not you. Ya understand me, son?" Arthur nodded.

Dalton turned and viewed Arthur, saying with a stern face and a serious tone. "This is a true crisis, requiring some quick action. Do ya have any questions, kid?" Arthur shook his hat as Dalton smiled. "Good luck to all of us." Dalton extended his handshake as Arthur shook and released the hand. Then, Dalton and Glenn grabbed the reins and circled the horses, galloping back to the center of Moville. Arthur folded the medical report into his hands, grabbed the reins, and run horse back to his home.

July 25st Monday

4:36 p.m.

Ranch house kitchen setting

Sunny and partly cloudy with four mph winds

89 percent humidity at 92ºF

Ilenn held and examined an empty glass gallon jug with a confused brow and sat it on the kitchen counter. One of the glass jugs was used to home-brew southern sweet black tea and white sugar cane which boiled the two ingredients in the hot Bama sunlight. The other jug was used for a lip-smashing pitcher of sugary sweet homemade yellow lemonade. The lemons were grown inside the potted plants on the patio, creating an afternoon delight or an evening chat after supper in the great room for watching some ancient Hollywood film movies. The full jug once held a gallon of yellow sparkling lemonade from freshly squeezed lemons, this morning. The lemonade jug was for the cowboys' sweet treat for returning from the cow roundups, this evening. Ilenn felt the baby kick like a mule, patting her stomach, saying with a puzzled brow. "Hey, Pamela! Did you see those boys come back here and drink up all my lemonade at lunchtime?"

"No," Pamela decorated a third key lime pie for Preston's favorite dessert. Her ranch-cowboy, not cyber-cowboy ate like a pregnancy bull elephant from the foreign country of Africa. She had learned to fix some great home-cooked southern meals and enjoyed watching Preston eat her newly baked sweet treat as the new mistress of horse ranch in Moville, Alabama.

Ilenn pointed to an empty jug with a sour frown. "I made two gallons of sweet lemonade, this morning. Now, it's all gone and disappeared. And I can't produce a new gallon jug without missing my supper duty to squeeze some more fresh lemons. It takes thirty minutes or more," she turned and viewed the rear back door of the house with the sounds. "And I can hear them boys, stomping and laughing outside under the side veranda."

Pamela smiled, swinging and shuffling to the open door of the refrigerator also. "Those boys betta be stomping that cow shit off their boots. Or them boys ain't getting any bite of supper either." Her eyeballs saw a second empty gallon jug, and as she lifted it from the refrigerator shelf for examination. The jug once contained rich sweet tea that was made this morning for the evening supper meal. "This one as well is empty too." She turned and viewed the great room, seeing the dining room chairs, the dining room table, the big television plasma, and an used glass tumbler on a side table. Rajall rested his lazy bones on top of the chaise lounge. She turned and moved, standing over the dirty yellow colored glass tumbler, pointing to the tumbler with a sour frown and a sour tone. "That's for suppertime, Rajall." Rajall reached and pressed the television remote as the plasma blasted in louder volume on the playing Hollywood movie. Pamela huffed, parking her fists on her hips, looking up to see the clock over the fireplace.

The clock read 4:35 p.m.

All the elementary and middle school kids were in school, catching up on missed or deficit academic classes, keeping the young bodies occupied and out of the adult's way and work. Then the kids came home after five o'clock for suppertime with the family unit. Rajall was not in school and had not attended his school classes this week, resting around on top of the sofa, watching loud movies in the great room. And he had so far neglected his three simply house chores, and now had consumed both the tea and the lemonade jugs for supping the hungry family members.

Pamela ordered. "Rajall, since you have enjoyed both the tea and lemonade watching your nosily entertainment movies. Please get up and fix two more gallons of beverages for the rest of us to enjoy at suppertime, tonight." Rajall snorted and pressed the remote as the television blasted in louder sounds. Pamela reached and ripped the remote from his hand, pointing and clicking off the television screen. "My baby is napping. I do not appreciate the loud noise. Why aren't you in school, Rajall? All kids are at the school during the late afternoon for..." Rajall closed his eyelids, pretending to sleep. She said with a sour tone. "Rajall? I'm addressing you..."

The side door from the veranda opened and closed. Voices rumbled in alto, tenor, and baritone music as the upright bodies moved and marched in a vertical line in the great room. Preston, Arthur, Tanita, Pruitt, Aronanita, and Hudson were both dusty and dirty from their day's farm and field work, standing in a row, surveying an unhappy picture show in the great room.

Aunt Trithenia waved both hands and arms, running from a cool dark hallway, yelling with tears. "Leaves my boy, alones! Tired and hurt from that snake bite, last week. Go away! Shoo! Scat!" She halted and slid down to her kneecaps beside the chaise lounge, frowning with worry.

Ilenn waddled to the open arms of Arthur and tattled with a sour frown to the eardrum of him also. He nodded with a sour frown and looked at the rear skull his aunt, saying with a stern tone. "Aunt Trithenia, may I speak with you and Rajall alone?" He turned with a nod and a stern face to see Preston. Preston nodded and turned, back stepping from the line, motioning to the dirty farm workers back to their private bedroom for privacy. They turned and shuffled out the grand room, cleaning up for suppertime.

Trithenia wore a worried brow and patted Rajall on the forehead. Arthur stomped his socked feet to the chaise lounge, calming a racing heart rate like Glenn had advised over the past four working days. He scooted one of the dining room chairs over for his aunt, saying with a stern tone. "Aunt Trithenia, please sit down." She ignored the chair, patting on the forehead of her son, whispering to his face.

Arthur exhaled with a huff of annoyance, moving and standing in front of both Rajall and Trithenia, and said with a nod and a stern face to them. "You understand that we all have daily duties to perform as farm workers here at the ranch. I have noted that you are not finishing your required daily work assignments. Are you feeling poorly, Aunt Trithenia? Do you need to see Dr. Glenn?" She shook her curls. Arthur asked and viewed Rajall. "Are you feeling poorly, Rajall? I've noticed that you have not started and finished your required chores yesterday or this morning or for a while. Do I need to remind your responsible of cleaning out the horse stalls and washing the trucks? And why are you not in school today? School's required here like outside Moville when you lived in..."

"Ain't your slave, man." Rajall said with a sour tone and his closed eyelids. "I'm sick, vomit. My leg hurts."

Arthur nodded. "Miss Collina's a nurse. She can view your leg." Rajall ignored the medical request, still pretending to sleep with his eyelids closed. Arthur said with a nod and a stern face. "Then we shall visit Dr. Glenn now. He's in his office until five..."

"Saw him, this morn." Rajall did not move or open his eyelids. "Told me rest. Stay off the leg. I obey the man, sees."

Arthur nodded. "I accept your explanation about your leg pain, but you should have attended school. Why are you missing school?"

"Did me homework by computer. It done. Back off me, man." Rajall said with a sour tone .

Arthur grinned. "Excellent. You've completed your homework and rested your leg. We should see tomorrow morning at seven Dr. Glenn for the examination of your wound. Maybe, you need it bandaged or see to getting you a pair of crutches for mobility. Then we should meet at the school..."

He opened his eyelids to see the black television. "Ya ain't my daddy, man. Got no daddy. Ya just a punk like me. Don't take ordered from punks," he sneered, looking up to see Arthur.

Arthur nodded, holding back his fighting fury to beat the shit out the teen, saying with a stern face. "Rajall, I'm part owner and part responsible for this horse ranch with Preston. I'm married and a soon-to-be daddy. I admit that I'm younger than some of the older males, but I've acquired some valuable life experiences since working here in Moville. I do not mean to assume to be your daddy. If you need a father figure..."

"Don't need nothin'," Rajall stood and moved without limping to his bedroom as Arthur turned with a sour frown to see the ass of Rajall and looked down with a frown to see Trithenia.

Trithenia stood and sneered, jabbing a finger at Arthur. "Ya ain't his daddy. I'm his mama." She turned and dashed to the hallway, running and hugging her sister.

Tanita said with a nod and a smile to her sister. "Let's talk about this in the bedroom. Ya tell me what's wrong, Trithenia?" They swung around, moving to the cool hallway.

Trithenia yelled. "No troubles! Got no troubles! Your boy is bossy. Bossy! Thinks, he be boss of me and Rajall."

July 30th Saturday

2:00 a.m.

Living room setting

Overcast night sky without stars and moonlight

Thunderstorm with one hundred percent precipitation

Twelve mph winds with 74 percent humidity at 76ºF

Arthur violently gagged on his own mouth spit, standing in his yellow robe and pajamas, decorating a scoop of chocolate ice cream with six sliced sweet green pickles for Ilenn, before he vomited up the good supper meal into the kitchen sink. He could not wait for her and her baby cravings to end permanently.

The front door sounded with two knocks. Arthur turned and viewed the foyer, spinning around to the door. The door opened. Arthur saw an unhappy pair of Holt and Dalton, motioning them into the house.

Dalton shook his wet curls and cowboy hat, saying with a sour frown and a stern tone. "Rajall's in hospital with a head concession. Go and get his mama, Arthur. We'll take ya'll there. He's okay just needs his mama." Arthur swung around to see Preston, Pamela, Hudson, and Pruitt. They stood in a row outside the hallway, staring at Dalton and Holt.

Trithenia waved both arms, coming from the hallway, busting through the line of people. She wildly ran to the rainy weather on the front porch, yelling with tears and in panic mode. "My boy? Where's my boy? He ain't in his room. Where's my boy working? Ya gots him working this late hour? Ya work him too hard? He's hurt, mends that leg." Arthur grabbed and pulled her from the door.

Holt rummaged through the side closet, finding a couple of raincoats and umbrellas. Arthur wrapped a raincoat over her bathroom robe and pajamas, saying with a stern tone. "Aunt Trithenia, can you please come with me? Rajall needs you. Okay?" He accepted and placed a raincoat from Holt, placing it over his pajamas, sliding his dirty boots over his naked feet. Then, he and Trithenia moved to the front porch, getting wet in the thunderstorm. Holt swung around to walk back into the rain too, driving them from the house to the hospital.

Dalton stood in the archway, turning and watching Holt drive away, and swung around, exhaling with a huff of annoyance. He looked up see the family unit of the horse ranch, saying with a smirk and a chuckle. "Ya'll are missing a car. Rajall drove the thing right into the wall about thirty minutes ago accidentally, of course. Lookouts tried to steer him to stop, but he's not a very good driver. I suspect." Dalton knew that the teen had stolen the car and wrecked it, escaping from a gang of guarded and armed lookouts at the community gate.

"Not a very good driver?" Pruitt said with a puzzled brow, understanding the dangerous circumstance. Preston opened and closed his mouth, moving to the sofa, waiting for the next step with a huff of annoyance.

Pamela turned and swung to her daddy, whispering to his face. "Daddy, please. Let us not wake the rest of the family. Tomorrow's a work day. Everyone needs their rest and quiet. Please go back to bed. We need to talk to Dalton for a few minutes. I love you, Daddy." She pecked his cheekbone and hugged his body. He nodded and turned, moving back to his private bedroom. Both Pruitt and Hudson pivoted on naked feet too, marching back to their bedroom suites for more rest and quiet. Pamela swung around, scanning the empty room, seeing the melting ice cream with the green sliced pickles, and dashed her naked feet to the kitchen counter with a giggle and a grin. She reached and grabbed the ice cream dish with a smile. "Ilenn's new craving. I'll delivery. Ya'll chat. Good night, Dalton."

"Good night, Miss Pamela." Dalton entered the room, stripping off his wet raincoat down on the floor, moving and sitting his ass on top of a red, green, and gray flowered sofa next to Preston. He shook his wet curls with a sour frown, looking down to the floor. "He's going to be fine, just bumped his head on wheel, not wearing the seat belt. Figures. Car's totaled thou," he looked up with a smirk to see Preston. "Get insurance, son?" The personality of Dalton was cool, handling tons of stressful daily and nightly pressure very well. He assisted and helped out Rich run the block community named Moville, watching out for folks like Rajall and Preston. Dalton was thirty something with a wife and a two year old son but seemed like an old soul with deep wisdom and carefree attitude and he was highly respected by folks of Moville too. Dalton nodded. "Well that damn car don't matter only a material object. Lives and breathes matters. Right, Preston?"

Preston nodded, staring down at the clean floor, wearing his bathrobe and his naked feet. "My first cow round-up took over four hours, moving them mamas from one pen to the next. It's harder than it looks."

Dalton smiled. "You and Arthur did good your first time out. Them mama cows are slower, cause they are near their gestation period of 285 days or about nine-months, kinda similar to human mamas. Give 'em another week or two, Miss Ilenn and her baby will be popping out right about that same time with them little tiny calves." Dalton sniggered.

Preston shook his skull, turning with a smirk to see Dalton. "Don't mention that cow fact to Ilenn."

Dalton smiled. "Not me. Daddy drove all the fat cattle from a small farm town of Warrior down to the big city of Birmingham along the deep valleys and up them tall mountains and down to the local railheads. Then the packaged train boxes transported the cattle to the stockyards, down south to the coastal city of Mobile and up yonder north into the rocket city of Huntsville, for them meat packing plants to feed hungry Alabamians. He loved the outdoors and the cow roundups. Today, we just move cattle from pasture to pasture, separating the troublemakers, from the mellow ones. On the big ranches in Texas, cowboys use their gas-powered terrain vehicles, skipping and tripping their four rubber tires around the rock and rough earth terrain. That's fun, too. Daddy liked to wear the cowboy gear too. Ya know the spurs on high-heeled boots, making him tall both on the ground and in the saddle with his long leather chaps and a high-crowned cowboy hat along with twin side pistols. That's me and my daddy's trademark, twin side pistols on planet Earth, Preston."

"I've always favored cowboys over regular shoes except in bed," Preston grinned.

"Me, too." Dalton slapped both his kneecaps, standing from the sofa, turning with a smile to see Preston. "See ya tomorrow, Preston. Have a good night now." He swung around, shaking his wet curls, reaching down and grabbed his cowboy hat and his wet raincoat, sliding over his body. He left the house, closing the door, and moved in the rain, getting wet, softly cussing.

July 31st Sunday

12:02 a.m.

Living room setting

Rain with eleven mph winds

60 percent humidity at 76ºF

Four gun shots echoed across the manicured green lawn of the ranch house. Preston stumbled from the dark hallway to the great room, wearing in his cool blue doggy-patterned bathroom robe. He halts and sees. The front door was opened. A red mud-covered Rajall rested his entire body over the wet floor with three wet rainy-slicked lookouts over his zombie-like body. Preston said with a confused brow. "He hurt?" The other housemates ran to the great room, eye witnessing the same horror picture show.

"Ya hurt, boy?" The lead lookout grinned underneath a wet cowboy hat, studying the wet young teen on the floor.

Trithenia wildly dashed to Rajall, yelling with her panic. "My boy! Let go, my boy! Ya hurts, my boy? I beats ya. I wills." She fell and stumbled on her kneecaps to the wet rained-soaked body, cradling his wet head like a baby to her lap, wailing and crying with her tears.

"No ma'am," The lead lookout cradled his reloaded shotgun like a baby pit bull puppy between his wet rain coat for show, standing in the open archway of the front porch.

"Damn it." Dalton emerged from the porch and entered the room both wet and mad. "What done happen here now?" He stopped and looked down a sour frown to see Rajall. "You again?" He wore a long rain coat duster, dripping numerous rain drops from the violent thunder storm over the floor, looking up with a sour frown to see Arthur and Preston. "Damn. I hate this part. I hate it. I really hate it." He motioned with a hand. "Alright. Everyone sit. Damn. I hate it." He swung around, nodding to the Movillian lookouts. he Movillian lookouts did not move, standing near the door, holding the shotguns without smiles. The housemates, wearing their bathrobes, moved and sat in the assorted sofas and chairs. They did not talk or smile, worrying with fear and fright too. Dalton turned and looked with a sour frown to see each face, stripping off the wet duster coat and his wet cowboy hat to the floor near the open door, moving to stand in front of television monitor. "Looky. We gave this a try, not twice, thrice, but ten times," he lifted and held up his ten fingers, dropping his hands to his wet blue jeans. "Okay? Everyone's here. Kids don't get a vote, too young. Okay? As a matter of fact, kids need to left. Get moving, little ones back to your bedrooms for the evening." He motioned both hands to the hallway. Tanita stood and rushed the young teens to the hallway, whispering into their face, watching them disappear. She spun around, moving and sitting with Hudson. Dalton said with a nod and a stern face. "This here is a family unit affair. You are the family unit, a bit different, but we approved. All ya'll is a family unit. As a family unit, ya gotta vote for Rajall to stay in Moville." The housemates sucked in air and parted their lips to see Dalton as eyeballs looked to each other. Dalton slapped his chest, saying with a nod and a stern face. "Now, I'm the tie-breaker. I bet ya'll can guess my personal vote. There ain't no easy way. No time, either." He turned and viewed the open curtain as a bolt lightning struck in the far distance outside the window. "Rainy now and all day tomorrow, based on the current weather forecast." He looked over to the family unit, saying with a sour frown and a stern face. "Get this done and over with. Shit. Let's see a raise of hands for him to stay here at the horse ranch?" Trithenia shot her arm first in the air. Rajall sat uprights on his ass next to his mama, raising his elbow. Dalton turned and tosses his arm at Rajall and missed being too far away, shouting with annoyance. "Ya don't count, boy. Shit. Raise your hands. I ain't got all night. One, two, three." Trithenia, Aronanita, and Tanita raised their arms for the total count of three as Tanita turned with a sour frown to see her son Arthur. He slowly raised his arm with his wife Ilenn. Dalton said with a nod. "Four, five for staying. That's one, two, three, four, and five with no hands in air. Damn it. I'm tie-breaker, again." He turned with a sour frown and a stern tone to see Rajall. "Boy, get your stuff? You're gone from Moville now tonight in the gawd damn rain." Dalton looked up with a sour frown to see the lookout. "Cam, fetch a truck, please. I'll take him into town myself."

"No," Trithenia cried and covered her body over Rajall.

Dalton moved and squatted next to her eardrum but said for all eardrums. "Miss Trithenia, you're leaving with your son. He's only sixteen, a minor in this world. We don't turn children out into the world alone. We're not barbarians."

Trithenia sat upright, saying with a sour face and a shout. "Me." She turned and viewed her sister, trembling her bottom lip with a set of tears.

Tanita stood and moved from her chair to her sister, sobbing and shouting. "Can't they stay a week? We can..."

"Naw." Dalton stood, shaking his wet curls, lifting his palms. "No ma'am. Ya'll all read and signed the rules of Moville. I hate this. I really hate this. Ya'll all voted fair and squared. Rajall leaves with his mama tonight in the gawd damn rain. Ya'll be going to a nice place on the outskirts of Birmingham. We've reserved a room for ya in this descent hotel for the next two days. Then ya'll all have to leave unless you make further arrangements with the hotel owner. Them be the rules. Do I need to explain them, again?" Silence invaded the room. Dalton nodded, ordering and pointing to the dark hallway. "Get, boy. Pack your things. Take what you want. We load them bags into my truck and we left for the hotel." Rajall slowly stood with the help of his mama and his aunt as the three slowly moved, wailing with both sobs and tears. Preston and Pamela bug hug each other on the sofa. Pruitt bowed his chin, sitting in the chair. Hudson and Collina bug hug each other on the other sofa, showing a set of sad faces too. Arthur hugged Ilenn, who was sobbing with tears also. Dalton turned and viewed the three lookouts, saying with a nod and a stern face. "Thanks, boys. Go back to your guard post duties. Okay?" The three lookouts nodded and pivoted back to the wet darkness. Dalton turned and viewed Preston. "I'm sorry." Preston nodded, exhaling with both pain and angry to Dalton.

August 1st Monday

12:05 p.m.

Living room setting

Overcast clouds and light rain with wet ground

Ten mph winds with 89 percent humidity at 96ºF

Three gun shots blasted for a second time across the manicured lawn of the horse ranch. Preston kicked the chair from his ass, standing and ordering, and looked out the window in the direction of the gun fire. "Under the table now!" All the sitting bodies stood from the chairs and fell on the flooring. He moved and dashed to the rifle display case on the wall in the great room, reaching and grabbing a gun, and hauled an ass to the window, seeing several upright figures that danced in the light rain storm.

Arthur moved and slammed the back spine of Preston, holding a gun too, whispering into the eardrum of Preston. "Rear door," he ran backwards to protect and guard the rear of ranch house.

Preston jogged to the front door, slamming it open, and collided his knuckles into a wet warm body. He reacted with shock and panic, shoving the wet warm body backward away from his inflamed nostrils, cuddling the shotgun in his chest. He jerked and aimed the cold barrel of the shotgun at the wet warm body. The wet warm body folded at the waist and twirled to the right, falling backward down the thirteen steps of the front porch, landing on the stomach in a rainy mud puddle on the manicured lawn. Preston inhaled with excitement and exhaled with nervousness, blinking his eyelids from fright, turning and viewing Pamela who hugged both Buckaroo and Ilenn underneath the dining room table. They were both safe and sound with his parents too. He turned and slowly moved to the porch, surveying the light rain, the blue midnight nasty storms clouds with soft thunder that echoed in his eardrums. He slowly moved down each brick step, viewing more still wet bodies that rested in more muddy rain puddles over the manicured lawn.

Arthur ran around the corner of the porch, holding the rifle ready for the shot as the steady rain dropped and soaked his face and his bald skull with both water and fear, and halted, viewing the wet bodies, looking up with a worried brow to see Preston. Preston nodded. They both stepped forward to the three still wet bodies at the bottom of the front porch. They cut their eyeballs left and right for more musical sounds or dangerous invaders.

Cam ran around the corner of the house, holding a smoking gun and stopped, standing between the front porch and Preston, shouting to the other roaming Movillian lookouts. "Clear. Clear here."

Preston stopped and kicked his boot toe at the stillness, and squatted down as Arthur aimed the rifle at the still skull. Preston flipped the wet body over to the back spine. They gasped in shock to see Rajall. Preston reached down and touched the throat, feeling no pulse of life.

Dalton walked from the corner of the house, wearing his wet raincoat, wet hat, and a wet rifle, moving with Cam to Preston. Dalton stopped and hugged the shotgun to his rib cage, shouting with angry. "Fuck. Chased four of them boogers from the eastern wheat meadow, out this way." He moved and kicked the steak knife from the cupped hand of Rajall into a rain puddle, saying with a nasty sneer. "Shit, a weapon." Then he pointed down to the white tiny plastic bag on the ground next to the hand of Rajall. "What's that?"

Cam moved and squatted, reaching and pulling out a small plastic bag that filled with white powder, and opened it, sniffing. "Drugs."
August 2nd Tuesday

1:11p.m.

Ranch house of Preston and Arthur (cow pasture)

Clear sky and sunny with four mph winds

90 percent humidity at 111ºF

Arthur stood with a stern face over a fresh mound of red dirt with yellow and red wild flowers, outlining the twin graves of his aunt Trithenia and his cousin Rajall. Preston and Pamela swung around, slowly escorting a crying Ilenn back to the truck with the other housemates of the ranch house. Tanita and Arthur stood over the grave sites. Arthur stared at the pretty flowers, exhaling with a huff of frustration, saying with a nod and a smile. "We received special permission here. It's very pretty with the wildflowers and the blueberry bushes, growing wild. They would've liked this spot. I believe in my heart."

Tanita jerked a swollen red face of tears, slamming a hand to the chest of her son, mouth spitting her angry words. "They?" She back steps from her son, turning and jabbing a finger at her son. "Ya can't say their names, boy? They be your kin, your blood. All's you say is they. They left. They came. They gone."

"Mama!" Arthur looked up with a puzzled brow, staring at her swollen face.

She slammed a hand to his chest for another hit as Arthur back stepped from her punch. She mouth spat her angry words in his face, pointing down to the graves. "My sister Trithenia and my nephew dead, died, gone, never to heard her voice or see her face. Gone!"

"Mama!" He exhaled with a huff of confusion, staring at her swallow face.

She jabbed a finger at her son, mouth spitting with her angry words. "Don't comfort me. I's don't need it. I's suffer. I's suffer for Trithenia and Rajall. Brought here, for what? To live? To work? No. To die? I's thought we be live happy together behind them concrete walls."

Mama!" Arthur stared at her.

She jabbed a finger at her son, mouth spitting her angry words again. "Now, I's live for grief and suffer the rest of my born natural days. They wrong. Them folks that voted against my kin that rainy cold night. Ya don't see their hands whip into the air to save Rajall and my sister Trithenia. They vote, send Rajall out at sixteen, a babe. Then my sister Trithenia ordered like a dog, and forced to left in the rain her home in the rain without food, money. No choice. No compassion. No chance. No hope. They don't hope. They don't care. They don't care only themselves now. Trithenia and Rajall dead, gone, no more see her."

"Mama!" Arthur stared at her.

"Don't mama me, boy. Ya feel different. Ya act different. Ya think different. Is that it, boy? I see ya act different. Ya act different from me? From Aronanita? From Rajall? You think ya better than me. I's work. I's provide food, roof, and things for you, since ya be a little boy. No help from your good for nothin' daddy. You, my blood. Ya remember that boy, I'm your mama."

"Mama!"

"Hush, boy! Show me respect when I talks. Ya too big for your little brittles, boy. Ya act like big man. You not. You don't know the world like I do. I lived a long time, boy. Sees, same thing over and over, again. Nothin' changes just the place." She looked down with tears to see the graves. "Well the show's over. Time to move and make a new bed, somewhere. We're leaving tomorrow. Me, Aronanita, the girls, they be scared that it'll be them to die next here in the woods, lying in three graves of wildflowers under the red dirt." She looked up with a sneer to see Arthur.

"No, Mama!" He shook his bald skull.

She sneered. "No, Mama. Is that the bests ya gots, boy? Does that mean stay Mama, please? Or just goes and be gone, 'cuz ya be chicken, boy? Afraid of this little world? I ain't. I lived a long time, been there for terrible things. Nothin' changes but the place. I thought I raised ya better, stronger, tougher. Aronanita is strong and brave. We, her and the girls, and me goes tomorrow. Nothing changes my mind. Are you coming with me, boy?"

Arthur did not show an emotion but strength to change her mental thinking. He softly said. "Rajall was a drug addict before he came to Moville. He was getting medical treatment at the Moville Hospital, but he kept refusing the clinical care and medical instructions from the physician. Aunt Trithenia, she had an addiction to marijuana, also." He did not want to reveal the terrible truth about his blood-relatives. Shame to admit, he didn't provide personal help quickly enough either.

Tanita jabbed a finger at her son, mouth spitting with her angry words. "Hush your mouth, boy, before I close it shut. Who told ya them lies? I knows my sister. Yeah, she was a little depressed worried about Rajall and his future. He ain't a good student like you and Aronanita. He tried really tried, but book learning don't interest him. He had other interests."

He softly said. "Mama, I have possession of the Moville medical reports from Dr. Glenn. On our first day, we all received a thorough clinical and medical examination. I can show you the data. The laboratory tests proved both of them addicted to a few narcotic substances. I drove them to the clinic every morning at seven for the clinical treatment." Back then, he should have updated his mama from one day about the doctor's medical findings. Now, she was not going to listen, since she was too emotional and upset with the deaths of her sister and her nephew.

She jabbed a finger at her son, mouth spitting with her angry words. "Lies. Ya lie. Trithenia never saw no doctor here. She tells me if something's wrong. She was depressed about losing her place, her job, her checks. Ya shows me, no medical reports. Them Moville docs trap ya here and force ya to leave with no money and no food. Huff. I thought you smart, boy. Them medical reports are false and fake, just words printed on paper to fun people here."

"You can speak with Dr. Glenn..."

"Pfft! I ain't talking to nobody here. They gets mad here. They goes crazy, locks me away here. Naw. We leave tomorrow. Aronanita has a new job at one of the big superstores as a cashier. She writes them love poems to this man. He be real nice and friendly, since we don't get no telephone. Why those white boys got them cell phones and ya don't? Ya brag all time that ya own the farm here. Big shot. Big man. Well Preston's the big man here, cuddling like a bear cub, with that rich guy Dalton, all time. I sees with my own two eyeballs. Ya be second maybe, third banana, boy. Hear the expression? Three's a crowd, boy."

"Mama, it's very dangerous outside the gated walls of Moville. Please listen to yourself. There might be some jobs. But all the schools are closed. Ayana and Shonna will receive a good education here, if they are given more time. We can work our differences out with the others. We can sit together and talk about stuff, anything you want. They feel terrible about..."

"Don't ya apology for them." She tosses her curls and her arms. "I not accept it ever. They voted against Rajall. Rajall dead now. They did this. I's can't bury my sister descent. I's don't have money. I's don't have anything, but my car. They took it. I want my car back. I want all my possessions from that house. I wanna move tomorrow. So big man, you get me moved tomorrow." Arthur nodded. His mama would not change her mind, never did, and never will. She smiled. "Good. I's wants all the furniture that I's pick out for my rooms and so's does Aronanita for her and the girls. We told it was ours, free of charge. No money. Is that a worry, Arthur?" Arthur shook his bald skull as she smiled. "And I's want half the big fancy furniture. That's mine too in the living room and the big screen television. I's want that too."

"I have..."

"Have to what, boy?" She said with a smirk and a laugh to her son. "Beg the master. Heel like a dog. Get big man's permission. Ya tells me? You're part owner, means part of furniture's yours. Well I's want it. Ya get more. Its free to ya. Or maybe ya can pay for it?" Arthur frowned as Tanita smiled. "I ain't blind, boy. I's see that great big fat ring on her finger. The diamond gleams in the sun. Then that great big fancy wedding and that fancy supper with wine and champagne, and your great big house, your big truck, Ilenn's little sports car that you traded for a bigger car for the newborn babe. How ya afford all that, boy? Huh? Ya got a secret? Or ya secret stash of money?"

Arthur did not react but softly said. "I worked a good job..."

"Shit!" She frowned. "I worked for the lousy government too. I gots a paycheck. I gots money paid for bills, not extras like a nice diamond ring. A nice house? Why's ya knows that Rajall was a drug addict? Ya gots some connections, too, Arthur."

He shook his baldness, saying with a stern tone and a stern face. "We really never socialized with Aunt Trithenia as youths just recently, when we all moved into the house in Moville. I did not know about Rajall. I told the truth which I learned from the Moville physician. I trust these people. I do not know any drug lords either. I worked as a computer programmer for the FBI, not in the drug arena. And I have saved lots of money from my work. I worked with Preston at the FBI office. We received some large bonuses from my old government job, allowing me to acquire some good sound investments, a house and two cars." He secretively kept his personal treasure of money, knowing that was unwise to share with his hot-heated mama at the moment.

She smirked with a giggle. "That ya can use and get us back home, boy. Sees, we be moving into your great big house, use them cars for work, and live together like in a Moville block community. It be me, Aronanita, the girls, you, and Ilenn. Ilenn needs out of this place with the baby, coming soon."

Arthur would not surrender or sacrifice his child or his wife into a dangerous situation outside of Moville. He raised his voice, shaking his baldness. "Ilenn is delivering our baby here. The medical arrangements are set. The physicians are prepared. Ilenn will not relocate back to my house. It is too dangerous for both her and our child. I will not allow that, Mama," he folded his arms over his jacket.

She said with a smirk and a nod. "Ya gots a point. After the babe is born, ya'll can come over, move all your bed furniture with the baby's. And we seven live happily together like a family community."

"Ilenn likes the fresh air and open land from a crowded and dangerous city..."

"Naw." She jabbed a finger at her son, mouth spitting with her angry words. "Don't sass me, boy. I be your mama. I give birth to you. You obey me. These times are tough and rough. We need our family, not them white folks. They are not your family. They are white. You are black. See, my skin. We be the same. You come home now. We need each other, help each other, survive the economy. Aronanita's job will help, but your stash of cash will help more. We gots furniture. And the girls have new clothes. We just got to gets food and house supplies. We be set. And I start my new job in two weeks too. Aronanita can talk to the big man manager and get you a job at the great big superstore. They need big strong boys to tote and carry them big boxes. Sees, ya gets a job real fast."

Arthur frowned and softly said. "Mama, I love you. But I'm a grown man. I'm married. I have marital responsibilities to both my wife and my un-born child. I value safety above anything else for Ilenn. Look, you can have the house, if it's still there and not burned or exploded or occupied with invaders. Take it."

She jabbed a finger at her son, mouth spitting her angry words. "So's that it. Ya decide in two seconds flat. Ya choose them, over me. I be your flesh and blood. I ask for your help and ya choose them over me. The one thing, I learns in Moville. Family is greater than anything else. And my own son chooses some strangers over his own mama."

"Mama, Preston's not a stranger. He's like my brother. We have been together since three years old at day care and we have attended school, college, and everything together. Mrs. and Mr. Kingly have been very kind and nice to me over the years. I think of Hudson..."

She jabbed a finger at her son, mouth spitting her angry words. "Over me? I be your family. I regret ya spending time with that white boy. I let ya. I let ya, cuz I worked. I worked my fingers to the bones for ya'll, kids. Ya don't have a daddy that counts, son. Boys need big males to do boy things. I work. I don't know what boy things you need. Now, ya think he's your daddy. Well he ain't. Open our eyeballs, boy. They all have brainwashed you over the years. I's should've stopped it. Not too late, boy. Ya come back home or end up eating their stinky crumbs on the floor like begging dogs or worse? Shot in the brains like that poor child Rajall, that a white boy killed and shot Rajall in the back," she looked down with sobs and tears at the graves.

"Cam is one of the many lookouts for Moville..."

She jerked her swallow face to see her son. "Ya knows?" She waved her hands and her curls, yelling. "Ya knows? My boy knows the murderer's name of Rajall and them other killer-boys. And ya do nothin' for justice and honor. Ya knows by name and face that white boy, who murdered your cousin in cold blood. And ya wanna stay and beg like stray dogs for their table crumbs. What color are ya, boy, yellow or white? Can't figure?"

"Mama, this conversation has ended." Arthur turned and moved to the truck. The funeral grave site required a set of heavy terrain vehicle transportation over the rough terrain. He felt angry, sadness, regret, relieve, remorse, unhappiness but not one ounce of mourning for Rajall. Rajall was given more than one chance to change in the shitty violent US economy. Arthur didn't run with Rajall as young kids. He hung with Preston and his daddy after school and on weekends with his mama's permission, since she was very busy with her different jobs, working overtime, allowing him to go to college. Arthur received a good job. And it ended when the US economy busted. He felt angry that his mama could not see, believe, and understand her own child for dreaming of a nice life with his smart and pretty Ilenn and their first un-born babe. The block community of Moville was hard work, a pleasant atmosphere, and a safe haven for both his wife Ilenn and their unborn baby. He was sad that he had to choose between his family or his friendship.
August 3rd Wednesday

6:43 a.m.

House ranch of Preston and Arthur (barn yard)

Partly cloudy with sun at four mph winds

67 percent humidity at 78ºF

Preston wiped the sweat from his forehead, looking up to see the hot sun, standing inside the truck bed, and spun around to see the barn doors. Arthur drove the forklift tractor with the last four bales of green hay, storing inside the barn for the wintertime meal for the cows and horses. He gently dropped the hay bales on the barn floor, backing out the heavy equipment from the barn doors. He stopped the forklift, killing the engine, and jumped from the machine cab, advancing to Preston. Preston leaped over the truck frame, moving and meeting Arthur in the middle of the grass, and slapped the collar bone of Arthur with a gloved hand, saying with a sad frown and a serious tone. "I'm sorry, man." He shook his cowboy hat.

Arthur squatted and cut the thin string on the hay bale with his pocket knife, standing and spreading the grain for the horses with a boot toe, saying with a sad smile and a broken heart too. "Thanks for giving up the fugly ugly furnishings from the house. My mama's very happy with your material sacrifices. Pamela seems happy about her future shopping spree, changing the color scheme inside the living room."

Preston chuckled and said with a serious tone. "I'll give her the damn ranch, if I can get you and Ilenn to stay permanently." He turned and viewed the grazing fat black and white beef cows inside a pretty green grassy pasture, feeling heartbreak in his soul at Arthur's choice between his mama and his friend, looking to see the hat of Arthur.

"You're a great friend, Preston. We stay until the birth of my baby son." He looked up with a smile and a nod to see Preston. "I got a son too. Can you believe it? I will be a daddy, too, soonest?" Arthur exhaled with a huff of frustration, looking down to see his dirty boot toes.

Ilenn was due in seven days, and then he and his family would move back to his old dilapidated house with his mama, his sister, and his teen cousins.

Preston turned and jumped back into the truck bed, lifting and tossing a single fifty pound yellow-colored straw hay for the horses that were corralled into a new pasture, and said with a sour frown. "Buckaroo can't lose his playmate, bro. Little brothers with their tiny fingers and toes, batting and poking each other in the play pen for fun and nonsense." Preston felt both happy and guilt, hoping to convince Arthur to stay and not to move away from Moville into the dangerous inner guts of Birmingham. Arthur turned and cupped his finger pads over his eye sockets, squinting his eyelids from the bright blinding sunlight of a heated August day. Preston swung around in the truck bed to the commotion also. They both saw the swirling corn dust in the far distance in the crop field.

Arthur said with his trained FBI instincts, "Unfamiliar vehicle? Two and more strange guys looks like the..."

"....government," Preston moved and jumped off the tailgate, squatting his kneecaps from the impact, and dashed to the cab, scooting his ass in the driver's seat and Arthur was the shotgun. He circle an empty truck in a mad dash to a huddle of horses. In the far distance, Rich, Holt, and Dalton rode on horses, visible inspecting the fields of wheat crops for the wintertime storage of grain at Preston and Arthur's shared ranch house in Moville.

6:50 a.m.

Wheat field setting

Three terrain vehicles moved and halted in a column about a few hundred feet from the horses and vomited out a row of dark shadows. "Rich?" Wade moved and emerged from the first vehicle, signaling an arm to the cowboys, stomping through the crop field. Rich turned with a puzzled brow and viewed Wade in the far distance. Wade moved with four Secret Service guards, who usually guarded the President of the United States. Since, the bankruptcy of the US economy, the Secret Service guards had expanded their primary job function to become the public police monitors throughout the fifty US American states. They performed one single executive presidential order, guard the American people. The Secret Service guard or they earned nicknamed SS guards were dressed in a plain uniform which consisted of a dark blue short sleeved shirt, a pair of faded blue jeans, a dark blue baseball cap, a pair of aviator sunglass with a single gun in the gun hostler. The four SS guards moved between a suit. The suit had a tint of pale colored skin, short body frame with a head of bald graying hair, wearing a red bow tie, carrying a brown leather briefcase, and appeared like major trouble.

Rich shifted off the horse, shuffling and standing beside Dalton and Holt in a row. They watched and waited for Wade.

Preston stopped and parked the truck a few feet from the horses behind the asses of Rich, Holt, and Dalton. They slide out seats, leaving the doors open. They dashed to Rich, Holt, and Dalton and stood side by side in a row, facing Wade and Wade's new guests, who had uninvitedly entered Moville. Holt, Rich, Dalton, Preston, and Arthur stood parallel and even with two SS guards, one suit, and two more SS guards in two semi-straight lines.

The suit said with a nod and a stern face underneath a pair of reflective sunglasses, dropping his worn briefcase to the grass, lifting a folded piece of paper. "Are you, Mr. Richie Richmond Rich of 13 Block, Moville, Alabama, 35013?"

"I'm Rich." He said without a smile and a handshake.

The suit shows a set of yellow stained teeth underneath his reflective sunglasses, saying with a grin and a nod. "Very good. This warrant declares you to be a traitor to the United States of America, sir. It wants for your physical person to be arrested for a stated criminal charge of treason which has been issued and executed by the President of the United States, who is also the command-in-chief of all civilian and military acts of crime in the fifty US American States. You are advised now. Please cup your wrists and your hands in front of your shirt for this gentleman on my left. He will click a pair of handcuffs in place for your arrest and transportation to the capital city of Washington DC."

Preston stomped forward from the line-up, standing between Rich and the Suit, shaking his cowboy hat with a nasty sneer. "Rich is not going anywhere. How did you enter the township, sir?" Preston turned with another sneer to see Wade. "Identify yourself and your authority?"

The Suit swishes off the wet sweat from his top lip with the handkerchief. "Who's this?" He jabbed a finger at Preston, cocking his bald skull sideways with the sunglasses reflecting Preston's face in the black tint.

Preston said with a smirk of an arrogant American. "I'm first, a proud American, and second, an Alabamian. I'm known as Preston Kingly."

"Prideful backward country hick," SS guard one stood up six feet and two inches, sneering at Preston.

The Suit said with a grin and a nod to Preston. "Mr. Kingly, this is not your affair. Go about your business, young man. Mr. Rich is sequestered by the US Federal Government for the named criminal charge of treason which has been issued and executed by the United States President, who is the leader of America. If you continue to interfere, I will personally take matters into my own hands. Do you clearly understand me, Mr. Kingly?"

Wade turned with a sour frown to see the Suit. "Address your answer to Preston's question to me, Harold? What criminal charges do you hold against Rich? He's an American like me and the rest of us, standing in this itchy corn field."

Harold/the Suit watched Preston, saying with a grin. "Wade, I strongly suggest that you watch your own manners and your own matters. I am in charge of this criminal investigation." He turned and smiled to Rich.

Dalton shook a cowboy hat, turning and sneering to Wade. "Waddling, I was right about Waddling, Rich?"

Harold grinned. "In the tedious criminal investigative process of tracking down a stolen 1.6 trillion dollars, the end of the colorful rainbow has mysteriously led directly to Mr. Richie Richmond Rich. Therefore, if you don't mind, the president would enjoy chatting about his stolen monies, Mr. Rich."

"American monies, not president's money," Dalton sneered.

Harold smiled at Rich, ignoring Dalton. "Based on our US Federal Government legal Constitutional documents which were signed in the year 1776 by our forefathers, all US printed and minted papers belong to the US for distribution of monetary funds."

"Same old blob, blob, blob," said Dalton and slapped his chest. "I'm a fucking lawyer. I got a plot of fucking land and plot of fucking rights as a fucking citizen of the fucking US of A which was assigned by my forefathers in the year 1776 too. My money like my fucking cowboys belongs to me."

"Dalton, stand down!" Rich frowned and viewed Harold.

Harold reached and lifted his briefcase, swirling his hand around the fine alligator leather, and found a second white paper. He lifted the paper with a smile and a nod to see Dalton. "Dalton Dean Duncan. Hmm, I seem to have a warrant against you and your cowboy boots also." He laughed, waving the paper.

He shook his cowboy hat, sneering. "Fuck this and fuck you," Dalton reached and started to draw his hand gun from the hip hostler as Holt leaned over and grabbed the knuckles of Dalton and squeezed before Dalton got arrested for first degree murder, law withstanding.

Rich raised both palms in the air, yelling to the parties. "Everyone, listen to me! Please calm down! Breathe easy. I'm leader. I decide as leader. I will go peacefully with ya'll, but Dalton stays and protects our lands and our rights as US citizens." Rich lowered and cupped both his wrists in front of his alligator belt as the SS guard one stepped forward and slapped a pair of metal handcuffs over both his hands, and grabbed and dragged the arms of Rich to one of two government vehicles.

"Rich!" Holt yelled. "You need a lawyer. Wait, here for five minutes, I'll go and fetch Trent. He's a good criminal lawyer to escort you to Washington DC for this illegal criminal investigation."

Wade raises an arm with a sour frown to see Holt. "No need, Holt. I will accompany Rich's visit with the president and relay the meeting of the daily events." He swung around on his new pair of orange and red cowboy boots, moving beside Rich to the US Federal Government vehicle.

"Hell naw. Not fucking, Waddling." Dalton reached and removed his cowboy hat, dumping it on the grass, stomping his boots to the left and to the right of his hat like a little kid. Holt reached and held the left bicep of Dalton in place. Holt turned and shook his cowboy hat, signaling no killing or beating action.

Rich yelled, moving with Wade to the US Federal government vehicle. "Everything's fine, Dalton. You and Holt handle things while I'm vacationing. I'll return soonest." Rich stopped and slid in the rear seat of the transport with Wade. Then, one of the vehicles slowly circled to the left, driving back down a dry dirt road to the gravel pavement of US Highway 79.

SS guard two was a tall man, twenty something years old with an athletic built, a tint of dark colored skin, and a head of dark colored hair, moving and marching to the nose bridge of Dalton, and said with a grin and a chuckle. "Mustang wants to run free, sir."

Harold laughed, "I still hold a legal US Federal Government warrant for your ass as a second traitor to the United States of America, Dalton." He turned and viewed the far away government vehicle and looked back with a smirk to see Dalton. "I decide now." Holt and Preston tighten their hand grip on the two biceps of Dalton while readying for the upcoming dog fight with the president's SS guards, who looked big, fit, and young.

Harold grinned, pacing backward an expensive leather from Dalton. "You can enjoy the free ride to Washington and the free bedroll along side Rich. How's that, smartass?"

SS guard three was a tall, twenty something male with an athletic built, a tint of pale colored skin, and a head of light colored hair, and stood in place, jerking out a pair of rattling handcuffs from his utility belt, grinning at Dalton. Preston released his hand gripe from Dalton's arm, swinging his elbow down for motion and up for force, connecting beautifully with the single nose bridge of the standing SS guard in front of Dalton. He immediately felt his nerve endings sting with pain from the guy's hard nose cartilage against his pointy elbow. Then, all the eardrums heard the sickeningly sound of breakage in his nose. SS guard two grabbed his broken nose with both his hands and stumbled backward from Dalton and Preston, kneecapping a folded body down to the dirt, slumping to the side, and bleed out red blood from his nose and wet sweat from his face underneath a hot heated August day. Preston, Holt, Dalton, and Arthur hooted, tooted, and roared with laughter.

Harold looked down with a sour frown at the bloody folded body in shock. "Why did you do that, kid?" He looked up to see Preston.

Preston stepped forward and jerked both his arms in the air, saying with a smile of American pride, "Land of the free. Home of the brave."

Harold turned and grinned to Dalton. "You lucked out, Dalton. Your boy's going to share your bedroll with Rich tonight. Cuff his ass." SS guard two grabbed the arm of Preston, spinning and snapping the handcuffs over the wrists of Preston, pulling the steel tight and clipped it in pain as Preston grunted. Harold grinned to Dalton. "We got a plane to catch, cowboys." He spun around, moving through the corn field to the second government vehicle. Then he stopped and swung around to the rednecks, jabbing a finger with a yell to Dalton. "But I'll be back for you, smartass like the president wants."

Dalton struggled and freed an arm, waving it with his middle finger at Harold as Holt and Arthur held the other shaking body parts of Dalton. He shouted. "Ya betta bring plenty of gawd damn ammo, 'cause the only fucking way your bitching butt's getting through my loving gates is with a General Patton bastard ass army tank."

Harold marched to the second US Federal government vehicle, yelling. "That can be arranged, smartass. See you, boys, real soon." He laughed as the two SS guards moved and loaded Preston in the rear seat of the vehicle. The injured SS guard limped behind and stopped, entering the passenger seat. The two car doors closed. Then two vehicles slowly curved around, driving down long the bumpy crop field pathway.

Dalton, Holt, and Arthur dashed and climbed on the horses, galloping to the ranch house for assistance.

8:15 a.m.

Ranch house of Preston and Arthur

Veranda setting

Trent, Cole, Shelly, Albert, Dalton, and Holt gathered in a huddle underneath the side veranda of the ranch house, hearing and learning about the solo event. Trent turned and sneered at Dalton and Holt, "What the hell happened, Dalton? Why didn't you call me, Holt? I'm a gawd damn lawyer." He waved both his arms, his ten fingers, and a right leg like a wild turkey during hunting season.

Dalton smiled and stared at Cole, who possessed a cooler head and a mellower attitude, saying with a nod and a sneer. "Dick head George Washington, Junior kidnapped both Rich and Preston with both presented and loaded guns, Cole. Shit. We don't bleed on the winter wheat. Right, Holt?" He turned and nodded to Holt as they laughed like two high school farts.

Trent exhaled with a huff of frustration, saying with a sour frown to Holt and Dalton. "Ya let that kid get taken by our fucked-punked stupid government. He's got a family, including his young wife and infant son. Jeezus, you're the adult here, Dalton."

"Only a fourth of the time," Holt chuckled.

"Shut it, Holt," Trent sneered at the young redneck.

"This business suit and four SS guards shows up right here on the ranch in the fucking wheat field with two arrest warrants for me and Rich." Dalton nodded.

Shelly smiled. "Dalton? He's still here. Why ya here, Dalton? Why ya not sitting cozy in a jet to DC?"

Holt said. "There were two arrest warrants for both Rich and Dalton as traitors to the United States of America."

"Damn. This is very serious Trent." Albert nodded with concern.

"Preston rearranged a goonie's nostrils. Got his ass arrested instead of me. Bet, he needs plastic surgery? Right, Holt?" Dalton chuckled with Holt.

"Brave, devoted, and stupid lad." Albert shook his skull with concern.

Dalton mouth spat his salvia on the cement for show and ordered to Cole. "We goes and gets the kid and Rich now, not sit on our asses and do nothing. This is the new America, not old pen hens, gossiping about fried chicken recipes."

Holt nodded. "I concur with Dalton. I'm tracking Rich on the microwave radar with the computer bot bug sewn into his alligator belt. As long as, Rich remains partial dressed, we can pinpoint his ass anywhere across the dry land and even over the wet seas. State-of-the-fucking-technology provided by Dalton and Dalton's brilliant geeks." He smiled and slapped on the collar bone of Dalton.

He moved from the veranda's archway with a worried and wrinkled face of sixty something years old, clearing his throat. "Please excuse me for interrupting. I'm Hudson. Preston's..."

"....daddy. Come on in, Hudson." Dalton smiled and waved for Hudson to join them around the stainless steel sinks and piles of garden pipes which were used to clean a body from cow shit, hay seedlings, and wet sweat of a day's farm workings.

"Pruitt, Pamela's Daddy." He introduced his person and followed behind by Hudson, wearing a sour frown and a pair of faded jeans, joining the semi-huddle. He shook many rough or smooth palms.

Trent nodded. "Welcome, gentleman. We don't need to guess about your visit. Yes. This does include you as the immediate family members. Preston, as you have heard, performed a brave but stupido act, defending Dalton's butt-hole."

Dalton circled his finger around the handle of his hand gun, "Careful there, Trent. I gots a pistol, itching to use on someone naughty, but I'll settle on nice."

"Please forgive my young redneck friend Dalton. He was raised by wild coyotes in north Alabama and just can't control his animal urges." Holt chuckled with the old lame joke.

"We plan a rescue to retrieve our good folks of Moville and return their asses back home to Bama." Trent nodded to his co-friends and co-partners.

"Is there any room for negotiation or talks for returning our folks on the quiet side? I'm not a lawyer but an unemployed accountant. I do possess great people skills, thou." Hudson smiled with worry.

"I wish that these stressed times could be purchased with words and not actions. I'm Albert, man of letters and learned values. Very nice to meet both of you. Please forgive my friends. I'm still instructing them in Bama social southern manners." He smiled.

Trent was second-in-command, who was the oldest and wiser than the younger billionaires, saying with a stern face and a serious tone. "We are the new America. Times of actions, not words. Arthur was sworn to secrecy for obvious reasons. Rich and Dalton are charged by the President of the USA as traitors."

"Traitors, in tarnation what for?" Hudson frowned and viewed Dalton.

"A few dinky items jump to the forefront of my mind." Dalton smiled.

"Shut it, Dalton." Holt ordered.

"The point, Rich is not a traitor, either is Dalton, nor Preston which makes this damn delicate situation extremely grave and dangerous for them. We plot and plan to retrieve Rich and bring young Preston back home to Alabama, no question there." Trent continued. "Secondly, we'll expose our corrupt president for his evil deeds like a bizarre-o Hollywood thriller. We just wanted our town to be rid of the US government scrum. We did not want this. But, as the new American, we are not going to take this shit from our shitty government. Does everyone understand?" The billionaires nodded. Trent said. "Thirdly, we turn all these vile ugly villains over to a growing homeless, penniless but not helpless hard working Americans. Fourly, this ain't going to be pretty or beautiful or flatly elegant."

"Those are words, not actions, Trent." Dalton frowned with annoyance. "When do the bullets fly from...?"

"Shut it, Dalton." Holt frowned and ordered with a brotherly tone.

Pruitt exhaled with a huff of confusion. "You...ya'll are plotting a civil war inside America against fellow Americans. Did we not study and learn from our American ancestors or American history? The Great War between the States in the year 1863 was fought and lost by the South?"

"We ain't going to lose this time, man." Dalton chuckled, elbowing Holt.

"Shut it, Dalton." Holt ordered with a brotherly tone.

"Pruitt, a new civil war's coming along maybe, next year or two. We just accelerated it." Trent viewed a sour puss faced Pruitt.

Pruitt back pedaled from the huddle, looking to see the faces, and parted his lips, saying with a sour frown. "It's true. The rumors are true. I ignored them, ignored them for my daughter. I love my daughter. She's all of my world." He pointed to Trent, saying with a sour tone. "But you...ya'll all robbed these money banks. All these banks across the entire USA and ya'll stole all that money. You bankrupted America. I lost my job. I lost my house. I lost everything," he exhaled. "I had accumulated for a life time."

"Yes, it's true. I'm very sorry about your possessions, Pruitt." Trent said. Pruitt slowly pivoted and moved to the side door, bowing his chin, and entered the house.

Hudson viewed his new friend and looked to Trent, saying with a worried brow. "Please forgive, Pruitt. He's alone. His wife died when Pamela was five. He has cared for his only child for all his life. She's very upset and deeply worried about Preston, mostly. You can understand? Pruitt only sees her pain."

Dalton nodded. "We ain't judges here. I got my own small tike, tough like bugger, too. My wife would behave in the same fashion. We bring Rich and Preston back to the den. Everyone's happy, again."

Hudson nodded, lifting his palms with a smile. "I want to tag along and out of my prime too. I admit guilt. My son's twenty six years old. I deeply appreciate your attitude and ambition for rescuing Preston along with Rich. I want to suggest that you take Arthur along with your search and rescue team. Arthur and Preston are pals, since the first day of day school. They come from different neighbors, backgrounds, and cultures, but they really are like blood brothers. They're been together from elementary through high school, sports, girls, cars, accidents, broken bones, college, and co-workers. And the both of them were trained by the FBI..."

"FBI?" Trent frowned and viewed Dalton. "I knew Preston. I didn't realize Arthur was an agent, also."

"Dalton does." Holt grinned to Dalton.

"And Dalton has his fucking reasons, Trent. Naw, that boy's going to be a new daddy, soonest." Dalton shook his curls, staring at Trent.

Hudson said. "Arthur won't sit quietly around the corn fields. He's itching to go and will go his way. He knows how Preston thinks and acts. He's a very valuable tracker and hunter. I carried that boy with me and Preston on lots of deer treks. Excellent marksman. Excellent fighter. Young, strong, big and tough. Ya need him."

Trent exhaled and viewed Hudson. "Shit, I do want him. Look, tell him that he can come. But this mission is hush-hush, and since he is FBI he knows both the rules and the danger. Thanks for the advice, Hudson," he viewed the door, asking. "Will Pruitt be alright?"

Hudson smiled. "Yes. Pruitt may be a prune, but he'll obey all rules for the safety of both Pamela and Preston. With your permission, I wanna inform Pamela of the secret operation too," he raised his palms. "Ya'll might not know this. But she took down single-handedly an ex-CIA operative, all by herself. She's smart, wise, and a great mommy." Hudson said with a smile about his tough daughter-in-law. "Preston and she worked together at the FBI station here in Birmingham also."

"Okay with me. Tell her our plans also. And reminder her that we will succeed, always." Dalton grinned as Hudson nodded and swung around, moving back to the archway.

"Mangrove," Holt chuckled.

"Berrington," Dalton chuckled.

"Shut it, boys. Redneck hicks." Cole shook his skull.

Trent looked to see each face, saying with a stern face and a serious tone. "You go and ask around quietly for volunteers? I want non-family boys, in case something goes badly wrong. Got that?"

"I'm going," Dalton smiled and raised his twin gun barrels in the air and not shooting at the wooden rafters.

Trent chuckled, "Hell, Dalton. You're the best Indian tracker this side of the Mississippi. I wouldn't leave Moville without ya, son. Don't worry. Ya come, but Holt leads. You follow his commands. Or I beat your butt."

"What about, Waddling?" Cole inquired.

"He's mine. I kill him." Dalton sneered, showing his front teeth between his parted lips.

Cole frowned and viewed Dalton. "You're an educated and licensed Bama lawyer, Dalton. People have the right to a fair trial and such as stated by our US constitution and your Bama legal law books."

"Sleazy murderous lawyer," Holt chuckled. His degree was in computers as the entertainment prince.

"No one kills Wade. He returns with Rich and Preston." Trent ordered with authority.

"He's the damn snit for the fucking asshole president, Trent. And he's mine to do with as I please and see fit to kill." Dalton sneered at Trent, inferring with a Bama hanging.

"If he's our spy, we'll deal with him personally. Get your teams together! Then, we jet to DC." Trent ordered with a nod.

10:03 a.m. (eastern standard time)

Washington DC

Limousine ride of Preston and SS guards

Clear sky and sunny with four mph winds

73 percent humidity at 74ºF

The American capital of Washington DC appeared crappy even through a set of tinted shaded black windows. Papers of trash, homeless humans, stray animals, dead animals, dead people, stinky dead people, smelly garage, abandoned vehicles, and broken furniture lined both sides of the city streets of DC.

Sixteen years ago

Preston recalled his first visit to DC during his fifth grade school patrol adventure with both his parents and school classmates. During the fun trip, Preston visited the DC American exhibitions, including the Smithsonian Museum, the Air and Space Museum, the big ass T-rex dino exhibition, and the boring art work pieces for his mama's pleasure. When he surprisingly heard a unique eardrum of soft jazz music during the cultural tour, Preston met the girl, the very first time. Marilyn Monroe stood on top of an air vent inside a glossy colorful paper poster at the Museum of Art building. And Preston instantly became infatuated with her and her abusive but beautiful life as a Hollywood sex goddess.

The photograph showed blonde Marilyn Monroe in her pink cocktail gown with rows and rows of diamonds around her body parts, standing between a pair of nice-looking and well-dressed men. She sung the iconic song, Diamonds Are a Girls' Best Friends which came from a Hollywood musical called Gentleman Prefers Blondes.

Preston researched both the person and the actress, finding she was be labeled as a "blonde sex symbol" but was really much, much more. He was a farm boy, but his heart enjoyed the same type of jazzy blue musical notes of a muted trumpet, a soft piano, and a deep bass guitar along a slow moving harmonic rhythm like Marilyn sung in her Hollywood movies. The two meshed, beautifully.

Present day and place

10:08 a.m.

Limousine ride of Preston

The metal cuffs pinched and cut into his tender wrist flesh. His body smelled like parts of farm horse shit, cut meadow hay, and a chomp of dirt clay to his inflamed nostrils. His face sweated from both bottled angry and pissed off attitude. Preston viewed the twin zombies. The twin SS guards wore with a pair of black tinted cheap ass sunglasses, sitting on the opposite side of Preston and not enjoying the personal limousine joy ride either. Rich and Wade elegantly traveled in the first limousine to the famous White House. The wordy conversation had been totally silent since leaving the wheat fields of Moville, Alabama as Preston worried and sweated about his wife and his son. He was not scared, afraid, or frightened but sick to death with the US Federal Government control. The government control seemed like an establishment of terror rather than justice.

One month ago

Preston worked for the FBI, loving his job and his position as the director of the Cyber Crimes. Then a train of bank robbers robbed all the US money banks, bankrupting the US economy. First thing, foodstuffs prices soared higher than a kite. A loaf of bread leaped to an outer space price of $14.00 and then the price of gasoline for cars, and then the price of fruits from trees, and then the price of meats from cows, and then the price of vegetables from gardens, and finally the price of non-paying jobs from Americans. And then gawd damn hell erupted on a tiny ball called Earth.

Present day and place

10:24 a.m.

Limousine ride on E Street

Preston prayed to Almighty God daily for the safety of both his wife Pamela and his infant son Buckaroo, thanking Him for the delivery of their healthy son, before the US economy nosed dived in a shitty mess. He worried about Ilenn and her baby. One of the many reasons, the four of them joined a little rural country unknown township called Moville. So, Ilenn could delivery her baby both safely and healthy, using the brilliant and paid physicians which were provided by Dalton and Dalton's billionaire partners. Preston had not figured out the plotting ploy of the rich billionaires, but their brilliant concept of free government independence plus the construction of honest family communities seemed to be both functioning and working, until now.

Inside the limousine, Preston read E Street, the famous road sign led straight to the famous White House. The limousine rounded the Ellipse and turned to the left to East Executive, stopping at the US Secret Service guard station on the East Wing entrance archway. The car door opened. Four hands grabbed and pulled Preston out from the leather bench, standing him upright on the smooth vanilla concrete, and pushed him forward into a room. The room was flanked on the east corner of the White House.

The East Room stood eighty feet high by thirty seven feet wide and was properly called the Public Audience Chamber. It represented many US historic events, such as, dances, receptions, concerts, press conferences, bill signing ceremonies, and the famous Christmas tree picture set, each December but maybe not, this year. He and his SS guard moved across the polished wooden floor, stretching between four square white painted walls, underneath the three glass chandeliers, and through a side door, and finally landed in the hallway. And Preston stomped forward to ten feet. The SS guard turned Preston to the side door, entering a smaller room which measured forty feet high by thirty feet wide. The room were colored in baby chick yellow or toilet water piss, depending on your wickedly sense of humor.

Preston recognized both the room and the man, sneering with fighting fury. The famous yellow colored Oval Room was used as a formal private reception for any foreign dignity function to entertain on the obviously matching yellow colored room furniture and matching furnishings. Some of the furnishings included a Louis XIV styled fireplace, a wooden white mantel, four chairs, three light fixtures, and four fresh vases of flowers which came from the famous White House Rose Garden.

The eyelids of an older man, sitting on a comfy yellow sofa with his legs sprawled straight across a low table, slowly lifted to see Preston. He said with a sour frown. "I admire your humor and excellent reflexes, Mr. Kingly." The President of the United States smiled. "Alas. You play for the wrong side." He returned his eyelids down to an electronic notepad inside his lap. Four hands violently shoved Preston backward out the room and in the hallway. The three slowly moved further down a few more feet and turned to the side, the White House Library.

The library was decorated in soft gray wood panel and rosy-tinted walls, complimenting the wooden chandelier. The room was twenty seven feet high by twenty three feet wide with two sets of matching rose-red and pink curtains. A long side table against the wall rested between a pair of mounted English silver-plate lamps. The lamps were gifts from Marquis de Lafayette of France which had been given to General Henry Knox. He was the defense secretary of George Washington's presidential cabinet in the year 1790. Inside the book shelf, there sat an unusual shaped lighthouse clock. The clock was made by Simon Willard, commemorating the visit of Marquis de Lafayette to the USA. In the year 1824, the clock was designed and match Lafayette's likeness with a glittering tiny golden medallion at a wooden base.

Preston moved and halted under the command of the twin SS guards at a round table with a mini-bathtub of fresh cut blooming red roses in a longitude arrangement. His narrowed his eyelids with intrigue. Both the SS guards moved and marched to the built-in cherry wooden book shelf on the north side of the room. Then SS guard one reached and touched the lighthouse clock, striking the circular golden medallion at the bottom of the wood. Preston heard a soft rumble and gasped with shock. The charming looking Georgian-style wooden corner cupboard that contained a set of fake photography pictures, delicate plates, and reading novels smoothly slid sideways into the wall.

The dark hole revealed a very dark passage.

During the three years working his FBI day job, Preston had heard some hot gossip about a "White House dungeon." The dungeon was located in one of the lower level bunker sections underneath the E Street road sign. The White House dungeon was rumored to hold a few prisoners of war, who had been collected by the foreign country of Great Britain. And the prisoners of war were heavily interrogated by President Woodrow Wilson during World War Two. His mind envisioned a tiny rat hole of four cold cement thick walls that formed a square box with a single table. An overhead single naked bulb burned on top of his hair roots. In the ceiling corner, there hid a sleek high tech mounted recording camera, spying on him in the dark dank room with a series of upcoming horrible things to his person.

SS guard two moved and entered the dark hallway first. SS guard one turned and grabbed the arm of Preston, shoving him forward and down a brick-enclosed narrow staircase. The elbows of Preston smashed and cut into the rough building wall material, then he stepped down into a large room which was twenty feet high and eighteen feet wide. SS guard one stepped down the staircase and pushed Preston forward, steering him through the dark corridor. SS guard two followed behind SS-guard one. Preston stumbled his boot toes over numerous tall book stacks that were filled with reading novels, narrowing his eyelids at the common house furniture. The horizontal eating dining tables occupied both sides of the enclosed walls. the walls held no windows. The tables were filled and labeled with old antiques from the White House's historical past. He smiled and sniggered at the White House "junk room dungeon."

There were numerous nautical model ships, a set of nautical ocean books, and a map of the Atlantic Ocean that hung on the wall on his right. Each item was carefully labeled in black ink with a presidential name Theodore Roosevelt. Preston looked to the left and to the right, admiring each item. There were three rolled and plastic wrapped Asia tapestries that had been carefully printed in black ink with the presidential name William Taft. There were three miniature elephant figures given to him during President Harding's leadership. Numerous Oriental art pieces with a couple of empty bird cages showed the name President Hoover. A nice glass case displayed an array of colored red, green, and black military medals and dull but sharp tipped swords from President Eisenhower during the war era in America.

SS guard one reached and jerked Preston around the wall corner to a new space inside the White House junk room dungeon. A dead end hallway led to an empty room that was decorated with two antique long clothed couches which was nicely upholstered in the colors of gold and black brocade. The twin sofas rested against the opposite walls, facing each other like a sitting room but it was not. Preston turned and halted before a door of see-through newly constructed iron bars like a jail house. One side of the two walls held a clean-looking toilet, a water piped-exposed porcelain sink, and a set of two hand towels. Each towel hung neatly on a metal ring on each side of the sink. On the same wall, there was a gold and black brocade clothed sofa which faced a twin sofa on the opposite wall.

SS guard one touched and opened the jail door of the prison cell as Preston stood and smiled, refusing to move into the tiny prison. Then SS guard one moved and grunted into the eardrum of Preston, shoving Preston into the tiny cell. The door closed behind Preston's ass.

Preston stared at the tiny space, seeing three solid walls without glass windows or art paintings. He looked down to see the floor, seeing a solid floor of rough concreter. He turned to see the first sofa, strutting to that wall, examining for any wall seams, complimenting the good paint job of the concrete as he searched for an escape hole as a good American outlaw.

SS guard one stood in front of the prison bars and sneered at Preston's ass. "Solid concrete, asswipe. Sit down, before I make ya."

10:41 a.m.

White House

Interior yellow colored Oval Room

A confused Wade and a relaxed Rich moved beside two serious-faced SS guards down an empty hallway in the White House. They turned and entered a private room which was perfectly squared and perfectly colored in yellow. And they stood before the President of the United States.

He lounged on top of a yellow sofa, reading his laptop like a Sunday afternoon after church preaching. The president slowly stood, extending a hand shake to Wade but stared at Rich. "Wade, so nice to see both you, gentlemen attend my little impromptu meeting. But I must ask you, Wade to accompany one of my Secret Service guards back to your new home in Alabama. Isn't it, now?" The president flipped his hand up from the hand shake, giving it a once time bird fling as an obedient Secret Service guard tugged and dragged Wade from the president. Wade and one of the SS guards swung around and left the room. The president turned and grinned to Rich. "Rich. I personally don't know you and not pleased to meet you either under these trying circumstances. But I must admit that I do know of your wicked redneck reputation." He thumbed over his collar bone at the glass window, showing a pretty hot day in August. "Look at our great USA country, Rich. Disarray. Dispassionate. Disappointed. Disgraced."

Rich turned and smiled at the blooming red flowers, a manicured green lawn, and lots of yellow sunshine, and returned his eyeballs to the president.

The president said with a sour tone. "What am I to do, Rich? I don't like meeting and don't like mixture of useless words. You stole my money. Give it back. No questions. No investigation. No harm."

11:05 a.m.

White House dungeon setting

Preston confirmed the accurate statement of the asshole SS guard, regarding the concrete walls, and surrendered his flight, sitting down on the long sofa, looking at washing sink, and pondered too much.

Nineteen years ago

Preston had visited the White House tour in his third grade class as a nine year old cub scout with the Boy Scouts of America. It was the largest youth organization in the USA with 2.7 million kids and was founded in the year 1910 in Irving, Texas. He and his scout friends gathered at an appointed time of 6:30 A.M. with their scout masters and their parents. They all waited in line for the first-come, first-served ticket which was processed at 7:30 A.M. The White House tour started at 10:00 A.M.

During the tour, the scouts strutted like a flock of farm turkeys with the gobbling sounds too through the ground level, the library of books, and galloped like a herd of stallions up the stairs to the first level touring the East, Green, Blue, Red dining rooms. Then the scouts raced to the exit doors in the north Portico lobby. They nosily shouted with lips and scooted on boot toes between the rows of non-smiling and black-tinted sunglass faces of a US Secret Service man or woman. Then, the quiet US Secret Service agents led the nice cub scouts back to the Alabama school buses in the parking lot.

The Boy Scouts organization had taught Preston many valuable responsibilities in becoming an American citizen, such as, self-reliance, trustworthiness, an outdoor appreciation of the land for camping, water for aquatics, and hiking in the Birmingham Mountains.

Present day and place

11:07 a.m.

Dungeon setting

Every day, Preston practiced the scout motto 'be prepared.' His brain also remembered another scout motto 'do a good turn daily.' So, Preston turned with a smirk to see to the pretty prancing SS guard near his jail cell door, planning to do lots of turns, flips, kicks, hits, and punches against one of the twin SS guards.

The twin SS guards matched each other clothing style of a dark blue shirt and a pair of faded and torn blue jeans. The first SS guard one was a tall and slender male with a tone of a pale colored skin, a head of brown colored hair, and pair of dancing brown eyeballs. He warmed up both fighting hands, cracking and working the knuckles, sneering at Preston through the well-oiled steel doors. SS guard one said with a smirk and a growl. "Get up, asshole."

Preston slowly stood from the sofa, feeling the steel handcuffs cut into his fleshy wrists again, watching the SS guard unlock the iron bars which had separated him from mega trouble.

SS guard entered the prison cell and closed the door behind his ass, saying with a grin and a chuckle "Pretty boy, ya got guts or curls?" He moved and stopped a few feet from Preston.

Preston could smell boy's bad breath inside his inflamed nostrils, smirking with gratitude for the hard ass training by the FBI. He instinctively jerked his body to the right from a sailing left jab of SS guard. Preston grinned and ducked his skull and torso down low, almost kissing the sink, and misses a right hook from the guard. Preston moved and back stepped from the sink, folding at his waist, and stood, balancing his tallness, and kicked his boot toe into the shin of guard.

The guard back pedaled and grabbed his painful kneecap with both his palms, sneering. "Ya got guts, girly."

Preston moved away from the injured guard, slamming his cuffed hands and back spine into the solid wall, saying with a sneer and a sour frown. "I've killed in cold blood twenty two rabbits, fifteen dogs, eleven wolves, twelve horses, twenty seven deer, and four assholes. One was a fucking human female when I worked for the FBI. And I ain't afraid to kill you, buddy. When I'm freed from these irons, I'm going to kill ya right like southern style. Torment and torture your ass, until ya cry for your mama." Preston laughed, ducking down from a right hook of the guard and rammed his shoulder into the guard.

The guard tumbled away from Preston, hitting the hard steel bars with his back spine, grunting, and cradled his arching arm, turning and viewing the second SS guard, who leaned against the wall outside of the jail cell. He sneered with authority. "Hold his shoulders!" Preston tensed for a two to one dog fight, dropping his chin, grunting for the second fight. SS guard two stared like a robot in the jail cell. SS guard one growled in fury. "Hold the shoulders, Arthol!"

Arthol was a tall male with a tint of pale colored skin, a pair of violet colored eyeballs, a slender built with a head of red colored hair. He slumped against the wall outside the iron bars and was not moving. "Told me ya CIA? CIA fights man on man. Right, pal?" He flicked the toothpick to the other side of his lips with a smirking.

SS guard one sneered with fury. "Son of a bitch! Get your ass in here and hold his shoulders, before I need to teach you a lesson too." Arthol smiled behind a pair of tinted black reflective aviator sunglasses, wearing a dark blue shirt, a pair of faded and torn blue jeans, and a pair of polished golden brown lizard cowboy boots, and continued to slump his tallness against the cool concrete wall and not moving. Preston shifted a boot as the guard snapped his sneering face plus flying a folded fist and missed Preston. The guard stumbled to the side sofa, sliding on his kneecaps, catching his body with both hands on the soft fabric of the furniture, and spun around, sneering at Preston. The guard stood and turned, charging and capturing Preston with his two hands between the collar bones and swung Preston into the steel bars.

Preston grunted from the back spine hit and lifted and kicked his boot toe into the kneecap of the guard. The guard prettily danced to the right, slamming and connecting his folded fist into the exposed rib cage of Preston. Preston grunted and bowed down at his waist like a peasant to the prince. The guard shuffled and slammed a flying fist and connected to the cheekbone of Preston. Preston slowly slid to the left out of the way, moving to the sofa, exhaling shallow breathes from the hard rib impact. He bowed his chin, slowly dropping on his kneecaps and hit the hard concrete with his shoulder, closing his eyelids and cursed in pissed off pain, angry, and dizziness. The guard moved with a smile and stood over fallen Preston with a laugh. Preston opened his eyelids, seeing both light and darkness, hearing a muffled voice, feeling four hands over his body, and smelled a set of bad breathes in his face. He stood upright with assistance, looking down to see the shoes, hearing the voice of Rich. Rich and a pair of golden brown lizard cowboys moved Preston to the sofa. Preston rested on his back spine over the comfy sofa, trying not to vomit up the delicious snack on the president's private jet like a baby wussie.

Rich turned with a sour tone to see the standing SS guard. "How long ya going to use the boy as a punching bag? He bleeds. Ya blind, son? Remove the handcuffs now."

"Quiet down, old man! Or you're next." SS guard one reached and pulled out his pocket knife from his belt, whipping the knife around the air and viewing a beaten Preston.

Rich stood and blocked his body over an injured Preston, saying with authority. "I demand to see the president. I have valuable data for him." SS guard one sneered, twisting the knife in pretend circles. Rich stomped with a growl into the face of the SS guard. "You listen closely to me, son. Contact the president now before you lose your job or your face?"

SS guard one turned with a sneer to see Rich. "You're too weak threatening me with force, old man."

Rich nodded. "I might not be keeping that promise. But the president will, if you do not allow me to speak with him now."

SS guard one turned with a sneer to see Arthol. "Call the president. Wait for a reply!"

"Rich?" Preston whimpered from the guard beating.

Rich turned and kneeled over Preston, saying with a worried brow. "Lie down, rest. Don't move, Preston. You'll be safe. I promise." Rich looked up to see SS guard one, ordering with authority. "Get him food, water, blankets, and medicines for his injuries. Or I'll not be sharing my valuable data with the president."

"You wasted your one threat, old man." SS guard one sneered, flicking the knife in the air.

Rich said being first born snake of this world with a growl. "And I waste my time with you, son. Call him now! Let's find out if I possess only one threat."

11:21 a.m.

Interior setting of Oval Room

Rich moved and kicked the low table with a cowboy boot toe as a pair of Italian leathers fell down to the carpet in silence. The president stood and sneered. Rich strutted and stood nostril to nostril with the president, saying with stern authority. "You harmed that kid and pissed me off. Now, ya going to listen to me. I have a confession to tattle. I stole all the monies from the American and foreign banks on our soil and stored the money inside mounds of earth from a southern sunshine city of Miami, Florida to a northern rain storm town of Settle, Washington. If ya want your money back, you release my young companion, plop his ass on a jet right back to Bama and stay forever out of his way until the fucking day you die. To prove my hostiled loyalty, I'll escort you to the first mound filled with lots of money within spitting distance of DC."

"Tell me now!" The president smiled.

Rich looked down to see his polished boot toes, tapping his temple for his shitty fun, saying with a smile. "Let's see, if I can remember! Yes, of course, you go on Interstate 95, travel thirty seven miles for about forty three minutes and take left 143-A to Aquia. Turn right on Jefferson Davis Highway US 1. Truck approximately one point three miles and turn left at Coal Landing Road. Follow Coal Landing Road, approximately zero point five miles," he looked up with a smirk to see the president.

"Government Island," the president parted his lips, knowing the familiar proper noun.

"Ah, excellent. Ya know the geographical hot spot."

"That place is my birth," the president narrows the eyelids at Rich. "The kid comes along for the joy ride until I eye ball those greenbacks. If you tell me the truth Rich, I'll release him, send him home, never to see him again. You get to stay and play with me in my American sand box until my piggy bank overfloweth. Do you understand me, smartass?" The president frowned as Rich grinned.

10:36 a.m. (central standard time)

Birmingham Airport (742 miles northeast to Washington DC)

Private jet plane of Dalton

Cabin interior setting

Clear sky and sunny at four mph winds

87 percent humidity at 88ºF

The billionaires rode to the airport and entered the private jet, sitting around the cabin with the airplane in flight to Washington DC. "Like your boots, Wade. Ostrich?" Cole sat in the aisle seat and grinned down at the new pair of expensive burnt orange boots over the naked feet of Wade. Ostrich was the softest around most expensive leather in the world. Wade sat his ass near a window, looking down at the old money magazine, pondering the next stupid move of the rebel-billionaires. Since Rich had gotten himself arrested as a traitor to the USA Federal Government without Wade's help.

Holt stood with a smile and moved to Wade. "He looks like me. A first class redneck with cowboy boots and blue jeans. Take off your shirt, Wade?" He stopped and stood over the balding hair roots of Wade.

"I beg your pardon," Wade looked up with a sour frown to see the hair nostrils of Holt at his window seat.

"Lessons redneck style," Dalton laughed and viewed Wade from his aisle chair.

Holt said, holding a tan colored cloth vest. "Stand, Wade! Take off your shirt too. Ya going to learn to wear this thing. It'll save your life from deadly objects like knives and bullets." Wade stood and unbuttoned his a red, white, and blue plaid cotton long-sleeved shirt.

"Dum, da, dum, da, dum, da ,dum," Dalton sung as the other rednecks chuckled with a smile.

"Shut it, Dalton." Holt said. Wade slid into the sleeveless vest. Holt said. "Hard body ballistic vest or a bulletproof vest or a bullet-resistant body armor that takes two, four, or six bullets dead center of your heart."

"It means ya don't die, buddy." Dalton laughed.

Holt nodded. "The high grade concealable personal armor helps absorb the impact from a firearm fired projectile or a single shrapnel from most hand guns, as well as, a stabbing from a solo knife at close range." Holt hit the vest with his folded fist. Wade stumbles ass-backward into the seated laps of Arthur and Shelly, exhaling with a huff of fear, clutching his throat with two hands like he was choking to death. The other rednecks chuckled.

"Doc, come and please resuscitate, Waddling." Dalton turned with a chuckle and a grin to see Sylvia next to a window.

"Sit down, Wade! Breathe normal." Sylva was busy on the laptop with her rebel-assignments and chuckled with the billionaires, who enjoyed using and abusing tight-assed Wade.

Holt was leader, since Rich was in jail. Holt nodded. "Stand and model, Arthur." Arthur bolted upright with a grin, extending both arms outward like a fashion model as the other rednecks chuckled. Holt said. "We all look alike with a tan shirt over a tan vest and not to confuse us with our new enemies," grinning.

"...and carry weapons." Dalton stood, quick drawing a loaded hand gun from his hip hostler and aimed at an empty seat.

Trent jumped from his assigned seat, moving and jerking the gun from the firing hand of Dalton, swung and returned to his chair with a growl. "You draw a damn gun at me, son."

"Trent's plane," Cole chuckled and sipped the beer.

"Hell. My jet. My gun. My right. Give it back, asshole." Dalton reached for his weapon.

Trent tucked the pistol in his sports coat jacket, after double checking the safety, and pivoted, sitting in his chair, looking up to see Dalton. "Not on the damn jet with me, I wanna arrive alive without a gun in one hand and an alcohol drink in the other. Sit your ass down and be good boy, Dalton." The other rednecks chuckled.

"Nice jet, Dalton!" Shelly scanned the lush posh surroundings, working on the whiskey drink.

"Dalton owns lots of toys fast jets, fast cars, slow tanks, low anti-missile ground to sky weapons, army soldiers. Right, son?" Cole ticked the toothpick to the other side of his lips with a smile to Dalton.

"Enough, cubs," Holt commanded as the rebel-leader of the rebel-rescue. "Our gear. Our protection. Our protection ain't the guns. They're for show, only." He turned and viewed Dalton, "We got properly trained and highly paid sharp shooters to protect our asses, while we negotiate for Rich and Preston."

"Unless that kid's hurt, I got me a personal vendetta against George Washington, Junior," Dalton lifted and clicked a pretend trigger with his thumb and his index finger at the wall.

"We are in tan. They will be in blue gear, a long shirt, no body vest, jeans, and boots." Holt looked to see each redneck.

"Should we be in gray? Ya know that confederate rebels liked gray in those days." Cole grinned.

"Yeehaw," Dalton rebel yelled, ever chance.

"I think that we need an official rebel yell too." Shelly chuckled.

"Boo-wah." Cole yelled like a girl.

"Naw. That's the military holler. Something our very own, unique." Shelly smiled.

"Yahoo." Cole sung.

"Redneck cry," Dalton frowned.

"Naw. A caveman's roar," Holt said.

"What's Burn U's battle war cry?" Cole inquired.

"Fight me," Albert said.

"Naw. Fight them," Arthur smirked.

"How about mayday?" Wade said.

"Hay day," Dalton laughed.

"Naw. Fuck me." Shelly yelled.

"Fuck them." Dalton shouted.

Trent chuckled. "I like that one better, Dalton."

"Dalton's wrong, as usual." Cole laughed.

"Come on your sons of bitches. Do ya want to live forever?" Shelly chuckled.

Albert said, "The great battle cry was uttered by Sergeant Major Daniel Daly at the 1918 Battle of Belleau Wood."

Dalton stood, extending arms to the ceiling. "Today is a good day to die."

Albert said. "An ancient Sioux axiom of negative and positive thinking and sadly branded the Hollywood style by Star Trek Klingons. Interesting enough. The true spirit of the rebel yell was a battle cry used by the Confederate soldiers during the American Civil War. The origin of the yell is most uncertain but thought to be influenced by the Native American Indians or maybe, a Scottish war cry tradition."

Holt shook the shoulder length curls, waving both hands to Albert. "Do not call the rebel yell foreign, Albert. Dalton'll toss your ass off his jet."

"We're in flight." Albert turned and frowned to Dalton.

"Dalton'll toss your ass off his jet." Holt laughed with the rednecks.

Albert cleared his throat and stared at Dalton. "The sound suggested more often thought as the simulated voice of Brigadier General Thomas Jonathan Stonewall Jackson or a rabbit's scream."

"What in fucking tarnation does a screaming rabbit sound like?" Dalton laughed.

"A peacock's cry will scare the shit out of your white drawers, boys." Holt grinned.

"A rabbit scream sounded like Brigadier General Thomas Jonathan Stonewall Jackson. Ya stupid or what, Dalton?" Cole ticked the tongue with the toothpick with a grin.

"The yell is sung as yee-haw or a cross between an Indian war whoop and wolf-howl." Albert nodded.

"Wa-woo," Trent yelled.

"Woo-woohoo," Cole shouted.

"Wa-woowoo," Arthur chuckled.

"Who-who-ey," Dalton screamed.

"Who-ey." Holt hollered.

Albert said. "The best vocal description which was repeated continuously by a southern redneck referenced a yell-like corkscrew sensation from your tailbone and up through your spine, and out your lips when singing it, accurately."

Holt chuckled, slapping his fist at Arthur's vest, "Back to business, ya'll!"

"Berrington." Dalton laughed.

"Mangrove," Holt smiled. "Everyone gets a baseball cap, a vest, a shirt, a weapon, and a set of rope. Do not draw your weapon for any reason. Understood?" The rednecks nodded.

"Rope? Why do we need a set of rope as part of our cowboy gear? What are we going to be doing Holt, rounding up some baby calves?" Wade chuckled.

"Trent, tell the little brave boys!" Holt shoved Arthur down to his chair, moving and sitting in the chair beside Arthur.

"Rich and I set up and planted the first set of cowboy gear bags here." Trent click the remote control device. An electronic map appeared on the wall in the jet which was hooked up to his mobile telephone.

"Stafford, Virginia, home in Stafford County." Wade said, reading his new book.

Dalton turned and viewed Wade. "I be damn. Wad o'shit's smart."

"Good. Ya know the place, Waddling." Cole smiled.

"Curiosity killed me and the damn cat for shore. Why here?" Shelly sipped the whiskey drink.

"Shelly's not an historian or a democrat. This is his birth place." Holt smiled.

"Rich ain't birthed in Stafford, Virginia. He's Bama like me." Shelly nodded.

"Home of Quantico, Marine Corps Headquarters, and the FBI training camp." Wade said, reading his new book.

He turned and viewed Wade for a second time with a smile. "I be damn. Wad o'shit is smart."

"Correction there, the unemployed FBI." Trent frowned.

"I think that they have shifted dastardly to the growing ranks of the new and improved US Secret Service which guards a pissed-off Mr. President. He must think that his life's in danger or something. What'da ya think, Shelly?" Cole viewed Shelly as they both laughed.

Holt nodded. "To answer Wade's question, the rope is for the Government Island quarry rocks, in case, Rich and Preston are both harmed."

"Betta not be," Dalton touched his empty gun hostler.

Holt said. "We climb down and get 'em and bring 'em all back home to Bama. And Wade and Albert, we need ya'll on both the cells and bots, over there. Dalton's going to show you how to communicate, trace, track, and truck us between Rich and Mr. President. Everyone understands that I'm leader. I call all the commands, until Rich returns." The rednecks nodded.

12:05 p.m.

Washington DC

Presidential limousine ride south on Interstate 95

Sunny with four mph winds

82 percent humidity at 85°F

The limousine rolled down Interstate 95 from the White House with both the two rear benches full of heated bodies. "Interstate 95, sir," the limousine driver of the presidential vehicle said via the speaker that was located in the ceiling of the rear bench seat.

The president sat beside Arthol. Non-hand cuffed Rich and hand cuffed Preston were located on the opposite side with SS guard one. "What's your name, son?" Rich turned and viewed the nose profile of young boy next to Preston.

"Prince William Parkway, sir," the driver said via the speaker box.

"Bud," Arthol answered for the young man with a chuckle, sitting across from Bud and Preston.

"Opitz Blvd, sir," the drivers said via the speaker box.

"Tell Mr. President, who busted your nose, Bud?" Rich smiled being damn proud of Preston for defending his person at Moville and his body inside the White House jail cell for beating the snobby kid's ass. Preston smirked with a painful cheek bruise from the fist power of Bud as Arthol snorted.

The driver said via the speaker box, "Dale Blvd, sir."

Rich smiled. "Is your man going to spit like a road map all the way to Gov Isle?"

"Cardinal Drive, sir." The driver said via the speaker box.

The president smiled. "Government Island is my birth place. It is the historical eighteenth and nineteenth century quarry site of the Aquia sandstone for the construction of my residence, the White House and the US Capitol Building in DC. The rock quarry site was purchased by Pierre L'Enfant on behalf of the Federal Government in the year 1791."

"Dumfries Road, sir."

Rich smiled. "France fought with us in the Revolutionary War of 1776. Right, Mr. President? You didn't trust me, Mr. President?"

"Mine Road, sir."

"You're correct, Rich. I do not trust you, thus illuminating a serious interior motive for bringing the kid." The president turned and smirked to Preston.

"Joplin Road, sir."

Rich pointed to the window, saying with a smile and a nod. "Preston, see that house, that represents the epitome of colonial Virginia's ecclesiastical architecture. That structure is common all over this place. One design like that."

Preston nodded, shifting his ass into a more comfortable position with a combined cuffs and cupped waists behind his back spine.

"Telegraph Road, sir."

Rich slapped the kneecap of Preston and pointed with a chuckle to another house out the window. "That home is called a standard American colonial. It is a two-story and two-toned paint with eight foot doors and ten foot feet windows with nine foot ceiling on the upper level. The structure has a set of hardwood floors and a cascading stairwell with a sitting room inside the master bedroom like President George Washington's private sleeping chamber. I got about twenty two of them houses around here."

The president frowned. "You lie, Rich?"

"Russell Road, sir."

Rich turned with a puzzled brow to see the president. "Naw sir. My mama taught me to tell the truth like George Washington. Ya know our first and great President of the Revolutionary War? He helped form our country's independent from them mean old British crown royal folks. My houses are located at and around and across them numerous woody hiking trails near the small village of Quantico and Aquia Creek. The area is pretty and isolated, except for them opossums, squirrels, rabbits, fishes, and other nature critters. No hunting and no guns allowed. Never there. Naw." Rich smiled. Preston nodded with the understanding of a secret hidden message of an attack to the SS guards, after the limousine stopped.

The limousine slowed down to a pacing speed and gently turned in an easterly direction, zooming with a faster cruise. Then the driver said via the speaker box. "Government Island, 191 Coal Landing Road, sir." The limousine slowed and stopped. Both the doors opened. All the heated bodies moved from the twin bench seats as the racking of weapons echoed into all eardrums.

12:46 p.m.

Government Island in US State of Virginia (37 miles south of White House)

Mostly sunny with seven mph winds

61 percent humidity at 88°F

Outdoor boardwalk setting

Rich scooted from the bench standing and stood, viewing the parking lot, shading his eyes from the sun, and said with confused brow. "Damn, it's empty. I guess everyone busies at work, Mr. President."

The president looked with a sour frown to see Rich in his sunglasses, swinging around, moving ahead of the party. "I will lead. East is the only geographical direction from the visitor parking lot over the walking boardwalk. The boardwalk connects to a narrow peninsula. The peninsula consists mostly of a sandy dirt island with a single wooden trail two-tenths of a mile. Then you must provide the coordinates of our package." He led the pairings of Rich and Bud; Preston and Arthol; and six pairs of aviator sunglasses and gun toting SS guards, who were wearing an individual backpacks. The president halted and swung around with a smile to see Rich through his sunglasses, motioning with his hand for Rich to lead the party to the money bags. Rich stopped and admired the green woody nature preserve, hearing a set of crickets, frogs, and birds. He saw squirrels, birds, and hopping insects on grayish-wooden boardwalk, turning with a smile to see the unhappy president. The president said. "Your turn, Rich?"

Rich smiled with a nod, taking the lead for the next one-tenth of mile on top of the creaking and faded wooden planks and halts, twisting to the left, and stopped, standing at a historical landmark sign, pointing to the sign with a nod. "This here is exactly why we appreciate the US Native American tribes. They once inhabited all this dry land from the Atlantic Ocean to the Aquia Creek for centuries, right before a single person came and claimed the Jamestown fertile crop soil."

The president pointed to the east. "Lead, Rich!"

Rich swung around, moving another one-tenth of mile, and halted, turning to the side, pointing with a smile to the object. "The island ownership plague shows that we own the entire quarry or the Americans really do. Hey! Maybe, we can pay the Japs in sandstones instead of greenbacks, Mr. President."

The president exhaled with a huff of annoyance and pointed to the east. "Lead, Rich."

"Shore thing, sir," Rich swung around, moving another one-tenth of mile, turning the side, and stopped, pointing to the object in silence.

12:51 p.m.

Quarry rock setting

The president halted and exhaled with a huff of more annoyance without viewing the object, "Lead, Rich. This is another famous landmark that shows the Robert Steuart Property Stone Marker which is over 200 years old. The sandstones were dug by pairs of human hands, filling in the block building pieces of the White House. Lead us to my packages, Rich!"

Rich pointed with a smile to the quarry rock. "This be it, Mr. President," he swung around with a smile and saluted silly with his three finger pads like a sideways camp scout signal to the president. "I promise as a former camp scout." He pivoted to the side and jumped his healthy and fit sixty something year old body frame over the low wooden post. Rich dropped and bent his kneecaps down on the semi-soft woody dirt, and stood, moving to the tall sandstone wall, gingerly touching the cool rock.

Preston stopped and stood between Arthol and Bud, watching Rich in the sand. Arthol was located on the right rib cage of Preston, leaning to Preston, thumbing over his collar bone, and said with a smile and a chuckle. "That sign back there reads. No trespassing. No fishing. No veering off path. And no relic hunting." They snorted and smiled for fun.

Bud leaned forward and viewed Arthol with a sneer. "Shut the fuck up, man!" He jerked Preston closer to his rib cage as Preston grunted from the tight handcuffs. Bud whispered to the left eardrum of Preston. "Do it, asshole! I feel like stomping your handsome face against the lovely sandstone. Let's see how good you look then, butthole."

"Prettier than you with multiple permanent scarring," Preston smirked with a bruised cheekbone as a pure breed redneck Bama American.

Bud popped his gun pouch open, echoing the sound into both the eardrums of Arthol and Preston, saying with a snarl. "Me and you gonna take a stroll to hear the birdies' singing, while the dwarfs work."

Arthol leaned over to see that Bud was almost kissing the jaw line of Preston, whispering to Bud's sour breathe. "Stand down, dumb shit! We don't go anywhere unless the president ordered us to leave. I am only going to remind you once, Bud. We all are Americans here."

Bud turned and sneered to Arthol. "I'll deal with your ass later, Arthol. Me and you..."

Arthol leaned back and whispered to Preston. "Ignore the child, Preston! They dumped him from the Academy, the pre-school academy for trying to lick the teacher's butthole, whilst she be shitting dookie inside the girl's bathroom toilet." Preston dropped his face in his neck, chuckling and snorting from the amusing story as Arthol grinned.

In front of the gray colored quarry stone, Rich side stepped to the left and to the right, pacing to a certain spot, and halted, squatting and examining a new spot on the gray stone. He tapped some loose dust around a drilled opening from the other night, pointing to the drilled stone hole, yelling. "Here. It be here, Mr. President." The twelve young and fit SS guards carried a stuffed blue tote bag of manual work tools and leap over the low wood railing. They each select a pick hammer, slamming and working on the long process of busting the sandstone into tiny bites of rock and sand.

"And no stone removal," Arthol chuckled, punching the bicep of Preston as Bud sneered at Arthol.

"Return, Rich!" the president ordered.

Rich back stepped from the quarry wall and swung around crossing the sand, whispering for his eardrums only. "Son of a bitch! I'll return to him and I'll return his skull into that rock permanently." He stopped and reached up placing his fingers over the wooden railing, lifting with a grunt.

Arthol moved and dashed from Preston, stopping and offering both his hands and his muscular arms to Rich. Rich accepted the arms. Arthol hauled Rich up and over the wooden railing from the deep stone pit to wooden planks. They stood nostril to nostril, bad breathing to each other faces. Rich grunted and grinned at the young help with a nod. "Thanks, son."

"Arthol," he grinned underneath his dark blue baseball cap with a pair of black tinted aviator sunglasses.

"Thank you very much, Arthol for helping an old man out." Rich extended a handshake with a nod.

Arthol presented his hand for the gentleman's gesture with a smile. "My mama taught me well, sir."

"Stand with me, Rich," the president ordered as Rich released the hand of Arthol. They both swung and moved back to their assigned stances.

Rich stopped and stood with the president, facing the stone with a smile and a nod. "How tall's that quarry stone, Mr. President?"

The president held both his hands behind his back spine, watching the SS guards sweat and grunt in the hot August sun. They picked and chopped at the thick sandstone. The president said. "How long to reach my packages, Rich? The sun does not shine twenty four hours in Virginia that I recall."

Rich shook a skull with a smile. "Not long! Once the stone's clear, the packages are located inside a hollow cubby. We curved like cave men barbarians the other night, since we were rushed, before dawn's early light," he ticked his tongue for amusement. "You're smart, Mr. President. You brought plenty of young back muscles to carry out them hefty heavy bags. Since we be close to finding your loot, I am desirous of your promise of releasing young Preston from his bonds and returning him back to my jet, waiting at LaGuardia." The president stared at his SS guard unit. Rich scanned the trees and the skyline with a smile and a nod. "So this be your birth place? You must've visited Gov Isle, a lot. How tall's that quarry stone marker, Mr. President? A pretty impressive sight stood over 200 years almost as old as our great nation the United States of America." The president stared at the SS guard unit. Rich turned and viewed Preston, seeing the new un-friend Bud, who was almost kissing the cheekbone on Preston. Preston was about ready to explode on that kid, binders or not. Rich cringed at the bright blue and black cheekbone and jaw line on the face of Preston, hoping that Pamela would not get to upset. Preston turned and viewed Rich. Rich slightly nodded. Preston stiffened both mentally and physically, readying for a plotted unknown escape action, and slightly nodded in silent acknowledgement back to Rich. Rich swung and viewed the big boulder, saying with a smile and a nod. "This quarry pile's like the others that I've seen inside your lame-ass woody forest. There are lot of thin and thick brown trees and green plants, thriving and growing under and around them silver-grayish stones but not over them. Like the rocks just kills everything, beautifully and alive. Ya got an opinion there, Mr. President?" The president stared down at SS guard unit in the quarry field that worked and sweated in the hot August sunshine.

Rich rocked back and forth with both his hands inside his jean pockets, saying with a smile and a nod to the quarry rock. "That quarry stone appears to be about... I'm six feet high, maybe twenty eight to thirty feet at the very top. It's ugly too for an earth rock just plain flat grayish-sickly brownish vision. I guess that's the sandstone part. Right, Mr. President? Looks pitiful with all that green growing peat moss over and below the stones, and the white un-perfect circles splotched," chuckling. "Ya like that word, Mr. President? Splotched? I like that word. White un-circles splotched haphazardly at different geometric spots and angles," he pointed with a chuckle and a smile to the rock, "That's one fugly ugly piece of stone, Mr. President. O. I see the white spots are actually the sandstone colorings that was used in the White House. I guess someone pecked it off or picked it off. Would ya rather be pecked or picked off, Mr. President?" The president ignored the Bama hillbilly banter, viewing the working SS guards down inside the quarry field. Rich nodded, "Back home in Moville, where I was birthed and born in the great State of Alabama, we got rock quarries, too. They're made of stone beds of limestone pretty whitish-silver colorings which are used for our concrete roads, our house foundations, our security fencings, our cow pastures, and our other places. Our quarry is located in middle of Moville. That quarry hauled millions and millions of tons of limestone rocks for both people structures and home buildings for decades upon decades. Now, it's a real body of water. About twenty years ago, this great big T-storm with long yellow bolts of lightning, roaring thundering clouds, and heavy pools of ocean rain, came and bombarded down on the quarry, giving it both water and life. Kids come from all over Moville to swim inside the water quarry. Ya could say that it's a real cement pond." Rich laughed, slapping his legs with a smile. "Yeehaw. Ya get it, Mr. President? We be real life hillbillies in Bama. And we got our own real cement pond made from them quarry limestone fields." He laughed.

The captain of the SS guard unit turned and ran to the wooden railing, lifting and showing two sweaty black eyebrows, said with a smile and a nod. "We have sighted a small semi-round passage inside the quarry stone, sir. Two teams are entering, searching for your packages." The president smiled. Rich looked over his collar bone to see Preston. Preston turned and viewed Rich. A black sandy cloth bag leaped over the wooden railing, plopping on top of the wooden planks. Then, the first bag was followed by two, and three, and other black sandy bags.

The president moved and stepped closer, squatting and touching the bag, and felt the dusty stone sand. He realized that the grand prize was buried alive inside the stone. He drew the rusty zipper open and viewed numerous colorful greenbacks in denominations of hundred dollar bills, seeing thousands of wrapped rectangular plastic packages. He stood and turned with a smirk to see Rich, winning this hillbilly hoe down dance contest, looking over to see Preston and back to Rich for a second time. Then he narrowed the eyelids, looking to his trusty SS guard named Bud, slightly nodding to him. Bud jerked Preston in front of his right collar bone, snatching his hand gun being a lefty shooter, looking at a tender brown spot on Preston's neck for an instant kill shot of the hillbilly asshole.

Arthol turned and narrowed the eyelids inside his sunglasses at Bud, after eye witnessing that stupid maneuver of jerking Preston from his protection. He side stepped in slow motion, readying to swung around and slap the shit out of Bud, without harming Preston. Preston rapidly tensed and quickly sensed in his nerve endings that Bud was both nervous and excited. His left bicep painfully throbbed from the forced two-step block of Bud's body from Arthol. Then, his eardrums acutely heard a smooth swish of leather as a hand gun slowly lifted up from the leather hostler. Preston readied for a survival fight, elbowing the rib cage of Arthol, getting rid of one SS guard. Arthol grunted, tumbling right out of the pathway of a flying bullet. A single bullet flew and pinged into the tender flesh with a short hop of flying red blood, hitting the left collar bone of Bud but not killing the young man, only maiming temporarily.

"Damn it, Dalton." Holt turned with a sour frown to see the disobedience redneck on his right side.

Dalton stood with his cowboy boots apart in an infamous wild, wild western pose, wearing a tall tan colored cowboy hat. The hat covered his black hair roots, both his black eyebrows, and half of his narrowed eyelids. He smiled, holding a hand gun in each hand, pointing one pistol at stumbling and bumbling Bud. Bud fell to the side on top of the wooden planks, babying his left shoulder with his right hand, bleeding over the wooden planks. The left gun of Dalton was posed on the peeing-in-his-designer-trousers president as Dalton yelled with a smile and a laugh. "That's my right hand. Wanna see my left shooting hand also?"

Holt shook his cap and yelled to Dalton. "I lead. I'm leader of the rescue boy." Dalton laughed with the other rednecks. Holt wore a tan baseball cap, turning with a smile and a nod to see the president, saying with his polite southern manners as he was taught by his mama. "Mr. President, nice to meet ya. I'm Holt, a redneck hillbilly from the great State of Alabama." He pointed with an index finger to the other billionaires, since it was not nice to point a gun at your friend. "And these are my traveling companions, sir. Now, listen very closely. Ya'll see we don't give a flying catfish damn about them greenbacks in those dirty sandstone dust covered bags. Them yours to keep. Ya'll just sit pretty like a pack of gentile ladies during tea time while ya quickly release both Rich and Preston. Then ya give 'em time to swiftly stroll back to our vehicles parked out in the parking lot, until they be all gone, safe, and sound. Then we all go back home to Bama. Do you understand clearly, sir?"

He shook his cowboy hat. "Hold there, Holt! I got my personal vendetta against George Washington, Junior for the kid," Dalton switched both his cold barrels and pointed at the president.

"Another day and time, Dalton." Holt smiled and stood on the top of the thirty foot flat limestone stone ledge. The rednecks stood with Holt on top of the quarry rock ledge in a perfect picture row formation as the president viewed them from left to right, starting with Dalton, Holt, Trent, Cole, Shelly, and Arthur. The rednecks showed a variety of locked, loaded, and lined up cold gun barrels pointed at the president and his SS guards and also displayed a gleam with nice white teeth underneath a tan colored baseball cap along with the musically notes of tenor, bass, and baritone grunts, sniggers, and chuckles.

The president looked up with a nod and a smirk to the troublesome billionaires, saying with arrogance. "Gentlemen or more specifically, the newest gawd damn enemies of my person, you gang of fucking country hicks don't know where in the hell you've landed. It ain't Fun World either just to make ya'll feel at home, southern style." He pointed down to the brown dirt, up to the blue sky, and over to the limestone stone, saying with a chuckle and a grin. "I was born and breed here. This here is my place, my parentage, my plot. You are totally outmanned, and outshined, and out gunned here." He scanned the woody natural preserve, yelled with a smile. "Come out, guys!"

A pale faced male wore a dark blue baseball cap, a dark blue shirt, and a pair of faded and torn blue jeans, gingerly moved from behind the tall tree, surprisingly holding both his palms over his blue baseball cap and minus his deadly weapon. Then a second male followed directly behind his ass, wearing a tan colored shirt, a pair of faded and torn blue jeans, and displayed a tan colored baseball over his hair roots. The second male shockingly direct pointed his gun at the first male's throat. Then, the dark blue shirted male slowly kneecapped down to the grass, lovely surrendering his dog fight as the tan shirted male grinned, wearing a new pair of black aviator sunglasses. A second dark blue shirted male quickly popped out from behind the second tree which was followed by a third, a fourth, and many more dark blue shirted males and females. All the blue shirted males and females were covered behind their asses with a smiling and chuckling tan shirted male or female. Each tan shirted male and female grinned ear to ear for their family photo underneath the bright sunshine of pretty day.

Holt cleared his throat, drawing the eyeballs of the president and his SS guards to him, saying with a nod and a grin. "Mr. President, allow me to reintroduce you to your former and un-employed FBI special agents of the USA Federal Government that happen to live right here at your place of birth too. What a grand convenience for a set of fucking country hicks? Right, Mr. President? " He laughed. Each hand pistol of the redneck line up was targeted on the president and his unit of SS guards. Holt motioned to Rich, holding his shooting hand at Mr. President, saying with a smile and a nod. "Get moving Rich, Preston. Meet ya'll at the cars, after we play a fun game of cowboys and injuns." He chuckled. "Guess which role you play in our little game, Mr. President?"

Dalton lifted both pistol barrels into the sky, shooting a single bullet from each gun barrel. "Yeehaw!"
August 4th Thursday

7:01 a.m.

Town of Moville (seven miles north of Birmingham)

Evan's Gas and Food Station

Mostly clear blue skies with four mph winds

88 percent humidity at 90ºF

Interior store setting

The locally owned Ma and Pa gas and food station rested on the east side of the white gravel unpaved US Highway 79, facing the roadway. The once pretty paved highway was the dug up by Rich Richie. Now, the store sat directly across from the closed and guarded gates of Moville, selling food stuffs to other paying customers.

Two shiny non-decorative white four-door pickup trucks pulled over the patched and bumpy grey asphalt, surrounding a dirty white concrete building on each side. Two men in crisp clean white colored shirts and a pair of brand new non-torn dark blue jeans exited out from the first truck, standing at the gas pump. The second truck stopped at the tire pump station. The driver and the passenger emerged in the hot humid morning, standing on each end of the truck, waiting and watching. The two males moved away the gas pump and entered one at time through a set of glass doors, wearing a sparkling white cowboy hat over a pair of black framed cheap non-reflective sunglasses. One turned to the right. The other one went left. The first cowboy grabbed a cold soda from the rear refrigerator. The second cowboy grabbed a small bag of chips. They both turned and strutted, meeting without a smile, moving side by side down the wide aisle to the store counter, where the station owner smiled to his customers. The second cowboy slid the bag of chips over the wooden counter.

Kirksey punched some numbers into the cash register, saying with a nod and a smile to the cowboy. "That'll be $10.38 for them little bag of potato chips. Need anything else, sir? Some gas, since ya'll are parked at the pumps, sir?"

The second cowboy smiled underneath his sunglasses, lifting an octagon-shaped silver-plated badge in his palm. The badge identified him as a Secret Service guard, a personal bodyguard for President of the United States. And a white-colored rectangular-shaped sheet of paper, the size of a hand-palm showed in his other palm. He said. "US Federal Government search warrant for here, sir." The first SS guard popped the top of the soda, sucking down the cold liquid without cash payment.

Kirksey was a short and overweight male with a tone of pale tinted skin, a head of brown colored hair, and a pair of green colored eyes. He shook his skull and raised his hands with a sour frown. "Shoot. I mean go on. Do your gawd damn searching. Since, ya be the big bad SS guards of the US Federal Government. But I'm the owner of this here gas station, trying to make a decent living in this shitty US economy."

The first SS guard slapped the paper on the store counter and grabbed the bag of chips without cash payment too, turning and moving to a single wooden door on the side of the interior store. He ripped open the bag and chomped on the tasty cool ranch favor, stopping and posing in front of the closed door. He raised his boot sole, paralleling it with the wood, punching at the door knob. The door whined and obediently curved out a melon-sized empty hole in the wood without a door knob. The surrounding wood splinters fell and attacked the floor. Then the door slowly turned inward from that nasty collision. "Cell phone, please!" the second SS guard stand at the counter and motioned with a hand for the exposed mobile telephone beside the cash register.

Kirksey shook a skull and grabbed, cuddling his mobile telephone with a sneer. "Shit. That's my personal shit. Ya know I paid for that phone. I paid for the usage of the minutes, not you, asshole. And I be canceling my service, pronto. As soon as, ya'll wreck my store and steal my goodies. I be canceling my service. So ya'll can't make any international calls on my personal shit. Fuck." The second SS guard motioned with his free hand for a second time without drawing out his hand pistol. Kirksey wiggled side to side, hugging his mobile telephone to his chest, staring with two blurry eyeballs at the second cowboy. Then he slowly handed his personal object to SS guard. The SS guard turned and strolled to the archway, stopping and standing in the archway, sipping the cold beverage.

Inside the locked storage room, the first SS guard tossed piles of cardboard boxes, seeking and searching for the stolen monies from the American and foreign banks throughout the USA which had been performed by the deceptive redneck billionaires.

7:18 a.m.

City Coville (16 miles south of Moville)

Felton's Gas and Food Station

Mostly sunny with four mph winds

89 percent humidity at 91ºF

Rear room setting

Dalton was thirty something years old, standing up at six feet and five inches with an athletic body built with a tone of bronze tinted skin, a head of black colored shoulder length hair, a chin of black facial whiskers, a pair of baby blue colored eyes, wearing a pair of faded and worn blue jeans with rips, and a black T-shirt. He was the billionaire IT prince; a nickname created by his Bama buddy Holt. Dalton leaned to an ass into a metal chair, slightly raising his front legs off the floor like rearing his stallion for fun. His shiny slick ostrich skinned orange and red cowboy boot heels tenderly kiss the edge of the wooden table surface. He barely heard the country song, reading his mobile telephone inside the location of the new rebel-hideout. The entrance door opened. All the other rebels entered the hideout, after eating their delicious breakfast. The breakfast had been provided by Cole inside a smaller side room. Dalton pointed with a grin and a laugh to his mobile telephone. "Well, shit. Kirksey's just texted. George Washington, Junior and his G-boys have invaded our gas station like an army of fire ants, tearing the place apart looking for us."

"Ya surprised?" Trent moved into the room, fiddling with his mobile telephone. He was forty something years old with a head of cropped dirty blonde colored hair, a jaw line of blonde facial scruff, an pair of aqua colored eyeballs, and a tone of weathered suntanned tinted skin, wearing a new pair of blue jeans, a yellow colored T-shirt, and a pair of polished cowboy boots. He was the billionaire candy prince.

Cole was fifty something years old with a head of black colored hair, a pair of brown colored eyes, standing at five feet and ten inches with a tone of suntanned tinted skin, wearing a gray colored T-shirt, a pair of faded and worn blue jeans, and a pair of polished cowboy boots. He was the billionaire real estate prince. He shook his skull, pacing to Dalton, and slapped Dalton ankles, jerking the boots from the table surface. The boots land on the table with a thud. Cole said with a sour frown to the hair roots of Dalton. "Get your dirty ass boots off my grandma's antique cherry wood dining table!" He tenderly touched the smooth wood with a sneer. "This be an eating table, not a foot stool, Dalton." Dalton stood. His chair wiggled to the left and to the right, falling down over the wooden floor with a thud too. He sneered and reached for his gun which was strapped to his leg in the hostler.

Holt stood at six feet and five inches on a mesomorph body type. Naturally wavy blonde hair bounced across his broad squared shoulders. He possessed a rectangle face and a square jaw. Emerald green eyes beamed on his perfect olive skin. He wore a green colored T-shirt, a pair of faded and torn blue jeans, and a pair of polished cowboy boots. He was the billionaire entertainment prince. Holt dashed from the archway and slapped his hand over the holstered gun, feeling the cold metal, wiggling his fingers at Dalton, and shook his curls at his Bama buddy. Cole shook a skull with a sour frown at the young redneck, sitting in an empty chair around the eating table to discuss the next rebel-attack on the evil President of the United States.

Two SS guards entered into the new hideout, walking in front of a single rebel guard Cam. Cam was a tall and athletic male with a head of short blonde colored hair, a pair of blue colored eyes, a tone of dark tinted skin, and twenty something years old. The SS guard unit was purposefully kidnapped at Government Island in the state of Virginia as Rich and Preston escaped from the dirty fingernails of Mr. President.

Cole crossed both arms, smiling to Dalton, "Did they take his mobile phone?"

Dalton retrieved the chair and sat with a smile to each face around the table. "First thing, tracking on that poor raccoon along the wild ass street corner of Second Avenue, northeast, 33136, Miami, Florida. If you're really interested?" He chuckled, looking down and reading more of Kirksey's vile mobile telephone texts on his phone. The texts were being transmitting on the real mobile telephone rather than the fake one the SS guards stole which was set up by Dalton's IT geeks inside Evan's Gas and Food Station on Highway 29. The redneck billionaires and spies had found out earlier that the G-men were coming disguised as a posse of Bama cowboys. Dalton slipped his mobile telephone into Holt's eyeballs, showing Kirksey's vile texts as they laughed.

Molly was the billionaire 'food princess.' She was sixty something years old with a silver colored pixie, a set of green colored eyes on a petite body. She displayed a rosy pink complexion, a pink colored T-shirt, a long blue jean skirt, and a pair of polished cowgirl boots. Molly frowned with sadness. "That's so cruel, Dalton."

Holt turned with a smile to see Molly. "Does it make you feel better that the raccoon's rabid, Miss Molly?"

Beatrice was sixty something year old with a head of straight brown with natural gold highlighted hair, a heart shaped face, a tone of pale tinted skin, and a pair of turquoise colored eyes, wearing a pair of faded and torn blue jeans, a brown colored T-shirt, and a pair of unpolished cowgirl boots. "That's not a nice part of the United States, boys." She smirks, remembering the list of the most dangerous cities of the USA in the tanked US economy.

"Not nice?" Dalton looked up and smiled to Beatrice. "There's an average of thirty three homicides and 305 body-assaults per daylight hours from a simple battery to many assaults with many more deadly weapons, killing your ass, permanently. Since all the sane and rational folks have ran away up north to here in Bama," he chuckled with the other rednecks.

Shelly was thirty something years old with a head of reddish blonde colored hair, a pair of mint green colored eyes, standing up at six feet and four inches with a slender muscular body tone, and a tone of bronze tinted skin. He wore a new pair of blue jeans, a yellow colored T-shirt, and a pair of polished cowboy boots. He was the billionaire construction king. He smiled. "What's next, Rich?"

Rich was sixty something years old with a tall and slender body build, a head of blondish gray colored hair, a tone of dark tinted skin, and a pair of hazel colored eyeballs. He wore a white T-shirt, a pair of faded and torn blue jeans, and a pair of polished cowboy boots. He looked down to see his hands, "Dunno."

"The mighty have fallen hard. Did Mr. President scare ya shitless, Rich?" Trent laughed with the other rednecks.

"Where's the money, Rich?" Wade sat with worry of billions, sipping the coffee.

Dalton pointed to each face, "Under my house. Under his house. Under her house. That answer your many questions, Waddling?"

"Yes. Thank you for that straight forward answer, Dalton." Wade frowned with annoyance.

"We stole all the money and bankrupted the country and unemployed all the workers. The US Federal Government has reprinted more money, creating a deep depression and reemployed some of the 111 million workers. So what is the grand finale, Rich?" Albert said with a stern face. He was five feet and five inches tall with a bald skull, a tone of pale tinted skin, pair of light brown colored eyes, wearing a pair of beige trousers, a pair of dress shoes, and a dress long sleeved shirt without a tie.

"Who is our handsome young hostage, Rich?" Molly smiled to the young male.

"Arthol," he smiled to Molly, sitting next to Rich. Arthol was a tall young male with a tone of pale tinted skin, a pair of violet colored eyeballs, a slender built with a head of short red colored hair, wearing a dirty blue T-shirt, a pair of dirtier faded and torn blue jeans, and a pair of polished cowboy boots.

Dalton frowned, "Arthol? What kind of fucking name is Arthol? Sounds like a foreign fag to me, boy?"

Arthol sneered and viewed Dalton. "My honored and respected granddaddy's Christian name, who proudly served in World War Two. If you don't like that, then we can take it outside and discuss it with a pair of folded fists, pal," he listed two fists up with a sneer at Dalton.

Ann was an elderly old, standing at five feet and seven inches with a silver colored hair bun, a pair of brown colored eyes, a tone of pale tinted skin, wearing a silver silk blouse, a long blue jean shirt, and a pair of polished cowgirl boots. She smiled to the young rebel. "Welcome to the rebellion, Arthol."

Holt laughed. "I like the boy."

"Why's he here, Rich?" Shelly viewed and frowned to Arthol.

Rich slapped on Arthol on the collar bone and did not forget a kind act to an old man from a young buck. He smiled. "Kindness to an old man, one. And two, we got us a spy, belles and beaus. Tell them, Arthol!"

Arthol frowned with worry, looking to each face. His explanation was very personally to his heart. "The president holds our families, our spouses, and our kids inside his side trouser's pocket. Just in case, we get cute or ugly with any type of independent individual rebel action against him or within the SS guard unit. I have a wife. I love my wife."

Trent nodded. "We heard ya, son." He acknowledged the sacrifice of the young male to join the ranks of the rebellion. Over the past three months, the US Federal Government enjoyed finding and brutally assassinated folks that did not conform to the new presidential law of an old America.

Dalton mouth spat with his salvia on the floor. "Bullshit, Rich. Let's go and beat the shit out of George Washington, Junior, now."

Cole shook a skull. "I don't like that plan. I like this plan. We can pretend to hold a hostage. Or we can pretend to create a spy. Which is more fun, ya'll?" He grinned.

Trent nodded. "Debate time."

Shelly said. "If we have a hostage, then we can drag Arthol with us around the town without getting catch. He's clean. Right?"

Preston was six feet and four inches tall with a tone of bronze tinted skin, a jaw line of black whiskers, a pair of blue colored eyes, a head of cropped black colored hair, wearing a white T-shirt, a pair of faded and torn blue jeans, and a pair of polished cowboy boots. He smiled. "I take personal responsibility for Arthol." He slapped on Arthol on the collar bone, remembering that Arthol was partial responsible for saving his life plus volunteering his body and his soul to join the rebellion to save the United States of America.

Shelly stared at Preston. "Ya looking better, Preston. Bruises and cut are almost healed. Since I'm guessing here that Arthol didn't do this. Or he'd be dead. Right, son?"

"That other squirt," Preston looked with a sneer to see Arthol.

Shelly said, "Or if'an we have a spy, then we can drag Arthol with us around the town with the hopes of eventually getting catch?"

"Caught? That fucking statement makes no fucking sense, Shelly." Holt sipped the cold beverage.

"Let's call Mr. President. Get his personal preference." Rich chuckled.

Sylvia was six feet and one inch on a slender ectomorph thin body type with a head of short black hair, a pair of brown colored eyes, a tone of brown tinted skin, wearing a light blue T-shirt, a pair of faded and worn blue jeans, and a pair of polished cowgirl boots. She smirked. "I don't know about that, Rich. He could get mad and then cause us a revolution," she chuckled with the other rednecks.

Penny was forty something years sold, standing at five feet and six inches tall with a tone dark mocha tinted skin, a head of short dark brown colored curly hair, a pair of brown colored eyes with golden specks, wearing a pair of faded and worn blue jeans, a red colored T-shirt, and a pair of unpolished pair of cowgirl boots. She smirked. "Let's get rid of Mr. President." She laughed with the other rebels.

"It'll be more fun for Arthol to be a hostage, then we can beat him up occasionally and then sent the bloody pics to George Washington, Junior. Ya know only for our pretend-make believe for fun and shit?" Dalton laughed.

Shelly frowned and viewed Dalton. "You're sicker than Rich, Dalton."

Molly smiled to Arthol. "If he's a hostage, then he has to escape."

Trent nodded. "Good point, Miss Molly."

Ann smiled to Arthol. "And if he's a spy, then he can stay at while longer."

"Nice point, Miss Ann." Shelly smiled.

Holt nodded. "Ask Arthol?"

Cole inquired. "What'da ya want to be when ya grow up, boy?"

"An American," smiled Arthol.

Cole nodded. "Good answer. I like the boy."

"What do we do next, Rich?" Shelly smiled.

Rich snorted. "Get rid of a fucking president, who made all the lives of American's misery, past tense."

Wade straddled uncomfortably in a hard non-padded metal chair, exhaling with a huff of annoyance, flipping the newspaper to the next page. He was five feet and nine inches tall, weighing in at 304 pounds of soft tissues. He possessed a tone of pale tinted skin, a head of short cropped black colored hair, a pair of sad doe brown eyes, and two round rosy crab apple cheekbones. The billionaire resided in the State of Massachusetts. He dressed in his redneck attire purposefully for this redneck meeting a silly red, green, and yellow striped long sleeved dress shirt, a light weight blue sports jacket, a pair of new blue jeans, and a pair of polished orange and green ostrich cowboy boots. He was also nicknamed as Waddling or Wad o' shit or the billionaire Wall Street prince inside the newly formed redneck country club in Birmingham, Alabama.

Dalton smiled, "Assassination."

Cole shook his skull. "Hell naw, Dalton! But, the boy does lead us in the right direction. We have ridded ourselves of a shitty government that has almost but not yet almost ruined this great nation of hard working Americans. So who's the real US Federal Government? Please stand up and salute the American flag."

Albert said. "We, the people..."

"...ain't ran the gawd damn government in years." Trent sneered. "And not never, if Mr. President isn't removed either physically or socially from that executive branch office."

"Who's the real US Federal Government?" Molly smiled.

Albert said, "The president!"

Rich reached for the speaker telephone unit in the middle of Cole's grandma's eating table. Trent watched Rich with a grin. "What are you doing, Rich?"

"I'm calling Mr. President," Rich smiled and dialed the public telephone number of the White House on the speaker telephone for all the eardrums. "He does runs what's left of our nation. I got some VIP questions for him to ponder," chuckling.

The White House telecommunication operator answers. "Good morning to you. This is the White House of the United States of America, the home of the President of the United States. How may I direct your telephone call, this cheery morning?"

Rich smiled. "You're very nice, sweetheart. Please direct my personal telephone call to Mr. President. And please be very certain to tell him that Richie Rich is calling on this lovely spring morning."

"Is this a joke, sir?"

He smiled. "No ma'am. I promise on my mama's grave. This is not a joke. I am Richie Rich. Please communicate my desirous wish to speak with Mr. President." He pressed the mute button on the telephone speaker unit, since he did not want to spoil the surprise social call.

The White House Telecommunication operator said. "Please hold on the telephone line, sir. I connect you to the office of the President of the United States of America."

"Man, his asshole-ness overflows with his grandeur title." Dalton laughed.

"I'm sick of that title. We need to change it when we take over and run the country." Holt smiled.

"Good suggestion, Holt. How's about Dictator of the USA?" Dalton smiled.

Holt shook his curls. "Naw. We be rednecks, not assholes. How's about an earl, count, duke, baron, king, emperor, prince, or pharaoh?"

Dalton shook his curls. "Naw. We be rednecks, not royals. How's about we drop it a notch and become enforcers of justice like a marshal, sheriff, deputy, or judge?"

"Terminator," Cole smiled.

The speaker telephone unit came alive with the voice of the president. "Richie Rich, you fucking bastard, do you have the rest of my money?"

Rich slapped the speaker button on for voice activation with a smile. "I have a few of your SS guys, Mr. President."

"They're not dead. I'll be damned."

"I wish he be damned too," Dalton said. Rich slapped the mute button to keep the billionaires identification secret.

Cole smacked on Dalton on the bicep with a sneer. "Hush it, Dalton!"

Rich slapped the speaker button with a smile. "We're not thuds, Mr. President."

"Only thieves, where's my money, Rich?"

Rich pointed to Arthol. "Tell Mr. President your name, son?" He turned and watched the reactions of two hog-tied SS hostages in the wall corner also.

Arthol leaned to the telephone speaker unit. "This is Arthol, Mr. President. I have Calvin and Leon with me."

"Wonder what happened to your party, son? Glad, you're well and alive. Now..."

Rich grinned. "We wanna trade, Mr. President. What said I keep some of the money for their precious earth-bound lives?"

"Hell no. I am sorry, son. This is war between him, who is the enemy and me, who is the hero. I hope can you understand that, son. Since you're his hostages and his victims, prisoners of war. I believe the old military term applies here."

"I have a wife, Mr. President." Arthol said with worry, pondering that the president did not care about the struggling and starving Americans, especially the sweet innocent and hungry children in any family unit of America.

The president said via the speaker, "Don't worry. Your wife's safe and sound from people like Rich. Where's my money, Rich?"

Rich smirked, "Tell ya what, Mr. President. I'm going to release your SS men in good faith. I'll dump them on a track of road on Interstate 95 which goes all the way up directly to you at the White House manicured lawn. Ya can send out a road construction crew to find and pick up them up like live road kill? Or they can hike in their leather boots back to Washington DC? I'll provide them a brown bag lunch and a plastic gallon of fresh spring water for the road. How's that, sir?"

"Where's my money, Rich?"

"The Good Book says for a rich man to give up all his money, so he can pass into heaven, sir." Rich smiled.

"I'm not ready to go the heaven, yet. Where's my money, Rich?"

"The love of money is the root of all evil, Mr. President." Rich smiled.

"I can electronically track your whereabouts by cell phone. You and your band of merry outlaw renegades lounge on the golden sands of the eastern coastline of Florida. I promise with your crossed freshly buried femur bones and smashed human skulls that I will find you. And when I do..."

"Gotta go, Mr. President." Rich smiled, cutting off the telecommunication link of the speaker telephone unit.

Trent shook his skull. "Fucking asshole. We're trying to save the USA, not bury it. What's the plan, Rich?"

Rich stood, swinging around with a stern face to see the two SS guards. The guards were twenty something years old and both were mouth gagged and wristed tied for their safety without crying or pissing on the tile floor like a pack of newborn puppies. He waved a hand. The rebel flipped his switchblade in the air and sliced with an expert hand the set of the cloth homemade cotton stripes from both wrists, first and the lips, second. Rich frowned. "Well, ya'll have heard from your evil leader. I promised to drop your asses on the hot pavement of the interstate that leads from Bama and does not head straight to Washington DC. But it be sizzling heated in Bama. So I will offer another choice. Do ya want to dance with the hero or the enemy? Your draw, son?"

The young man on the left side of Rich said with a nod. "Calvin. I wanna join the enemy, sir. I have a wife that I love very much."

Rich nodded and viewed Arthol. "Arthol, can you address the young man's question?"

Arthol turned with a stern face to see his former co-workers. "Calvin, Leon! My wife works in DC, as well. I believe Rich and like his ideas. And I don't believe the president and don't like his actions. I only worked for the president, because I needed a job to pay for food and shelter like you. But I don't want a job for payday money for hurting any American citizens. I'm staying with Rich and these boys and girls, riding out the hurricane that's coming. But Rich has promised me that I'll be able to get my wife out of Washington DC."

Dalton banged his palms on the wooden surface and stood with a nod and a grin. "Damn right now. We..."

Rich looked with a stern face to see Dalton. "Sit and stay, Dalton!" He viewed Leon, "Well, son?"

Leon nodded. "And I believe Arthol and like his ways. I'm staying with you. But I have a wife and a child."

Rich smiled. "We'll be getting your families out of DC just be a little patience with us. But in the meantime, Dalton?" He sat back down in his chair.

Dalton turned and tromped to the door, opening the wood with a shout. "Cam!" Cam appeared and stood in the archway from his scouting and spying for any more SS guards that might be floating around the rebel hideout. Dalton smiled and thumbed over his collar bone to the two young adults. "We got us some more new recruits so train the cubs well." He turned to other young rebels with a smile. "Hey, Arthur. You and Preston, go and find Arthol, Calvin, and Leon a nice homestead in Coville? Since they plan to with us for stay awhile." Preston, Arthol, and Arthur stood and pushed the chair underneath the table like a good southern boy as each was taught by their mama.

Cam thumbed over his collar bone to the outdoors, saying with a nod and a grin. "Yes sir. This way, gentlemen. Please follow me for your advance training, rebel-style." He back stepped from the archway, turning and leading the new recruits.

Calvin moved behind Leon through the archway, shouting. "Gimme a gun now! I'll shoot the fucking president in his balls then chop off his dick and hang it around my neck, if he harms my wife and my child, making me a gawd damn prisoner of war in his bastard army. Hey, Cam buddy. I ready to join up now. Where's my shotgun?"

Trent exhaled with a huff of frustration, looking to see the rebel-leader. "What's next, Rich?"

Holt shook the curls. "Dumbass president don't want nothing but his gawd damn money."

Shelly looked to see each face. "Let me be very clear about my next statement. All that money belongs to the US American people, not him or the other fucking foreign dignities. And them fucking foreign dignities are about to stomp and kick down our rotten termite-eaten wooden door with a great big right boot sole, if'an they don't get their golden bars of delight."

Dalton turned and sat in his chair, slamming both his palms on the table surface for attention with a smile. "We got a problem, Rich. I'm running out of room for my guests. The inn is completely full. Where we rest them bodies next?"

Rich looked down with a sour frown to see the table surface and the far wall. "How many bodies can fit into a house? Said ya got two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a living room with two bathrooms?"

"What?" Shelly frowned with confusion.

Rich turned to see each face with a smile. "How many people can fit? Let's say upright, side to side against the plaster walls like a set of bowling pens inside a house with two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a living room with two bathrooms."

"Don't know," Trent frowned.

"Don't care," Cole said.

Rich smiled. "How many total feet inside a house for folks to stand side to side, not dancing, but stretching and sleeping upright and tall like my prized stallion?"

Albert thumbed his mobile telephone, saying. "You can calculate the square feet of anything by multiplying the width by the length. For example, if a room is twelve feet wide by twelve feet long, then it is one hundred forty four square feet. Usually, when they say a home is 2,000 square feet, it is only measuring the floor dimensions from the ground floor up to the upper flooring levels. A basement is not included in those square feet numbers. A house of 2,000 square feet would be around thirty feet wide by thirty feet long which equals nine hundred square feet of the 2,000 square feet, not including the upper levels. However, my math calculations did not answer Rich's intriguing question."

Shelly smiled. "There are 640 acres in a square mile and 5,280 feet in a mile."

Cole said. "A mile is a unit of length. A square foot is a measure of area. There's no way to convert one to the other. Length and area are two different mathematical concepts, Rich."

Rich held his hands parallel to each other about twelve inches apart. "That helps. How big are the houses at the beach cites in Mobile, Dalton?"

"About 2,000 square feet or so," Dalton smiled.

"There's part of the answer, I'm seeking. Albert explained that a 2,000 square foot house, probably has a couple of bedrooms that are 12 feet times 12 feet which is 144 square feet. But we can't convert a square feet into a straight line length." He stood, holding both arms parallel to floor. "I'm about six feet which is sideways in total length."

Shelly smiled. "Do you know that the length of both arms like Rich is the exact height of your upright body frame? Rich is measuring out six feet, using both his arms from his left middle finger tip to his right middle finger tip. Cool math method. Right, Rich?"

Rich back stepped and slammed his body against a pillar of cardboard boxes full of hot beer and side stepped to the corner intersection of two walls. He wiggled his fingers against the wall without harming him or the wall with a grin. "I'm six foot. My left middle finger is touching the corner of the wall then flowing the invisible air, going straight across my chest to my right middle finger which visually measures in length six feet. Now." He twirled to his left in a half circle, facing a new part of the painted wall. "I have advanced another six feet for a total of twelve feet in math length like one of the two bedrooms at our 2,000 square feet house." He swirled to the left in another half-circle, facing the billionaires, again. He chuckled, saying. "We add another six feet for the invisible width of my body, making my math total up to eighteen feet in length. Since three swirls of six equals the number eighteen." The rednecks chuckled at Rich's silly dance performance.

"What's he doing?" Shelly leaned to Trent.

"Hell. I don't know or fucking care." Trent frowned.

Everyone watched Rich whirl like a dancer around his boot heels to complete twelve feet, using his six feet arm span like a math ruler. He marked off a set of the invisible spaces on the visible wall for some silly billionaire purpose. Rich faced the billionaires with a nod and a smile. "There now. We have an invisible wall of one bedroom that measures 12 feet long by 12 feet wide," he dropped both his arms and twirled to face the wall. "Hmm. I still don't know how many folks fit inside this invisible room." He frowned, hearing the other rednecks laugh.

Dalton scooted an ass from the chair, advancing to the corner wall on the opposite end of Rich and stood against the beige paint, squeezing between the plaster and a box of hot beer, facing the billionaires with a chuckle and a smile. "You're almost there, buddy. One, my first outstretched arm span like a flying American eagle makes up one body inside the 12 feet by 12 feet master bedroom." He twirled in a half circle to the right, measuring six feet also. "Two." He twirled in another half circle to the right, measuring six feet, using his body like a rule too. "Three body swirls make up the eighteen feet lengthwise wall, Rich."

Holt stood and moved with a chuckle to Dalton. "That's a grand concept, boy. But you're too big."

"I like big...bigger man." Dalton faced Holt with a grunt and a grin, hearing the other rednecks laugh.

Holt looked down with a sour frown to see the penis location on Dalton. "Not down there, asshole." He slammed Dalton on the twin collar bones, looking up with a smile and a nod. "Up here, asswipe. Your broad shoulder tips are too wide for an average man-size measurement. Since ya stand at six plus but not bigger then I, boy." Holt chuckled and viewed Rich. "We need a smaller model for a side-to-side measurement of the wall to fit the maximum amounts of upright bodies, Rich," he chuckled at the silly mental and physical exercise.

Rich nodded. "Okay. I agree. How many feet by width and length inside a person's sleeping twin bed?" He pulled out his mobile telephone for the posed question, moving and sitting in his chair at the table. The billionaires copy Rich's maneuver too for fun.

"Do you want two linen sheets and a bed spread added into them twin bed dimensions, Rich?" Trent laughed, thumb typing on his mobile telephone for the answer of the competitive mental game before the rest of the billionaires.

Cole smiled. "A twin bed has an average dimension of thirty nine inches wide by seventy nine inches tall."

Rich shook his skull. "Naw. That's still too big. How many feet in a baby bed sleeping mattress?"

Molly read from her mobile telephone with a smile. "A standard baby crib mattress is twenty four inches wide by fifty four inches in height. Why are we doing this silly math problem, Rich?"

"That's a little man, not an average man of height." Trent frowned.

Dalton chuckled. "Just right, Rich."

Holt shook his curls. "I think the width is a little tiny bit too long at twenty four inches, Rich. I'll make it about twenty two inches, a good average for more bodies, that is." Holt and Dalton laughed and moved back to their chairs.

Rich thumb typed on his mobile telephone. "There's twelve inches in a foot. A twelve foot long wall is 144 inches. So if the body is twenty two inches in length, standing against the 144 inched wall, then you can stand 6.5 bodies against one solid wall." Rich viewed and smiled to Dalton and Holt.

Holt chuckled. "I would put only six bodies, Rich. That's six upright standing bodies across two walls and six upright standing bodies, going deep down two walls. That's six plus six plus six plus six equals the number twenty four, making the final total of upright standing bodies, staying inside a single twelve feet wide by twelve feet long bedroom, totally full."

"Thanks, Holt." Rich smiled.

Shelly waved his hands with a sour frown for attention. "Jeezus, Rich! We got more important stuff to talk about. Stop playing the silly word games with Holt and Dalton."

"We got plenty of time, ya'll." Rich typed on his mobile telephone. "Two bedrooms are forty eight bodies. The kitchen is smaller at about ten feet wide by ten feet long, so that makes the body count about four. Four times four equals sixteen upright standing folks," he nodded and viewed to Dalton.

Dalton grinned. "Get it."

"Rich?" Beatrice frowned.

"Almost done, here. The living room will be much bigger than 12 feet wide by 12 feet long. Let's for fun make it about 20 feet wide by 15 feet long, Dalton. That calculates into 52 upright standing bodies. Now, we add the numbers of 24 plus 24 plus 16 plus 52, getting a grand total of 116 upright standing bodies." Rich smiled to Dalton and Holt.

The other billionaires stared at the three rednecks, pondering the silliness.

Dalton winked to Rich. "I'll make it 120 bodies for an even smooth number for my easy arithmetic," chuckling.

Shelly nodded, "We got almost all the money. We got almost all the land. We got almost all the people. We ain't got almost all them government crooks that keep pestering us."

Trent frowned. "Pissing us off. What's the plot, Rich?"

"Let's pretend that we hold all four aces in the card deck, ya'll. We still have the constant pain in the ass problem of securing the invisible border of the USA which has caused this entire gawd damn mess. Because, cheap labor jumps like dog fleas over the wooden fence and works for the white man that gets rich quickly. Then the white man don't give a fucking shit, if the other white man across his city street starves or dies. Since he has moved his fine princely person into the White House or into the US Congress, where both assholes run our entire nation right into the red dirt clay." Shelly frowned with angry, frustration, and disappointment.

"I believe Shelly's summary is both valid and correct." Wade nodded.

"What's the ploy, Rich?" Trent said. Cole smiled to Holt. Holt grinned to Dalton. Dalton giggled to Cole.

Cole smiled. "We storm DC, next."

"Why?" Trent frowned.

Cole grinned. "Steal their rumble."

"Steal their rambling mores like a better term there, Cole." Dalton chuckled.

Cole smiled. "We steal the hundred male and female senators and four hundred plus congress women and men right out of their leather chairs, since we be equal status, too. Right, Miss Beatrice?" Beatrice nodded. Cole said. "Since we pay their US salaries and US vacation benefits as a team of good USA taxpayers. Then we repossess, repose, and reposition their fat and lazy asses, standing on the invisible border lines of the good old America, defending the red, white, and blue on our lands and around our seas..."

"...with their mouths, boring the poor illegal aliens to death. That does not sound like a valid or successful plan, Cole." Shelly shook his skull.

"I like." Trent grinned.

"Me, too," Beatrice grinned.

"Let them itchy trigger fingers do the talking with them loaded shotguns." Holt laughed.

Molly frowned. "Can we do that, Rich?"

Beatrice smirked. "When do we do that, Rich?"

Rich frowned. "How? That is the question. The Capitol Building grounds beautifully composes 274 acres of green colored pretty lawns, an array of long people vanilla colored walkways, a couple of busy traffic streets, zillions of eatable plants and pastel blooming flowers along with guards, guards, guards..."

"O my." Dalton slapped a hand over his smile.

"There are outside marble terraces on the north, west, and south sides of the Capitol Building. That's a lot of eye bird spying from some different folks' eyeballs. Billionaire geniuses, how do we get them out of the building? Since I want alive bodies, not dead ones, Dalton. Any ideas or suggestions pop out of your brain cells?" He raised his mobile telephone with a smile and a nod. "To the cells, ya'll." Each mobile telephone softly landed with a plop on top of the table surface.

Trent read the mobile telephone. "The Capitol Building has a series of downstairs basements with their own set of bathrooms. Anyways, we take them down to the basement tunnel that leads to their underground private subway that leads to their individual private offices inside the other capital congress building, named something whatever too long for me to repeat."

"Too much time," Beatrice read the mobile telephone.

"Too many guards," Shelly thumb typed on the mobile telephone.

"Guns take out the guards," Holt smiled.

"Guns take care of the guards," Dalton smiled.

"No one is killed for fun only," Rich frowned.

Dalton smiled. "Mr. President."

"Dibs," Holt smirked.

Dalton shook his curls. "Naw."

"First dibs," Holt laughed.

Dalton shook his curls "Ah naw. No dibs. Whoever races and reaches the bastard, first which will be I? I gets the fatal kill shot."

"Spoken like a true turkey shooter, Dalton." Holt laughed.

"Second dibs." Cole smiled.

"Shut up, Cole." Dalton frowned and viewed Cole.

Shelly said. "There's a metal staircase, leading up to the top of brass-tainted dome of the Capitol Building for flying them out, using a set of quick dropping hyper speedy helicopters during a night mission."

"Ah naw. Too dangerous, for me," Cole chuckled.

"I get seasick," Dalton read his mobile telephone for more answers.

"There is 365 steps on that metal staircase that goes up to the brass-tainted dome top that represents each day of the calendar year," Shelly smiled.

"In the basement of the Capitol Building, there's a utility room with two marble bathtubs from the olden days of the elaborate senator baths." Holt frowned. "Damn. Did those people stripped naked and bath at their work place? That's sick. They used to bathe there, before the invention of modern plumbing which consisted of a spa-like facility, containing several bathtubs, a barbershop, and a massage parlor."

Dalton chuckled. "Now days, they have sex behind their privately closed door offices on top of the fake oak work desks."

"Dalton's sick." Shelly frowned.

"But his words are so dang true." Trent read his mobile telephone.

"There are 2,000 car parking spaces with parking rates from six to nineteen dollars for parking your personal vehicle." Ann read her mobile telephone.

"We don't pay for nothing," Dalton thumb typed on his mobile phone.

"I see that too, Miss Ann. It states that the money rates are six to nineteen dollars that an American taxpayer coughs up for visiting a place that represents their native born country. But the staff members of the Capitol Building don't pay shit for parking their personal cars. Every business in the city makes employees pay for parking their personal vehicles. Plus, that car garage is at the east end of the National Mall." Trent read his mobile telephone.

Rich shook a skull. "Naw. Too far away for a quick get-of-town plan."

Cole read the mobile telephone. "There's art work inside the Capitol Building. Did ya'll know that, Rich?"

Molly read the mobile telephone. "I've found that there are 5,772 car parking spaces assigned to the Capitol Building with an extra 2,180 car spots underneath the Rayburn House office building, Rich also. There are 100 senators and 435 representatives. Why don't we use our army of rebels and tote all the 500-plus bodies from the Capitol to their private cars? Then we all safely escape DC like an action adventure Hollywood movie, Rich," she chuckled.

Cole read the mobile telephone. "The Senate has a private collection of art paintings, stone sculptures, hand printed graphic art photos, and decorative art trinkets, comprising over 2,500 objects. The 2,500 objects all represent the ancient and new American history of the USA. Did ya'll know that, Dalton?"

"Excellent idea, Miss Molly." Rich nodded. "Keep looking for more ideas."

"Pretty good plan, Miss Molly. But we will be under a time constraint and hot-wiring a car takes a lot of precious seconds without the car keys." Trent said. Molly nodded and read the mobile telephone for more information.

Beatrice read the mobile telephone. "There is a bus tour from the Union Station subway terminal, halting directly at the parking lot pavement of the Capitol Building. I can supply all the buses ya want for that trip, if we use that entrance point."

Cole read his mobile telephone. "The Senate maintains over seventy oil paintings, created by some of America's most pre-eminent artists, commemorating many of the great persons and events of our national history like Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, and Howard Cobb. Who's Howard Cobb, ya'll?"

"And I supply all the guns that ya'll need, Rich." Dalton smiled.

"No guns, Dalton." Rich read the mobile telephone. "Thanks, Miss Beatrice. That's a good idea too."

Shelly said. "Okay. Here's the grand plan. Get each rebel a visitor pass into the Capitol Building, then bang the skull of each senator with a club, not to death. Then we tarry. Ya like that word? It's a Bible word. We tarry their asses to their personal cars, while Dalton and his outlaws hot-wire all the fucking cars. The end," smiling.

"Naw," Rich read the mobile telephone.

Cole read the mobile phone. "There are eighty two pieces of limestone curved head sculptures, holding a collection of real American figures in our national USA history, including Aaron Burr, John Adams, and Aysh-ke-bah-ke-ko-zhay."

"Who?" Holt frowned.

"A member of the Indian delegation, who sold off the precious rich Native American Indian lands in the wild-ass US State of Minnesota, so it says right here." Cole smiled.

Holt mouth spat the salvia on the floor with a sneer. "Man, I would hang his Native American Indian head on a steel pike and not in a museum full of pale-faced white men. Since the USA assholes stole all their lands from the true natives of North American."

"Holt's got Indian blood like me," Sylvia smiled.

"Holt's got an Indian feud with the white man," Dalton looked to see Wade with a smile. "Watch your damn scalp, Waddling." Wade ignored the silly hillbilly homework assignment and read the morning newspaper.

Cole read the mobile phone. "There are 1,000 pieces of antique leather desk chairs, clocks, wooden trinket boxes, and some eye-seeing mirrors. Why ya need a mirror in your congress office?"

Penny read the mobile telephone. "I like the idea of a protest march from the Capitol Reflection Pool to the bottom of the concrete stairs of the Capitol Building. That's our right as stated in the First Amendment which is not illegal or unusual for a peaceful but not a violent party," she frowned and viewed the hair roots of Dalton.

Dalton looked up and winked to Penny. "Shore. Folks are crawling all over them steps of Capitol Hill office building, demanding their bank account monies, more food stuffs, and lots of jobs. They sit their asses on the hard concrete and refuse to budge. Then they all get carted off to city jail by the local DC police and their DC dogs, after dusk when the grounds close. So we just march between the fools and prance into the hallway of Capital Building like Santa's reindeer."

Molly frowned to Dalton. "Do not make fun of the American folks, Dalton. We are all Americans, who need to help each other in our tanked US economy and like The Good Book said."

"I didn't mean to be a meanie." Dalton smiled to Molly.

"Of course, you do, ya redneck son of shotgun." Holt chuckled.

Rich looked up and nodded to Penny. "Excellent idea, Miss Penny. We stage an active but loud and peaceful American people upsurge from the Capitol waterfall and across the manicured lawn. A manicured lawn that gets mowed with taxpayers' monies goes all the way to the front porch of the pillar columns of the Capitol Building. How many folks, Albert?"

Holt said. "Problem there? We got the federal workforce people and mega tons of lobbying shoppers, lest ya forget. Bum. Bum. Bum. the US Federal Government security paid patrol. Ya can't enter any building without an ID or walk over a polished tile without running into an armed Capitol police man or woman, Miss Penny. The east and west fronts of the Capitol are closed to the taxpaying Americans. And the entire office building has a set of inoperable bullet-proof windows on the top floors along with a restricted roof access. Denying Dalton and his cowboy snipers the opportunity to pick off a few fat bastards and bastardettes."

"Female version," grinned Dalton.

Shelly read his mobile telephone. "The United States Capitol police have checkpoints to inspect vehicles at specific locations around Capitol Hill. They screen visitors on the thoroughfares at two streets, surrounding the building, at the intersection city streets of Constitution Avenue and Independence Avenue. It is there that all the Capitol visitors are screened by a magnetometer. What's that?"

"Each one of your smart phones contains a magnetometer, working like a compass, providing geographic directions of you and your house." Dalton read his mobile telephone.

"GPS," Rich read his mobile telephone.

Shelly smiled, "No prob. We are American citizens. We will be able to pass through the guarded checkpoints. I'm not worried about that."

Trent read the mobile telephone. "In additional to the US Capitol police, I got the plot for the outside Capitol front doors on the front porch. Four US flags fly high and tall over the Capitol Building. Two sets of flag poles are located at the base of the dome on the east and west side. These flagpoles have flown over the Capitol, since World War Two. Whoa. That's awesome. There are two other flag poles right above the north side of the Senate wing and south side of the House of Representatives wing of the building. And the flags are raised and lowered every morning by a set of US Capitol doorkeepers. So we plant a foursome or more of our rebel boys and girls and then take care of the exterior Capital security guards, Rich."

Beatrice shook her curls. "The tour buses must dispel a paying American farther away from the Capitol Building for the senator's protection. Then the paying American travels on his own two booted feet to one of the US Capitol police security checkpoint posts. I do not see how Cole's brilliant but impossible mission will work. No offense, Cole. I don't get it." She frowned to Cole.

Rich read the mobile telephone. "Americans love their garlands of flowers and ceremony, belles and beaus. The Capitol Building has the famous Rotunda and two wings. The north wing is the senate chamber and the south wing is the representatives' chamber. Above each chamber is an open four walled court-like gallery for visitors, who watch their elected official bullshit over nothing." He looked up with a smile to see each face. "Ladies and gentlemen, we will attack from the air waves of the second level..."

"...using a set of rappelling ropes and hammer jacks." Holt smiled.

"TNT," Trent smiled.

"Laser beams," Cole smiled.

"I like Cole. He's a true redneck smartass." Holt chuckled.

Rich nodded, "Then, we pound upon the lazy sons of bitches and daughters of bastards, tying their hands and feet like roped calves and then..."

"They'll holler like mewing kittens from their mama's tit, Rich." Shelly nodded.

Trent frowned. "I have mentioned before that there are two underground tunnels and a private subway that connects the main Capitol Building to each congressional office buildings with their own set of guards."

"Guns handle that problem. That's me." Dalton smiled.

"Dalton's only deadly role," Holt chuckled.

"There will be 100 senators and 435 representatives, who mew like kittens. Plus, there are 2,600 other employees inside the Capitol, who will watch, see, and hear both them and us." Beatrice frowned. The newspaper page rattled from a non-busy Wade.

Cole read the mobile telephone. "The senate chamber looks like a theater with one hundred school desks. See, these things?" He pointed to his mobile phone. "They are made from expensive and polished golden brown mahogany wood. In 1819, the same year Alabama came into the US, the US Senate purchased forty eight desks which look like my elementary grade school furniture. That's very old and very antique and very valuable. What'da ya think, Rich?"

Wade hide and read behind the newspaper with a stern face. "In 1923, a practicing physician began his first term in the US Senate. He noted quickly the poor air quality inside the four-walled enclosed chamber. The enclosed chamber had caused premature deaths of thirty four serving senators. He cited and blamed the air quality for spreading a series of common illnesses plus a general discomfort during the summertime inside the dry heated air-circulated room." He flipped the next page, reading another article about deadly threats to his person as the bank robber for stealing the money. He said. "We pollute the breathing air system, running through the old walls of newly installed steel-plated air conditioning vents via the Capitol power plant. The power plant has provided steam and chilled water for both heat and cool into the US Capital Building, since December 1910. The design of the power plant generates 62,000 pounds of steam-per-hour and 4,200 tons of refrigeration air which is contained inside three separate boilers of three electric-driven mechanical chillers. The chillers produce chilled water which is used for cooling their hot heads and their heated debates," he smirked, reading the newspaper. Silence echoed into the room.

"Yeehaw." Dalton stood with a smile and nod and kicked his chair as it hit the wall.

Holt stood, saluting to Wade. "Wade, the true first born Bama redneck." Claps and hoots of the billionaires attacked the air with furious delight. Wade continue to sit and read the newspaper.

Trent grinned. "We use some type of mist inside the air conditioning system. It's hot up there in DC. The arrogant senators use tons of cool air conditioning fumes."

"What kind of mist, Dr. Sylvia?" Rich leaned to her face with a smirk.

Sylvia looked to each billionaires. "This is an original American fairy tale come true for the rebels and the rebellion of the USA. I would suggest that we use a subtle invisible type of sleeping potion that dissipates kinda rapidly like the one in the children's fairy tale called Sleeping Beauty. I will create and manufacture that particular drug product for you, Rich. O. I read. Inside both of the congressional chambers, a personal gas mask lies underneath each chair for each senator and representative's nostrils and lips, in case an urgent emergency or maybe a redneck kidnapping," chuckling.

Shelly chuckled. "Put 'em to sleep then haul all their asses out of the Capitol Building into vans located inside the Capitol parking lot. The end."

Trent shook a skull, fingering his mobile telephone. "Naw, now. This is much better. There is an under-the-building concrete man-made cavern, a three level, 580,000 square foot United States Capitol Visitor Center which is nicknamed 'CVC.' The CVC brings all the Capitol visitors through one handicap accessible security checkpoint, a few yards away from the Capitol Building, itself. The CVC showed visiting foreign strangers plus American folks all kinds of educational exhibits, where they can eat food and pee in the Washington River with a cost of 621 million dollars. Jeezus. So that's where my lunch money went."

"I like," Shelly smiled.

Trent laughed. "Call in Arthol and them two former SS guards, they worked at the Capitol."

Dalton shook his skull. "They worked and protected Mr. President. Anyways, they be busy shooting up Coville," chuckling.

"What?" Cole dropped his mouth.

"The under the ground CVC has a gathering point for 4,000 folks all at one time. Golly. That's a church picnic." Trent smiled.

Penny smiled. "I like a big spacey room for all the 100 senators and 435 representatives. Did you know that the US Federal Government employs over 20,000 people in the private work force of America?"

"The Capitol Building on a daily basis holds an average work shift of 2,602 workers, including the United States Capitol police, who stroll up and down the busy crowded public hallways." Beatrice read her mobile telephone.

Trent read his mobile telephone "The CVC includes an entrance point from the parking lot on First Street. The entrance reception space is called the Emancipation Hall. The space is a holding zone for all the Capitol visitors, waiting to take their tours of the restricted spots inside Capitol Building, coming directly and only from the Exhibition Hall. The Exhibition Hall has American movie films, two gifts shops, a 450 seated theater, and a 530 seated food court. The Capitol tours are free and available online for order in advance on a first come, first serve basis or through your native US State's representative," laughing.

Molly read her mobile telephone. "The Exhibition Hall includes an eleven foot high tactile polyurethane model of the Capitol dome. The hall is dominated by a pair of beautifully curving 93 foot marble walls, lined with lots of historical artifacts and an interactive touch-screen for a movie film. And the hall also includes a rare collection of American documents, signed by both Presidents George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. O. This is very important. There are two large flat screen televisions, allowing visitors to watch a live telecast..."

"...kidnapping," chuckled Holt.

Molly nodded. "The TV screen showed a live telecast of both the representatives and senate inside their chamber during the American law making proceedings."

Holt chuckled. "Thanks, Miss Molly. Shelly will take care them TV plasmas and cameras. Right, Shelly?"

"With my great big sledgehammer workout. Right, Holt?" Shelly flexed his thin arm muscles with a smile and a chuckle.

Ann read her mobile telephone. "The Emancipation Hall inside the CVC measures 20,000 square feet and contains two large skylights at 30 feet high by 70 feet wide, allowing for a bottom view of the Capitol dome. The skylights add a significant amount of natural light into the Emancipation Hall while sitting around the roof deck, admiring a 20 foot bronze cast of the Statue of Freedom. The Statue of Freedom is located inside the center of the Emancipation Hall flanked by a set of twin stairs. The twin stairs lead up and to the second level of the Capitol Building directly into the congress chamber gallery. The gallery contains numerous visitor chairs for watching and observing our US politicians at work."

"There are also official senator conference rooms for storing the sleeping babies, Rich." Penny smiled.

"That's another 170,000 square feet of floor space for them folks to bull shit some more inside their comfy committee meeting rooms with tons of food inside a 350 foot diner, while the true Americans starve." Holt sneered.

"Or ya can lay out a set of new dead corpses there? Since they don't need food to eat." Dalton chuckled.

"No killings." Rich frowned.

He wiggled in his chair, finding the location of the CVC and something more important. "Rich, there are two separate tunnels constructed as part of the CVC project. The first is a 1,000 foot long truck service tunnel located north on Constitution Avenue." Trent smiled.

"Really, Trent? Tell me the web site that you're studying?" Cole thumb typed on his mobile telephone for the electronic tiny map.

Shelly ignored Cole, saying to Rich. "The goal is to alleviate numerous service truck deliveries that jam up the car traffic, coming and going to the Capitol Building, the Capitol office building, and the other Capitol structures. Then there is a second tunnel completely constructed for foot moving folks and rolling people wheelchairs directly connected from the CVC and going to the Library of Congress. The library is about 1,000 feet in the other direction underneath the parking lot of the Capitol Building. A person moves to an unguarded exit point on First Street near Independence Avenue. This is an excellent get away point, where we can load them sleepy beasties and beauties onto the many, many tour buses. The great big ones like Miss Penny has suggested. Then we fly them bastards by helicopters to the border security check points throughout the USA." Claps and hoots came from the billionaires.

"Brilliant, Shelly! We do just that." Rich smiled.

Cole smiled. "Rich, I wanna. I suggest that we place a delivery truck or two at the other end of the first constructed tunnel on Constitution Avenue. Ya know kinda keeping up the appearance of a working Capitol office atmosphere? I can supply the service trucks. I'll take care of that. Okay with ya, Rich?"

Rich smiled. "Good idea, Cole. Thanks for all the valuable and collected input, ya'll. I know how we sneak into the CVC. We are going be disguised as a set of honored and proud but fake veterans from war in wheelchairs..."

"No." Molly shook both her curls and her hands. "Rich, I must loudly protest which is both a dishonor to our proud war veterans and our proud Americans, who can't stroll about on their own two biological feet."

Rich nodded. "Miss Molly, I agree with your vocal protest and I also apology profusely. But I'd like to point out the historical Boston Tea Party in the great State of Massachusetts. The first of many true American heroes who were known simply as the colonists. The colonies were disguised as our Native American Indians. Then they proudly raided three British merchant ships and threw the cargo of tea boxes into the Boston Harbor rather than pay the British tax on their imported commodity. This was a major focal point igniting the Revolutionary War, giving birth to the greatest nation on the planet, the United States of America, not separate states of America. Then the thirteen American colonies created the basic culture, social, and economic changes, including life, liberty, and the pursuit of freedom. We here are going to give back to the Americans, not Mexicans, not Europeans, and not Asians."

"Amen." Trent smiled.

Holt smiled, "Rich for president."

Dalton smiled, "Rich for dictator."

"The world history books have portrayed the USA as a shining nova star, an example of a nation created by colonial people, who were freed to govern by its own representatives." Albert said.

"Who ain't doing their dang jobs," Dalton frowned.

"Right on, Dalton." Holt nodded.

"So we're going to cause a second revolutionary war to change the way of life in this country." Beatrice frowned.

"And the character of a new national government back to a democratic representative one." Shelly nodded.

"We be called revolutionaries," Cole smiled.

"I like billionaires, best." Wade read the local newspaper.

"A revolution might or might not change the character of the country. For example, the Russian Revolution of 1917 deposed the Czar but eliminated the rights to private real estate property. After 22 years, the Chinese communists finally beat back with a short stick and two flip-flops the Nationalist Chinese government in the year 1949, involving heavy use of guerrilla warfare, a common format of combat among modern revolutionaries." Albert said.

"Including the USA," Trent nodded.

"The ever-rotating new Latin American government replaces their dead dictator without making any more process in the control of their government over the common peoples. This is called a coup d'état." Albert said.

"I like the term rebellion." Cole smiled.

"We be rebels," Dalton chuckled and fist bumped with Holt.

"Bring back the rebel flag," Trent smiled.

"I got one in my basement from my daddy, a long time ago," Holt smiled.

"Hey. We call our attack, a coup d'toot." Cole chuckled.

"Coup d'toot," Shelly smiled.

"Coup d'toot," Holt chuckled.

"I like." Dalton smiled and fist bumps with Cole. "Coup d'toot."

"And Adolph Hitler took power from the people and for himself as dictator of Germany, after he was appointed chancellor." Albert frowned.

"Hitler was an asshole, not a rebel. There's a big diff, then and now." Trent nodded.

"Face it. The cause of a rebel revolution is always dissatisfaction in the current system of fat government along with its single asshole leader. Especially, when poverty, unemployment, and injustice slapped the right cheekbone of its citizen under the command of a crude, corrupt, or shit ass ruler like George Washington, Junior." Shelly nodded.

"The French Revolution of 1848 started when King Louis Philippe established a government that would benefit the working class kinda like Rich's plot." Albert frowned.

"That works for me." Trent smiled.

"Gone on, Albert." Rich nodded.

"The rich aristocrats got mad. Since they didn't want to share their vanilla cake with the side dish of chocolate ice cream. The peasants got more mad and then invaded the royal palace, making Louis flee his big castle, starting a vicious people-rebellion. The rebellion led to many bloody street battles in the city streets of Paris plus tons of emigration into the new land of America. Since the Frenchmen partnered with us in our bloody 1776 Revolutionary War. After the blood stains dried, Napoleon was elected president." Albert said.

"A psychopath became a dictator like our Mr. President." Shelly frowned.

"Albert has learned to be a redneck, finally. Ya'll listen to his revised academic speech patterns." Holt smiled.

Albert smiled for the first time with a nice compliment from the bold billionaire.

Rich said. "The historical social lesson in our own country discovered that the thirteen American colonies didn't have to depend upon the 'mother country' of England for their livelihood. The colonists could provide food and security for their own families. In the 1700s, a typical American family owned a small or large farm landscape, while the city folks were the craftsmen or tradesmen. Both cultures created a nice balanced social and economic society of planters for food and merchants for goods. That's our goal for our new USA, first. The second new goal, good fucking riddance to our current economic system of freeloaders plus gimme scum baggers and then balance the food into more hungry mouths."

Beatrice smiled. "Amen."

"The Crown of British made a major mistake. They tried to tighten an arm muscle grip both financial by taxing and taking the gold from the colonies, and socially by barking ordered like a mama dog at her wayward puppies, coming across a vast deep blue ocean." Rich said.

"Like a dictator," Dalton frowned.

Rich nodded, "Pissing off the new American colonies, so a war exploded and created us, the sons and the daughters of our forefathers long, long, long time ago."

Dalton smiled. "Patrick Henry's rallying cry, 'Give me liberty or give me death?'"

Trent read on his mobile telephone. "Like in the Revolutionary War of 1776, the Colonial army invaded the land newly called Canada then they swept the Canadian bastards back into their home country."

"Well spoken, Trent." Cole nodded.

"Says here, Commander Benedict Arnold marched them boys to Canada by pushing through the woodlands of Maine and then camped on the outskirts of Quebec. Then Commander Arnold eventually fell back into the American territory without any fist fighting from them chicken shit Canadians. By the way, historically, Canada has remained a British possession, even today." Holt read his mobile telephone.

"Who wants to storm Canada?" Dalton chuckled.

"Let us not allow history to repeat itself, beaus and belles, especially the beaus," Trent smiled.

Molly smiled. "Amen."

"Says here, the assault forces in the south were far more success than the northern patriots." Cole read his mobile telephone.

"Southern rebels." Holt smiled.

"The southern boys run off a British Earl from his tobacco plantation in Virginia, and a British governor from his cotton farm in North Carolina. And they held the Moore's Creek Bridge in Wilmington, North Carolina against 1,000 redcoats." Cole smiled.

Dalton chuckled. "Yeehaw. The south will rise over the sunset, again."

"The freshly elected 1776 Congress organized a sea navy with their own water ships for many of the sea battles. Are we going to have some water fun, Rich?" Shelly smiled.

Rich said. "Naw."

"The foreign country of French entered the war in the year 1778, siding with us that helped us become the winner of the local beauty pageant." Cole read his mobile telephone with a giggle.

Albert said. "Did you know that on Feb 6, 1778, King Louis XVI signed a treaty to aid us with an army of brave soldiers and a fleet of strong ships that attacked the British warships, substituting as our entire offensive and defensive core of the USA swim team? We were only an infant US Navy, with fifty freighter ships, aided by 2,000 sea pirates with their smaller sea craft vessels. At the end of the Revolutionary War, there were 25,300 American dead from gunshot, disease, or hardship along with a total financial cost estimated at 101million dollars, bringing all sides of the battle field under a great financial woe for us, Great Britain, and France. We printed our own paper money. But it became worthless without two years which caused the France government to suffer into its own financial bankruptcy. Then the country of France erupted into its own coup d'toot, leading into the French Revolution of 1789. Does that name ring a bell from your college world history as a new nation of rebels sorta help create back them?" He smiled.

"Bullshit, Albert." Dalton frowned.

Albert smiled. "True shit, Dalton. History does not lie."

Trent asked. "Do the Americans know this?"

"Hell. Do them Frenchmen remember? That's the proper question, Trent?" Shelly laughed.

"How much money do we owe the French government?" Penny asked.

Molly read the financial report. "We own the foreign country of France 200 billion US dollars."

"Beaus and belles, the school lesson from our own Revolutionary War of 1776, the military roster did not involve a large number of men or women. Both sides were evenly matched with their modern day weapons in the format of standard issued muskets, canons, and rifles. However, the enemy used their soldiers coupled with a gang of hired mercenaries to fight in the battle, making the odds in their favor with 50,000 redcoats compared to the 20,000 rebels." Albert said.

"Yeehaw." Dalton chuckled. "Because, the new American rebellion faces the same damn odds," nodding.

Albert said. "The enemy fought the rebels on crop land, in forest woodlands, on top of snowy mountains, on the beach, and in the sea during nighttime and daytime from Quebec, Canada to Florida over to southwestern Illinois for eight long and hard years from April 19, 1775 to November 25, 1783. Finally, all the redcoats exited the new free land of the rebels, sailing back home to their native country of England of wussies. The most important lesson, one-fourth of the colonists supported the enemy, not the rebel."

"When a spy was caught, he was killed on sight." Dalton read his mobile telephone.

Trent smiled. "And at the end of it all, the newly formed US Federal Government was born and rewarded all her loyal war veterans with new land and tons of money for their American patriotism."

"Where the hell's that dedication gone?" Shelly frowned.

"....to the fucking ass Chinese," Cole frowned.

Holt nodded. "Well spoken, Trent."

"We're going to take back what's ours and what's our families for the old set of American patriots." Shelly nodded.

"We face the same mathematical odds that the original thirteen colonists did in the year 1776, Rich." Albert said.

Rich smiled. "That we'll win, ya'll. The overall plan is to schedule a peaceful rally on the hard concrete steps of the Capitol Building with many, many tour buses of folks. Pay 'em with cash money and bring 'em plenty of picnic baskets of food. No beer or alcoholic spirits. Plus, some big loudmouth speakers speaking, since we want folks to talk, not yodel."

Trent said. "That takes care of the deception. What's the detailed plan, Rich?"

Rich nodded. "During the nosily people rally, we roll them sleepy ass senators, compliments of Wade's brilliant historical idea and Dr. Sylvia's brilliant medical mind, down the underground parking lot, compliments of Shelly's genius. Then the wheelchairs connect to the foot tunnel, coming from the Capitol Building into the Library of Congress. Then the big tour buses, compliments of Miss Penny, wait for the VIP congressional riders and rides them to the airport. I know what ya'll are thinking. We have rebel-friends that can assist us with lots of different rebel-resources. I do that part of the planning, ya'll. So, coup d'toot." He smiled.

The billionaires shout. "Coup d'toot. Coup d'toot. Coup d'toot. Coup d'toot...
August 13th Saturday

8:33 a.m.

Washington DC (745 miles northeast from Birmingham)

Constitution Avenue roadway

Mostly sunny with four mph winds

59 percent humidity at 72ºF

Bus ride of Cole and Trent plus rebels

Cole held the pole, standing inside one of the numerous moving tour buses. His buddy Trent comfortably sat inside the second expanded wheelchairs of four on the first row of chairs with a laptop fucking his dick. Trent used a red colored laser pointer, attacking the projected electrical map of the Washington DC on the ceiling of the bus. The electronic map was labeled with the city streets and the historical monument spots. Cole narrated the rebel-mission to all the rebel-volunteers. Some of the rebel-volunteers were real life US war veterans, who were skipping their precious family time at the moment. All the hard working rebel-volunteers were really hard working Americans, who lived, worked, and played coming from one of the newly created block communities.

Each block community was solely owned by one rebel-billionaire for both protection and preservation of all Americans. All the big boys and girls appeared and acted like a bunch of fake wounded war veterans, traveling with an upright moving companion, who steered the wheelchair. All the war veterans wore a fake orthopedic limb cast over a few various body parts with a series of fake white bandages over their fake bloody body parts, compliments of Sylvia. She had thoroughly enjoyed applying sets of fake brown and yellow bruises and reddish-pink skin cut to the rebel-volunteers. She had used water-based paints, coming from the third grade art class as she decorated her fake medical patients for both fun and duty.

Inside the tour bus, each rebel-volunteers sat or stood while listening to Cole. Cole pointed to the ceiling. "The US Capitol Building is a monument, a working office building and one of the most recognizable symbols of a representative democracy in the entire world." The rebels sounded with a boo. Cole looked down with a sour frown to see each painted face. "Looky, Waddling told me to intro that shitty stuff before our mission. The building held our most distinguished senators and congressmen." The rebels sounded with a boo again. Cole looked up with a smile to see the ceiling. Trent operated the laser pen. Cole said. "The building is bordered by the city street of Constitution Avenue to the north, Independence Avenue to the south, and First Street to the east and west. Its located at the far eastern end of the National Mall beyond the Capitol reflecting fucking pool of stale water," he chuckled with the rebels. "The Capitol grounds are open to all visitors and protestors and rebels," he chuckled with the rebels, again. "For your convenience, the Capitol Visitor Center or CVC," he eye rolled as the rebels chuckled. He nodded, "The CVC provides an on-demand shuttle service for those of us faking the need for manual wheelchairs, running from the corner of the Capitol Square at Independence Avenue to the CVC." The rebels sounded with a boo again.

Cole smiled. "For our convenience, after busting a few hairy balls and breaking a few hairy nostrils." The rebels chuckled. He continued. "The CVC has nicely asked us to park our many, many big expensive super tour buses, right here." The laser circled the parking lot on the electronic map. "We will fully occupy the entire twin parking lots in the rear of the US Capitol Building on First Street. The stupid pamphlet suggests to begin our Capitol experience at the CVC while visiting the Exhibition Hall." The laser circled the hall as the rebels sounded with a boo. Cole said. "Then we can peruse one or both of the gifts shops on both sides of the hallway or dine in the 530 seated restaurant. But we don't have fucking time for that shit, 'cause we got fish to catch..."

"...then grill and eat," one the rebels chuckled.

Cole looked to see each rebel. "The CVC entrance into the US Capitol Building is located beneath, that's under the earth dirt for ya'll rednecks on the east side of the building. Today, our US Congress is meeting in a special session to increase our US Federal taxes." The rebels sounded with a boo. Cole laughed. "I do not lie. So they are here and all accounted for. Okay. The CVC is open to visitors us, not protestors like our sister group." The rebels sounded with a cheer. He said. "The hours are from 8:30 am to 4:30 pm, Monday through Saturday, except for Thanksgiving Day, Christmas Day, New Year Day, and Inauguration Day. Unless, ya plan to assassin a senator for your own personal business agenda, then you can get an appointment for the kill shooting as early as 7:15 am." He chuckled with the rebels.

"Why don't we go with that option, Cole?" Another rebel chuckled.

Cole frowned to each rebel. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are Americans, not assassins. Admission into the CVC is free. Does everyone have their hall pass? Hold it in a right hand?" He inspected his assigned team of rebel-volunteers as the rebel-commander. Trent was the rebel-captain. Cole nodded and continued. "This special tour of the US Capitol Building was scheduled last week by a very loyal rebel in advance of our prompt arrival for our booked reservation through the office of the House of Representative. It claims us as a church group." The rebels sounded with a groan.

Cole raised a palm with a nod. "I know it sounds wrong. But our forefathers did the same thing to birth a puny nation during their own historical problem and time period. We follow loyally in our forefathers' baby steps and then destroy a tyrant, not a nation. This is our home, our birth place, and our fight." The rebels sounded with a cheer. He nodded. "The aerosol mist should have. I use those two words, very softly. It should have gassed every single human, who breathed or breathed two snips of air molecules inside the entire Capitol Building. So all the bodies are asleep for a couple of hours, at least. Our rebels-infiltrators are at this moment taking care of the exterior Capitol police guards that the mist hasn't affected. And our rebel-protestors are having one big fucking ass party, peeing on the manicured green lawn and stomping cowboy boots on the pretty pastel flowers, cheering on our three rebel-senators. They do their job. So we can do ours, very quickly."

"Cole," the bus driver said and steered down Constitution Avenue to First Street.

Cole looked over to see the Capitol police security checkpoint on the Washington DC street. Trent shut down the laptop and stood, holding the pole, sliding the laptop into his wheelchair, and grabbed the stack of papers, whispering to Cole. "Got it. I have the authorization papers for all our tour buses approved by the various rebel-senators from their different native USA home US States. I've memorized our fairy tale completely. We've scheduled a special event for the vets today to see the senate hearings, coming from the various medical centers from Florida to Arizona. And I'm dress like a medical physician. Ya sit inside the wheelchair with your special little friend and watch me from behind the window for anything strange." Cole nodded.

The bus stopped. The door opened. Trent dropped down into the bright sunshine of Washington DC on a pretty August morning, trotting to the guard house, wearing a baseball cap. His white physician laboratory coat held a fake name on the left side pocket, gently fluttering during his wind storm to a sour face guard. He stopped with a grin and presented a fake driver's license from the US State of Georgia, since Trent could not fake his southern accent. He also delivered a stack of fancy vanilla colored stamped business letters from the US senators, approving this special event plus tons of stapled paper stacks, containing all fake faces, names, and addresses of the fake vets with their fake medical conditions for entering the CVC and completing the rebel-mission. Trent pointed with a grin to his baseball cap and slapped the bicep of the guard with a nod, accepting back the US congressmen and women letters from the guard. The guard kept the stacked and stapled papers, identifying all the new visitors to the CVC for the day visitation. Trent about faced with a grin underneath his black cheap sunglasses, trotting back to the bus. Cole shoved a finger to his nose, looking to each rebel-volunteers to remain both subdued and calm. Trent entered the bus with a nod and a smile, sitting in the wheelchair. The door closed. The bus driver drove and steered down First Avenue to the empty parking lot of the CVC.

Cole clapped with a smile and a nod to see the face of each rebel-volunteer. "Showtime, folks. We are tourists, not terrorists. Tourists are happy with smiley faces. So everyone plaster a fucking smile on your warrior face, now. Everyone smile for the hovering helicopters, media helicopters, and surveying Capitol police. Very good. I want the rear row to exit first, very slowly and very awkwardly. Since ya'll are supposed to be wounded. Then four of ya'll gather like chicken hens in a group and roll the chairs to the main entrance glass doors. Then the second row exit and gather like a pod of peas and move to the doors. Got me?" Each rebel nodded with a decorated baseball cap. The baseball cap was an assortment of bright red, yellow, and green fake bird feathers. The cap honored the statue of the lady inside the CVC which was named the Statue of Freedom. Each rebel also wore an individual light weight wool blanket that was duplicated in Native American style of bold red, green, brown, and black colors in the pattern shapes of horizontal to vertical stripes. The blanket covered both legs of the rebel inside the wheelchair. Or it is worn as a poncho over the chest cavity of each moving companion.

8:43 a.m.

Capitol Visitor Center

Parking lot setting

In the center spot of the Capitol Visitor Center, a colossal bronze figure of nineteen feet tall, weighing in at 15,000 pounds of dull metal, stood tall. The Statue of Freedom. The lady was designed by Thomas Crawford and had crowned the dome of the US Capitol Building in Washington DC, since 1863. The statue was a female, donning a military helmet of geometric shaped stars and an eagle's head that was crowned by an umbrella-like crest of bird feathers. She held a sheathed sword in her right hand with a laurel wreath of victory and a shield of steel in her left, and a Native American Indian fringed blanket thrown over a left shoulder. Under every rebel-blanket, there hid several sets of nylon ropes, four filtering air masks, three pairs of heavy work gloves, four hammers, four screwdrivers, and two T-shirts. Plus, numerous cloth bags, the rebel-volunteer could carry on his or her body for tons of fun stuff.

Cole moved and leaned to the bus driver with a stern face. "Park us in the far spot on the left and up front like we're a trust-worthy bunch of assholes. So the copters don't get suspicious about our many, many transports. Your captain of the ground fleet, Rondol. Ya make dang shore, each bus driver stays parked, until all the buses are unloaded with our rebels. And all the rebels have cleared the entrance doors then count to thirty seconds, using the Mississippi method. Then trot your ass over to the guard house, reminding them boys that you and the other bus drivers have finished your hired duty and will leave the war veterans. But you'll return later in the daylight hours to pick them up. Or the poor sick war veterans get stick with a huge monetary penalty fine of overtime for ya jackasses from the bus company. Ya got it?"

Rondol nodded, halting the tour bus in front of the entrance door as the hydraulics smoothly steamed the transport into a rolling stop.

Cole and Trent turned and left the bus as they were dressed in a physician laboratory coat over a pair of blue jeans. They moved to the entrance door as the first rebel-team to inspect the CVC. Since they held the only weapon of the traveling caravan inside a glove compartment of the tour bus.

8:48 a.m.

Capitol Visitor Center

Lobby setting

Cole moved over the concrete pavement, admiring the neatly manicured grass, hearing the loud words from a single microphone of the American protest which was hosted in front of the steps of the Capitol Building.

The rebel-speaker shout out loud. "This marks one of the largest American rallies on Capitol Hill for preserving our greatest asset us, Americans. There must over 150,000 people sitting, standing, clapping, cheering, and singing together, in what, I can only describe as happiness for America. Listen as we sing together the lyrics to the song America, the Beautiful. America. America. God shed His grace on thee. And crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea..." All the rebel-protestors sung the song as the secret rebel-army invaded the congressional hallways.

Cole reached for the door with a grin. "Way to go, Clyde!" He opened and held the door for Trent, who smiled at the familiar true American words also.

The open space consisted of beige tile, marking off the theater rooms, the Exhibition Hall, and the restaurant. The nineteen foot Statue of Freedom was located in the center of the room between two marble staircases that led up to the congressional galley for all CVC visitors. The walls were painted in dull beige to match the floor without any green lawn or a ray of yellow sunshine from any type of outside viewing windows. The CVC was located underneath the floor of the Capitol Building with soft artificial ceiling lights illuminated the floor and the walls, so you did not trip over your own two feet. The best scene, all the pretend dead looking Capitol guards and some early sunrise CVC employees and visitors rested uncomfortably on the smooth floor, across the hard metal benches, and over the smooth office desks as the aerosol mist had worked wonderfully with Wade's compliments. Wade had visited the Capitol power plant early this morning for his primary role of the rebel-mission.

Trent and Cole raced to the first CVC guard, who rested across his duty desk. They both lifted and dragged the heavy unconscious guard down to the floor. So he did not get hurt during the awakening process, after sniffing up the sleep mist air-borne chemicals. Trent checked both the eyelids of the guard, using his trained first aid knowledge. Then, he gently touched the man's throat, feeling a steady pulse. "It worked, superbly."

Cole grinned. The first fake wheelchair and its moving companion silently rolled through the entrance doors. He stood and turned around, fingering to the first wheelchair to park at the extreme edge of the corner wall. The wheelchairs for the second team hustled a folded wheelchair and a pair of boot toes upstairs to the US Senate and House of Representative chambers for hog tying and gathering ceremony of the VIP people. One at a time, the wheelchairs rolled from the outdoor concrete through the interior doors as Cole pointed to the side of the corner wall. Trent stood next to Cole, pointing his rebel-teams to their designated assignments also.

The first two rebel-teams of four men quickly leave the CVC reception area, scouting out and surveying the lower level for any conscious or semi-conscious Federal employees and guards. The third and fourth rebel-teams of four women invaded the restaurants, stuffing numerous empty cloth fabric bags with tons of stolen non-perishable food items for a cross country trip with the sleeping congress men and women. The rebel-teams of both Cole and Trent were the food gatherers and survey scouts to secure the upper and lower levels of the CVC, scouting the rest of the floors of the Capitol Building for other guests or visitors or employees. The survey rebel-team located and greeted the rebel-infiltrators, since they would exit as the last rebel-team out of Capitol Building, moving down the underground tunnel to the Library of Congress, where the last tour bus was parked with a running engine too.

Cole ordered the seventh rebel-team of women, pointing up to the upper floor to find and stand at the front of the exit hallway. Then the seventh rebel-team would hold a big sign painted in big black letters: ESCAPE TUNNEL TO LIBRARY.

The tour buses would leave the parking lot in another fifteen minutes and park near the lawn, killing the nicely manicured grass on Second Street at the entrance door of the Library of Congress. The library did not have enough adequate parking spaces for cars, much less, escaping felonies which needed a bus ride out of Washington DC.

The recorded female voice in alto timber said via the hidden speaker from the ceiling. "The most recognized symbol of a democratic government in the world. The United States Capitol has housed the US Congress, since 1800s. The Capitol is where the US Congress meets to write the laws of the nation..."

Dalton charged through the entrance doors, waving his hand pistol. "Shut that shit off."

Cole moved and dashed to Dalton's face, whipping the exposed gun pistol from Dalton's hand, whispering. "Boy, ya be damn lucky that them zoo handlers for the metal detectors are fast asleep." Dalton sneered as Cole pointed with a growl to the upper tiers. "Get your butt upstairs. Secure them senate chairs like I want along with the lazy ass senators too, Dalton. Then we meet ya'll at the Congressional Library." He gently shoved Dalton away his face with a snarl. Dalton slid to the side of Cole with a sneer for his role in the rebel-mission. Cole motioned to one of the rebels. The rebel approached Cole. Cole whispered and handed Dalton's personal gun pistol. Then the rebel nodded and about faced, trucking his ass out the entrance doors back to the nearest tour bus.

9:08 a.m.

Second floor setting

Dalton marched forward down the floor to the staircase of marble, sneering and scanning each room. The rebels toted full bags of merchandise from the gift shops and the restaurant then trotted upstairs. They carry the food bags to the delivery truck which was parked at the opposite end of the Capitol Building. The incoming rebels moved up the stairs ahead and behind Dalton, securing the US Congress men and women for a wheelchair ride to an empty tour bus parked at the Library of Congress. Dalton moved up one of the staircases between Cam and Holt, saying with a sour frown and a sneer. "Why does Cole want them senate chamber chairs? They weigh about forty five pounds apiece and are over two foot tall and three foot across and look like my first grade chair that I used in elementary school." He stopped and side stepped to the side wall with a puzzled brow. An empty spot was displayed naked on the wall, where someone had missed painting with the paint brush. He frowned, gingerly touching the wall.

Holt slapped on his pair of work gloves with a chuckle. "Ya know that wood is polished mahogany both expensive and rare? Maybe, he wants to sell them to make back his lost lunch money."

Dalton slid beside Cam, moving and stomping to the senate chamber, donning his work gloves too. The gloves kept the rebel-fingerprints off the walls, the tables, and the toilets. "Shit. We got plenty of money for Cole's lunch meal. Sell them things to whom, the fucking Chinese? They're too short for American furniture." He shook his curls with a snarl. The rebels passed Dalton, Holt, and Cam, toting up a set of the folded and empty wheelchairs for the congress members.

Holt chuckled. "Dalton's always the smartass bigamist."

Dalton smiled. "Damn straight and proud of it, too." They elbowed through the busy rebels as Dalton turned into a set of propped open double doors of visitor gallery and halted. The visitor gallery allowed visitor to view over the wooden railing the senator chamber.

The senator chamber was a two story rectangular room with extensive side lightning due to no exposed outside windows. Around the senator chamber, there was an open balcony. The balcony allowed you to sit and watch the dull boring making of an American law. The walls of the balcony were decorated with marble white baby busts of dead vice presidents. Eight rebels hauled, using a homemade rappelling rope system, a heavy object from the bottom level of the senator chamber up to the balcony, making loud grunts all at the same time. The object was a dark wooden church pew about five feet long with a solid back rest without any standing legs for parking on top of the blue carpet. The pew had been roughly sawed down the sides like it had been ripped from its wall mounting, holding a male with black colored hair. The unconscious body of the male leaned to right inside the pew without moving or yelling as the eight rebels lifted with all their combined man-strength the pew and the male up and over the balcony railing. Then four new rebels, using hands, arms, kneecaps, and legs, held the pew a few inches from the carpet as two different rebels lifted and placed the sleeping male senator inside an expanded wheelchair. The two more different rebels motherly fussed over the sleeping male, placing a blanket over his business suit trousers. Then one tilted the jaw of the male to the side for a more comfortable wheelie ride.

A new set of four rebels lifted the solo wheelchair seat and four rubber tires off the carpet and toted the senator down the stairs to the gallery lobby. And then the wheelchair was lowered safely down to the tile without harming the male. A new rebel steered the senator inside the wheelchair down to the CVC hallway, running sleeping senator with the rest of the moving wheelchairs to an underground tunnel. The tunnel went for 1,000 feet to the Library of Congress building and out the front entrance doors. On the street, the pair strolled directly onto a waiting tour bus, displaying a special parking permit pass, compliments of the rebel-senator. Over the balcony railing, another set of rebels worked downstairs inside the senator chamber room with the sleeping senators and the pew.

Dalton turned and grabbed the arm of the rebel, passing behind his ass, saying with a confused brow. "How do you get downstairs, buddy? Where's the elevator?"

The rebel chuckled, pointing to the second homemade rappelling rope system, shoving his arm understand Dalton's nostril with a laugh. The ropes were nicely hidden and dangerously attached to the bolted legs of three balcony chairs. "No elevators, buddy. Unless, ya wanna hike your ass back down to the CVC, then out the door, and walk all the way around the front steps of the Capitol Building. Then ya march your boot toes through the protestors then skip like a little girl down the hallway, and finally to the chamber below," he bad breathes on Dalton with a wicked grin. "That be why there's a separate entrance for them terrorists, pal," he chuckled. "Or ya can scale the rope down to the carpet like a pimpled face teen in gym class." The rebel laughed, spinning away from Dalton, trotting downstairs to retrieve some more wheelchairs for the sleeping senators. Holt and Cam laughed.

"Asshole," Dalton softly sneered, watching the rebel priss away without causing a fist fight. Some of the rebels were permanently pissed off at the USA for dumping them in Satan's hell.

Holt slapped Dalton on the collar bone with a chuckle and a grin. "When were you in gym class last?"

Another rebel strolled by Dalton, whistling a country-tune, pushing a baby food tray on four wheels. The cart rolled without the food tray attachment with two marble baby busts of dead USA vice presidents in the carriage. The dead USA vice presidential marble statues sat inside a red and white striped seat of the baby cart, going for a virtually car ride. Dalton raised his palm as the rebel stopped and smiled to Dalton. Dalton patted the fossilized white hair of the closest marble statue, saying with a grin. "He's an ugly sucker. Who's your friend there, son?"

The rebel shook his feathered cap without removing his hands from the baby cart handle. "He's a dead sucker. Dunno. Cole saids to me. If'an I collect as many as them little baby white statues on the walls as I can, and then runs them back down the tunnel to the delivery truck, waiting on the street. Cole'll pay me five hundred dollars, apiece. So 's I gotta run, man. See ya'll." The rebel whistled and moved out the door. Dalton frowned.

Holt said with a sour frown to Dalton. "This is Cole's idea. He's running the show, Dalton. And we got our part to play. Let's rappel down the rope. See what's going on down there and wrap up the senators? So we can leave without getting caught and jailed for life. I'll miss my wife, if that happens." He moved and pointed to the rope. Dalton and Cam moved to the homemade rappelling system also. The system was a single rope, dangerously hanging over the wooden balcony railing. Dalton stopped and leaned to over the wooden railing, feeling nausea. The rope end barely touched the carpet. You guided straight down, wearing your work gloves down the vertical rope then jump from the rope, and squat on your kneecaps, landing on top of the thick plush carpet.

Cam raised the rope from the carpet and jerked it from the metal chair base. The rope was securely tied around two legs of the two different steel-legged visitor chairs. Cam turned with a stern face and a nod to see Dalton. The rope was secure. Cam rolled sideways over the wooden railing, standing on his boot toes on the lip of the external balcony, holding the rope like a flying traipse artist by his work gloves. He looked down and leaped backward off the wall, pushing with his boot toes. Cam dropped, sliding down with ease on the vertical rope. Dalton leaned over and watched from the second level railing. Cam hit the carpet on his bent kneecaps, stumbling ass-backward but elegantly caught his folded frame, before falling down his ass. He stood, looking up with a smile and a wave to Dalton.

Dalton exhaled with a huff of frustration, "Shit."

Holt chuckled and slapped Dalton on the collar bone. "You're next. So you can catch pretty me, before I fall on my ass."

Dalton pulled off his feathered baseball cap and his physician lab coat, dumping the items over the balcony railing. He needed both items to continue the disguise as a fake medical physician. He raised and yanked on the rope, ensuring the attachment to the chair was good, before breaking his neck. He crawled over the wooden railing and wobbled, finally standing upright, staring with a sneer to Holt. "Ya can land on your ass like me, Holt." Dalton bent the knees and thrust out an ass, shooting both his legs and his boot toes straight down from the wall. He flew down the invisible and empty air molecules, where he and the rope kissed. He glided down, wrapping both his legs around the vertical fabric, falling so fast that his dizzy neurons could not think straight. Then he painfully hit on his boot heels as his legs quivered and shook from the brutal shocking blow. He bent his kneecaps, maintaining his upright balance by hugging the rope like a baby monkey to its mama's breasts. He slowly stood taller, feeling his stomach descend back down to his guts. Since it rode with him in his tight throat plus some vile bile from his liver. He back pedaled away from the rope, standing next to Cam, exhaling with a huff of frustration in deep breathes. Cam handed with a chuckle both the baseball cap and the physician laboratory coat to Dalton as they looked up with a grin and a chuckle to see Holt's air performance.

Holt gracefully jumped from the balcony railing and elegantly landed with a sweeping swish onto the flat carpet on a folded squat. Then he stood from his nifty aerobatics, turning with a grin and a wink to see Dalton as the entertainment prince. Cam laughed. Dalton rolled his eyeballs with a sour frown.

9:17 a.m.

Senate chamber setting

They swung around, moving to the theater-like senate chamber.

Dalton halted, tapping his dirty boot toe on the top of dark blue colored floor. "Damn. I bet this dark stuff's hard to keep clean with thousands of foot prints tromping on the material, every day." He looked up to see a quiet senator chamber. There were numerous dead-looking senators, who were fast asleep inside each senator chamber desks. A body rested across the polished wood and a skull drooled lip spittle. The tiny droplets of the aerosol mist had successfully spread and then splattered through the air conditioning ventilation system, making the rebel-mission easy. Since the enclosed room did not contain any windows for venting out deadly toxic or sleepy sedation fumes.

The rebel-teams worked together, lifting and carrying the senator from their individual desk and loaded him onto the sawed off wooden pew. Then the upper level team of rebels hauled the unconscious senator up and onto the visitor gallery floor. Then the senator was placed inside a rolling wheelchair. Finally, the rebel-and-senator team escaped to the library and onto the tour bus for the final destination.

Jared turned around, hearing the familiar baritone timber to smile at Dalton. "Hey, Dalton. We got half them people out of here. And it's only been about an hour."

Dalton and Holt surrounded Jared. Cam stood between Dalton. Dalton fingered the room with a nod and a smile to Jared. "Great job, Jared. Any problems, so far?"

Holt smiled. "Tell us the tale behind the bench lifting? Excuse the pun."

Dalton chuckled. "That wasn't the original plan."

Jared smiled, pointing to the pulley system on the far wall. "We know. We supposed to bust through the doors on the second floor with them wheelchairs, trucking them to the elevators and wheeling the chairs all the way around the corner and then down to here inside the senator chamber. But the damn elevators are way yonder on the other side of the building. So Cole's boys bumped heads and can up with a homemade southern style pulley system for the distinguished senators. That there bench is from the House of Representative chamber way yonder on the other side of the building, too. The House of Representative rebel boys are lucky sons of bitches, because they can dump a man or woman into a wheelchair and then haul his or her ass to and up the elevator. Then the rebel boy can truck him back down here to the CVC, driving his ass into the tunnel to the library and then placed his butt on the bus. The end. One of the smart rebels brought his entire tool shed with him, so he had a portable chain saw. We all have hammers and screwdriver tools. Then we jerked one of them church pews from the House of Representative chamber floor and beat the shit out of the wood with sawing, hammering, and cutting, until the end loosened. Then we rolled the thing over the long corridor, using some of them private office chairs with wheelies to right here inside the senator room. Then, we busted four holes in the wood and placed the four set of ropes for a pulley system up to the second floor. The ropes are holding, pretty well. Eight rebels lift from the top and four rebels push from the bottom the church pew with all human arm muscles. So the rope don't accidentally break, causing any bodily harm to a sleeping beastie or beauty."

Dalton smiled, watching the action in the far wall. The next sleeping senator was being hauled from the floor as the pew hit the wall with a loud crash. Then the poor abused wooden pew magically hovered in the air as a set of strong pairs of human hands drug the pew over the balcony railing to the solid flooring. He slapped Jared on the collar bone with a nod and a smile. "Excellent job, Jared!"

"Thank ya, Dalton. We found a few of them senators sorta wiggling like earthworms, since Dr. Sylvia explained that some of them fat folks would take longer to breathe in the mist before falling asleep. We slapped a mask with the sleeping container over a face. Now, they sleep like a bunch of tired coon dog puppies." Dalton, Cam, Holt, and Jared chuckled, moving ahead towards an occupied desk with a sleeping senator, who rested across the polished wood in his puddle of mouth drool. Jared motioned for the rebel. The rebel wore his feathered baseball cap, missing his poncho, dangling an array of white T-shirts from his forearm. Jared slapped the rebel on the collar bone, saying with a nod and a smile to Dalton. "This is Pete. Show them how we prep the senator, whilest I explain? Ya'll see Pete's a medical technician at one of our block communities, trained in family medicine. He checks the senator for a steady pulse rate." Pete touched the throat with a stern face and a nod to Jared. Jared said. "He's okay. So far, all senators are healthy fillies and colts. Then Pete searches for the senator's gas mask inside their elementary school desk and rigs a tube of sleeping mist to that mask. Since we don't know how long they'll keep asleep. Pete popped a mask over the senator's face and ties their ankle bones with a set of plastic binders that don't really hurt them. But it's a good show of force and ties their two wrists together with another set of plastic binders. Then Pete drops a super large white T-shirt over a head, a dress suit, and two tied hands. That's marked with a math number for the senator." Pete pulled the white T-shirt over the senator, showing a word and a set of numbers. Jared fingered the shirt with a grin and a chuckle. "This here is senator number 52. Cole said that we ain't supposed to call them by their Christian name when they wake up. That'll make them feel safe, instead of a like a prisoner," he chuckled with Dalton, Holt, and Cam. Jared nodded. "Then Pete and his partner Avery lift the senator up and into a rolling chair, dragging them to the wall, where the church pew sat for their turn to fly like an American eagle."

Holt pointed to one of the empty desks. "What about all of the senator chamber desks? The rear two rows of desks are empty from a successful kidnapping ploy of the sleeping senators. The rest of the empty desks hold numerous senators against the rear wall, waiting for an individual air lift pew ride."

Jared shook a skull, exhaling. "Man, these suckers are heavy. We found some metal rolling carts inside some offices, some more rolling bins inside the janitor's supply room, and some chairs in the engineering shop. We use that equipment to tug the heavy things back down to the delivery truck clear yonder on the other side of this building. Once ya hit the tunnel, it's only a thousand foot to the storage truck. There're some rebel-boys with a rebel-senator, loading them suckers into the rear of a big semi-tractor trailer."

"Have there been any problems with the Capitol police stationed on Constitution Avenue?" Holt frowned.

Jared chuckled. "Naw. Heard tell! The rebel-senator explains away that them things be valuable antiques and being moved to a warehouse around DC. And the old bird has provided a picnic table with good ate and free bee, for both the rebels and the guards, whilest he retells stories of them old times in the senate, entertaining the enemy."

Holt chuckled. "That's good to hear. We'll let ya'll finish your job. Dalton and I are going to mosey down to the House of Representatives and check on Rich. So we can get out of here without going to jail," he winked to Jared.

Jared nodded. "Heard that, boy." He turned and moved to a new desk with a different sleepy senator.

Dalton shoved both Holt and Cam to the wall out of hearing range, saying with a nod and a stern face to Cam. "I compliment them boys' brains with a pulley system. But in a short period of time, they'll grow tired and weak, using so many arms and legs of the rebels. You trot your butt back up to Cole. Tell that asshole that we need some forty more rebels with wheelchairs on the bottom floor of the senate chamber, rolling them senators into the elevators. That our idea is too slow. Then ya steal some rebels and wheelchairs and personally escort them from up there to down here. The first priority is to kidnap all the senators and load them bastards into the tour buses. After they're all gone, the rebels can fetch more of them stupid school desks next. Got that, Cam?"

Cam nodded. "Yes sir." He turned around, jogging to the pulley rope on the chamber floor.

Dalton moved and shoved Holt into the hallway, walking and saying with a sour frown and a matching tone. "We need to get out of here within the next hour, with or without the damn school desks. Man, I'm nervous not being able to stay in touch with Rich on the side of this building, Cole down in the basement, and Shelly all alone inside the bus. And we can't use the damn cell phones to talk or text." He stopped, looking down to the unconscious body on the carpet. "That's not." He looked up with a puzzled brow to see a desk with a body. "An old senator?"

Holt looked down with a nod and a smile to see the young boy in his high school years on the floor too. "He's a senator page boy. He sets up the papers, the ink pens, and the current stacks of law bills on top of each surface desk every morning for each senator to filibuster and debate during the day."

Dalton shook his feathered cap, stepping and moving over the young boy's body. "Jeezus. No wonder, the country's being flushed down the shitty toilet. We employ babies to lick the dicks of the new American royal US senators. Man." He stopped and caught the arm of the rebel, who dropped a single trinket into the black bag. "What ya be doing here, son?"

The rebel smiled. "Cole told me I can pick up all the stuff with a senate label, not no papers, only hard objects around this here room. I dump it into this there bag then he's pay me hundred dollars for my nice treasures. I missed out on grabbing them paintings. The first team of rebels took them right off the wall, getting paid five hundred dollars for them things. So I following orders, sir." Holt chuckled as Dalton frowned. The rebel stood for the next command from the billionaire Dalton Duncan.

Dalton turned and examined the side wall, holding a bright naked yellow spot of colored paint, where a famous art work piece used to hang, turning with a stern face to see the rebel. "Carry on, man! But, your butt better be back on a bus, when it's time to leave with or without these treasures. If the president finds you here, you be dead, boy."

The rebel nodded. "Yes sir." He turned and dashed away, looking for more treasures.

Holt moved and led with a smile into the corridor. Dalton pulled up beside Holt, shaking his feathered cap with a sour frown. "Cole? I hear his name too many gawd damn times. Why's Cole want with a set of school desks, and collecting the senate's paintings, and a bunch of small little trinkets? What's his damage, Holt?"

Holt smiled, moving beside Dalton down the hallway. "Cole must wanna re-decorate his mansion in Coville with the shit. Are ya jealous, Dalton? I bet for a hefty price Cole might sale ya a senator desk or two."

Dalton frowned. "Naw."

Holt smiled and pointed underneath Dalton's nostril to the side hallway, "This is the Rotunda, Dalton. Do you want to stop and tour it? This is probably the very last time in the past history of the US Federal Government that you'll be this close to the Rotunda. Ya know, where we set up like kings, the zombie dead bodies of former presidents like Lincoln, Lyndon Johnson, and Reagan? And hanging down from the Rotunda's ceiling, there are the art pictures of the Revolutionary War with George Washington, who is framed like a god. Since he was the first gawd damn leader of a free world," chuckling.

Dalton sneered. "Naw, I don't wanna tour the Rotunda or the bodies of dead people. I didn't like funerals. I wanna get out of here and finish this mission before," he stopped, staring at the object. "What the fuck?"

Holt halted and chuckled, touching the nearest column of cool tile. "This is the official Hall of Columns. There are twenty eight tall columns that's nailed from the ceiling to the floor for something..."

"Fuck?" Dalton stared at the columns of stone, whispering. "What a fucking waste of good house materials of paint, wood, stone, and tile in the middle of nothing? Fuck it, ya'll. No wonder, the USA's poor and bankrupt." He shoved Holt down the hallway, pulling up beside him, saying with a sour frown and a sneer. "Move it, Holt." He moved and maneuvered around the first column with a growl. "American peoples are starving, sick, need medicines, clothes, and food. And there're a bunch of tall front porch columns inside a stupid building that can't feed a family of four. Shit. I bet my hard-working money paid millions of dollars for this dang horse crap. What a waste of my money and earth's resources? Man, I'm stopping this shit even if it takes me a lifetime for my son, and your son, and Preston's son..."

9: 43 a.m.

House of Representatives chamber room

Dalton and Holt stomped and stopped inside the chamber room. At the end of the busy corridor, numerous rebels rolled a wheelchair with a sleepy person or a stack of dirty dishes or a set of tick-tock working clocks or a set of another stack of objects. All the rebels moved and loaded into the elevators in silence. The House of Representatives was a two story rectangular room like a court room style setting with eleven wooden church pews, holding 445 padded leather seats over the dark blue carpet. Holt and Dalton moved ahead towards Rich.

Rich pointed to the room with a smile to Dalton and Holt. "Like my assembly line, we start at each end of the church pew then work our way to the middle, doubling my pleasure and their work. One rebel preps Mr. or Ms. Bastard, tying their hands and their shoes like a summer hog. Then the rebel slipped a shirt over the chest, displaying the black prisoner number. Then the next rebel or two, some of them fucking bastards are overweight and fat like my summer beef cows. The next set of rebels raised Mr. Bastard directly into their private wheelchair, then the rebel-companion rolls him to the set of elevators down the hallway. The rebel and senator truck to the underground tunnel directly into the library, out into the sunshine, onto the tour bus."

Holt said. "Ya heard from Shelly? Is the plan working?"

Rich watched the hog tying, shaking his skull. "Naw. Shelly knows what to do. I can tell ya that I haven't seen a congress bastard or bastardette come back to me. So that means, Shelly's getting them and loading their asses onto the tour bus, while Miss Penny is personally at the main bus terminal, directing the traffic of empty buses for us. They're a great working mule team. Some of the rebels do come back to me, thou. I be putting their asses to work. In a little over an hour, we've cleared three hundred of the 435 bastards and bastardettes," he smiled and viewed to Dalton.

"Female version," laughed Dalton.

Rich nodded. "And my best guess, within another thirty minutes, we will finish and round up the rest of the Capitol staff that will accompany their asshole bosses to Satan's hell. I bet the Capitol staff will be pondering their stupid decision to work for Uncle Sam. How ya'll doing with the senators?"

Dalton nodded. "Half the bitches are gone, but half are sleeping on the job. We fixed the problem, bringing a ton of rebels and their wheelchairs to the elevators from our end of the hallway."

Rich nodded. "Creating me a traffic jam, too. I heard that the rebel-boys rigged a homemade pulley system. A good show, but a slow go I bet. We've hogged the elevators on this end but give us time to clear out this bunch."

Holt nodded. "I can see that. We need the elevators too, carting out the reminding senators. Since them boys are growing tired along with a delay of the overall timing of our kidnapping plans for a little while longer. Rich, our priority is the senators and representatives first, before the Capitol personnel."

Rich flipped a hand while watching the hog-tying of the representatives with a grin. "Yeah. Yeah. I agree. Tell your rebels to carry the light weight senators up the stairs and dump them into the wheelchairs! I'll send my rebel-boys and girls to help tote the bastards, while we keep movement moving and the elevators from getting jammed pack like the smelly sardines I ate for breakfast, this morning at four o'clock. Then we pick up the sleepy turds inside the private offices and along the hallway corridor. Don't mess with ones in the bathroom stalls. I don't want shit inside the buses or on the crowded planes. Shit. It'll be uncomfortable enough with these smelly ass wipes."

Dalton shook his skull. "Rich. There're 2,600 folks inside this building."

Rich nodded. "Once we remove the 100 senators and 435 representatives that leaves 2,065 bodies more or less. So round down to 2,060 for the ones shitting inside the 'john' when the mist hit their nose holes."

Dalton frowned. "Rich. 2,060 bodies takes. Let's say three minutes to hump up the stairs or ride in the elevators. That's about 688 minutes to clear all them folks from the office space inside the Capitol, roughly eleven hours."

"You're very good at math, Dalton. I see why you're the IT prince, but princess think. Three-fourth of them bodies work on the second level, where no cowboy boots go up a flight of hard concrete stairs. The second floor Capitol folks don't get tied with plastic, only shirted with a T-shirt and then dumped into a wheelchair. Their asses are hauled down the hallway to the underground tunnel and straight into the library, then onto a tour bus. When each tour bus is filled up, Shelly sends it out to the airfield, where our rebel friends are eagerly waiting.

"And I got some of the returned rebels, picking up the Capitol bodies as we stand here and gossip like a flock of pea hens. Let's say 1,545 Capitol bodies takes fifteen minutes flat out even to drive a wheelchair to a bus from here. That's 103 minutes, a little over 1.5 hours. Shit. I'm supervising the second floor. But I bet that they're almost 99.99 percent finished with their job. And remember, most of the Capitol guards are stationed right here on the first floor, laying their sleepy bodies around like road kill. So our final body count would be. If we start with the 2,600, a rough number anyways, but this is all theoretical, anyways. The 2,600 Capitol employees minus 100 senators, 435 representatives, 300 guards, and 1,545 employees inside their private stuffy offices, you get 220 folks that are leftovers just like last night's pot roast. Right, Holt?" Rich turned with a smile to Holt.

"Right, Rich." Holt smiled.

Rich smiled. "Okay. The 220 folks they're made of the workers inside the gift shops, restaurant cooks, waitresses, engineers, janitorial, and IT geeks. We agreed to let them folks be. We're only interested in the employees that work directly for a senator. Right, Holt?"

"Right, Rich." Holt smiled.

Rich looked up with a grin to the ceiling. "Now, I've re-calculated the mission scenario. I think we are almost done." He looked down and checked his wrist watch and returned back to Dalton. "The time's 9:45. We've been here since nine. Go and tell Cole that we retreat into the tunnel at precisely 10:15. No exceptions."

Dalton smiled. "What about his school desks?"

Rich frowned. "What school desks?"

"Cole wants all the senate chamber desks for some sick-ass reason." Holt said.

Rich nodded. "Yeah. He mentioned that to me. I just forgot. Did he get a couple of school desks?"

Dalton sneered. "What in tarnation for, Rich?"

Rich looked with a stern face to see Holt, who was crazy but calmer than Dalton. He exhaled with a huff of frustration, asking. "Did he get some desks?" Holt nodded as Rich commanded. "Alright. Ya go and tell Cole that we got some of his desks and start sending the solo rebels bck to the delivery trucks for their ride back home to their appropriate US cities in their native US States. Wade is at Dulles Airport inside a private lounge with Miss Molly to greet and meet the rebels, handing off their special briefcase of money. I want all these brave-hearted and loyal boys and girls out of DC, before shit hit the fan. Ya tell that to Cole, also." Holt nodded as Rich ordered. "Then I'll signal a verbal retreat to the rebels on this side of the building to head to the library tunnel and stomp boots onto a tour bus. Shelly and I decided that a hundred percent filled bus with our greedy congressmen and women goes to the Andrews Air Force Base first, while our rebel-general awaits for the sleeping new troops. Then, all the other tour buses meet at the Dulles Airport, anyways. But wait for me, I'll go and fetch our rebel-infiltration team to close out the rebel-mission. Agreed?"

Dalton nodded. "Agreed! Why is Cole stealing all the paintings?"

Rich turned and stared at the naked spot on the wall with a laugh. "Cole's the real estate king. Maybe, he wants to re-decorate his castle in Texas." Dalton frowned with annoyance at Rich.

Holt punches Dalton on the bicep with a laugh. "Told ya, Dalton! Let's go and find Cole." They moved and left the room, running down the hallway, climbing up the stairs.

9:48 a.m

Lobby setting

They ran and spotted Cole at the office desk, and rushed, surrounding him. Cole shoved Dalton to the side with sneer, counting the wheelchairs. "What?"

Dalton said. "We retreat at 10:15."

Cole watched the wheelchair go down the tunnel. "I already started the retreat process."

"How many senators on board?" Holt inquired. "How many folks went to the buses?"

Dalton frowned. "He don't know that, Holt."

Cole smiled. "I'm not a dumbshit like Dalton," he torn the paper from his notebook and handed it to Dalton. "Here. Count 'em up. I haven't had time just been marking down the lines."

Dalton stared down at the pages with a laugh. "There are marked in groups of fives."

Cole looked up with a smile to Dalton, raising a left hand, spreading his fingers. "So, Dalton can count with his five set of fingers. Five." He raised his right hand with five fingers. "Ten." He raised his right cowboy boot. "Fifteen," he laughed with Holt.

Dalton frowned. "Got it, smart-ass." He and Holt move and stopped at the office desk, splitting up the papers, counting the stacks of five.

Rich ran down the stairs and stopped beside Cole with a smile and a nod. "We're done. What's the tally?"

Cole thumbed Dalton and Holt at the desk table, saying. "The first graders are adding as we speak. How do we know that we haven't left a fellow or lady behind?"

Rich nodded. "The rebel-infiltration team is searching both the lower and upper desks with Cam leading them. He'll be the last person on board, representing the last rebel on the last bus. Then we signal Miss Penny to take her empty tour buses back home. I'm leaving here to meet Miss Beatrice. She's driving me to Andrews Air Force Base, meeting our rebel-contact, who should have loaded all our packages onto the helicopters. I'll wait for all of you to arrive, before I launch the first copter with me aboard. We're heading to straight to Texas." Dalton and Holt moved and approached Rich with a smile.

Cole smiled to them. "How many Capitol folks?"

"There are 2,002 out of a possible 2,600 minus 300 guards and 200 non-direct congress staff." Holt held the papers with a smile to Rich.

Rich clapped with a smile and a nod. "Yeehaw. That's ninety five percent of the entire Capitol staffers in the Capitol Building."

Cole grinned. "And hundred percent congressmen and women."

"Damn right and proud of it, too." Dalton laughed.

Holt nodded. "Mangrove."

"Berrington," Dalton grinned.

Rich turned and smiled to Dalton and Holt. "An awesome fucking job, ya'll. Be shore to tell everyone that and that the money's at the Dulles Airport with Wade for their fine trip back home. I told Cole already. I'm scooting off. Miss Beatrice is picking me up at the library's footsteps. I wanna check-in with our rebel-general and our baby chicks. When all of you arrive at Andrews, you be escorted to the bird and make damn shore the copter pilot tells my copter pilot. Then I'm leaving first, heading to Texas." He nodded, slapping Cole on the collar bone with victory, spinning around to the darkness of the tunnel.

9:51 a.m.

Tunnel march of Rich

Rich jogged and moved down an underground tunnel which was twenty feet wide by fifteen feet high. The tunnel was painted in bright yellow to compensate for the dull overhead lighting. The color of yellow was the brightest color in the world. He easily caught and passed the last group of wheelchairs, pacing down through an empty 1,000 feet tunnel.

Currently, one of the rebel-senators was tossing a surprise birthday party for one of his congressional staff employees that would not be snatched and taken to the Texas boundary. The rebellion mission needed a plot to occupy the library staffers for two hours during the rebel-kidnapping.

Rich emerged into the nice cool air conditioned lobby of Congress of Library building and stopped with a gasp. A lonely security guard read a book at his security desk inside the lobby. He chuckled, turning and leaving the library.

10:01 a.m.

Library of Congress Jefferson Building

101 Independence Avenue

Mostly sunny with four mph winds

73 percent humidity at 78ºF

Lobby entrance setting

Rich stomped down the concrete steps that felt and looked like the Capitol Building, hitting the sidewalk without any parked cars, turning around to see the façade of the library. The peak mount of the bronze-tinted dome on the Capitol Building towered over the white roof tiles of the library. He chuckled, pulling his mobile telephone and thumb typed the text: Pick up. He pocketed his mobile telephone, swinging around to the object.

One of rebel tour buses waited for the last batch of wheelchairs, holding rows of sleepy the congress people. Rich narrowed the eyelids, trying to spot Shelly through the tinted window. Each congress man or woman was wheeled out the library and down the ramp onto the bus, completing the rebel-kidnapping process. When the bus was full, Shelly stepped off the bus for the bus driver to leave for the airfield and verbal signaled with the two-way radio for the next tour bus to exit from the parking lot into the handicap ramp at the library. Rich moved to the front of the bus without waiting.

The bus door opened.

10:02 a.m.

Bus tour of Rich

He leaped onto the first step, holding both nostrils with two fingers. "What the hell?"

Shelly zigzagged through the numerous wheelchairs without pinching his nostrils, saying with a sour frown. "Ya know little boys? They miss and piss on the floor instead of the clean deodorized toilet bowl. I wished we've brought nice ladies, then the bus would be clean and smell like sweet pine forest trees."

"I thought some of the senators peed in their trousers." Rich removed his fingers from his nostrils, acting like a real redneck.

Shelly stared down at the feather baseball cap of the sleeping senator, saying with a sour frown. "I believe some of them did when the cool mist hit their olfactory senses, causing an immediate sensation of chill. Then the chill activated a dick to pee all over their clean cotton briefs."

"Good thing. We be dropping their ass in a vicious hot desert, so the wicked wind storm can dry out their white lace panties." Rich raised the feathered baseball cap and touched the forehead of the woman, checking her body temperature. She displayed a shirt with the words in black: Senator 14. "Any problems here? Ya seen any Capitol police or got a nosy visit from our girl friends at the checkpoint station?"

Shelly shook a skull. "Things are running really smooth."

Rich smiled. "Good. Did you know that there's a very alert and armed Capitol policeman inside the library, sitting at his desk, reading a book?"

"A book worm," Shelly chuckled.

"I led the last of the congressmen, who should be appearing soonest. Send this bus away to our rebel-general, then you grab a new one. We got about 2,000 rebels that need to go home." Rich commanded.

Shelly shook a skull, pinging his paper. "Based on chicken scratch right here on my paper notes, there are about 2,500 rebels that need a ride home."

"Naw," Rich shook a skull.

Shelly nodded. "Yep. We stated that the Capitol Building has roughly 2,000 folks to kidnap, not counting the cute waitresses and smart geeks minus the armed Capitol police. Then we carried from the airport about 2,000 wheelchairs with a solo rebel, who carried out a single Capitol staffer. Plus, we got 2,000 rebel-companions, who helped rope tie the sleeping varmints and then rode with the wheelchairs inside the forty tour buses, since eight this morning. So we brought fifty wheelchairs with fifty companions on each bus, then we added 2,000 Capitol folks. So that's 2,000 wheelchairs, 2,000 companions, and 2,000 free running rebels equals 6,000 folks, Rich. I've loaded close but not yet a numeric count of 2,000 wheelchairs of senators, representatives, and Capitol staffers plus a reduced number of 1,000 rebel companions, so that's 3,000 folks total, taking my buses."

"So, there are another 2,000 free rebels still inside the Capitol. I told ya that from the start of his chat." Rich frowned with annoyance.

Shelly shook his skull. "Ya can't add, Mr. IT King. Cole added another 500 rebels squeezed between the walls of the bus and the wheels of the chairs for his special assignment."

"What fucking special assignment?" Rich frowned with more annoyance.

"Dunno. I thought ya did being the rebel-boss over the rebel-mission." Shelly smiled.

"Naw. Cole is the rebel-boss with his own agenda which we will be discussing at our next law court hearing." Rich frowned.

"Ya mean meeting?" Shelly chuckled.

"So back to our debate, there're 3,500 rebels that need a bus." Rich frowned.

Shelly shook his skull. "Cole told me before we left the airport that he's going to use 1,500 free running rebels for his special assignment. Which is what, Rich?"

Rich shook his skull. "To move the senator elementary school desks from the chamber into the many, many delivery trucks."

"Did he accomplish that fantastic feat within our very short time frame with his recruited staff?" Shelly frowned.

Rich nodded. "Dalton said that the senate chamber is empty of both senate fools and school desks."

"Okay. Then there are about 2,000 free running rebels that need a ride back home." Shelly chuckled.

"Smartass. I am right all along. Why ya give me a heart attack?"

"Torment and torture for having to smell the piss inside the nasty tour buses." Shelly grinned.

He grinned. "Cam is the last rebel out, which means, that all our people are cleared of the Capitol Building. You drop the rebel last bus at the Dulles Airport, where Miss Molly and Wade are giving out our little generous participation prizes. Then you and Cam drop the empty last bus at the bus terminal and pick up Miss Penny. You'll be the last copter out from Andrews. Then we'll all return back to Moville for our next rebel-mission."

"Kill Mr. President." Shelly smiled.

Rich frowned. "Good luck, Shelly." He saw the new batch of wheelchairs, rolling out the library doors. The bus door opened.

Sedan ride south with Beatrice and Rich

He turned and left the bus, standing in front of the bus closed doors on the city street. A car rolled down the empty road and stopped. The driver's window lowered with a pretty girl. Beatrice wore a pair of sunglass, saying with a smile to Rich. "Need a ride, stranger?"

Rich smiled to her, "Yes, pretty lady, I do."

She removed her sunglasses and winked to Rich. "Hop on in, master." He moved and jogged around the front bumper and opened the door, sliding and slamming the front seat passenger door. She replaced the sunglasses with a smirk, slowly driving and turned onto First Street. Rich looked down with a stern face, typing a text on his mobile telephone without paying attention to the car ride. She drove with a smirk. "There are 128 million items of books, manuscripts, films, photographs, sheet music, and maps inside that building."

"Great," he texted on his mobile telephone.

"It's the world's largest library." She smiled.

"Great," he read the text.

"The Thomas Jefferson Building is one of the most beautiful buildings in the nations' capital," she drove with a smile.

"Great," he texted on his mobile telephone.

"Did you look up to see the elaborate skylights?"

"Yep," he read the text.

"Did you see the naked baby carvings on the marble staircase?"

Rich looked up with a sour frown to see her nose profile. "What?"

Beatrice drove with a giggle and a grin. "Got your undivided attention, Rich."

He chuckled, seeing the street sign for Pennsylvania Avenue with a sour frown. "Wrong direction, Miss Beatrice."

"I didn't like crossing the water." Beatrice drove with a smirk.

He pointed to the window with a frown. "Andrews AFB is ten miles, southeast of DC, near the town of Morningside between the streets of Command Drive and Perimeter Road, Miss Beatrice."

She drove with a smile. "Andrews Field is a United States military facility, located in the city of Prince George's Country, Maryland under the jurisdiction of the US Air Force Eleventh Wing, in DC. The airfield is named for Lieutenant General Frank Maxwell Andrews, who was the former commanding general of the US Air Force during World War Two." The car passed the famous address 1001 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Rich turned and sneered at the White House. "Did you have to follow this route, Miss Beatrice?" Inside the White House Oval Office, Mr. President sat and waited for his money bags.

Beatrice drove with a smile. "I'll take a left at the Potomac River Freeway then straight onto the interstate."

"The Potomac is a river in DC and the Potomac Freeway crossed that river, Miss Beatrice." He chuckled, looking down and texting on his mobile telephone.

"Why we are leaving inside helicopters from Andrews? Ya know that's the home of Air Force One, his private airplane? He might be going on a trip. Then we scooter up in our limo, getting captured and jailed, Rich."

"We're in a plain old sedan, not a limo, Miss Beatrice." Rich texted on his mobile telephone.

"My little grand children wouldn't understand. Why Grandma isn't home, giving out her homemade brownies on Sunday dinner, after church service?"

"You're a sweet and smart lady, Miss Beatrice. He'll not ever suspect that we're here in DC. Since he's following our sick little raccoon over the busy street concrete and prickly plants in Miami, Florida." Rich chuckled.

"That poor rabid raccoon."

"Mr. President might not feel the same way, Miss Beatrice." He read the text.

"How many friends do we have?"

"Not enough in my opinion, but the enemies are slowly shrinking and quickly jack rabbit jumping to our side."

"Do you anticipate another civil war, Rich?"

"I cannot...naw...dare not address that question, Miss Beatrice."

"Perimeter Road," Beatrice slowed the vehicle.

Rich looked up with a stern face and pointed to the military gate. "Turn left into the military guard house."

11:11 a.m.

Andrews Air Force Base (18 miles north from Library of Congress

Prince George's County in US State Maryland

Sunny without clouds with five mph winds

81 percent humidity at 87ºF

A young US military guard in the green fatigues did not smile but looked down to examine the fake IDs inside the unfamiliar civilian vehicle. He handed back the fake IDs with a nod and a smile to Beatrice. "You are the guests of the general. Welcome to Andrews with a special motorcycle escort." The motorcyclist donned his helmet, revving the engine and led, running ahead of the sedan. The guard turned and pointed to the motorcycle, saying with a smile and a nod to Beatrice. "Just follow that motorcycle, please. The speed limit is twenty miles per hour. He'll take ya right to the general, ma'am."

Beatrice smiled. "Thank you, guard." She rolled up the electric window, driving and following the motorcycle down an empty roadway. "What's here, Rich?"

"Barracks of military soldiers paid to baby sit and pamper the President of the United States, along with his buddy the Vice President of the United States, other US senior leaders like the senators plus more than fifty US Federal Government department heads."

"Well that's going to stop, once and for all. Why hasn't it stopped, Rich? We stole all the money and got all the land." She drove slow, barely viewing some of the tall structures.

Rich searched for the air runway along the roadway. "Yes. We did, Miss Beatrice. But asshole printed all that extra money, causing a major depression of our US economy. These poor fools probably had no choice but to serve and service his dirty ass hole, since they get free housing, free food, and free protection from rebels like us," chuckling.

She drove with a grin. "Is that all going to change when you are the President of the USA?"

"Naw. I not be the president, Miss Beatrice. I'm too old. I wanna retire from the violence and corruption of yesteryear America and spend my last years, happily and peacefully with my wife, children, and grandchildren. Once we take back the land of the free and home of the brave warriors, who want to fight for their right of peace and prosperity, not them shit-hugging freeloaders that suck the working class dry of their assets, the rebel-billionaires will elect a new president from our ranks of trustworthy leaders."

She drove with a frown. "If not you, then who will be the president, Rich?"

He looked for the airfield. "Wade. He's a good guy. Especially, since Dalton gives the man gravel and grief all the damn same time. He's the perfect man for the job. He has a law degree from Harvard and born in the great State of Alabama. All the Yankees and rednecks will like and accept him. He responses well under pressure too. And he has stepped up on the baseball plate, striking that home run with the sleeping mist. He drove and dove into the Capitol power plant, imitating a plant worker, releasing the medicated drug prepared by Dr. Sylvia into the fresh water system. That was a strike of brilliance. I have total confidence and trust in Wade."

"I share your acute observation, Rich. But Dalton wants to be the President of the USA."

"Naw. Dalton talks shit all the time. He really wants the same thing as I which is a simple life with his family in Hoville," he chuckled. The motorcyclist slid to the left, pointing to the entrance point of the airfield. Beatrice entered and stopped her vehicle. The cyclist turned and left the airfield.

11:18 a.m.

Airfield setting

The runway on the military base was 11,300 feet in length without any current active flying planes, instead it held twenty Chinook helicopters parked in a single row over the grass and the concrete. Rich pointed to the first helicopter. "Park in front of the open cargo doors of the first copter, Miss Beatrice. I can see our rebel-general, waving us down."

She slowly drove to the long row of helicopters. "Is this my ride, Rich?"

He shook a skull. "No ma'am. You have the second copter beside mine. Don't worry. There's a rebel-major general on board to help ya with the bastards. So they don't attack the food stuffs plus armed rebel-soldiers that have been personally handpicked for this rebel-mission. Nothing's going to happen to you, Miss Beatrice. Do you believe me?" He turned and viewed her.

She halted the car on the grass, turning with a nod and a smile to him. "Rich, I trust you with my life. But I have concerns that our armed rebel-soldiers might fire upon our own American citizens, if need be."

He grinned and pulled on door handle. "Naw. We all be Americans, not assassins. The copter's safe, Miss Beatrice. We're delivering the US American's elected representatives, who are also federal employees which are paid by my income taxes to their new desks under new rebel management. Therefore, our job's done. We focus next on removing Mr. President from the Oval Office," chuckling.

She smiled, cracking her door open. She was one of the rebel-leaders today, not needing to act like a southern belle at the moment. "Is that literally or figuratively, Rich?"

"Whichever way the wind blows," Rich chuckled, sliding out the vehicle. Rich and Beatrice stood upright and moved together, stopping in front of the rebel-general.

Rich extended a handshake with a smile, pointing to Beatrice. "General, this is Miss Beatrice. She'll occupy the second bird."

The rebel-general nodded, wearing a pair of black sunglasses and a set of military green-colored fatigues. He shook both their hands and motioned to the rebel-major general, saying with a nod and a smile to Beatrice. "Ma'am, please follow him. He'll set ya up inside the bird. Don't worry. This plane's old but safe. And he's armed and can fly, if need be, Miss Beatrice."

Beatrice nodded in silence while twisting to see the rebel-major general. He cupped her arm, whispering into her eardrum. And then they, moved ahead and stopped at the second helicopter in the straight row.

11:26 a.m.

First helicopter ride with Rich and friends

The rebel-general smiled and shoved Rich through the archway underneath the twins whirling rotator blades. The military Chinook was decorated in puke green colored paint. It looked similar to a food snack twinkle shape, displaying six tiny small rounded window holes. There were two black single rotors blades on each end. The helicopter was powered by two turbo shaft engines mounted on each side of the copter's body. The rebel-general moved and guided Rich to the side of the wall, stopping and handing a pair of old fashioned portable headphones to Rich. He pointed down to the bare flooring, sitting next to Rich with a smile and a nod. Rich stood and placed the headphones over his naked skull, hearing. "Sit," the rebel-general patted an empty spot between the door and the wall with a grin. "We unloaded all the vertical benches, leaving the floor. The copter's eighteen feet tall and ninety eight feet long, carrying about 27,000 pounds of weight with a maximum takeoff weight of 50,000 pounds. We can carry fifty five troopers with full gear backpacks during a real time battle. Without the sitting benches, we've packed hundred folks inside here like a bunch of dying zombies. We ripped off the gas masks from faces, cutting their wrist and ankle bonds. Really rude, Rich treating our distinguished people representatives like a pen of farm hogs. Once they start breathing free air molecules, they'll awake. We left the T-shirt over the business suit just to be intimidating and mean that should prevent one of the bastards from assaulting my delicate demeanor. Seriously, we are taking off now from Andrews and fly to straight to Knoxville, Tennessee, traveling three hours, twenty four minutes."

Rich said with a smile through his head phones. "Very good, general."

"O." He stood, saying through his head phones, standing and motioning with a wicked grin. Rich stood, following the general. They carefully scooted side to side between numerous unconscious bodies and stopped.

Rich looked down to see a body. The body wore a white T-shirt with the machine printed black word and a set of numbers: Person 609. He gasped, saying into his head phones. "I be damn. You got the Vice President of the United States on board the copter."

The rebel-general smiled down to Person 609 through the head phones. "I be damn. Ya'll captured a live and breathing Vice President of the United States."

Rich squatted down with a smile to Person 609 through the head phones. "So, I did. Can we wake his face up and talk to him?"

"My pleasure. I don't wanna harass your prisoner of war, Rich." The rebel-general sat on the other side of the vice president, smiling and squirting the warm bottled water in the face.

Person 609 jerked awake, shaking his body side to side, cursing. "Shit." He looked up to with a confused brow to see Rich. The general placed a pair of headphones over the snarling face of Person 609. The headphones echoed the communication privately between the three headphones of Rich, the general, and Person 609. Person 609 said with a sour frown and a sneer to Rich through his head phones. "Ya fucking son of bitch, Rich. I'll see your neck hung from the White House second story balcony for my..." A slight twinkle of movement over the floor caught the eyeball of the vice president. He turned with a sour face to see the armed rebel-solider. The rebel-solider sat and leaned his shoulder blades against the opposite wall, patting the rifle like a puppy dog between his two folded arms. He wore a pair of black tinted aviator sunglasses with a silly feathered baseball cap with a stern face, staring at the Vice President of the United States. The vice president swallowed the bile back down his throat and turned with a worried brow to see Rich.

"My kidnapping." Rich said with a smile through his head phones which spoke to both the general and the vice president. "Yeah. Ya speak like a true dictator of a repressed nation, sir." The rebel-general fist bumped with Rich as they chuckled like a pair of two high school farts.

The vice president turned with a sour frown to see the rebel-general, saying through his head phones. "And you, General are participating in a set of very dangerous battle games with this man, who is wanted by our US Federal Government for high treason to the great USA and a personal assassination murder attempt on the President of the United States."

"I miserable failed, since the president still breathes." Rich chuckled.

"First, I demand what's happening here. I'm inside a bird, sailing away from DC. And second, I demand that you turn this helicopter around, carrying me back to DC, General." The vice president frowned.

The rebel-general said with a smile through his head phones, patting the wall. "This big helicopter is called a Chinook that was used a lot during the Vietnam War, sir. We're flying at 130 knots or about 150 miles per hour for a total distance of 450 miles. Since, we know that you're in a great big hurry to get to your new home. These babies are used for logging, construction, fighting forest fires, and supporting petroleum extraction operations for dino shit, making the copter a real work horse and greatly reliable, to boot. There are three people inside the cockpit, consisting of a pilot, a co-pilot, and a flight engineer. You can see, sir. We have lots of guests, who come from the senate chamber, keeping ya company on this long daytime trip. But I'll let Rich here give ya all the battle details of the mission, sir," he chuckled at the snobby vice president.

Rich raised a wrinkled paper, saying with a smile to the vice president through his head phones. "There are twenty helicopters going to various border patrol sites which are displayed on my crinkled paper, sir. Ya can see the city listings are Big Bend Sector in Texas, Del Rio Sector in Texas, El Paso Sector in Texas, Laredo Sector in Texas..."

The vice president sneered. "I got it. We're heading to Texas."

Rich turned with a wink and a chuckle to the rebel-general. "Now, I see why he's the Vice President of the United States."

The vice president sneered. "I know where I am going. Why I am going there?"

Rich turned with a smile to the vice president. "I'm so happy that you asked me that particular question, sir. Since I'm the current redneck representative of the hard working American people. And you're the fucked up US federal government representative. Mr. VP, an illegal alien enters our American boundaries from many nations around the world without a birthday party invitation. Half of the sons of bitches cross our boundary through an inadequate federal government border security system, while the other half of the bastards breaks the American law and do not leave when their American visa card expires, making all the assholes illegal to live here within our soil.

"Then the American laws are un-enforced by the US federal 'fucking' government, because the US federal government leaders like to get pissed on by the large dicks of the wealthy free enterprise corporations that use lot of cheap labor of many, many illegals to feed their big fat money profits. Or the US federal government leaders feed the pig squeaking racial groups that have nothing better to do then dump their smelly pig shit on the true hard working Americans, who's great, great, great, great-grandpa and grandma nose bleed and then died here as the original Americans.

"The foreign country of Canada, ya know, that big piece of frozen land above the Great Lakes of Michigan, USA along with the foreign country of Mexico, ya know, the one below the State of Texas, USA. Both countries are the primary main and major funnels for many, many illegal aliens into our native country of America, USA. Your fucking so-called elected representatives of the American people in the executive, legislative, and judicial branches of the US Federal Government allow killing terrorists, evil druggers, illegal aliens, violent asshole criminals, and infectious contagious diseases from both human and animal. The human and animals stray and stay within the dirt of the USA. The biggest problem is the foreign country of Mexico.

"Canada does a good job, protecting their territory borders on their side of a make-believe invisible crooked semi-straight line associated with a smaller population of illegal people. The illegal folks exit the landscape of Canada running, swimming, or boating mainly into the Great Lakes of the State of Michigan. The illegal sea jumpers come from the foreign countries of the Czech Republic, Israel, and India, costing the US Federal Government twenty million dollars, a few years ago. The twenty million dollars cost is a useless piece of mechanic surveillance camera system, standing its metal legs inside the cold wet waters of Michigan. Don't ya dumbasses know that electricity and water don't mix like blood and water?"

Rich chuckled then frowned. "The foreign country of Mexico is a super corrupt failed government-state rampant with tons of mass murders, kidnappings, assassinations, rapes, and robberies. Hell. If I lived within Mexico City, then I'd run away, too. The US law authorities have documented that the foreign country of Mexico encourages their poorest people, their criminal folks, and their other shit asses to illegal immigrate into the USA. Since both foreign countries of Canada and Mexico makes lots of US dollar money from a set of working low-paying US jobs in USA America. Land of the free makes the Mexican economy highly dependent upon the US dollars flowing out of America into the foreign poor government bank accounts, thus more illegal aliens and illegal drugs float and flow back and forth from us to them, Mr. Vice President of the United States.

"Thanks for listening to me, Mr. Vice President of the United States! Now, this leads into my illegal kidnapping plot. So I'll give ya a real short fairy tale version read by little tikes tucked into their baby cribs at night about our personal free air flight. And I take personal credit for all of this. I drugged you, using the ancient but well built air conditioning ventilation system inside the Capitol Building right about eight thirty this morning, while the government employed folks worked at their government desks. And you just happened to join the senate floor, when I released an odorless and tasteless liquid substance into that pretty concrete fountain of pure spring water. The water fountain is located in the front flower gardens of the Capitol power plant. The fountain water flows directly into the water supply inside the power plant equipment then feeds a steady stream of chilled water to cool in summertime or heat in wintertime the private ventilation system inside the Capitol Building with veronal..."

The vice president sneered. "I don't recognize the drug."

"The fabled drug used by Juliet to fake her own death, based on the play that also worked, pretty well." Rich smirked.

"I'm familiar with the Shakespeare's play."

"Veronal is a barbital sleeping aid but can simulate death. I guess."

"You're a piece of shit, Rich," the vice president snarled.

"Thanks for the lovely compliment, sir! Now, back to my awesome fairy tale that no one will ever believe. Too bad, it might've been a popular Hollywood movie. Once you breathed in the contaminated air molecules, then you drifted asleep like a tiny baby over your elementary school desk or the carpeted floor. My, just to be obtuse, my rebels and I dressed like a group of wounded war vets along with real working wheelchairs for our special school event day at the Capitol Visitor Center." Rich lied to protect the innocent with a smile. "I can say about a thousand of us entered the Emancipation Hall and huffed and puffed it upstairs and invaded like fire ants both the Senate Chamber and the House of Representatives room."

"You kidnapped?" The vice president looked down to see his expensive imported leather shoes and up with a puzzled brow to see Rich. "We had a full session today inside both the Senate and House chambers." He turned and surveyed the closest pair of senators but could not see a naked face under a feathered cap. "You mean to tell me that you have successfully drugged and kidnapped all one hundred US Senators and 435 members of the US House of Representatives from the Capitol Building at..."

"...at nine o'clock. It took us some time to bind and shirt your asses," Rich pointed at the T-shirt over the vice president with a smile and looked up to see the vice president. "But we finished the job by ten thirty. Then we all escaped, using the wheelchairs disguising you as us. A cute little feathered baseball cap and a fringe wool blanket over a business suit, we kidnapped you directly from the Capitol Building. You and me glided through that great tunnel, leading directly into the entrance doors of the majestic Library of Congress or also called the great hall. A really pretty three story ceiling and six skylines illuminates a morning sun. Then we hauled your asses into the driveway and lifted each chair into a specially designed bus. And now here ye be, sir." He winked with a smile.

"Fucking bastard." The vice president jerked on his T-shirt, hearing a tear of the fabric. The rebel-solider on the wall cleared his throat. The vice president turned with a worried brow to see the solider, dropping his shirt tail back over his suit, looking at Rich. "How many rebels do you number, Rich?"

"Lots and lots of them home grown pure blooded American rebels, sir." Rich smiled. "To continue my fairy tale, there are twenty helicopters containing all of ya'll."

"Twenty?"

"O. I forgot to mention that we brought along the congressional law making Capitol Hill government staff members too. So there's actually 2,000 of ya'll here inside all the flying the copters."

"Unbelievable!"

"Thanks, kindly. You've guessed, correctly. We've left DC air space, traveling to Knoxville, Tennessee which is 486 miles or three hours, twenty four minutes. But it's closer to three hours. Since we fly at 150 miles per hour. That's pretty dare fast, sir. The twenty copters will take-off in fifteen minute intervals. But I lead, first. We refuel in Knoxville and fly 400 miles to Starkville, Mississippi in two hours, fifteen minutes. Then we drop down into Baton Rouge, Louisiana, being 297 miles, after flying for two hours also. We'll leave a few senators at Baton Rouge, where they'll be driven by car to the city of New Orleans."

"What in heaven for? What is in New Orleans?"

Rich frowned. "American people, sir! Then, the copters continue from Baton Rouge to Austin, Texas, 432 miles in two hours, forty five minutes. After refueling, we head sideways to Brownville, Texas, 351miles in two hours, thirty four minutes. But one copter will land and stay there, then me and you are off to Laredo, Texas, coming from Brownville. We travel 208 miles in about one hour, thirty two minutes but..."

He frowned. "A copter stays grounded. I see the picture, asshole. We've left DC, traveling west through your southern states until we reach the Mexico-US border, starting in Brownville, Texas. Then you will leave a single helicopter with a mixture of senators, representatives, and staff members at each border city along the US States of Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and finally at the final border city of San Diego, California."

Rich chuckled. "Yes sir. Ya hit a bull's eyeball with a plug of tobacco spit. The entire copter ride is about twenty four hours for 3,595 miles to the other side of the US, where me and you end up at San Diego. Yeehaw, Mr. Vice President. You are my very special guest for my very special invitational romp, today. I'll take exception and allow you to pick your luxury vacation spot. There's the eastern beach front property in the border patrol sector of Miami, Florida. Or the west coast, ya can stand on the golden sands in our busy and popular San Diego, California Border Patrol location. Or maybe, you greatly desire a desert spot along our Yuma, Arizona Border Patrol Sector? Or a nature woodland site for your eyeballs of the Border Patrol in Havre, Montana. Which's your pleasure, sir?"

"What about relieving my bodily functions? I can't sit here for twenty four hours without a potty break."

"Pee in your white lace panties, sir. When ya get to San Diego, we got some patched and worn but clean tough-man denim blue jeans and a good working pair of cowboy boots all donated, of course," Rich stood and stared down at the vice president.

He looked up with a sour frown and a snarl through the head phones to Rich. "When I am free you are dead, Rich."

Rich smiled. "The first helicopter flies during daylight until dusk time for San Diego, California. Then you, Mr. VP will defend the US Constitution, the land of US California, and your birth right as an American. You will be stopping with deadly force the invading illegal aliens of Mexicans from their native home country of Mexico into the USA, sir. Rest your bones, sir." The rebel-general reached and removed the old fashioned headphones from Person 609. He stood with Rich, turning and moving away from cussing vice president. They back slapped and sniggered with each, moving to the front of the helicopter with happiness.

4:35 p.m.

Sonoran Desert (1,654 miles due west from Birmingham)

City of Sasbe in US State of Arizona

Sunny with six mph winds

11 percent humidity at 92ºF

Desert setting with Dalton and friends

The helicopter door shut. Dalton dropped a boot toe down in the orange sand, coming out the Chinook helicopter last and breathed in the fresh air of hot desert, narrowing his eyeballs inside a pair of black tinted reflector sunglasses which was underneath the silly baseball cap, and blinked the eyeballs coming from the blinding yellow sunlight. Cam, the silly baseball cap, and a pair boot toes pulled up beside Dalton, moving ahead of many angry, mad, and hostile senators, representatives, and Capitol staff members, coming out of the same Chinook helicopter also. Dalton led and motioned with his hand at the hostages to follow him, sipping a bottle of warm water, yelling with a sneer. "Over here! Ya'll get your asses, over here." He looked around the desert with a smile and a nod. "That's pretty over there with that yellowish-orange sand called desert. The desert is loaded with them man-sized green prickly cacti bushes. Don't touch it. I bet ya can bleed to death out here with no water, no food, no hospital, and no transportation," he chuckled with Cam, pointing to the pretty landscape, saying with a grin. "Look at them rugged hill tops, not mountains, thou. Them be too short for mountains. We got great big old mountains in B-ham, not these tiny little bushes covered in white flowers that don't come up my knees, more like tiny green tumbleweeds. Right, Cam?" Cam looked around the landscape with a nod and a grin, moving beside Dalton. They both spin around, facing a throng of unhappy the Congress and Capitol people. The Congress and Capitol people formed about four semi-crooked lines, standing in front of the helicopter, mumbling and cussing. The helicopter door was closed for both protection and safety of the crew.

Some of the people huddled, whispering. Some of the people sobbed with tears. Some of the people pointed with a growl to Dalton. Most of the people stand in the hot sun, scanning the new landscape. Dalton cleared his throat, looking down to read the paper note cards. "Hi, folks! Welcome to the Sonoran Desert, one of the largest and hottest non-vacation spots in America. That's 311,000 square miles." He looked up with a smile to see the kidnapped people. "Sorry. I ain't never have been here before, either. So I need my note cards." He cleared his dry throat then and sipped the warm water, looking down to read out loud the note cards. "The western part of the US passes through the Sonoran Desert. This is the only place in the world for the famous Saguaro cactus that grows wild in the desert." He pointed to the side landscape, reading the note cards. "See it over yonder, looking like a set of deformed hand pointed to with a wrist and a tall index finger, a short middle finger, a short ring finger, no pinky finger, but there's a thumb. The Saguaro cactus plays along with sixty mammal species, 350 bird species, twenty amphibian species, not poisonous along with hundred reptile species, probably poisonous with thirty fishies species, and over hundred bee species. Buzz, buzz." He turned with a grin to see Cam. "Man. I learned something new, today, Cam." He looked down to read the note cards. "There's 2,000 plant species. O. And there're some curious jaguars hanging around here too per my note cards." He looked up with a smile and a nod to the kidnapped people. "Since we be in Sasabe, Arizona."

Person 1001 on the T-shirt over her clothing stood in one of the semi-crooked lines of mumbling people, looking down with a confused brow at her dirty shoes, yelling. "I don't understand. Where are we?"

Dalton looked down to read the note cards. "It says that the daytime temps are sometime over ninety degrees. Man! I believe this here card note, since I'm sweating like a pregnancy sow. How hot is it, Cam?" He turns with a grin to see Cam, wiping his face with the wet water bottle

Cam looked down to read his mobile telephone. "The Sonoran Desert is ninety two degrees at 4:35 P.M. with eleven percent humidity. Wind speeds come from the northeast at six miles per hour." He looked up with a grin and a nod to the kidnapped people.

Dalton nodded, looking down to read the note cards again. "Thanks, Cam. At night time, the low is sixty eight degrees, making a warm year-round climate good for fruits like mangoes, figs, and dates like Queen Cleopatra ate. I never ate a date," he looked up with a grin to see Cam. "Have ya ate a date, Cam?" Then, Dalton and Cam laughed.

Person 23 on the shirt shaded his eyelids, scanning the landscape with a sour frown and a sour tone. "What's going on here?"

Dalton looked up to see the audience, flinging the note cards in the air, clearing his dry throat, and sipped on the water bottle, saying with a sour frown and a nasty tone. "Hold your horses! I's about to tell ya that part." He looked down to read the note cards. "The Sonoran Desert is a popular run for illegal aliens to entry the United States. The harsh condition is a three to five day desert march for the illegal alien, moving mostly under a moon light sky to avoid the heat that ends in death. Does that answer your questions, Person 23?" He looked up with a grin and a nod to the audience.

Senate 43 on the shirt pointed at Dalton with a sour frown and an angry tone. "I demand to go back to Washington DC. I do not belong here. This isn't my home state. I'm from the north, not the desert. Do you hear me, unknown evil person? Who are you, anyways?"

Dalton grinned. "My lecture for the hot damn day, so everybody better listen up good, 'cause I ain't repeating this shit for ya'll dumbasses, again. We are located within the Mexico-United States border. It is an international border that runs from the west of the US, staring at Imperial Beach, California to the east of Brownsville, Texas. The Mexico-US land border follows the water course of the Rio Grande River. The border length is 1,969 miles long and fucking assholes cross this part of the US territory, all the damn time with an estimated 350 million illegal aliens per year. Not good. Ya see this part of the US is characterized by orange deserts, brownish-green rocky rugged hills, and lots of hot gawd damn yellow hot sunshine, and no fresh spring drinking water. But there're plenty of water bottles inside the tent, over yonder. The Mexico-United States border is guarded by 20,000 border patrol agents on foot with special heating sensors, rifle and night scopes, and other nifty electronic devices, and also in the air by helicopters for spotting and stopping them bastards. But the patrol agents are located and concentrated around the bigger border cities of San Diego and El Paso which don't have the lousy wooden fencing that my prize bull can burst through in three seconds flat. Sadly, that only covers about 700 miles out of the 1,969 boundary miles. That means here there's a lot of opportunity for improvement, good folks."

Person 500 on the shirt yelled and pointed to Dalton with sour puss face. "My dad is an attorney and will sue you for every penny that you possess for kidnapping me here to this hell hole."

Dalton said to the young person. "No questions, yet. Sit your ass down 'til I'm finished. Youth? Didn't your mama taught ya nice manners like not interrupting your elders when they're speaking? Now, there's this big debate about placing a guard every 1,000 feet along the 1,969 miles of borders which will 105 percent eliminate them illegal roach bugs, crawling over our fences. I happen to like and agree with that VG suggestion. But, some assholes, I don't who, says that it is in violation of Posse Comitatus. Now, I don't know what the fuck that means. Ya'll know I don't fucking care either. Because, some dumb shit or a flock of dumb shits has debated that fine point over and over and over again without any real life solution. Since the Posse Comitatus causes heart burn for some of the governors for some stupid ass reason that I'll not entail.

"But we flip the coin with a strong support for a man or a woman to dirt the border lines with more heated bodies. I like, hell, love this plan. Now, everybody knows that we build expensive fences paid by the hard working taxpayers to keep the bastards out, but that don't work, ya'll. I will repeat that don't work, ya'll. Period. Now, to me, the main reason for not allowing the bastards across our land is one, violence to our American people, two, drugs and three, both violence and drugs that affect our sweet little American children, who attend church. And the illegal aliens hurting children pisses me off all the way to the planet of Pluto. But, that's now or then.

"Therefore, we will honor the wishes of the American people and place additional paying guards, who are really paid by the US taxpayers' hard working income dollars that must flow into the US Treasury Department. So you, lucky little boys and girls are here to guard this part of the almost 2,000 mile Mexico-US border. Since we, the American people, that's me, him, and her, are your boss. And, as your boss, you will now obey our brilliant American commands. Since, we pay all of you to work for all of us anywhere, any place, and any time. And this here is your time to shine like a shooting star, coming down from heaven. What da ya think, ya'll?" He smiled.

Senator 6 on the shirt yelled with a sour frown and jabbed a finger at Dalton. "Son of fucking bitch, I'm not staying here. I'm a senator in the US Senate and I am not represented by you or her or him. I demand that you release me, before I place charges of kidnapping along with treason on your ass, Billionaire Dalton Duncan."

Dalton knew that the pampered senators would bulk and bark but not bite. He shook the silly the baseball cap without the feather. "Naw. Ya ain't going nowhere. Ya'll see the American people have spoken to the big bad asses like me. Since, I be a billionaire with billions of dollars to spend and help my people, my American people when in trouble with our troubled times. So ya'll are here to stay and act like a trained puppy until..."

Person 301 on the shirt sobbed with tears, whipping out the sweat from her face with a sad pout. "I can't take this heat."

Person 46 on the shirt sobbed with tears, wiping the sweat and tears from her face with a sour frown. "I'm not a senator. I'm an American citizen."

House 108 on the shirt pointed to the soil, looking at Dalton with a lady sneer. "I as an American citizen have rights directly from the US Constitution and the attached amendments, as well as, the Bible's ten commandments. So I quit my job as the House Representative, since you have so eloquently argued. I'm being paid by the American people, because I was elected by the American people. Therefore, I quit. I'll find another job and satisfy my role in the US of A."

Dalton pointed to the sky with a smile and a nod. "That's your right and might. Since, folks quit their paying jobs all the damn time. So the USA landscape is posted to your right and the Mexico landscape is to your left. Start moving, lady."

Again, House 108 on the shirt pointed to the sky, looking with a lady sneer at Dalton. "I am not moving to..." She exhaled with a huff of frustration. "Where are we? What city are we near?"

"Sasabe is a small village near some small town in the great State of Arizona. Sasabe is 3,500 acres of the National Wildlife Refuge with a Gila monster as the poster child. The desert is closed to the American public due to the massive criminal problems of drug smugglers and illegal alien crossings." Cam read the mobile telephone and looked up with a grin and nod to see the audience.

"What's a Gila monster?" Person 2000 on her shirt turned with a confused brow to Person 2008 on her shirt.

"It mouth spits fiery acid on your toes at night, if ya happen to stomp on it during sleep time." Dalton laughed. "We're losing daylight, good folks. Let's get to the good part of your mission." Boss 1 moved and stood between Dalton and Cam, patting his rifle like a puppy dog, wearing a feathered baseball cap, a pair of black tinted aviator sunglasses, and a toothpick between his closed lips. His white clean T-shirt showed in big black letters: Boss 1. Dalton slapped Boss one on the arm with a grin and a nod, looking at the audience. "This is your supervisor, who will be called Boss one. His title is clearly printed in big bold black colored American letters against a white background for ya'll dumbasses, who can read but not remember. Boss one will be instructing you in weapon's training for a long time."

"I've never fired a gun. I will never fire a gun, either." Person 482 on his shirt yelled with fury, raising his arms.

"Your primary job is to guard the shitty looking wooden fence, keeping the illegals from leaping like a pack of mountain panthers over that fence. If they do succeed, then you defend our property, our USA property, using a gun, not your arms or your legs or your feathered caps." Dalton chuckled.

Senator 72 on her shirt reached and toss her feathered cap to the dirt, shaking her wet curls. "No."

"I wanna go home." House 87 on his shirt yelled with fury, raising his arm, and hit the other arms on Senator 298 and Person 834, who stood to close.

"Never. This is insane. I demand to speak to the president." Senator 57 on his shirt stared at Dalton.

Dalton smiled. "And the good news, only a senator or a representative will be handling the gun, not the staff support from the Capitol Building. Now, let's form some type of school ruler line-up, before the sun falls asleep. I'm going to demo this positioning one time, since I be in charge for the afternoon. Then your boss man or woman takes over for the evening and the rest of your days and nights. Be warned. If I learn that you have harmed one of the bosses, I will return quicker than the old space shuttle, dropping down from the sky like an angel, then beat your ass black and blue like a prized fighter. Understand. Good. That's a very, very important rule that I will not break." Dalton laughed then pointed to the row of congress men and women plus Capitol staffers. "One, two, three, four, and five person, ya'll move forward and follow me." He turned and moved to the lousy high fence along the US-Mexican border in the hot and dry hot of the desert with Can and Boss 1 with him.

"I want my mama," Person 698 on her shirt sobbed with tears with a sad pout, mixing with the dry dust on her face and her arms.

"I want outta here," House 202 on his shirt looked down to see the orange sand and up to see the blue sky with a sad pout.

"I don't belong here, sir." House 4 on his shirt raised his folded fist with a sneer to Dalton.

"It's too hot," Person 1800 on her shirt fanned her sweaty face with the feathered cap with a sad frown.

Dalton led two women, two men, and Senator 18 to the twenty foot high wooden fence wall and stopped three hundred feet from the battered wood, pivoting with a smile and a nod. "Boss one, we are going to set their boots about 350 feet apart from each other. So, good Senator 18 does not kill her co-workers. Can you shoot a gun, Senator 18?"

"I'll shoot you, first." Senator 18 mouth spat with a snarl at Dalton.

Dalton said with a chuckle and a nod to her. "Not a good attitude to your fellow Americans, who elected ya which wasn't me, pretty thing." He stomped over the sand to Senator 18, stopping and pointing down to the dirt. "Now, you stand your designer heels right here, Senate 18. Then you, pretty girl Person 651 will stand next to her," he exhaled with a huff of frustration. "Wait, right here." Dalton extended his arms parallels with the sand, saying with a smile. "Cam, stand beside me, extending your middle finger even with my right middle finger." Cam moved and stood next to Dalton with his arms extended as his middle finger touched Dalton's middle finger. Dalton said. "So we can quickly math mark off 350 feet. Boss one, please come and hold my boot prints right here." Boss one moved and stood in Dalton's dirt spot. Dalton danced in a half circle to face the wall, holding both his arms parallel to the sand, moving away from Cam, and marked off another six feet with his arms. Then he said to the fence wood. "Boss one is six feet and five inches. I'm six feet and five inches, and Cam is six feet and five inches too. We mark off in six feet and five inches plus with our combined arm span, three times. Together, we stand like in a row of human straw men in the orange sand. Three spaces times 6.5 feet equals 19.5 feet. Cam, swing your body around me and stand even with my left middle finger." Cam danced with a grin in a half circle to face the wall like Dalton's dance, holding his arms parallel to the sand, standing in place. Dalton said to the fence with a grin. "That's twenty six feet from the stationary staring point of Boss one. Okay. Boss two, ya start marking, using a middle finger method about 350 feet space, coming between nasty Senator 18 and cutie pie Person 651, making them far, far in distance measurement apart. So they see Senator 18 kiss them bastards nighty-night, tonight." He laughed, pivoting around and motioning to Boss one, moving to Senator 18 with a smile. Senator 18 crossed her arms with a sour frown and a lady sneer, staring at Dalton. Dalton stopped behind and man-pulled petite Senator 18 directly in front of his chest. Boss one stopped beside the eardrum of Dalton, holding a shotgun underneath his armpit and two sets of plastic eye glasses and two pairs of ear pieces in his hands. Dalton extended his palm. Boss one placed a pair of plastic eye glasses and a pair of ear pieces in the palm of Dalton. Dalton extended his arms around her body like a lover, holding the items in his palms for her preparation, whispering to her eardrum. "Place the plastic glasses over your naked eyes. The ear buds inside your naked eardrums. What hand do you use best?"

"Right." Senator 18 said and grabbed the items from Dalton's palm, dressing her face with the set of clear plastic eye glasses and the pair of ear buds in each eardrum as she plotted a plan to escape from these kidnappers and seek help for the rest of US Congressmen and women.

Dalton dressed his eyeballs and eardrums for protection too. "Ya probably got a right eye dominate. So you view through the gun barrel with your right eye and pull the trigger with your right hand." He accepted the shotgun from Boss one, placing it in front of her chest. "Now, hold the butt of the rifle against your right shoulder and aim at the moving bastard. Hold the gun with your left hand on the grip and place your right index finger behind the trigger, standing with a foot stance of about 40 degrees. Spread your designer high heels for me, Senator 18," chuckling. She shuffled her designer heels apart in the sand. Dalton whispered with a grin. "Good. Lean to the right of your target as the bastard's running from ya and push the gun slightly away from you. Move the gun's butt until it touches your shoulder in a subtle arc in your shoulder, making a proper contact with your right cheekbone, not cheek butt for a right eye alignment. Pull the gun tight and snuggle it into your shoulder like a baby, and click your safety off." She held gun into her shoulder. He shadowed her arms and her hand with his arm and his hand, ensuring she did not drop the gun on purpose, causing a big mistake killing. He released the safety lever and whispered to her eardrum. "And point your gun at the target and pull the trigger. This is a side by side double barrel twenty gauge shotgun with twin barrels located horizontally. It's a helluva lot less mule kick on your human body parts and easier to handle for hands on smaller shooters like your pretty self. You are aiming at to hurt the fence, but that's okay. The short barrel is for close shooting. When ya see that illegal bastard, pull the trigger. Don't worry about reloading. Boss one will take care of that for ya. Now, shoot!" The right finger of Senator 18 plus the right finger of Dalton pressed the trigger, firing the shotgun as a loud boom exploded and deafened all the eardrums. Screams of the observing Capitol staff members and worried Congress men and women echoed throughout the desert while some people dropped down to the sand, covering their hair roots or the silly baseball cap. Dalton laughed, back stepping from a quivering Senator 18, jerking off the eye glasses and the ear plugs, handing them back to Boss one. She dropped to the sand, sobbing with tears, touching her face. He turned with a grin and a chuckle to see Boss one and Cam, slapping Boss one in the chest with his fist. "Fucking good luck with them retards, Joe." Boss one looked down with a grin to see Senator 18, watching her kneecaps sink deeper into the sand as she continued to sob and sweat with worry. Dalton slapped Cam on the collar bone with grin, swinging around, marching back to the helicopter.

The helicopter door opened.

Dalton wiped the sweat from a brow with a grin. "Great job, man! We be buzzing our butts back home to Bama. Cole went Christmas shopping inside the Capital Building, robbing all them priceless USA national treasures and sent the packages to his warehouse in Coville. You and me be going to select our Christmas gifts first, before the other rednecks get the really good stuff. Then we be meeting to plot out Mr. President's job for someone else." He and Cam stomped up the steps inside the helicopter, traveling back home to Alabama. Then the helicopter door closed.
August 15th Monday

6:04 a.m.

Town of Coville

(1659 miles due east of Sasbe desert)

Mack's Gas and Food Store and Warehouse

Mostly cloudy with five mph winds

77 percent humidity at 79ºF

Rear room setting

Cole moved ahead and stomped forward with a grin from the dark corridor of the attached storage warehouse, where his collection of priceless senator chamber desks stood, and halted, staring with a sour frown at the square shape of desks and Dalton. Dalton sat in one of the senator chamber desks, cupping his fingers over the empty wooden surface like he was praying to Almighty God for his earthly sins. He and Holt stared with a grin and a chuckle at Cole like a pair of two high school farts, who awaited their school detention charges. Cole jabbed a finger with a sneer at Dalton. "Why are my desks here?"

"We, Holt and me ingeniously decided to redecorate the boring storage room. Since, you got no gawd damn taste for your visiting nice rednecks with some them stolen senator chamber desks that really belongs to the American peoples. Since, the American peoples, like me and Holt, really paid for these dang things. Do you like it, Cole?" Dalton held both cupped hands over the polished wood with a grin and a chuckle.

"Naw," Cole parked both fists on the belt with a sour frown at Dalton and Holt.

"I like." Holt said with a grin and a nod, holding both cupped hands over the empty wooden surface too.

Cole gasped, looking down to see a horizontal row of handgun barrels that gleamed and glittered between the iron vertical slate of the desk which was below the underbelly of Dalton's senate chamber desk. The vertical slate was reserved for nothing but pretty decoration for the senator in the Capitol Building. Now, it was a new beautiful and dangerous decoration of guns, boldly outlining between his faded and torn blue jeans and a polished cowboy boots of Dalton. Dalton wiggled his shiny boots, realizing that Cole had seen the cute display of hand guns on top of the lumber made-shift gun rake underneath his desk. Like a good school boy, Dalton turned with a grin and a snigger to see Holt. Cole stumbled forward to the floor and gingerly touched the barrel of the first revolver, feeling the smooth coolness of the metal, and whipped back his hand like a deadly black widow spider, parting his lips, whispering. "Jeezus, Dalton! Are they loaded, Holt?"

Dalton shook his curls with a sour frown to Cole. "Naw, man! I ain't stupid-o. I follow the four rules of gun safety. First rule, treat the damn gun like it's loaded with ammo at all times." He held one finger in the air with a nod and a grin.

Cole surveyed each gun from the left to the right with a puzzled brow. "Ya got a black Colt 45, an earth-colored Beretta, a Magnum silver barrel, a sold black Ruger, and an olive-drab Glock. Why are those unloaded weapons inside my warehouse store, Dalton?" Cole used his nice southern manners, since Dalton used would get a bit pissed off moody, sometimes, coupled with his quick draw stupid-ass words and deadly physical actions. He looked up with a sour frown to see the pair of grinning and giggling assholes.

The warehouse door opened. Rich entered through the archway from eating breakfast with the other rebels in another room of the big warehouse, and halted, staring at the exposed gun collection, exhaling with a huff of frustration, and moved to an empty senator desk too. "Are these the..."

"Yep." Dalton held his cupped hands over the wooden surface with a grin and a nod to Rich.

Shelly followed behind Rich, staring with a sour frown at the gun collection and the two redneck billionaires, sliding into one of the senator desks too. "Did ya'll..."

"Yep." Dalton smiled.

"Are them guns loaded, Dalton? Holt?" Trent entered the archway with a sour frown, viewing the nice of collection of pretty hand guns below the boot toes of both Holt and Dalton, and shook his skull with worry about the young rednecks, sitting in an empty senator desk also.

Dalton smiled, "Naw."

"I like." Preston entered the archway with a smile and a nod, stopping and hugging his wife Pamela.

Pamela scanned the room and the exposed gun collection with a smile and a nod. "I like, too." She possessed a pair of cornflower blue eyeballs, a set of black bangs and a long ponytail, a tone of olive tinted skin color, standing at five feet and ten inches tall on a slender body, wearing a white colored T-shirt, a pair of faded and torn blue jeans, and a pair of unpolished cowgirl boots. They moved and stopped at a set of empty desks also. Preston slid in the desk, slapping his arms on the smooth polished wood for the next rebel mission. Pamela sat between Preston and Holt, turning with a nod and a smile to greet the unfamiliar faces like a southern belle. However, she felt a little guilty, leaving their toddler son with his grandmother, while she was going to participate in the new upcoming rebel-mission. But she was proud to join the rebellion as an American.

Rich waved his hand, motioning at the incoming rebels from the doorway. Each one stopped with a set of parted lips to admire the gleaming hand gun collection too. Rich said with a chuckle and a grin. "Hurry, ya'll. Grab a desk, compliments of Cole and the working American senators before wasting any more tick tock time." Each rebel moved and slid into an empty desk. Rich pointed to the face of the new rebels with a smile and a nod. "I would like to present Miss Ida. She is Arthol's wife from Washington DC. Welcome, ya'll. Now, back to business."

"Mangrove." Holt smiled.

"Berrington." Dalton grinned.

"Shut up, rednecks." Cole exhaled with a huff of frustration.

Ida stood at five feet and three inches short with a head of short cropped auburn colored hair, a pair of hazel colored eyeballs, a tone of pale tinted skin, moving and sliding into the empty desk next to Dalton. She leaned over with a smile and a whisper to see his nose profile. "Can you teach me to shoot a gun, Dalton?"

Dalton turned with a grin and a chuckle to the young brave rebel, who had accepted her deadly mission with courage. He nodded to her pretty face. "Yes ma'am, sweetheart." He turned with a grin to see Arthol. "Okay with your hubby? I always ask permission from her fellow, before I touch a lady..."

"A lady's what, Dalton?" Holt slapped Dalton on the forearm with a laugh and a smile.

Dalton turned with a sneer to see the nose profile of Holt. "Her elbow, smartass." He looked with a grin to Arthol. "Arthol, do I have your permission?"

Arthol turned with a wink and a grin to his wife. "Shore. Be very careful. She's a swift learner."

Dalton stood, rattling the gun belt around a fit waist while making a tinkling sound, and said with a nod and a smile. "Come on, little lady! We goes into the rear of the warehouse to shoot your first gun lesson and target practice on some real creatures. You're lucky. Cole gots some sick alley cats, we can practice on. Since, he don't feed 'em critters just lets the poor boogers starve to death, slowly. So I come out here ever once in a while and shoot them things. Bang. Bang. Dead. Since I'm a human...at it...kind of guy."

Cole yelled with a sour frown to Dalton. "Dalton. Shit. Stop with your fucking ass lying. My cats are healthy, well-fed, and happy, as long as, you don't get your boots around them. Don't tell her that shit. And don't you dare shoot one of your damn pistols around my store or warehouse. Go home to Hoville. Shoot some of your own sick animals. Or just shoot some of your own horses."

Dalton turned with a stern face and a serious tone to see Cole. "I don't shoot well animals, Cole."

Rich waved a hand with a grin. "Sit down, Dalton and Miss Ida. Our next task, the elimination of Mr. President. And we already got a perfect plan." He pointed with a nod to Ida. "Go girl. Tell 'em, Miss Ida?"

Ida turned with a smile to see each face. The senator chamber desks were posed in a square shape arrangement for easy communication. She used her hands to talk, saying with a nod. "First off, I'm Ida. It's nice to meet all of ya'll. Second off, I'm proud to defect and join the rebel-ranks. And third off, I've been to Camp David. I know the location. I was blind folded and placed inside a limo and then driven to Camp David to nurse one of the sick SS guards."

"SS guards? Shit. Is that they're real names?" Trent frowned.

Ida grinned. "A nickname, I guess. Someone spitted the double alphabetic letters while shitting on the toilet and it stuck to all their shitty buttholes," she laughed with the other rednecks. "I know the secret location of Camp David. Since it's a well guarded secret."

"Just follow the trail of SS guards," Shelly laughed.

"The dead or alive ones?" Dalton laughed.

Rich pointed with a stern face to Ida. "This round, we let the children take out Mr. President."

Dalton banged both palms on top of the wooden surface. "Yeehaw." He reaches for his gun as Ida touched his arm and shook her curls. Dalton turned with a smile to see her sour puss face. "She's a mind reader like my Julia. Hell, I love this girl."

"My wife?" Arthol sneered at Dalton.

Ann shook her curls. "No. We do not train children as assassins, Rich."

Rich smiled. "I totally agree with Miss Ann. We'll be kidnapping Mr. President from his retreat home located at Camp David in Delaware when not ruining our country or enjoying his free leisure time. Wade has generously volunteered to spy on Mr. President..."

"Wade is located at the White House?" Dalton scanned the room with a puzzled brow.

"Since last night, he flew into DC around ten pm or so. Actually now, Waddling is at Camp David. The rebel-IT folks planted a few bot bugs inside his suit jacket, his lizard belt, and his blue jeans but not his cowboy boots to keep taps on his spying. Ya can ruin a good pair of boots, doing that stupid-ass thing." Trent grinned.

"Wade is located at Camp David. We've been tracking his bot bugs. He's there as we plan our next kidnapping plot." Shelly pointed to the laptop, tracking the red lines bot bugs on Wade.

Dalton stood with a growl, jabbing a finger at the wooden surface with a nod. "Get his ass back here, now, Rich!"

"Why, Dalton?" Trent frowned.

"Waddling is a perfect plant. Mr. President trusts him a helluva lot more than any of us." Shelly stared down at the laptop and tiny red lines of Wade with a smile and a nod.

"I don't like this, Rich. I want his ass back here, now." Dalton stared at Rich.

Rich shook a skull. "Naw, Dalton. I'm leader. I lead. Sit down, son. Wade was thrilled to volunteer for his part of the new play." He looked to see the almost healed black eye socket on Preston, coming from the president's kidnapping and torture. He said. "Now, new subject? The children want to lead the next rebel-mission. And the children are stronger than us old farts, who drink too much beer and eat too many buttermilk biscuits and..."

"...more capable of lifting an unconscious 165 pound male, toting from a house into a car and then into the helicopter." Ida said with a smile and a nod to Rich. "Rich, you don't mind, do ya?" He waved his hand. She stood, exhaling a puff of nervousness, looking to each face. "I have taken command of the next plot to take back America. Simply because, I am the only person in this room, who has actually traveled to Camp David during one of several special meetings. Mr. President held some of his private government conferences inside the conference room at Camp David, a couple times, each week. I was blind-folded, of course, and set inside a copter that left Andrews Air Force Base. Then we flew for 1,802 seconds..."

"Wait a minute! That's thirty minutes, two seconds," Dalton looked down with a sour frown and thumb typed on his mobile telephone for verification.

Rich chuckled. "Excellent, student Dalton."

He looked up with a sour frown to see Rich. "What the fuck's going on here, Rich?"

"A little fun to tell your grandchildren about, Dalton. Please continue, Miss Ida." Rich smiled.

Ida nodded. "The helicopter ride from Andrews took thirty minutes, two seconds..."

"Looky! Camp David is both secured and isolated. No one knows the exact steps to the front door. We should ditch this stupid-ass plan, Rich. Go and get Wade from Camp David then vicious attack the White House." Dalton frowned.

"With 1,900 folks inside the White House, sitting on top of their government-issued hand guns, and their personal home rifles, and some illegal sub-machines guns? Naw, Dalton. That's the more stupid-ass plan from a stupid dumb-shit, who can't think clearly from some heavy drinking, last night." Shelly frowned.

Rich raised his palm. "Listen to Miss Ida. She has a grand plan."

Ida nodded. "Everyone knows that Camp David is the country retreat for the president, located in a portion of the wooded hills inside the Catoctin Mountain Park near Thurmont, Maryland. It is geographical sixty two miles from DC..."

"And everyone knows that a set of three jet fighters monitor above, below, and around Camp David all the damn time. We can't get in there even if George Washington, Junior is there shitting inside his private toilet." Dalton frowned. "Time to get Wade out of there, now, Rich?"

Ida pointed with a grin to Rich. "Rich, if you please." Rich pressed the button, displaying an electronic map on the far wall. She moved and stood beside the electronic map, pointing to the spot. "This is the Catoctin Mountain Park on the left. On the right, it is an outlined fortress of Camp David with various snaky roads around the outskirts of the property lines and is closed to the public and heavily monitored by the SS guards. On the extreme lower left of the screen, there is the gun shooting range in the middle is the retreat campsite..."

"And?" Dalton exhaled with a huff of frustration.

"And on the extreme upper left hand side, there is the Wyn Fitness Center within the property lines of Camp David, used by the president. Plus, it is used by a very few select friendly senators, being chauffeured back and forth from Andrews in their private helicopters." She turned with a grin and pointed to Pamela. "Meet Mrs. Georgia Ludowick from Sweetwater, Georgia, ya'll. Georgia has an appointment at ten in the morning with her private masseuse at the Wyn Fitness Center inside Camp David to levitate her stressful night of waltz dancing and alcohol partying in the city of DC. Pamela needs some fake gems around her throat, hanging down from her earlobes and jewelry draped around both her wrists to complete her fake disguise. O. Where the shortest skirt ya got, honey along with four inched sandal heels, any style or color to master the tacky taste of Mrs. Ludowick, the very young wife of senator George Ludowick," she chuckled with the rebels.

"Is that his real name?" Trent asked.

"Yes," Ida smiled.

"Is that her real name?" Trent smiled.

"Naw," Ida smiled.

"Does Georgia know that George is missing from the senate chamber floor, since yesterday?" Shelly grinned.

"And that pretty Georgia peach Scarlett don't really gives a damn." Ida giggled with the other rebels. "With the approval from Rich, the following rebels will board a jet from here in Birmingham to Washington DC. Arthur, Preston, Pamela, Arthol, and I will bring back Mr. President in one piece. I don't promise, thou. We fly and land a plane at Andrews without any type of incident, please. Since Mr. President busies with his assets, looking for ya'll in Florida. His devoted SS guards are thinly scattered between Key West, Florida and Washington, DC. The named rebels plus Rich will take a private copter from Andrews, acting like her private entourage."

"Where's the real Mrs. Georgia Ludowick, in case, she really shows up for her spa appointment?" Trent frowned.

"Sweating her makeup off in El Paso, Texas with Mr. George Ludowick, we thought pairing them together would be greatly entertaining for them." Cole chuckled.

Ida pointed with a smile to her husband. "Arthol can fly a chopper, so he gets to be pilot. I'm the masseuse. Preston and Arthur are her private body guards. She always travels this elegantly style and protection paid by hard-working Americans and their tax dollars. The entire flight is about thirty minutes from Andrews straight to the fitness center without an air escort. Since, the chopper will be one of many presidential helicopters with a presidential seal marked on the exterior. Then we truck inside the fitness center and take out the SS guards with this." She lifted and held a tiny silver cylinder between her fingers. "This is our newest, meanest, and smallest weapon, a blowgun dart system, my little beaus and belles. The slender blowgun is both prohibited and illegal in the foreign countries of United Kingdom, Australia, Canada, and among the US States of California, Massachusetts, Washington DC but not here in Bama. A blowgun is defined as any mouth device, using a hallow pipe designed to shoot darts by breath. The art of blowgun darting was introduced in 1250 AD in the region of Northern Africa as depicted by an ancient stone drawing. A youth shooting a rabbit with a blowgun for his meal. A blowgun dart is much lighter and packs less energy than a traditional bow arrow set or a heavy dart gun. This tiny cylinder is quick-shooting, using one heavy breathe of two healthy lungs and fast-loading by spitting the dart through the mouthpiece of the cylinder tray."

"Who is this, little girl? And where did she come from planet Mars?" Holt smiled.

Ida grinned. "I'm a pharmacy technician by unemployment. I know lots and lots of things about drugs like the good, the bad, and the nasty. The Cherokee Native Americans used to construct a blowgun dart of locust wood fletch with a single thick pall of bull thistle. You know that the prickly needle cuts into the meat of your palm when barely touched. Both natural earth elements provide an air seal as it sails into an animal for mealtime. We, space cowgirls and cowboys will use the modern element aluminum, making up the smooth sleek cylinder. The dart is typical made of hardwood to prevent cracking like a bamboo skewer. The dart fletch is usually rolled goose down feathers or animal fur tips. The cylinder diameter is thirteen millimeters with a bell shaped mouthpiece for a set of soft pink tinted American redneck lips. The length is a special cut at four inches for ease of carry and hiding in a rear pocket of your faded and torn blue jeans. The hardwood dart is two inches long, weighing .08 grams. It's tipped in American milkweed cotton for ease of flight. The bigger the blowgun, the more force is released. The released force pushes the dart at a faster speed, thus a swift impact and quick knock down of your intended target. Present day, the Indian tribes of South America use twelve foot blowguns for their darts, and they can hit and kill a flying parrot at sixty five yards."

Rich smiled. "Once we safely land inside the fitness center, where Mrs. Ludowick from Georgia flashes her pretty smile and her high heels for her full commanding attention, Preston and Arthur will fire their blowgun darts, hitting any biological body part but not Miss Pamela or Miss Ida, boys. Miss Ida dusts their face whiskers with a second form of sleeping potion. We change our clothes into a blue shirt and load back into the government vehicle, traveling a short two miles and park in the rear of the single cabin that holds Mr. President. We enter through the kitchen, turning to the right, down the long hallway, then to the left into a big conference room. There's a television and telephone system.

Then pop, I hit Mr. President in the neck with my new blowgun. Then strong and mighty me, Preston, Arthol, and Arthur drag his unconscious ass to the car, inside the copter, onto the jet, and then right back here inside Coville. This is place, where we greatly force him to kindly surrender his chair as the President of the United States," he nodded with a grin.

Ida pointed with a grin to Arthur, holding the blow dart. "First rule, the blowgun should never be pointed at another person, unless he or she is the enemy. Depending on how much lung capacity, an expert blow gunner can fire a dart, making it travel as fast as 300 feet per second which is limited to approximately sixty feet. That's two times, as fast as, an arrow shot from a wooden bow."

Preston frowned. "So we need to be really close for us, novice amateurs."

"I'll get ya close, honey child." Pamela elbowed and winked to her husband. Preston leaned over and pecked her cheekbone, pulling back with a smile and a wink to his wife.

Ida moved and stopped, extending a blowgun to Preston and Arthur. They accepted the weapon, looking down and examining the smooth metal. She moved and stood behind Preston and Arthurs, saying with a stern face. "The blowgun is surprisingly fast and silent, allowing both hunters Preston and Arthur to get off a second shot, if ya miss the first time. Let's target practice." Ida pointed to the distance of twenty feet across the opposite wall, where a set of twin objects stood.

Arthur studied the tiny blow dart with a sour frown. "Here? Now? Today?"

Ida said with a nod to the rear bald skull of Arthur. "Yeah. The here and now, before we need to board that plane for DC in a few minutes."

"Let Miss Ida shoot the damn dart," Arthur stared with a sour frown at the cylinder like a poisonous toady frog.

"Naw. She's the masseuse. You're the body guard Arthur." Cole shook his skull with a grin to embarrass the young rebel.

Ida watched with a stern face Preston and Arthur fumble around with the tiny blowguns in their hands with the tiny darts. "Okay. Load the dart into the mouthpiece of the cylinder." Preston loaded the muzzle with dart. She nodded. "Good job, Preston. Once loaded into the safety mouthpiece, the dart can't slide back out. Lower the front of your blowgun, until it is level with your soft cut cuddly teddy bear toy target on the opposite wall. When aiming a blowgun, look and focus on the bull's eye of your target with both your eyelids open, not like shooting a hand gun. You should see two ghost images between the blowgun barrel. One barrel is left; the other is right of your focused target. At this point, move your barrel slightly side to side, until your focused target is in the middle of these two ghost images and then fire." She pointed to the twin objects on the opposite side of the table, moving and shuffling to wall to observe. The dart hit the wall from Preston. The dart hit the teddy bear right between the eyeballs from Arthur. The rebels sounded with claps and chuckles at the kill shot.

Dalton pointed with a laugh and a grin to the young rebels. "Man, ya'll are fucking wussies."

Ida turned with a grin and a giggle to see the rear skull of Dalton. "Now, now, Dalton. The darts are the distraction while the SS guards search and scratch for a tiny mosquito that just bit their ass. Since, Preston might improve up to that biological part body before the rebel-mission." She chuckled.

"Your wife, Arthol?" Preston turned with grin and a wink to see Arthol.

"My wife, ya'll." Arthol smiled at his smart wife.

Ida smiled. "Once the dart tags a body part, I swiftly fling bites of this special colored red pepper into their eyeballs. They inhale the light particles and sleep for three hours straight. So cowboys, don't sweat the darts. Ya'll can practice on the plane, yielding some bigger and better accuracy points while we fly to DC."

10:22 a.m. (eastern standard time)

Camp David in US State of Maryland

(543 miles northwest from Birmingham)

Mostly cloudy with nine mph winds

81 percent humidity at 67ºF

Parked sedan setting

Inside the sedan, Pamela giggled in the rear bench of the government vehicle, changing out her high heels and her clothes.

The presidential helicopter had flown from Andrews Air Force Base, landing at the Wyn Fitness Center on time. Pamela had exited last like a movie star, moving with her two security guards through the front of the glass doors of the chrome building, standing and stopping inside the lobby. The lobby had been empty. She had used her sexy disguise and her sexy smile, faking out two SS guards as Preston had shot a single blowgun dart into the rear ass of each guard. Then Ida had sprayed her red pepper particles into their faces. Arthol had driven the government vehicle to the cabin house, parking outside. Preston, Arthol, Rich had left the vehicle and entered the cabin, looking for the president. Now, the more two SS guards were soundly sleeping on the cold floor of the cabin.

Now, Arthur and Pamela waited in the government vehicle for the signal from Rich. She slipped off the real emeralds stones from Preston's mama, saying with a smile. "It felt like an elevator when the copter lifted from the ground, Arthur."

Arthur slowly picked off more encrusted mouth spit from his stained white colored T-shirt. He had vomited a pile of puke green colors over his body upon exiting the airborne helicopter. He said with a sour frown to the vomit particles on his shirt. "I get motion sickness, really bad. I mean. I get sick in a car even with me driving. I've puked in planes, on buses, in taxi cabs. I'm pretty nervous about this whole thing."

She climbed over the rear seat to the passenger seat with Arthur, saying with a smile and a nod to window shield, avoiding the green vomit particles on his shirt. "The copter ride was kinda fun like a roller coaster ride at the Birmingham State Fair. Remember, when we went before we lost our jobs and the..." She paused, looking down to see her dirty boot toes, wanting to remember the good things of yesteryears. Since, the bad times of today were to overwhelming to her nerves and her neurons. She cleared her throat, looking up with a stern face to see his nose profile. "I felt no bumpiness in the thrilling helicopter ride from Andrews Air Force Base at all. It's like you're sitting in your car and it starts to float in the air like magic."

"Nosily air," Arthur looked up occasionally to watch the rear door of the president's retreat house at Camp David. The white wooden house looked like the forest dwarfs had been upgraded their cave in the mountain side.

"You're experiencing a simple psychological fear issue called the chicken shit reflex, Arthur," Pamela smiled. She and Arthur were more than good friends, more like good brother and sister relatives. Arthur, Ilenn, Preston, and Pamela lived together like a real pioneer family in the block community of Moville on a horse and cow ranch.

He looked down with a worried brow to see the wrist watch, "Time marked at three minutes. How long do we give Rich until we assist with the extraction?"

She nervously tapped her fingernails on the dash, watching the rear door too. "No time measurement assigned. We watch for Rich to flip the white shirt over his right forearm. That's the secret signal for us to help carry the president out of the house." She turned with a stern face to see the surrounding forest landscape. The trees were tall and green. The clouds were pretty and white. The green lawn was nicely trimmed, displaying a beautiful arrangement of colorful wildflowers around the windows and driveway. The birds flew in the sky or sung songs in the trees. The frogs crocked looking for bug meals. Mother Nature continued to thrive and grow even under the new nasty dictator of the USA. Pamela said. "I didn't see an additional SS guards around here, either," she turned with a stern face to see his nose profile. "How ya going to get back to Bama without riding inside the copter, Arthur?"

Arthur stared with a grin at the rear door of the cabin. "I got dibs on a window seat in the front of the copter. I am going to enjoy the earth terrain view instead of the wall view, this time. Preston got the rest of 'em with his blowgun darts, while you were in the rear bench. There were only two more SS guards posted near the back door of the cabin. The other SS guards might be stationed in the front entrance. Or more likely, the team of SS boys and girls are along the south roadways, looking for a caravan of sharp shooters." Pamela gasped and slammed Arthur on the arm. A blue shirted male stood at the rear porch door, flipping a white shirt over his arm, holding it for a few second, and removed it. Arthur grunted, cracking the door, and ordered. "That's Rich with the signal. Let's move. But walk with a carefree steady pace to the rear door, Pamela. There are still some active SS guards around here, somewhere."

"Okay," she jerked the door handle open and stood, wearing her blue jeans, her cowgirl boots, and a white shirt. She had forgot to retrieve a blue shirt from one of the dressing lockers at the Wyn Fitness center, since she had served as lookout for the rebel team. Rich, Preston, and Ida had changed into a proper disguise like the SS guards, since Arthur was dumping his lunch onto the manicured lawn with an upset stomach. She slowly moved in the grass behind Arthur, darting her eyelashes to the left and to the right, looking for movement or trouble.

Arthur stopped and slowly opened the rear door, scanning with his FBI trained eyeballs inside a dull empty hallway, and entered, making a set of tiny tap sounds with his boot heels. Pamela followed behind Arthur, moving over the wooden floor with soft tapping sounds too, staring at the numerous framed pictures of the current and former Camp David presidential families. He paced down the hallway and turned to the wall corner, using the written instructions from Ida. Arthur was too nervous to memory any type of verbal instructions but not being afraid to die for America. He was afraid of leaving his wife Ilenn with their un-born babe, until he could see with his own eyeballs their newborn baby son, the first time in his life. He stopped, seeing the closed door of the conference room ahead of him as Pamela bumped into his back spine. She gasped, back pedaling from both him and the door. Arthur back stepped from the closed door, moving beside Pamela, whispering to her cheekbone. "Pull your blowgun. Hold it out beside your waist. Get ready for anything."

Pamela said from her heart over her purpose with a lady sneer of fear and guts, "I protect Preston, first."

Arthur nodded. "Good girl. Here we go. Just follow me inside like we're invited." He touched the door knob. The conference room door opened.

Camp David interior conference room

He entered through the archway of the conference room, acting like a family friend, moving to the side wall. Pamela entered with a confused brow through the archway. A person sat at the conference table, displaying a rear skull of brown hair, wearing a blue sports jacket, and read a book on the surface. Four strange hands grabbed Pamela and her blowgun as she swung around, facing a painted wall of beige, and gasped with shock. A rebel line of sour puss faces consisted of Rich, Preston, Arthol, and Ida. Then, Arthur was turned and pushed back into the wall too, gasping with shock. A long execution line of non-smiling SS guards stood on the opposite wall from the rebel line. Each SS guard wore a blue shirt, a pair of faded and torn blue jeans, a pair of black tinted reflective sunglasses, and a blue baseball cap, pointing a handgun at each rebel in the line. Pamela was pushed against the wall next to Ida, feeling like a row beer bottles, narrowing her eyelashes at the table.

The brown haired person faced the window, saying with a calm voice. "The presidential retreat in the Catoctin Mountains was established by Franklin D. Roosevelt in the year 1942. Dwight D. Eisenhower met with his National Security Council here in the year 1955. George H. Bush met with his National Security advisors in this very room on this very table in the years 1990 and 2012. And the world leaders held a G8 Summit conference in this very room at this very table, a couple of years ago." He slowly swerved the chair, facing the rebels without a smile, a pair of tinted sunglasses, a baseball cap, or a handgun. The tall skinny male wore an oversized blue wool jacket across his collar bone and stood. The jacket and his oversized blue jeans dropped down to the carpet. He moved and stepped out of the clothing, wearing a blue shirt and a pair of faded and torn blue jeans, staring with a stern face and a nod to the rebel-captives. "Now, in this famous room, the presidential retreat holds an assembly meeting of the most wanted outlaw rebels in the United States of America." The SS guard moved and marched to Rich first, saying with a smirk. "Hey, pretty billionaire. Remember me?" His left arm crossed over the chest in a plastered arm cast, since the single bullet, coming from the handgun of Dalton, cut into his left collar bone, attacking some of his nerve endings and his muscle tissue. The bloody wound will heal but not his fury. The SS guard mouth spat on the floor, looking up with a sneer to Rich. "Bud. We met a few days ago for the first time at the White House in the dungeon prison cell," he side stepped with a snarl to Preston. "Hey, pretty boy. I don't forget a cute face. So, I guess you and me get to rumble a little later in the evening, after dinnertime. Huh, dipshit?" He side stepped with a snort to Arthol. "Hey, pretty asshole! You joined the wrong team, man. But, I'll beat ya silly for that stupid-ass move, correcting your dumb-ass attitude," he side stepped with a grin to Ida. "Hey, pretty ass! Who are you, doll?" His eyeballs shifted up and down on her body. Ida snarls without any vile verbal retort, since she was afraid that the SS guard might purposefully attack one of her rebel-friends for his shitty sick fun. Bud side stepped with a sneer to Arthur. "I remember you, too, pal. You're friends with that asshole named Dalton. The cowboy shot up my arm. I'm going to enjoy beating your ass. Then I'm going to send you back both bloody and bruised to Dalton for a real cowboy challenge."

Bud side stepped with a smile to Pamela. "Hey, pretty girl." Pamela did not frown or snarl at Bud. Bud winked at her lovely face. "I bet you're one of those southern belles. Talk for me, doll? I wanna hear your pretty accent." Bud turned with a grin to see the rebel line and stopped his eyeballs on the nose profile of Preston. "Are you taken, doll? Maybe, a girlfriend of the other male rebels?" Bud winked with a chuckle to the nose profile of Preston. "No matter to me. You're my captive, now. I'll hear that southern belle rebel yell later, tonight." He watched Preston, seeking a tart reaction from the rebel-male, in case, the doll was his girlfriend, making his nightly activity really fun and entertaining. Bud back stepped with a stern face from Pamela, standing in front of the pile of clothes and the chair, and exhaled with a huff of frustration, scanning the sour puss rebel-faces with a grin. "You can see that your kidnapping plot encountered an epic failure, as they say. You all are going back to DC per the instructions of Mr. President. Since, he desires a private meeting served with tea biscuits and English tea. Pack them in the second limo right beside each other and blindfold their eyes. Since, Camp David is still a secretly guarded retreat for the President of the United States." The opposite line of SS guards moved and surrounded each rebel, presenting a set of ropes and a pile of blindfolds with a grin.

11:49 a.m.

Washington DC (62 miles southeast of Camp David)

White House on 1001 Pennsylvania Avenue

Oval Office setting

Mostly sunny with seven mph winds

81 percent humidity at 87ºF

Pamela slowly moved in front of her twin SS guards, who were dressed in their sorta matching fashionista wardrobe: a blue shirt, a pair of faded and torn blue jeans, a pair of black tinted aviator sunglasses, and a blue baseball cap. The sunglasses covered their eyeballs. The baseball cap covered their hair roots but not their glowing smiles. They marched down an empty and quiet hallway to the Oval Office of the President of the United States. Her collar bone ached all the way down from her tied wrists behind her back spine, wearing a set of rough nylon ropes as she moved from the cold damp basement of the White House dungeon to the first floor of the White House. The captured rebels included her husband Preston, her old friend Arthur, her new friend Arthol, and his wife Ida, the new rebels Calvin and Leon, and the rebel-billionaire Rich. She landed a boot toe on the thick carpet which felt like hallowed sacred ground inside a church, and looked like a dethroned royal American princess of the USA. Then she saw Wade and halted on the carpet.

Wade sat a folded body on top of a red and white soft, watching the television screen. However, the television screen was not powered on. His skull hung too far right and not upright, showing a series of red blood droplets. The red blood droplets dripped from his left cheekbone over his nose bridge and down onto his white undergarment T-shirt. He had been stripped of his personal attire, consisting of his silly red, green, and yellow striped shirt, his expensive tailored made blue sports jacket, and his new pair of blue jeans. But he wore his orange and green ostrich cowboy boots.

Pamela gagged and turned to the wall, hoping that she did not vomit inside her mouth gag as her twin SS guards shoved her to the presidential office desk. All the furniture had been removed from the walls and the carpet, leaving a single desk, a set of twin sofas that faced each other. And a twin television sets on each wall that were not powered on either. Pamela moved and turned, standing behind a long executive wooden desk in front of the three closed window curtains. The Oval Office was the work station of the President of the United States. He conferred with the various foreign governmental heads, the White House staff, the US Congress, the other foreign dignitaries, and recently one or two billionaires, a few days ago. Pamela wore a mouth gag and a set of cuffed wrists, standing between the two SS guards, facing a semi-circle of numerous SS guards. The semi-crooked line of SS guards surrounded the fireplace and the exposed outer walls, blocking the archways of the den, the dining room, and the secretary's exterior office from doorway to doorway. No single SS guard protected the exit door to the Rose Garden. Too bad, the rebel-billionaires were impatiently waiting with a set of precision rebel-sharp shooters on the roof top of the West Wing which was across from the Rose Garden door. They were readying to blow Mr. President's face off his skull. That was Plan B, if Plan A failed.

However, beaus and belles, Plan A had failed, epically.

Inside the Oval Office, the new SS guards matched her twin guards, wearing a blue shirt, a pair of torn and faded blue jeans, a pair of black tinted reflective sunglasses, and a blue baseball cap too. And they also wore a set of bright smiles, holding a cold barrel handgun directly at Pamela. She narrowed her eyelashes at next incoming person through the archway of the Oval Office.

A second person moved slowly. She was an elderly woman, sixty something years old with a tall body frame, a tone of mink tinted skin, a head of graying and black colored curls, wearing a pair of torn and faded blue jeans. The woman stared down at the carpet, slowly walking on her dirty sneakers to Pamela. Then, she stopped and posed on the opposite side of the presidential office desk with her own set of twin SS guards next to Pamela. Pamela and the elderly lady appeared like a set of two clock towers between the edges of the long office desk. The elder lady looked up with a worried brow of fright and fear to see Pamela.

Pamela gasped at Arthur's mama with shock. Tanita used to live at the Moville horse ranch in Alabama with them. She wore a mouth gag and a set of cuffed wrists behind her back spine too. Pamela turned with a stern face to see Arthur.

Arthur entered the Oval Office with a set of cuffed wrists but not a mouth gag, moving beside the president. The president hugged Arthur on the collar bone like an old childhood friend, whispering like a pair of secret lovers. They moved and stopped in front of the semi-circle of SS guards on the wall. The president pointed to presidential office desk with a grin and a chuckle. "I have moved the desk away from the windows to protect them, son. The desk sat on top of the eagle, a fierce warrior in Mother Nature's army, symbolizing both strength and pride unlike you. I have selected this afternoon for your pleasure and my entertainment two of your rebel-friends. Your rebel-mama and your rebel-friend stand on the opposite ends of my power executive presidential desk right behind the closed curtains for my show, Arthur. We're going to play a little game which a third grader can understand, Arthur? You tell me where the rest of your rebel-friends are located? So I can find my money. Or you can pick a rebel that you want to live then the other one will die?" He thumbed the SS guards over his collar bone, saying with a grin. "Then my devoted SS guards, like that clever term, will kill the other rebel ya don't pick. I wanna see and taste the human blood stains when I sit down to work on fixing our great nation, tomorrow morning."

"You're completely insane, Mr. President." Arthur looked up to see his mama behind the desk as he was defenseless against Mr. President. He wore two tied wrists in front of his leather belt, cutting into the bones, dripping blood droplets over the dirty rug. The line of SS guards lifted and aimed a hand gun at both Tanita and Pamela.

The president shoved the note card into Arthur's jaw line. Arthur flips his eyeballs down from his mama and looked at the bold typed rich black words: Mama or Non-mama. The president sneered. "I'm completely pissed off by your little assholes friend, Arthur."

"I done my job right then." Arthur chuckled with the SS guards.

The president dropped the note card over Arthur tied fingers with a sneer. "Tell me where are Dalton and his illegal band of US outlaws hiding out! And do not mention the city of Miami. We found that little raccoon and eight of my SS guards are getting rabid treatment shots." Arthur look with a worried brow to see Pamela. She shook her ponytail side to side with a negative answer. The president sneered. "Is Dalton with the renegade senators that have vanished from the Capitol Building, spending all my money, too? I can't find them, either. Have they joined your little band of merry men, also?" Arthur smirked with the secret, looking at his mama. The president thought that the congressmen and women had abandoned his dream of the first 'US Dictator of America' without fully understanding the magic vanishing trick. The president sneered. "SS guards, move away from the female rebels out of the target range. Select one word, Arthur."

Arthur look down with a worried brow to see the note card and looked up to see his precious mama. Tanita shook her curls with a lonely understanding with Arthur that they were all going to die at the hand of the president. Then Arthur cut his eyeballs to Pamela, who shook her ponytail side to side also with the same evil but sad mental conclusion. They were the young fearless faces of the rebels, who led the rebellion to take back America from the greedy selfish one percent rich assholes that had pissed a dick on every American's dream of peace, prosperity, and harmony.

An average American with an average two kids in an average home neighbor did not want to police the rest of the world. They wanted to enjoy barbequing in backyards, playing with their kids, and growing old with their loved spouse, and not fighting a war for their freedom of rights that their forefathers set up over 200 years ago. The colonists of the thirteen colonies won the War of Independence in 1776, so their heirs would enjoy a simple life as a simple American.

Rich and his redneck billionaires had ridded the vile, stinky, greedy selfish corruption in Washington DC. The corrupted congressmen and women at this moment were fighting for their very existence without their cushiony padded leather chairs kissing their asses along an invisible US border boundary with a set of loaded guns. The greedy assholes that survived of course would not come back to Washington DC but go back to their family home. And they would probably hide out inside their fake fairy tale life for the rest of their days, since the American people had chosen freedom, and peace over greed and corruption.

"No." Arthur whispered and stared at his mama.

The president mouth spat on the cheekbone of Arthur with a sneer and a sour frown. "I would like to explain my new friend Arthur that I cannot harm Richie Rich who is downstairs in my little cell block. Since he has too many friends. But I can eliminate one or two of ya stinking little puppies that are shitting on my clean tile floors. Once I find Dalton Duncan, and I will find that bastard, he gets to be the first necktie hung from my second level of the White House which will be viewed and streamed in live color by the remaining seven billion people on planet Earth. I'm saving Rich last, of course. So he can see his total epic failure as each billionaire, including the rebel-ladies who will hang one right after another, expiring their last breath." Arthur growled as the president waved the note card with a sneer. "Remove the female rebels and replace with the male rebels." The twin SS guards grabbed and jerked both Tanita and Pamela by a forearm, shoving them to the wall out of way. Calvin and Leon moved and shuffled through the archway, wearing a set of wrist restraints behind a back spine with a set of two SS guards too. They stopped and stood in front of the presidential desk between the SS guards. They growled at the president, wearing a mouth gag. The president stood beside Arthur, staring with a grin at Calvin and Leon. "We'll run through a test drive like buying a new sports car. I like to rev the engine, see how fast I can shift from first gear into third, grinding the steel teeth of the manual transmission on the raw nerves of the salesman. Now, pick a rebel-friend, Arthur?"

Arthur looked to see Pamela and Tanita, whispering with a worried brow. "No."

"Kill." The president gritted his command as an array of fast speeding bullets swished by the left eardrum of Arthur and the right earlobe of the president with numerous whamp sounds. Two dirty white shirts exploded into pieces of pink flesh, white bone, and red blood from the collar bones down to the heart organs of both Calvin and Leon's body parts.

Pamela gagged from the brutal attack, turning her eyelashes to the wall, sobbing with sadness. Tears rolled down her cheekbones and gathered in her mouth gag. Her nose emitted clear snot that ran into the mouth gag also.

Arthur snarled at the useless murders and sniffed the drifting smoke of death. The SS guards reloaded their empty handguns with a set of new bullets for the next execution inside the Oval Office. The president waved the drifting smoke from his nostrils with the single note card, saying with a nod and a smile. "Good job, SS! Get rid of that shit! Replace the female rebels!" The assigned SS guards moved and dragged the two shredded dead bodies by broken arms and legs away from the presidential desk, hauling and blooding the bodies over the carpet of the Oval Office. Pamela and Tanita were both shoved back in place in front of the presidential desk, wearing a mouth gag and a set of cuffed wrists. They both stand on top of the red blood and white bone fragments of dead and executed Calvin and Leon.

Pamela saw the dripping red blood, coming off on the presidential office desk, falling on the carpet, hiding in the dark fabric as her stomach turned inside out with gallons of mouth salvia from a sudden vomit reflex. She looked up to see the president, feeling hate but not surrendering, foreverly. Her toddler son will be motherless but not fatherless, knowing in her heart that tough-ass Dalton was mounting a rescue party to save Preston, Arthol, Ida, and Rich. But his valiant redneck effort would be too late for her. Pamela saw an additional set of SS guards invade the Oval Office for her upcoming bloody execution. The SS guards wore a blue shirt, a pair of faded and torn blue jeans, a pair of black tinted reflective sunglasses over both the eyebrows and the eyeballs. And they arrogantly presented a blue baseball cap in an ass-backwards position, covering their hair roots. Then they mixed in the crowded wall of standing SS guards, pointing a hand gun at Pamela also. They smiled with a chuckle for the upcoming bloody and messy assassination, too. Pamela soldierly stood, lifting a chin high to ceiling, staring at two rows of SS guards as each guard aimed a hand gun at both her and Tanita. Wet hot tears gathered and blurred her eyeballs, slowly streaming down her dirty face, landing on her dirty smelly mouth gag. Pamela was going to die soonest.

The president mouth spat in the cheekbone of Arthur, looking down at the note card. "Pick a word, Arthur?"

"No." Arthur gathered tears, viewing both his mama and Pamela to die without any aid from him or Preston or Rich.

The president cuddled Arthur like an old lover, holding the tied fingers of Arthur over the paper note card. "Please allow me to assist you, Arthur, pal of mine to pick the right word."

Pamela saw with curiosity. One of the SS guards, who wore an ass-backwards baseball cap, squatting down on the kneecaps, crawling and hiding behind an upright SS guard. Then he hopped to the nearest sofa, slamming his body over the carpet. Pamela cut the eyelashes to the pair of love birdies, the president and Arthur.

The president almost kissed the cheekbone of Arthur with his sour bad breathe, swirling the pinky finger of Arthur over the note card for the selection of one of the two words. Arthur viewed his mama with rolling tears from his wet eyeballs, whispering. "No."

The president exhaled with a huff of annoyance and waved the note card. "Damn. Kill them both now." Silence echoed in the Oval Office. The president turned with a sour frown to see his SS guards.

Two of the SS guards paced forward from the execution line up. One of the guards grinned, ripping off the black tinted sunglasses and the ass-backwards blue baseball cap. He exposed his blondish-gray hair roots, pitching both items down to the carpet, shifting his gun from a left rib cage of the truly subdued SS guard, and aimed the cold barrel at the cold steel heart of the president. He yelled. "Drop to the dirt, rebels!" Arthur tumbled forwards, falling on his face, popping, and bleed both his nostrils, hitting the floor.

Preston leaped from his kneecaps to his boots, running from his secret post behind the sofa, lunging in a horizontal pose at Pamela. Pamela stood in both shock and surprise, seeing many bluish blurs in her teary eyelashes. Each one of ass-backwards baseball cap SS guard pointed a gun at a rib cage of the forward baseball capped SS guard, stealing their weapon and then shifted both guns to the President of the United States. Pamela felt a connection at her kneecaps as the forward baseball capped SS guards dropped face and ate the carpet.

"Fire!" Rich plowed his bullets into the dress shirt of the president with the firing bullets from Dalton, Holt, Shelley, Cole, Trent, Penny, Beatrice, and Arthol.

The president touched and retrieved his pistol from his belt and beautifully twirled like a pretty dancer away from Rich. He wore numerous bloody red bullet holes in his chest. He growled and stared at Pamela as she beautifully side stepped into his gun firing range. Tanita gasped and jumped in front of Pamela. Preston connected to her kneecaps and man-pulled Pamela down to him. She fell on her back spine, biting her tongue. Then Preston fell and landed on top of his wife with a grunt and a grin. The president pumped his bullets, tearing into the chest, neck, and face of Tanita. Her body flung black skin, red blood, white bone, and pink muscle tissue over her, the carpet, the desk, and the curtain windows. And then Tanita tumbled backward and landed dead on the carpet. The president died, plopping a dead body face down on the carpet and not breathing or moving. Rich moved and dashed to Tanita, storing his weapon in his front of belt.

Arthur lifted and sat up on his kneecaps, wearing the wrist cuffs, looking for his mama, and stood, racing to the presidential desk. He saw through his tears and his blood two twisted legs of Tanita from the vicious fall.

Rich body spun around and blocked Arthur, saying with a sad face. "Don't look, son! Remember her as your sweet mama, not like this. I'm sorry. She saved Pamela, Arthur. He aimed, fired, and tried to kill Pamela in cold-blood without any means to defend herself. Your mama sacrificed and saved Pamela's life."

Arthur looked down to see the twisted legs of his mama, since Rich blocked the rest of the mangled body of his mama. He whispered with tears. "She's an angel in heaven, now. She did it right for Pamela, me, my wife, my un-born son, and the rest of us to live in freedom, honor, and promise. Thanks, Rich." Arthurs sobbed, seeing nothing but tears, really wanting to view his mama. However, Rich was correct. Arthur did not want to remember a lifeless body but a joyful mama. Tears fell down his cheekbones, knowing that his mama had sacrificed and saved Pamela and the entire world from evil. Rich cut the nylon ropes from Arthur's wrists with the knife, slapping his bicep with a grin, storing the knife and gun into his gun belt.

Preston belly crawled over Pamela, giving her a kiss then another kiss, and then a bright smile. "I love ya, rebel-mama."

Pamela bleed with a pair of busted lips, spitting blood in his face with a whisper. "I love you." Preston rested over Pamela, reducing his high heart rate with a set of swallow breathing of happiness, since she was alive. And the battle was finished. Each former presidential SS guard slowly stood with an escort by a devoted rebel, hailing from the rebel-army, the rebel-air force, and the rebel-navy of the new USA rebel-military.

Rich turned around and stared at each rebel-billionaires, clapping with a smile and a nod. "Awesome job, rebels. We succeeded admirably with our coop d'toot."

Cole and Trent moved and attended the body. Cole pulled off his wind jacket, resting it over Wade, looking up with a sad frown to see Rich. "Wade is dead."

Rich looked with a sad face to see the jacket. "He was a good man. Let us pray for all the fallen, today." The chins of the people bowed. Pamela and Preston rested on the carpet in silence. Rich prayed. "Dear Almighty God and Brother Jesus, lovely Holy Spirit, and all the heavenly angels. We are merely Your obedience servants here on Your borrowed lands. Please accept our fine cowboys and cowgirls as Your newest and bestest angels to work in Your heavenly domain. And please grant us a mighty mental, physical, and spiritual strength to restore our USA back to a place of peace and promise with Your glorious guidance. Amen." The chins looked up with a sad frown to each other's face.

"What will happen to those SS guards, Rich?" Molly led with a worried brow the non-fighting rebel-billionaires through the archway of the Oval Office, watching the former nasty SS guards of men and women leave the Oval Office like criminals, who were really red-blooded Americans.

Rich looked down to see the dead president. "Arthol is in charge of de-programming the devoted but stupid SS guards under Mr. Asshole, who is over there laying face down dead on the floor. We'll give them a chance to choose like a true American. Arthol was one of them. He was told the actual facts and figured the truth, selecting to work with us like Calvin and Leon. Damn. I didn't figure that he'd kill these two young kids when the president took them from our jail cell. We all were housed in an underground basement underneath the White House inside a single jail cell. The SS guards picked out only Arthur and Pamela. I didn't know Arthur's mama was here either, until I saw her with my own two eyes right before the gun shooting."

Trent said with a nod and sour frown. "He killed the wives and children of Calvin and Leon too. I was just told by one of our rebel-guys."

Ann looked over her collar bone with a sad frown to see the empty archway. "What happens if those young men and women or some of the other SS guards do not want to join our band or honor our rebellion, Rich?" She turned with a sad frown to see Rich.

Cole turned with a nod and a stern face to see each rebel. "They'll be sent to a border patrol sector. They're Americans. We're not Hitler, Miss Ann. They can still serve and maybe see the truth behind all the lies that the former Mr. President did to our great USA."

Holt exhaled with a huff of frustration with a nod. "And Arthol plans to show the other SS guards the dead bodies of the families of Calvin and Leon for them to see the real lies of this old and dead presidential administration. It's gross and sad but necessary for folks to know the truth, Miss Ann."

The red colored landline telephone rung on top of the presidential office desk. "Somebody, answer the damn phone!" Dalton back stepped with a grin and a chuckle from the red colored telephone like a coiled rattlesnake that was next to a desk paper calendar which was covered in bright red stained blood and pieces of white bone of the two dead and executed rebels. Dalton guessed its one of their newest enemies in the world. Holt stepped back with a grin and a laugh, raising his palms and not touching the ringing telephone either.

Cole back stepped and stared with a sour frown at the ringing telephone. "Not me."

Trent back stepped and stared at Rich. "Me, either."

Molly back stepped and stared at Rich. "Rich?"

The telephone continued to ring on top of the bloody covered presidential desk. Rich back stepped and raised both palms, shaking a skull. "I'm retired from the kidnapping business."

Preston stood upright from the floor and his wife, staring at the huddle of rear skulls, strutting with a smile towards the ringing telephone and stops, lifting up the receiver into the lips with a smile. "This is President Preston of the United States of America." He turned with a wink to see Dalton. Dalton and Holt elbowed each other with a grin and a chuckle. Preston said on the one-side conversation. "The former Mr. President is deceased. I have taken his place effective now, sir." He did not smile, scanning the face of the each billionaire. They gave a thumbed-up sign with a nod and a smile to Preston's swift executive decision.

"He's going to make a great president." Holt leaned and whispered to Dalton.

"That's for damn shore. Since I saw that heavenly talent from the get-go." Dalton chuckled.

Preston nodded on the telephone. "I understand, Mr. Prime Minister. We did in true honor borrow your monies in the form of numerous foreign legal loans. Now, you want all your monies with the interest points back to feed your ailing native country's financial market economy."

He paused and listened.

Preston said. "I promise that the United States of America has your treasures. We will comply with your requests. Please allow me seventy two hours. That is three days from right now which has been marked at 11:51 A.M. Since, all that treasury is quite heavy." He grinned on the foreigner on the presidential telephone.

Pause.

Preston said on the telephone. "Yes sir. We will air lift by a fleet of helicopters all the lump sum treasure directly to your awaiting battle cruises. We will land it on top of your military decks which are located off our coastlines of the Pacific, the Gulf of Mexico, and the Atlantic Ocean." Rich turned around, narrowing his eyelids at the powered up televisions. Trent had powered the two television sets without sound. Preston listened to the vicious demands from all the foreign countries of the world, since the USA had borrowed and now owned 24 trillion dollars in foreign money loans to the world.

A set of rebel-soldiers entered and removed dead Wade out from the Oval Office, carrying out the heavy and bloody sofa too. The other rebel-billionaires turned and watched the action on the two television sets. A television reporter sat inside a hovering helicopter over the Pacific Ocean near the coastal city of San Diego in the US State of California with a microphone in her face. The television camera panned to the Pacific Ocean, showing a set of blackish silver vertical bars like chocolate candy bars, floating in a series of broken horizontal lines underneath the crystal blue sky of California. "These are aircraft carriers. I'm most damn sure certain." The rebel-admiral ripped off his cool sunglasses, studying the television. A set of rebel-soldiers entered the Oval Office, carrying and dropping a rounded table and a set of individual mismatched chairs in front of the other twin non-bloody sofa. A set of new rebel-faces entered and occupied the sofa, sitting and watching the televisions also.

"How did this happen?" Molly pointed to the television with a worried brow as rebel-billionaires moved and scooted around the table with a set of chairs.

Trent stared with a worried brow at the television. "Forget, the how? Answer, the what to do, Rich?"

Preston nodded on the telephone. "Yes sir. Please make available lots of landing space on your battle ships. Since you will be taking home a fleet of helicopters that carry your treasure, free compliments of the American people. Yes sir. I can understand that my word on the telephone is not good enough. Then I will send in my new vice president to entertain you for the next three days, who is a very dedicated and devoted American. He will honor our verbal agreement until your treasure lands on your water property. He is boarding the famous Air Force One as we speak, sir," grinning. Pamela stood from the carpet and moved forward, stopping behind Preston, wrapping her arms around his collar bone and not interrupting the important USA presidential business. Preston patted her arm with a smile and a nod, still listening and talking on the presidential telephone. "And I will supervise the fleet of helicopters for the appointed rendezvous in three days. My admiral of the USA Navy will be contacting you with all the necessary details, sir. Yes sir. I will meet and shake your hand on my arrival three days from now. That's a promise from a true-blooded American citizen like my daddy, and my daddy's daddy before him."

Pause.

"Good day to you, also, sir." Preston removed and dropped the telephone receiver on the hook, looking up with a stern face to see Rich.

The rebel-admiral pointed with a sour frown and a sneer to the screen. "Pfft. The territorial seas water defined by the 1982 United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea is an invisible belt of coastal waterways, extending at most twelve nautical miles or fourteen eyeball miles from our marked golden sands." He looked down to see his mobile telephone with more information. "But these bastards have set a ten mile water line right on our asses," sneering.

"We should bomb the shit out of their toilets, letting them assholes sunk down and drown into the Pacific without performing any mercy rescue mission." The rebel-general of the army pointed to the television screen with a laugh.

The rebel-admiral turned with a sour frown and a snarl to see the nose profile of the rebel-general. "Spoken like a true infantry asshole man, rebel-general." He back stepped and moved to an empty chair at the table, sitting with a worried brow, reading his mobile telephone. Preston moved from the presidential desk with his wife. They halted at the rounded table. He pulled out the chair for Pamela. She sat. Then he slid into an empty chair, watching and listening with a stern face but a worried mind. The rebel-admiral read the mobile telephone, sitting at the round table. "We have floating like one of my long turds in our warm bathtub the first Chinese aircraft carrier named Liaoning. From the country of France, Charles de Gaulle; INS Vikramaditya is from the country of Russia. The bastards have hauled some old stuff out from underneath their ship car port garages," laughing with the other rebel-military leaders.

"Status, rebel-billionaires?" Rich looked with a stern face to see each rebel.

Molly smiled. "I'm happy to report that the entire staff of 1,900 plus White House employees are all sick with my special homemade oatmeal cookie recipe. That we, womenfolk mixed and baked yesterday at my home in Mississippi. Then we had delivered five hundred pretty candy pink colored and purple ribbon paper boxes this morning at ten o'clock. About the time you were being trapped at Camp David. Sorry about that, Rich."

"You'll never live that one down, Rich." Shelly smiled.

He slapped his hands on the wooden table surface with a smile and a nod. "I just glad that I lived that one, Shelly."

"Amen. Amen. Praise the Lord." Holt smiled.

"Then about thirty minutes later, folks just rushed to the bathroom for some very strange reason." Molly giggled.

Beatrice laughed. "Miss Molly is too much of southern belle to say it. So's I will. They quickly shitted in their white panties, speeding like a train wreck down their inner thighs and passed their knees straight down into their designer shoes." She chuckled with the other rebels.

"Well spoken, rebel-belle." Trent laughed.

Shelly turned with a sour frown to see the dead president. "Too bad. We couldn't brag and boast about it to him."

Rich raised his palms, shaking his skull. "Forget all about the former US government and the former US Mr. President, folks, because we got a new one and we got a new problem. Preston, let's hear it?"

Preston hugged Pamela with love and protection, scanning the face of each rebel with a stern face. "That was fucking asshole Mr. Prime Minister of England on the telephone. He along with a shit long list of all the other foreign countries dick asses greatly desires their paper money back now, not tomorrow, not the day after tomorrow that we borrowed over the last thirty years, before I was born," he chuckled with the rebels. He exhaled with a huff of frustration. "I told him that we'd rob our toy chest and delivery their gawd damn treasure to them in three days. Now, let's figure how much..."

"Young man," Beatrice sneered. "You might make an excellent ruler of our free world later in the year. Now, how can you just give away our money? The gold belongs to us, not them. We must maintain a standard of exchange..."

"I agree with Preston." Rich nodded with a stern face. "We got no choice, folks. We own twenty four trillion dollars that comes with a set of twelve zeros after the whole number of twenty four. And the money did not belong to us."

"Why do we continue to use those code names if you please, Rich?" Ann smiled.

"Miss Ann, I strongly advise. We use code names until our cobra enemies are out of our sissy cloritis, if you please," Rich grinned as the other rebels chuckled. Ann blushed in pink with the nasty suggestion.

"I'm very relieved that Rich didn't volunteer as the new president." Beatrice chuckled.

Penny read her mobile telephone with a smile. "Do you have that much money buried under your house's foundation in Moville, Rich? Since you do hold all the worthless green wads of papers. If so, please retrieve it for us like a good little redneck?"

The rebel-admiral pointed with a sneer and a sour frown to the far wall with the television. "Jeezus fucking Christ, I'll be gawd hell damned and painfully cross crucified. This section row slap damn dab in the middle of all ships is the United Kingdom. There are fifty four suckers posed between the Virginian shoreline and Washington DC. Damn. Damn. Damn. This is the Atlantic side of our waters. See those battle crafts on the screen. I got their fancy battle names. HMS Invincible was decommissioned in the year 1977. HMS Centaur was decommissioned in the year 1974. HMS Implacable was decommissioned in year 1942. HSM Triumph was decommissioned in the year 1944. HMS Hercules comes from the country of India. It was decommissioned in the year 1945 by Britain. And the HMS Powerful was sent to Canada in the year 1952," he chuckled at the old battle ships.

Cole looked up to see the ceiling with a puzzled brow. "If I remember my world history correctly, the American Allies sunk about twenty Japan aircraft carriers. Do ya thunk, rhymes with sunk, they've somehow raised them boats from the dead, as well?"

"Naw, Cole. Cole ain't being a witty human but a shit ass ham. Hush it, Cole." Holt frowned

"The Canadians have an aircraft carrier?" Shelly read his mobile telephone.

Trent looked at the television. "A couple with just enough deck space and water displaced weight for their gold too."

The rebel-admiral said. "Our Atlantic waters are occupied with more foreigner aircraft carriers and other big sailing ships. Our Pacific Ocean honors the Japan, Russia, China, Thailand battle ships. The Gulf of Mexico..."

"We got company in our Bama seaport town Mobile, Holt. Break out the bone china plates along with the walnut stained shotguns, buddy." Dalton fist bumped with a laugh with Holt.

The rebel-admiral read his mobile telephone. "Our Mexico of Gulf has ships from the countries of Brazil, Argentina, and Australia, and India. All the Australia aircraft carriers come from the country of Great Britain. That one you're viewing on the right side of the TV screen was decommissioned in 1944, HSM Terrible," he looked with a stern face to see each rebels. "Ladies and gentlemen, they are not here for war."

Shelly frowned. "They're here for their gold."

Trent moved ahead and squatted down in front of the television, pointing at the screen with a confused brow. "If I don't need eyeglasses, since my vision is very good, I do believe right here on the screen. There're a short horizontal row of many, many tiny little cruise ships between the big ass monster war ships. Admiral, come and look see at this. Do ya see them tiny boats floating in the water?"

The rebel-admiral stood upright from the chair and moved across the room, standing over the hair roots of Trent, narrowing his old eyeballs at the screen. He exhaled with a huff of puzzlement. "Damn, these are..." He looked down and thumb typed on his mobile telephone. "Start, Rich. I need to investigate these tiny little cruise ships." He turned and left the Oval Office.

Molly smiled to Rich. "Rich. You once mentioned that the combined assets of all the American billionaires and millionaires in the USA totaled 3.5 quadrillion dollars with fifteen zeros before the whole number. And all the funds are at our disposal anytime. Correct?"

Rich nodded. "Yes ma'am. We got it nicely doubled. When the former Mr. President printed his own US minted money, handing it out like Halloween candy to the baby spoiled and pampered selfish greedy Americans, making us assholes a little over seven quadrillion dollars. However, the current conversion factor for the US dollar is a lowdown crumbling thirteen cents. So that number really is, Dalton?"

Dalton looked down with a stern face and thumb typed on his mobile telephone. "That roughly is..."

"Ya going to need a bigger cell phone, Dalton." Holt sipped the beverage.

"Shut it, Holt." Dalton thumb typed on his mobile phone.

Cole laughed. "Just multiple. Seven times point thirteen is..."

"We got 9.1 trillion dollars now." Dalton looked up with a smile.

Rich said with a sour frown and a nod. "However, it takes bunches of cash money to build our town and then house it with the extended family unit, consisting 114,236,000 American households. We have roughly calculated that we lost about sixteen percent of the Americans with murders, murders, and more murders."

Dalton smiled. "O my. Or is it? O well what the hell?" He fist bumped with a chuckle with Holt.

Rich smiled. "The lost of 6,854,000 households, making about 107,382,000 American families within their American homes. We have recruited into the ranks of our rebel clan for a successful rebellion about sixty percent of Americans. That's six trillion dollars of reengineered homes, and lands, and farms financed at an average of 100,000 dollars, coming from our baby trust funds. Now, the baby trust funds are reduced. What is it reduced to, Dalton?"

"We got 3.1 trillion dollars now," Shelly frowned.

"Why ya humoring the boy, Rich?" Cole frowned.

"Why ya bull shitting with us, Rich? We can add them whole numbers in our head without using any math calculator?" Trent frowned.

The rebel-admiral returned and entered the Oval Office, squatting and switched the television stations, saying with a stern face. "The mysterious cruise ships pointed out by Trent are called research vessels or the shorten letters RV. Part of the ship's stern name, the ship is specifically designed and equipped to conduct research at sea. The vessel is about 150 feet wide and 400 feet in length. These bad boys possess interior water tanks, measuring between 30,000 to 45,000 gallon capacity."

"A nice salt water swimming pool for them so-called researchers to herd the many herds of dying whale mamas and their babies, so the fresh meat don't tank." Holt snarled.

The rebel-admiral stood, looking and reading his mobile telephone, and turned and sat in an empty chair, looking up and pointing the television with a stern face. "Two power generators with 1200 horse power. See the bow design on the screen? The bow is the forward part of the hull on a ship. It is both pointy and points in the most forward direction when the vessel is underway. The bow is designed to reduce the resistance of the hull, cutting through water and tall enough to prevent ocean waves from washing over the top of it. On these typed of research vessels, a full and wide bow is shaped to carry one and only one small helicopter."

Shelly shook his skull with a sneer. "And many of them so-called ice Antarctic research vessels just have happened to drift down into the warm waters of the Atlantic. Yeah right. Yo, your mama."

The rebel-admiral read his mobile phone. "This is called a factory ship-type fishery research vessel. The RVS Franklin measures 275 feet in length and 52 feet in beam with a cruising speed of 11 knots about 13 miles per hour. The front right side of the ship is called starboard and the front left is the port bow. I'm getting the feed from my fantastic sea staff. One of the research vessels is 230 feet in length and has been documented to perform oil and gas exploration in the ocean waters. There is a second 220 feet for sale to an eager billionaire's pocketbook at five million dollars, built in 1998 and is helicopter-capable."

The rebel-general said. "Based on all the current information and statistics, it would seem that the foreign sea armada expects us to dump one of our smallest helicopters on each ship with the chest of gold. A small copter is 11 feet high and 33 feet wide, weighs 6,800 pounds of total metal with a take-off weight of 11,900 pounds. It can carry any type payload, weighing up to 13,350 pounds."

"Research vessels for studying precious marina life and getting our precious gold, what a fucking odd and damnation pair?" Shelly growled at the television screen.

Dalton leaned forward and whispered to Cole in a set of secret words. Cole grinned and nodded to Dalton in a set of secret words too. Then, Dalton turned, leaning and whispering to the ear of Preston in a set of secret words also. Preston whispered back to Dalton with a nod and a smile. "Take-off weight of 11,900 plus an additional 45 pounds. I think ya got yourself a brilliant idea, Dalton."

"Like Minke steaks with tartar sauce." Rich frowned at the research vessels in American sea water on the television screens.

Dalton slapped the table with a nod and a smile. "A fisherman notices that the wave crests passes the bow of his anchored boat every three feet with a copter sitting on top of the shiny boat deck. He measures the distance between the two crests at 8.5 feet. How fast are the waves, sinking his fucking ship?"

Holt smiled. "Velocity is equal to force divided by distance. Which is 8.5 feet divided by three feet equals 2.8 feet-per-second, translating for asshole Dalton. Ya need a second fucking American copter to land on the gawd damn foreigner fisherman's boat before the foreigner fuckingly drowns into the Pacific Ocean off the shoreline of the USA," he laughed.

"Yee-haw." Preston rebel yelled.

"Amen." Trent laughed.

"Halleluiah." Shelly laughed.

Cole chuckled. "Well spoken, my American son."

"Shut up, Holt." Dalton elbowed with a laugh at Holt.

The rebel-admiral read his mobile telephone. "More of them research vessels and their fancy names, RV Hakhou from Japan; RV Navicula from the Netherlands...."

"The Netherlands? We don't owe them money." Shelly shook his skull.

Cole lifted and pinged the paper report. "Yeah. We do. Says it right here on this here fancy financial money report from Rich. The report tattle tails the amount is about 500 billion US dollars."

"Well, shit." Shelly held his hand for paper report as Cole tossed the paper across the table.

The rebel-admiral read his mobile telephone. "RV Oceania from Poland; RV Aguhas from south Africa; RV James Clark Ross from England; RV Hesperides from Spain; Australia has RV Franklin..."

"We don't owe Australia any monies." Shelly read the money report.

"Ya'll know the country of Australia has the least amount of national debt in the entire world?" Cole smiled.

Shelly sneered. "Guess what? We get to overtake Australia and be in the number one damn spot. Since we're getting both raped and robbed, using all our pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, and dollars to pay off that 24 trillion dollar debt back to them bastards."

"Number one." Dalton raised his index finger with a chuckle.

"Shut it, Dalton." Shelly ordered with a brotherly tone.

The rebel-admiral read his mobile telephone. "Canada has three ships. Finland has the RV Aranda. France has one. Greece is the RV Philia. From Ireland, RV Celtic Voyager and the RV Celtic Explorer. Japan has two research vessels. Korea has one along with both New Zealand and Norway. That's the list, making eighteen research vessels that can hold one two-seater helicopter, each."

"Did you see from the foreign countries of Iceland and Norway their whaling vessels, towing their dying whales within the Navy Armanda, admiral?" Beatrice growled.

Dalton read out loud from the mobile telephone. "The Minke whale is a filter feeder, the second smallest of the baleen whales. The adults weigh ten tons and their calves are 750 pounds. A Minke whale gives birth to a single precious baby calf, nursing for two years. They are known for being fast swimmers but not fast enough to outrun a harpoon steel from a Norwegian whaling ship. Twenty vessels manned with evil humans set out before sunrise from a Norway harbor with hopes of spotting a pod or rather a small family unit of Minke whales. So they can begin the annual yearly harvest of 1,300 whales-per-year. They see one and bear down on the pod, containing a mother, a baby calf, and a father. They harpoon steel slams into both the ten ton adult whales and then drag them along the side of their boats until the Minke suffocates or bleeds to death. The whales live through this torture for two hours, before they die. The babes see their mothers harpooned and then harpoon steel slams into the babies, as well." Silence echoed inside the Oval Office.

Rich cleared a dry throat. "We'll fix that next, Dalton. Thanks for bringing that to light. Now, we are the only source of income for the American people to keep us afloat, until Preston turns the shitty economy and some fucking heads facing the right direction. Our first priority is food for our tummies, shelter for our feet, and staying our bodies dry from the thunderstorms, and warm from the winter snow, and cool from upcoming hot summertime. The bastards can't have the paper money. Period. The six trillion dollars will help us through the rest of the year and convert the other forty percent of loyal true Americans. Period. Now, let's deal with our current ass-kicking problem, the rest of the gawd damn world. How much poundage of weight are we talking about here? I agree with President Preston for a second time. We must fly the treasure, the word sounds less like we're being both raped and robbed. We fly the treasure by a fleet of helicopters, a very smart decision by our smart-ass new president, sir," he nodded to Preston. "We do not want these assholes invading our lovely sands. Period. This is still the United States of America, who might be poorer than a church mouse. But this is our real estate property. We only owe them bastards fake money, not physical property. And I will fight with my red blood and my bread loaf until I can't breathe to protect her, my USA."

"Me, too!" Dalton read his mobile telephone.

"Me, three!" Holt read the mobile telephone with the latest hot gossip of the warships in the American harbors.

"I will, too." Cole read the mobile telephone.

Rich looked up with stern face and a nod to see Dalton. "Dalton, give us them stats?"

Dalton looked down with a stern face and thumbed typed on the mobile telephone. Preston stood, turning and moving to the presidential desk, and pulled out the drawer, searching for a writing instrument. He found a stack of blank paper and a black marker pen, back stepping, and rushed back to his seat. Dalton read out loud from the mobile telephone. "A gold bar is seven inches by three and 5/8 inches by one and 3/4-inches, weighs 400 ounces or 27.5 pounds. The current monetary value is 1,676 dollars per ounce. So 400 ounces equals 770,000 USA dollars." He looked up with a stern face to each rebel. "Shit, folks! That's a lot of money for a solo shiny thing."

"Twenty five pounds is equal to the weight of a two year old child." Pamela turned with a smile to see the nose profile of Preston. He smiled and patted her kneecap.

"A single car tire," Holt chuckled.

Preston turned with a smile and a chuckle to see the baldness of Arthur. "Half a bale of yellow hay. Right, Arthur?"

Arthur slightly grinned, viewing the edge of the blue blanket over his dead mama, looking down to his mobile telephone, and saw the tiny screen without sound from the video recording. Ilenn was waving and smiling to him as she was both protected and guarded at Dalton's home in Hoville, Alabama. The handpicked rebels were protecting the family members of Dalton, Preston, and Arthur before, during, and now with the new rebel-mission. Ilenn was overdue with their first child and did not know what had happened in the White House. Arthur was dealing with too many emotions from sad to glad to happy to excitement to anticipation to worry to fear and the sudden loss of his mama, who had given her earth-bound life to save Pamela and the rest of the Americans. Arthur was happy that Pamela lived, because the four of them were close like a set of real brothers and sisters. His biological family of sister, nieces, and mother moved out and away from the protection of Moville in the block community, living in the deadly city streets of Birmingham. All his kinfolks were murdered by a gang of nasty gun-toting thuds within four days of leaving Moville but his precious mama. Arthur was slowly starting to understand, comprehend, and accept the fact. His mom was dead.

Preston stood upright and stared down at the baldness of Arthur, back stepping from the table and moved ahead towards Arthur. He stopped, leaning down and whispered into the ear of Arthur. Arthur looked up with a grin and a nod to see Preston. Preston stood upright and tapped on the collar bone of Arthur, saying with a smile and a nod to each rebel. "Meet our new Mr. VP of the USA..."

"Congratulations, Arthur!" Cole clapped with a smile and a nod.

"Atta boy." Dalton clapped with a smile and a nod.

"Good luck, Arthur!" Molly patted Arthur's arm.

"Do us proud, son!" Trent clapped with a smile and a nod.

Preston slapped both hands on the collar bone of Arthur again. "Mr. VP is leaving to board Air Force One. Since, he's a little overdue with the fucking ass Chinese military general for English tea biscuits and Chinese hot chocolate. General, can you assist here with flying Arthur to his first official American duty as VP?" He ordered the first official presidential command with a smile and a nod.

"Major general." The rebel-general yelled and turned with a grin to see the archway as a male appeared. "Quick intros! Meet our new American Mr. VP and Mr. President. Please arrange and tarry Mr. VP to meet that fucking asshole England tart on the west coast off the San Diego shoreline, as soon as possible." He turned with a grin to see Preston. "Guns, body armor, or body guards?"

"Naw. Arthur's a home grown Bama redneck like Dalton and me." Preston chuckled with Arthur.

"So be it! The major general'll treat ya right, sir." The rebel-general stood and salutes Arthur. Arthur stood, nodding to each rebel, turning and leaving the Oval Office for his first official duty as the new VP of the USA with the rebel-major general.

"A terrier dog weights twenty five pounds." Molly read her mobile telephone with a smile.

Dalton thumb typed on the screen of the mobile telephone for more information as Preston jolted down hand written notes with a black marker for the first presidential meeting. Dalton said. "We owe 24 trillion dollars to all the foreign countries. One bar of gold is worth 770,000 USA dollars which calculates into 31,168,000 physical bars of gold. The bar weighs 27.5 pounds times 29,832,936 gives a raw poundage of 857,142,000 bars for a total of 428,571 tons." He looked with a stern face to see each rebel.

"There is 2000 pounds in a ton. How much weight does a single aircraft carrier sail upon the water, before it sinks into our ocean, admiral?" Cole laughed.

The rebel-admiral said with a stern face. "A naval aircraft carrier holds on the average about 40,000 tons for displacing the sea water to sail through the deep and dense ocean waters. Based on the radar report from computer machines and the buzzing insects of USA of international media reporters, some of these aircraft carriers are older than me," chuckling. "A carrier is also capable of holding 20 jet fighters, 700 armed troopers, 40 battle tanks, and 20 fighting helios just to enlighten ya'll. I can report with accuracy that the floating shit turds come from the countries, in alphabetic order as well. Since, my sea staff is simply marvelous. Argentina, Australia, Brazil, Canada, China, France, Germany, India, Italy, Japan, Netherlands, Russia, south Korea, Soviet Union, Spain, Thailand, Ukraine, and the United Kingdom. Are yal happy, now?"

"Shit, naw." Dalton frowned.

"I'm depressed," Cole frowned.

"I am just pissed." Holt looked with a worried brow to see his manicured hands.

Preston read his hand printed notes. "We owe 24 trillion US dollars which is measured in terms of a stack of physical gold bars that equals in raw traveling poundage 857,142,000 bars for a total of 428,500 tons."

"Paper is lighter." Beatrice chuckled.

"How many war ships, admiral?" Cole frowned.

"They have 300 warships, surrounding us on the Pacific Coast, surrounding the coast line of California, stopping short of Seattle, Washington. That's 1,300 miles of coast line of warships from China, Japan, Saudi Arabia, and the other Middle Eastern countries."

Shelly read the mobile telephone. "They worked together on this attack."

"No shit, Shelly! Please try to keep up with the class." Holt frowned.

"Didn't wanna take back Alaska, huh?" Trent smiled.

"To fucking cold up there, even I don't wanna take Alaska." Cole smiled.

"On our Atlantic side, there are 2,069 miles of golden sand with battleships from the foreign asshole countries of France, Italy, Spain, and the United Kingdom. Inside our Gulf of Mexico waters, 1,631 miles of white sugary beaches and warships from the foreign bitching countries of Australia, Brazil, Mexico, Thailand, and South Korea. They have all been doubly verified with make, model, and year of production," the rebel-admiral read his mobile telephone with a sour frown and a sneer.

"Verified by whom, admiral?" Beatrice frowned.

The rebel-admiral looked up with a stern face and pointed to the television screens. "The TV folks have been recording, reporting, and rubber necking every shitty piece of news item and every single fucking foreign warship. Since, their unscheduled arrival on the west coast at 9:02 A.M. while you were out playing cowboys and injuns with our dead asshole president. The ships are roughly about twenty miles apart from each other and haphazardly cover the entire ocean waters from the Washington State sea ports and down to California and around the tip of Texas and to the coast of Florida, and then back up to the Maine coastline. The captains of the vessels are trying to appear stately looking like our own Revolutionary War hero Captain John Paul Jones, instead they look like a bunch of cereal boxes of Captain Crunchie," laughing.

Dalton slapped both palms on the table surface with a grin and a nod. "I ain't yet begun to fight the sorry ass bastards and bastardettes..."

"Here. Here." Holt raised his beverage bottle with a grin and a nod.

The rebel-admiral read out loud from the mobile telephone. "The 300 aircraft carriers like I mentioned before average out to about 30,000 tons. That's 9,000,000 total tonnage when you add up all the 300 warships."

Dalton reached over and grabbing, thumb typing on the mobile phone with a puzzled brow. "Jeezus. They can carry 7,500,000 total tonnage. That uses only 5.36 percent of their combined holding tonnage space on a carrier's deck." He turned with a sour frown and a sneer to see Rich. "Shit. The little bastards and bastardettes have been one cowboy boot toe step ahead of us the entire time, Rich."

"....and along with a new country music cowboy song," Holt slams his bottle down to the wooden table surface with a sour frown and a nod.

"Why did they bring so many ships?" Penny frowned.

Shelly frowned. "A very poor intimidation of their big ass battleships on our waters instead of showing us their little dangling dicks on our lands. Since, we can beat the crap out of their ships into bit sized pieces of shark bait. Which ain't nothing but a slightly upgraded top luxury hotel liner like the fucking Titanic."

"Ya know that the Titanic sunk with almost all souls aboard in the ice waters of the Atlantic too? That's not a good reference for a safe luxury hotel liner, Shelly." Holt chuckled.

"Fuck ya, Holt." Shelly sneered.

Preston leaned over with whisper to the eardrum of Dalton. "Would average poundage be about hundred pounds, Dalton?"

Dalton leaned over with a grin to whisper into the eardrum of Cole as they conferred with a set of secret words. Cole nodded with a grin. Then Dalton leaned over with a smile to whispers into the eardrum of Preston. "That be about right, President Preston."

Preston chuckled, knocking his knuckles on the wooden surface, and said with a stern face to each rebel. "Gentlemen and ladies rebels, we are getting out of the warbird business. I propose." He looked down and drew a picture on one of the blank sheets of piece with the black marker, saying, and lifted the drawing for each rebel to see. "We have two plots. Plot one is called Mission Dump. It will dump all available and functioning or slightly functioning, as long as, it can fly straight like an arrow or shoot straight like a bullet all the old and new helicopters which will land on each scrubbed deck of each battleship. Each copter will be carrying our US treasure thus paying our 24 trillion US dollar debt, completely off."

Molly smiled. "Looky at Preston's cute drawing of a crooked line, representing one of our coastlines with the little tiny rows of black candy bars for the foreign warships. I like the cute fluttering birdie V-shapes, flying like a flock of air sick geese and then attacking one the black candy bars. Are those supposed to be the American helicopters to carry our treasure, Preston?"

Preston smiled. "Yes ma'am. Does everyone, at least, both visually and mentally, perceive Mission Dump on paper and in their minds?" He looking down with a chuckle and drew a second picture, lifting the second drawing for each rebel to see also. "Plot two is called Mission Sting. It will place bunches of American guards with guns across our exposed sea and land boundaries, the entire coastline on the Pacific, the Atlantic, and the Gulf along with our enemy border un-friends at the invisible boundary real estate property lines of Canada and Mexico."

"Good art work, Preston. The crooked line could be the west coast of America, where the little round dots are the guards. But ya need some gawd damn bigger X's for them guns, thro." Holt smiled.

Preston smiled and held the childish picture in front of his blood stained shirt with Calvin's guts. "To me, Mission Sting is the easier of the two missions but just as risky. I wanna give an example like in high school. The west coast frontier from our southern city of San Diego of California goes up to our northern city of Seattle of Washington is 2,063 land miles. One mile is 5,280 feet. So that's in total feet, Dalton?"

Dalton thumb typed on the mobile phone with a grin. "10,892,640 feet, sir."

Preston said. "I want a guard with a gun every...every single mile. Which's what, Dalton?"

"2,063 men, Mr. Dumbass President, sir." Cole laughed to Rich and pointed to Preston. "Rich. We want this dumbshit kid as the new President of the United States."

"Give him another chance, Rich. He's a cute president with an adorable wife, making a sweet American couple, who are both young and brave." Molly smiled.

"Another chance, kid. Since ya be of one of many USA heroes, today. So try it another, Mr. President?" Rich smiled.

Preston grinned at his silly mistake, holding his silly drawing. "Let's see. A human eyeball can see a straight line before the curvature of the Earth ruins your eye vision. So that three miles. Let's separate a guard with the gun, every three miles."

Dalton thumb typed the math on his mobile telephone with a smile. "That would be 687 guards with 1,374 guns, double their damn fun and their killing pleasure," he looked up with a chuckle and a nod to see Preston.

"Excellent, Dalton and Mr. President!" Rich smiled.

Trent thumb typed the mobile telephone with a grin. "I think that the distance should be at most ten feet apart. So that's 1,089,000 guards with 3,267,000 guns, triple their fucking killing pleasure." He looked up with a chuckle and a nod to each rebel.

Cole thumb typed on the mobile telephone with a chuckle. "Less than that, five feet apart. that's 2,178,000 guards with 10,890,000 pieces of loaded hardware, five time the killing fun pleasure which comes from Dalton's weapon's store in Hoville too," laughing.

Preston exhaled with a huff of worry, turning with a stern face to see Rich. "Do you think that we can find two million folks to stand on the golden sands of California? This is not a game. We might, hope not, might be invaded by our enemies on our soft sands and our turf dirt. The probability is mighty high like my gawd heavenly high."

The rebel-general said with a sour tone to Rich. "I agree on both counts and concerns with Preston. Our brave American military fighters within the land, sky, and air troops are scattered from here to there to over yonder throughout the USA. They continue to hunt and fight off gangs of vicious mean killing criminals, who attack our hard-working devoted and stressed American citizens. And they guard them gawd damn house pods of illegal aliens, who have been captured by our rebel teams, since we bankrupted the USA. What are we going to do with all the illegals, Rich? They can't live there forever that's the point of our entire coup d'toot. I love that clever term, coup d'toot," he shook his skull with a chuckle.

Rich smiled. "That's why we selected the house pods on a watery coastline. So we could just drop their asses from our sands right down into a deep blue ocean to swim with the sweet dolphins or sink with the nasty sharks. We don't give a rat's ass. But that's our second problem. Let's finish with our first problem, the asshole world, ya'll."

The rebel-admiral said with a stern face. "We might be invaded. There could be hundreds more of their battle cruises and war destroyers with real weapons, lining up their second, third, fourth rows of black chocolate candy bars. We haven't detected any by our satellite radar, yet. Since, we were the rebels only thirty minutes ago. Loyal rebels are replacing the seats inside the Pentagon, as we speak. But our USA-wide coup d'toot is going to take some tick tock time about seven days or so. I'm off the steady course of our first priority. I sorry. The air craft carriers have been stripped of real fighting weapons."

"Because, they need all the spacey room and less weight for 428,571 tons of gold. Right, Rich?" Trent nodded.

"Yep," Rich nodded.

The rebel-admiral nodded. "I like the plot two called Mission Sting. Excellent call, Mr. President. I've calculated that we need to cover all land and sand boundaries from Settle to Portland to Miami to San Diego without including Alaska. It's lost along with Hawaii, captured by our enemies."

"Will we be fighting for Hawaii, Rich?" Trent asked.

"Naw," Rich frowned.

Dalton thumb typed on the mobile telephone with a stern face. "There are 6,053 miles of sea sands and 6,055 miles of dirt mounds. That totals 12,108 cowboy and cowgirl boots, stomping over our land miles of 63,930,240 feet." He looked up with a sour frown. "Based on that awesomely insane stupid shitty suggestion from asshole Cole of five feet distance per guard-and-gun, that's 12,786,000 guards. And based on that minor league insane horse crappy idea from jackass Trent of ten feet distance per guard-and-gun, that's 6,300,000 guards. And based a smart and reasonable great concept of three miles per guard-and-gun, that's 4,036 folks. Which one do ya like best, smart rebels but asswipe fools Cole and Trent?"

Trent stood with a sneer. "I like best to beat Dalton's ass black and blue. Let's me and you do a paired tango in the famed White House Rose Garden, smartass?"

"Stand down, Trent!" Rich frowned. "General, your guards and your guns, and your operation? If I use my telepathy on our new Mr. President, your draw too?"

The rebel-general frowned. "I strongly advise to follow the 4,036 guards with guns. I can guarantee 4,036 brave fools from within my busy flock of military trained war warriors plus the local police officers assisting me currently. But I'll need help from the local US State governors, currently occupying these US State boundary lines. Since no one actually knows that there's been a coop d'toot. We should update the American people, ya'll."

"We will. We shall. We do it soonest." Preston nodded. "I believe that our billionaire rebels can help ya there, rebel-General with them personal sexy telephone calls to those US State governors. Right, Rich?"

Rich smiled. "Absoultootly. Our little band of merrier men and women has replaced an asshole US State governor or has recruited a sweetheart US State governor throughout the remaining forty eight US States. I would like to nicely ask our lady rebel-billionaires to assist the general with those VIP sexy telephone calls too."

"We be honored, rebel-General. Right, ladies?" Penny turned with a nod and a smile to see the other lady rebel-billionaires.

Preston nodded to Beatrice. "We will nicely ask for 4,036 guards and guns. But we sweetly plead for more Americans to stand if possible middle finger tip to middle finger tip or shoulder to shoulder on our own land with their own two feet like the true American colonists of US Revolutionary War. The volunteer citizens can bring their guns, their dogs, and their grandmas," he chuckled with the rebels.

"Since, we got guns for grandmas too." The rebel-general chuckled.

Preston smiled. "Right, rebel-general. We take and accept any and all citizens over thirteen years old, pre-teen. Please no puppies that pee on the sand or elder kind over 80 years old. Since they also pee on the sands too. We want folks, who can see with two or four eyeballs and have an arm strength to direct point a single or double cold barrel gun to the flat and harmless ocean waters. Shooting is completely optional, ya'll, I hope after we update the American people about the coup d'toot that they seriously appreciate what we have done and what we have to do to become free for a second time in our US American history books. This is another new precedential and presidential event."

The rebel-general stood with a grin and a salute to Preston. "Mr. President, I feel the same way. I, my entire rebel-staff, and these fine southern ladies shall invade with both our boot toes and our sweetly words a special recipe of sweet covered molasses, conveying your presidential wishes and our loving words to each US State governor. I can't predict the outcome, but we'll do our damnest, sir." He sat back down in the chair as the other rebel-billionaires stood upright from a seat and saluted Preston with a smile in silence.

Preston rubbed all fingers over the table surface, looking to each rebel. "That's all I can ask, except for one more thing. The sweet covered sugary words need to be whispered into a US State governor's right eardrum. No cell phones. No kind of electronic recording devices like television devices, computer laptops, two-way radios, or telephone landlines that can be tracked or traced to a rebel-source. This is a surprise operation When a bumble bee stings ya in angry for grabbing his flower petal, the old-fashioned way. Then you use some real human lips into some real human ears, spreading the secret words: Mission Sting. Then no unknown solo enemy spy gets wind of our little secret operation. And ya kindly ask them dang rebel fools that volunteer for Mission Sting to use a carpool with a pickup truck or a large family van or a great big vehicle, saving driving time, limited gas, and precious lives," he chuckled with the rebels.

"A thrifty new president," Holt chuckled.

"We'll provide the barbeque, the potato chips, the pe-can pie, the drinks, even cold beer along many cans of dog food, lots of warm blankets, millions of guns with extra ammo, even mega tons of prettily fireworks for shit and giggles." Preston smiled.

Ida smiled. "I'm Ida, Arthol's wife. I want to help out on Mission Sting. I'm a pharmacy technician by trade and understand the use and abuse of drugs and medical information."

"You will be on my rebel-medical team, Ida. I am the chief medical physician on Mission Sting, actually anticipating clinical treatments of a few upcoming redneck stupid-ass stunts at the beach or getting to the sands. I welcome you and your medical knowledge greatly, my dear." Sylvia smiled.

Ida nodded. "And I know the location of millions, maybe billions of pounds of food stuff, first aid kits, blankets, and other survival gear that could be used for the beach patrols. Since the former asshole that ran our country into the dirt had me working inside lots of hot and heated warehouses which will now benefit my fellow Americans. Ya know he thought and planned out an upcoming rebellion? So he had stockpiled millions of items right here in DC along the sea coastlines and tons of small towns throughout the USA. I'm more than happy to reveal the secret stashes."

He smiled. "Hey. I'm Arthol, a late rebel to the rebellion, who worked for the former asshole too. Rebel-general, I have some excellent location vacation spots that we must visit filled to the ceiling and bursting out the locked doors with guns, ammo, and battle tanks..."

"Battle tanks..." the rebel-general smiled to Preston. "Battle tanks, huh? Ya know I might wanna use all those battle tanks to fill the gaps between the three miles of guards and guns, Preston?"

"A tail gate party? I'm going to Mobile, Dalton." Holt elbowed with a chuckle to Dalton.

"Naw, Holt." Dalton smiled to Holt. "We goes to New Orleans first, buddy. Then you and me goes to Mobile last and visit the other lovely sugary white beaches around the Florida coastline, before the outbreak of war which we might lose..."

"Enough, puppies." Rich frowned at the two Bama rednecks.

Preston tapped his knuckles with a nod on the table surface. "Excellent, rebel-General. I want to slightly modify that plan and place the majority like ninety nine percent of all military tanks, killing canons, and other far distance shooting artillery weapons along the entire wet and dry land masses of the Mexico-US border and the Canadian-US border. Cole and Trent work with our rebel-General, please." Cole and Trent nodded to Preston with a smile.

"What for, Preston?" Rich frowned. "We got some of them congressmen and women still alive and breathing, especially the ones that quickly learned to shoot straight and true," he chuckled with the rebels.

Dalton rapped the knuckles on top of the table surface with a smile and a nod. "Mr. President's smart. I want to add that Preston has been scheduled for his first speech to inform our USA country of the invading warships, floating in our waters and wanting us to return their money, later this afternoon. And I will informing all of you and the other American that all mobile telephones will suddenly lose satellite service. Since we can control our outer space satellites but not theirs. They will see and hear and fuck us royally, ya'll. The total and complete communication black out will ensure that Mission Sting stings like a bee and floats like a butterfly, surprising any water or land fighting troopers from any posted foreigner warship."

"No buttholes kick our ass on our own property." Holt nodded.

Preston cleared a throat. "That brings up another dangerous subject matter for more than me to decide. If you run into an American citizen, since we have successfully corralled like horses the illegal alien bugs from our land, spreading our secret Mission Sting by mouth that did not greet you with a smile, a kiss, and an eye twinkle to fuck ya..."

"I don't fuck guys, sir. I'm not gay," a tall rebel sat next to Arthol said with a sour frown.

"An eye twinkle to fuck your girl," Preston turned with a wink and a grin to the tall rebel.

"That works, sir." The tall rebel smiled.

"Then, you slap his or her ass into the closest four-walled containment unit, be it a jail cell, a toilet bathroom, or a storm shelter." Preston commanded.

Dalton shook the curls. "Naw! Just dump his ass or her asset, female version, with my brilliant selected options of...a) into the ocean or...b) down a mountain peak or...c) out a thirty story hotel window," chuckling.

Holt shook his curls with a sour frown. "Naw. Don't follow that extremely insane fucking dumbass plan of Dalton. Because we need to do a red, white, and blue body interrogation first, since he might contain a batch of fleas or a tank of worms or a couple of black ticks of secret datum that we need for our rebellion."

"Excellent point, my evil little friend named Holt." Cole laughed.

Preston smiled. "We all agree that the spy is held for body damage while spilling his or her guts, after we tear them words from the lips and two intestines from the belly. Then we don't fucking give a shit. Since he or her will be dropped out of a copter at 2,000 feet over the ocean off our land without a parachute."

"An honest president." Holt smiled.

Preston rapped the knuckles on the top of the table surface with a stern face, "Any more asshole ideas?" Silence filled the air waves. Preston nodded. "Any more dumbshit problems? This is the time to proclaim them." Silence filled the air waves again. Preston nodded. "Quick summary. We recruit as many fun rednecks, smart professors, nice homemakers, alert elders, and ambitious teens and then run them down to the beaches for both beer and blood. The foreigner blood, that is for feeding the fishes. We got Mission Sting on paper. Now, let's make it really 4-D on our enemies," he laughed with the other rebels.

Rich raised a palm with a smile. "Great plan. Our small band of rebel-billionaires will be the one and only direct link to Preston. Since we, redneck-billionaires trust each other. The rebel-leaders with their many rebel-friendlies will answer only to one or two billionaires that want to work together on eye sight during both the campaigns. Because we, redneck-billionaires don't trust anybody, alive or dead. I need for the billionaires to select your preferred geographical section of the USA that you want to command. Preston will lead a flying armada to the designated asshole leader of the foreign assholes onto the Chinese aircraft carrier. He will greet and meet the fucking last day time event all the foreign diplomats, who are getting too close to our gawd damn USA wet or dry shorelines along with picking up Arthur."

"And that boy betta be un-harmed, man." Dalton mouth spat on the floor with sneer and touched his hand gun.

"Put me down for the Boston sector, Rich." Ann smiled.

Rich pointed to the presidential stationary as Preston tossed a sheet with the black marker. Then Rich drew out a rough outline of the USA boundary with some of the major cities, marking the city Boston in the US State of Massachusetts for Ann. He raised the childish drawing for the rebel-billionaires to select. Molly smiled. "I will defend the great city of Mobile in honor of our new redneck president from the great US State of Alabama."

"Yeehaw." Dalton chuckled.

"I will protect our Washington DC coastline down to Florida, Rich." Penny nodded.

Shelly pointed to the drawing. "I always wanted to visit the mountains, so gimme the Montana terrain, Rich."

Beatrice smiled. "The Great Lakes are beautiful this time of year. So I plan to keep them Canadians bastards off our US lands and then drown them in our US waters."

"Go, Miss Beatrice." Dalton smiled.

Trent smiled. "I'll go to Washington State and below, since we lost Alaska. Any chance, we get it back, fight 'em bastards for our territory, Rich?"

"Forget it bleeding heart, Trent. We got too many of our own gawd damn problems right now." Dalton shook his curls. "Tell him, Rich or any one?"

"Naw, Trent." Cole sneered.

"Nope, Trent." Holt snarled.

"No, Trent." Beatrice growled.

"Alright. Poor bastards, I hope they like English scones." Shelly moaned.

"What?" Trent frowned.

"An English scone looks like a piece of rounded cornbread with piles of white sugar poured on top." Cole said.

"Tastes like a piece of cornbread with tons of white sugar poured on top too. Very heavy rich chewy dough kinda like my mama's biscuit but made with lots of baking power underneath a dried out flaky on top." Holt nodded.

"Thank you, Miss Bastardette Crocker for your favorite dessert recipe of the day." Dalton smiled.

"Shut it, Dalton." Rich ordered with a fatherly tone. "Who did not own their American piece of geography pie, Dalton? Pick a region?"

"Texas." Dalton smiled.

Rich frowned. "Since, Dalton can't read a gawd damn USA map listed visually with the most popular USA cities on it which he had learned in the fourth grade, I'll book his pleasure trip. Dalton's going to the city of El Paso in Texas along with his sidekick Holt. Holt, you're responsible for keeping Dalton out of major trouble."

"Man, I wanna go to cool windy Las Vegas instead of heated stuffy El Paso." Holt laughed.

"And I'm sending Cole to watch over both ya'll rednecks and who has my permission to beat your butts, or requisition your hand guns for any gawd damn reason." Rich pointed to Dalton.

Dalton stood, outlining the cold metal of the twin hand guns with ten fingers. "Hel, naw. No one touched my fire arm unless ye wants to die fastly..."

"Stand down, Dalton." Cole smiled.

"I'll secure the shores of San Diego up to the top of California, assisting Trent on the west coast. The city of San Diego will be Preston's jumping off point for his first official presidential foreign exchange visit." Rich marked on his home made USA map.

"Lucky dog." Holt smiled to Preston.

"Unlucky bastard, it's not too late to slide off the saddle horse, there hoss." Dalton smiled to Preston.

"Hell yeah. It's too damn late. You should've continued to fuck your pretty wife on the carpet behind the presidential desk instead of answering the damn red phone, searching for Hawk-man." Holt chuckled with the rebels.

Preston leaned over and hugged an embarrassed Pamela, looking up with a stern face and a nod to each rebel. "Do it."

Dalton raised both arms with a chuckle and a nod. "Do it!" The rebels stood, giving out cheek-kisses, bear-hugs, and hand-shakes. Then the lady-billionaires with Shelly, Trent, Arthol, Pamela, and Ida, turned and left the Oval Office. Some of the rebels reseated to discuss the Mission Dump plans, including Preston, Rich, Dalton, Holt, Cole, Sylvia, the rebel-general, the rebel-admiral. And a few nameless rebel soldiers sat on the sofa.

At 02:02 p.m., Preston exhaled with a huff of worry, looking with a stern face to the rebel-admiral. "Mission Dump will fly all available military and civilian helicopters, carrying the 428,571 tons of gold. The copters will fly and land on each and every battleship deck inside the waters of the Pacific, Gulf of Mexico, and the Atlantic Ocean on day three of our three day deadline, delivering our US treasure. I'm clearly out of my element here, sir. I have numerous questions and really don't know where to start or end."

Holt said. "I suggest that we begin the discussion with the heavy and numerous poundage of 428,571 tons of golden bars."

The rebel-general nodded. "No problem. There are 250 foreign aircraft carriers, sitting and shitting in our waters, measuring about 1,000 feet of length and 250 feet of width. Landing any type of civilian or military helicopter only requires a firm surface, free of any expanded tree bark branches or electricity and telephone hanging wires that's usually not on an aircraft carrier, either. The landing space requires at least two directional hundred feet wide DZ. DZ is drop zone, sir. Rebel-pilot, could you do some quick ass verbal analyze here? Please educate us."

The rebel-pilot sat on the sofa, saying with a nod and a stern face to each rebel. "I have been thinking about how to spread the 428,571 tonnage. Hand me a sheet of paper, Preston." He accepted and drew a picture, lifting it for show with a nod. "This is an outline of an aircraft carrier like the admiral has described. It's about 1,000 feet in length and 250 feet across. I'll illustration my example with one of the larger military helicopters, a Chinook. We utilized during the Vietnam War in the 1970s. We have 700 in stock from our war catalog. The Chinook helicopter is about 99 feet width of wingspan with the rotors running..."

"Excuse me for a moment, rebel-pilot," Sylvia waved the report with a confused brow to each rebel. "But I have a question, Preston. I've been examining the financial money report from Rich, listing all the foreign countries with their respective dollar amount of US debt balances. The country of China is listed at one trillion dollar with twelve zeros. And the admiral's awesome sea staff has verified that the country of China has sent only one aircraft carrier and two research vessels. But when I do the math for the tonnage of their portion of the gold, using Dalton's current exchange rate, I have calculated something weird. Two trillion dollars divided by one gold bar at 770,000 US dollars equals 15,400,000 bars of gold. At 27.5 pounds, there will be 420,420,000 physical bars of gold. Then I divide 420,240,000 bars by 2,000 weight tons which is 210,210 tons of total gold for one battle ship. Now, the admiral said that one aircraft carrier can only sail with loaded cargo, weighing an average 30,000 tons. Therefore, shouldn't the Chinese government have sent seven aircraft carriers for their portion of the shared gold, our US treasure? Is that not correct, Rich? Admiral? Dalton?"

Rich nodded. "Yes, Dr. Sylvia. You're astute visual observations and high school math skills are perfect. I'll venture a guess here. The Chinese, whom we owe one of the higher amounts of US debt in gold bars, does not possess another aircraft carrier to carry. Excuse the pun. To carry my aircraft carrier analogy further, I bet the Chinese along with the country of the Netherlands, who do not even possess a war torn aircraft carrier either, has agreed to split our treasure box of gold with other asshole foreign governments for both their fun and our humiliation."

The rebel-admiral slammed his hand on the table surface with a sneer. "Jeezus. That's so damn logically, Rich. I've not thought about the various disproportion, if you will of the treasure. Of course, we owe the countries of China and Japan both two trillion dollars. Those foreign countries don't possess a fleet of eleven US naval aircraft carriers like a mighty nation that I won't brag about but did. That means, the entire world of fucking foreigners have conspired with them bastards against us, the good USA folks."

"Let's shoot their asses out of the water now, Admiral. Arm the canons, General. Arm the torpedoes, boys." Dalton yelled, trying to jerk the gun upright but can't being too close to the table.

Holt slammed Dalton on the forearm, sneering at the asshole poor manners.

Rich nodded. "I agree with ya'll. Violence will get us killed, lots of Americans killed. And we do owe all that money for taking out all those financial loans with all them foreign governments. Every one calm down, especially dumbass Dalton. Lookie, we're going to follow our new president's plan of Mission Dump. Rebel-pilot, please continue."

The pilot held his drawing, a black outline of an aircraft carrier with short vertical lines marked from right to left at the top of the figure, saying with a stern face and a nod. "The Chinook is one of the medium-sized larger military transport helicopters, designed to carry a very heavy load, lots of gold bars. The Chinook is 53 feet width. A simple analogy, the machine takes into account a safety landing distance of two hundred feet on each side of the deck. That will be 253 feet of one parking space for one transport, safely landing on top of the naked ship's deck. An aircraft carrier is 250 feet across more or less. So this is really a rough estimation of how many military copters that we can fit on top of one aircraft carrier from a landing standard rule. With a safe limit of 250 feet across on the carrier ship, we can land one Chinook. The length of the bird is about 99 feet long. The carrier is 1,000 feet long. So we can plant ten Chinooks on one single aircraft carrier."

Dalton thumb typed on the mobile telephone. "A Chinook held 50,000 pounds of weight with ten birds on one aircraft carrier. That's 500,000 raw pounds or 250 tons or .0005834 of 428,500 total tonnage. We would need 1,714 Chinooks helicopter to carry all 428,500 tons of gold bars along with 286 air craft carriers. Hey. That's work out perfectly, since the bastards brought, conveniently 300 warships. Wow. This is easy." He looked up with a chuckle and a nod.

"Dalton, sorry to burst your bubble. We only own 700 Chinooks that work, transporting 17,500 tons out of the 428,500. That's only four percent of our US treasure," the rebel-general frowned.

"Build us some more," Dalton chuckled.

"Use the supersized helicopters that carry more weight," Trent nodded.

The rebel-general exhaled with a huff of frustration. "This is more complicated, son. The Chinook is a medium transport. We'll give them away for free to the bastards, exporting our treasure, adding to the special package some of our bigger copters with more weight. But my best guess will be about ten percent."

Rich frowned. "Ten percent. Unacceptable. Let's drive down a different country back road, folks. How many helicopters do we need to transport 428,571 tons multiple by 2,000 pounds equals 857,142,000 pounds?"

Holt nodded. "Just send all the copters that hold 50,000 pounds and more to a warship, making up the difference. Then we be done with the bastard foreigners."

The rebel-admiral shook his skull. "That statement is partial correct, Holt. The 300 aircraft carriers can hold 9,000,000 tons of stuff like gold bars. But they would need twice as many carriers, making the count 600 warships that would have to dock inside our American harbors. The first reason, no way in hell that I'll let 600 warships inside our US seaport harbors. And, second reason, 300 more aircraft carriers do not exist anywhere around the world."

Holt slammed the bottle on top of the table surface with a grin. "Because they are all right here in the USA waters."

The rebel-general smiled. "The old sea dog's right. We have to work with what they have 300 aircraft carriers."

"For gawd's sake, do not donate ours either." Cole frowned.

The rebel-general said as Preston wrote down the math numbers. "Here, a raw statistical sketch of the birds that we will use, but I have my awesome battle staff performs the math calcs. The Chinook loads ten birds on a carrier. So that means that 700 birds and 70 carriers takes 250 tons of the 428,500. The smaller helicopter like a Blackhawk has the following dimensions 23,000 pound payload of weight, 65 feet long, and a wingspan of 54 feet. That means 15 copters can land on a single carrier with 345,000 pounds or 172 tons of 3,000 smaller Blackhawk helicopters. So we only need 200 carriers."

Dalton chuckled. "Oops. 70 plus 200 equals 270 carriers out of 300. That's 90 percent of the fleet, captain." Preston wrote down the numbers on the paper.

Rich frowned. "We have 300 aircraft carriers that hold 30,000 tons per ship, which is 9,000,000 raw tonnage. So the problem is not the weight or the number of warships, since we can't change that part of the math equation. The problem is how many birds to shit on top of a warship that can carry beyond the maximum payload weight and then safely dump or fucking crash on an aircraft carrier's deck with a total tonnage of 857,142,000 pounds of our US treasure."

"I wish my bank account had that much money." Dalton snorted. The personal stacks of real green colored cash for Dalton secretly rested quietly underneath his house foundation in Hoville, totaling twenty billion dollars.

The rebel-general said. "I think I have the answer from my battle staff, dumping crap on my cell phone. Here goes. Listen to these figures and try to keep up, ya'll. The Chinook copters number 700 birds at 50,000 pounds which equals 35 million raw pounds. The Blackhawk copters number 4,000 copters at 23,000 pounds which equals 92 million raw pounds. The other military helicopters all light, medium, and heavy number at 17,000 with an average weight of roughly 30,000 pounds which equals 510 million raw pounds. These three numbers equal 637 million raw pounds, since we've exhausted and exhumed every new, used, abused, and old bird on my battle inventory list."

"We're still short by 157 million raw pounds." Rich looked down with a sour frown at the calculated math numbers on his mobile telephone phone.

The rebel-general pointed to his mobile telephone. "And we have listed at the FAA 27,000 private helicopter pilots which is one of those small sleek copters for toting only one billionaire around the entire world."

"Not any more world travels for a rebel-billionaire," Holt frowned.

The rebel-general said. "A private helicopter flies with an average weight of 6,000 pounds, more or less, depending on the length, rotor tail design, and poundage weight. But if you take the private smaller personal 25,000 copters at 6,000 pounds, the craft equals 150 million raw pounds which converts and totals into 853 million raw pounds."

"We short them by seven million pounds of gold." Sylvia frowned.

"Yup," Dalton chuckled.

"Believe me. They won't stop to count the boxes of gold bars before sailing far, far away into a western sunset, an eastern sunrise, and then back down into a cold frozen Antarctica butthole." Rich nodded.

The rebel-general said. "We still have a big gawd damn problem of the total tonnage carried inside 49,000 birds to safely land on all 300 bridge decks that only hold at most 15 helicopters. They will need 3,273 aircraft carriers for our treasure. The warship wasn't designed for a spider-like helicopter but a sleek and slender jet fighter plane."

"Damn." Rich said.

"Shit fire." Holt said.

"Fuck it." Dalton said.

Cole grinned. "Then, I gots to make ten or more trips to the grocery store in my old worn but polished cowboy boots for sweet milk, mama..."

Preston held three papers in the air with a grin and a nod. "I got a solution. First off, I respect all of you service folks here, making up the US military along with all the great valuable battle and sea information that you have provided here at our meeting. But I keep hearing the words, safety, surface free of objects, and equipped for slender jets. The Chinook is 53 feet in width that's with the rotate blades moving. Right, pilot? Right, okay. I looked it up on my cell phone too. The Chinook is 15 feet wide, if the rotate blades are not attached. Right, pilot?" The pilot nodded as the rebel-general part his lips to speak. Preston raised a palm with a stern face and a nod. "Just listen! I propose that we land the first Chinook then dangerously land a second Chinook right next beside the door nuts, peeling off painted metal. Since we don't give a fucking damn about the rotor distance or personal safety. I say that a free bird can land right on top of each other, not allowing for any safety, especially a foreigner as a free falling surface of heavy object or some kinda damn dangerous falling UFO. I have calculated roughly that a Chinook at 15 feet width, instead of 35 feet, on the 250 foot wide deck of the foreigner aircraft carrier. Then the aircraft deck can hold 15 Chinooks straight across bow to bow, for example. Then the length of an aircraft carrier is roughly 1,000 feet. So the Chinook is 99 feet long. That means we can dump, unsafely, in a lengthwise array ten birds on the deck. When you calculate the 15 birds across and the 10 birds down, ya get a great big fucking answer of 150 copters on one aircraft carrier. There are 700 Chinooks which is divided by 150 copters that's only five aircraft carriers. Then we pack all 35 million pounds plus more treasure inside the copters."

Rich frowned and viewed the rebel-general. "Will that work, General?"

"Will that work, Pilot?" The rebel-general looked to see the rebel-pilot, who jolted down the math calculations from his head, regarding Preston's new plan.

The rebel-pilot exhaled with a huff of frustration with a sour frown to see the rebel-general. "Whoa the stagecoach! His plan is extremely dangerous and deadly, especially, if there are alive and breathing deck personnel on top of that particular aircraft carrier during the landing sequence of each copter."

Dalton shook the curls with an evil chuckle. "Don't give a fucking damn. I like. Do it per the president, of course." He raised the soda can to Preston with a smile and a nod.

"Can the rotor blades bend?" Cole frowned.

The rebel-pilot shook his skull. "A rotor blade is a D-shaped fiberglass spar assembly unit which will break, not bend. The copter's wire mesh screens are embedded into a fiberglass skin at the tips, that communications with the external rotor head. Then the rotor head signals all the electronic pings to the interior rotor tachometer inside the cockpit to the pilot. If the rotor blade signals are damaged, then the bird did not fly but can be repaired to fly, once again. I've never heard of purposefully causing a helicopter's rotor seizing. A 'seizing' is when the rotors stop, not necessarily depart from the rotor mast. Rotor blades do not or rarely depart the aircraft, very rare for any reason, except for a mast-bumping. And that mass destruction of blades will illuminate the chip detector annunicator on the helicopter's console, sir. When the chip lights up the pilot lands, as soon as possible, expecting a total engine failure, then the copter and pilot are both grounded, totally. You don't fly that bird, until the unit is torn down and repaired."

"Excellent. So activating that internal chip, the helicopter did not fly." Rich smiled.

The rebel-general smiled. "Never."

"Hot damn! Preston is both the president and a genius engineer. Good going, cub." Dalton fist bumped with a chuckle to Preston and Holt.

The rebel-general smiled. "I like the idea of damaging the copter. Since we're giving them for free, because of the treasure. So they can't operate it against us, ever."

The rebel-pilot read from his rough math notes. "Based on Preston's new flying concept of something kind of weird-ass landing procedure, the Blackhawk helicopter is 54 feet of wingspan, but 21 feet wide, without the rotors. The 50 feet in length calcs to 11 helios across a deck and 20 down the length of a deck packed like a tin can of smelly sardines, sir. Therefore, there'll be 220 military helicopters on one warship, landing on 18 aircraft carriers."

The rebel-general said. "An average civilian copter wingspan is 35 feet wide, seven feet across, when the individual rotor blades break off from its weird-ass docking procedure. It is roughly 28 feet in length that's 34 copters across and 34 copters down or a total of 1,150-private helicopters on one warship. We have 26,000 private helicopters to land on 22 aircraft carriers."

Preston scribbled on a new sheet of paper and handed to Dalton with a grin, leaning and whispering. "Check my math, Dalton. We got nine million treasures at an average of hundred pounds, a piece. That's 900 million raw pounds or 450,000 tons which can be added and spread, overflowing over 300 aircraft carriers."

Dalton smiled and slipped the paper back to Preston with a nod and a whisper of secret words, also.

The rebel-pilot said, "The 17,000 flying machines vary greatly in length, width, and weight. I can say for certain that this will work successfully. I'll get the battle and sea staff started on the physics calcs both general and admiral," he typed on the laptop.

The rebel-general nodded. "We have 26,000 civilian helicopters, for example, Miss Molly's private residential home helio pad in Mississippi. Then we can steal the local city's fire fighting copters..."

"Naw. " Preston shook both his palms and his skull. "No. I don't want our fire, rescue, and search service helicopters given away. We need them to save American lives. Period."

The rebel-general nodded. "Good point, Preston. We shall use all our military utility, cargo, observation, trainers, and the reserved VIP transports, including your presidential helicopter, sir." Preston nodded. The rebel-general said. "I reserve the right to keep my attack helicopters, thou. We have a set of 42 Jayhawks helicopters in the Coast Guard..."

"In Miami, Florida?" Dalton looked with a stern face and a nod to see Preston. "We wanna keep them 42 Jayhawks, Preston for...uh...the folks swimming away from big man-eating sharks and big giant whales."

"Whales?" Cole chuckled. "Ya don't swim from them whales?"

"I do. Them things are 5,813 pounds heavy more than me." Holt chuckled.

Preston smiled. "O. I have another new concept. Imagine this vision? After all the 49,000 helicopters leave the golden sands of America, rapidly flying across the blue waters of the oceans. After their white fuel exhaust cleared, the bastards on the warship decks see a pure black layer of attack helicopters hovers in the air waves, coming from our southern shoreline of California to our northern water foam of Washington State, outlining our American boundaries. Then right above them attack helicopters, there is a layer, not one, but three rows of horizontal jet fighters. All the fighter jets criss-cross above the baby blue sky with white plume of steam, marking our American heavens." The sounds of claps and chuckles invaded the room.

The rebel-general smiled. "Excellent vision for our new USA, Mr. President. I'll use my 1,000 attack copters, hovering over the 6,000 miles of sands that's a copter every six miles. Very visual, I think they will get our pic."

Dalton elbowed with a smile to Holt. "General, I'd use the 24 Jayhawks around south Florida, said from the major city of Ft. Lauderdale to metro city Miami then down and cover them tiny little Key West Islands for a better Hollywood show. That's about half of the 1,350 miles of a Florida coastline, reducing a few more miles of golden sands for your attack helicopters. That makes your copters about five miles apart or so for a more gorgeous heavenly pic."

"Excellent suggestion, Dalton." The rebel-general nodded. "To add to that pretty picture, an additional 1,000 jet fighters soar like hundreds of American silver bald steel hard-headed eagles over our blue waters and our green lands. Magnificent."

Preston clapped for attention. "Alright. Let's connect all them pilots, who can fly to all them 49,000 pieces of whirlybirds. General?"

The rebel-general looked down a stern face to read his mobile telephone. "Based on the latest report from the FAA, there are active 29,600 helicopter pilots, including 61,305 private pilots; 17,036 commercial pilots; 2,981 airline transport pilots, and an American organization of female helicopter pilots of 1733. Plus, we add all the active military pilots of 27,600, making a grant total 57,200 helicopter pilots."

"Perfect." Preston smiled.

The rebel-admiral frowned and viewed Preston. "And the planning of the extraction process of 49,000 pilots stuck on 300 aircraft carriers without a ride back home to the USA, Mr. President?"

Preston did not smile. "O."

Dalton shook his curls. "O shit, Mr. President."

Preston exhaled with a huff of frustration. "Then let's activate all the inactive military and civilian pilots."

The rebel-general shook his skull. "We have 49,000 pilots that are flying 49,000 pieces of individual machines and landing on 300 carriers, Preston. Then we'd need an additional roughly 980 or more pilots to extract these 49,000 stranded American pilots. Since only about 50 folks can fit inside a cargo helicopter that we just gave to the foreigners for free, carrying back their gold treasure."

"Another gawd damn problem." Rich growled and viewed Preston.

The rebel-general looked with a grin to see Preston, pointing to each new rebel face on the sofa. "Mr. President, we might have a new solution in solving our little problem, needing 50,000 pilots. Keeping, within the new tradition of our code words, may I introduce? Starting on your right, this is rebel-computer geek, rebel-engineer nerd, rebel-jet fighter pilot, and rebel-helicopter pilot. You're up, geek."

The rebel-geek turned and smiled to Preston. "Yes sir. Congratulations, Preston. The happy compliments go around this table and way yonder from our western American coast to our eastern American coast. Let's wrap up this mess. So we can really start our happy victory dance." He lifted and held a single one inch cylinder-shaped silver pin, saying with a smile and a nod. "This metal pin looks like a straight pin. One of zillions metal pins come from both the used and abused old desk top computers, towers, printers, laptops, cell phones, fax machines, televisions, radios, and pretty much anything that contains a titanium alloy metal. You can see that the height of the pin is not much taller than my pinky finger. The height of the metal pin will vary greatly from thin tiny ones to thick tall ones. This pin comes from a broken down office desk top printer which I will compare to a sewing straight pin, measuring at one inch or so. It's the alloy that catches the electronic signal like a flying baseball during the World Series. So it did not matter about the physical height or thickness of the individual pin. But the invisible amount of electronic ram shots stored inside the metal memory of the pin being captured by a new 'notebook' concept. I will explore in a moment. Based on the variable factor of physical weight poundage within the helicopter..."

Preston smirked and viewed Dalton, saying to the rebel-geek. "And what happens if the poundage is slightly over by a couple of thousand pounds? Or if the Chinook, which I read on my cell, can usually hold about 50,000 pounds but ends up being let us say more like 53,000 pounds?"

The rebel-general smiled. "The 50,000 pounds is a pilot safety figure. So the helio can hold a little bitty more. But we'll not test that limit today or tomorrow, Mr. President."

Preston said. "How about an out of balance condition with a copter? When I had the fun pleasure of traveling by copter, it felt like an elevator lifting up to the heavens. Is that a correct military term? Can a helicopter become out of balance, maybe by some overage of some extra poundage of weight inside the machine?"

The rebel-pilot frowned. "There are a few stray flight conditions that might qualify the term out of balance. However, there will be no max-power takes-off from any helio pilots with our US treasure. There will be no exterior suspended cargo on a dangling line which requires the pilot to clear a mountain ridge or the enemy aircraft island. Because, a suspended cargo might hit the ground and be kicked up into the tail rotor which could cause an out of balance situation on the bird. And finally, the on-line computer system will not allow the helicopter to hit the island tower or load too much numerous heavy treasury pieces that could damage the aircraft carrier tower, resulting in a possible out of balance situation for the copter, sir. Does that may you feel better, Mr. President?" Preston nodded at the rebel-pilot and Dalton.

The rebel-general ordered. "Go, geek!"

The rebel-geek lifted up and held the silver pin again with a smile and a nod. "We have attached a motherboard inside a drone that ties a computer link with this metal pin. The metal pin matches an on-board individual computer, inside each military and civilian helicopter. When the collective group of pins are immediately activated, the data, of mathematical formulas of distance, motion, and speed are computed and stored inside the motherboard. The motherboard controls a flying shape of boxes, if you want to describe this historical event that way. This is called slaving technology. some of the newest real new badass computer programming within seriously deadly situations."

Dalton elbowed with a grin to Holt. "I like."

"The motherboard on-board the drone looked to see this tiny pin than acts like a queen ant. Then the queen-ant or motherboard electronically sends and receives and updates, using shots of microwave messages into her colony of fire ants or a skyline box of helicopters. Then the fire ants attack the picnic basket or the ocean water fleet of warships. Can I tattle, general?" He smiled and viewed the rebel-general. The rebel-general nodded.

The rebel-geek said with a smile and a nod to each face. "We've been creating this thing from scratch, beta testing and delta installing the metal pins, since the bankruptcy of the USA banking system. When all the American and foreigner money accounts were closed by the US Federal Government per the former US president. This is the newest technology of gathering, holding, and using datum called a notebook. The notebook is located within any given IT architecture, a square database that pings side to side, as well as, up and down rather than an IP vertical up and down array. We rigged a new notebook, using old parts and pieces of metal pins, coming from old computers which were found around unused offices, labs, warehouses, and anywhere that we fetched and stolen without penalty of jail time. We built the first motherboard then interfaced it with a tiny bubble helicopter. The bubble helicopter flies two adults in a simple flight navigation system, going from point A to point B, then it assaults a target like a mean attack copter. The interfacing worked, perfectly. Then we get aggressive and beta tested the motherboard and notebook together by throwing in an unexpected hot power surge, stimulating a shotgun hit into one of steel sheets, not near the engine. The motherboard didn't blink her electronic eyelash. Since there are not any physical cables to shake or break the magical electronic wave signal. The port of any computer is both an input and output module. We jerked out all the available alloys pins then soldiered them into a single motherboard like hot-wiring that sports car I stole at the age fifteen. Then we let the little sparks of electricity create a set of motherboard babies that talk directly through the orbiting satellites. I designed a standard bootable.app with a direct download.app that activates a killdisk.app for creating a new slave.app. Those are fancy words for a computer program spec. But this is the hottest, coolest, newest data architecture."

The rebel-nerd pointed to her shirt with a smile and a nod to Preston. "And I can make an outside visual laser beam, coming from every drone, holding a motherboard, electronically ping in prettily presentations of different colors too. Like a crimson blood red, a dark envious green, a neon orange, an happy electric blue?"

Preston smiled to the rebel-nerd. "That's a great contribution, rebel-engineering nerd. Do it."

"Thanks, Mr. President," the rebel-nerd smiled.

The rebel-geek smiled. "Thank our heavenly God. We have over 100,000 notebooks in various shit fugly ugly designs like my four year old builds with his monkey pointed to along with a 1,000 motherboards. And all those metal pieces work pretty good enough for one day of flying. We've only been testing out this stuff, since the bankruptcy of the entire USA banking system about three months ago. But, now, it was ordered by..." He turned with a sour face to see the dead president behind his sofa, exhaling with a puff of worry, and looked with a smile to Preston. "We're about ten cowboy boot steps ahead of you, Mr. President. The drones are ready. Each carry a single full functioning motherboard with her children which has been installed on all the military helios. The civilian copters are being soldered into the instrument panels by true and patriotic hard working Americans as we greet and meet now. Folks are stopping into the military bases, offering their bodies, their guns, and their moving monster machines, consisting of trucks, boats, cars, and planes along with their mamas," he chuckled. "Yes sir. We have true fearless fighting motherfuckers ready to defend our assets of the good old USA."

"Yeehaw." Dalton rebel yelled every chance he got with a grin and a giggle.

"Son, what about an old-fashioned radio control remote in case of a surprise attack?" The rebel-admiral was very uncomfortable with so much hi-tech controlling hundred percent of each helicopter's engines without both the human eyeballs and the human hands. This was a once-in-a-life-time vital dump mission, not impossible, but things always seemed to go wrong.

Rich cleared a throat with the same mental thought, viewing the rebel-admiral. "First, I might point out. We're giving them our treasure, not the opposite. Second, a good ham radio operator could accidentally or purposefully interfere with the entire operation. I can't answer the 'then what happens' question."

The rebel-geek said. "The slave.app mimics a single action or multiple actions of a master to the slaves, hence slaving. In our case, the children follow their motherboard's command ordered without question. Think with your imagination like one great big computer tower brain or the drone, using two or more monitors or the two or more helicopters. There isn't a mouse for seeing or touching a keyboard for any input commands. That's pretty much the entire story, ladies and gentlemen."

Preston dropped his mouth to see Dalton. "Ya got no firewall. Golly."

"You're a computer geek, Preston?" The rebel-geek smiled to Preston.

Preston nodded. "Big time, geek. This is the flaw or the fall or the fail of the new notebook IT architecture. There's no protector from invaders, hackers. There's no firewall, Dalton. Ya know what that means?"

Dalton frowned. "Yes. I do very well." He turned with a sour frown to Rich, the IT King.

Preston waved both his arms with a sour frown. "There's no firewall, Rich. No firewall means no steady continuous electronic blockage for a single command signal. The firewall usually protects the computer's electronic ordered, coming from a group of gawd damn cyberspace cowboys or a bunch of cute smart-ass teen hackers or maybe a few fucking cotton pickers in Alabama, Rich."

Dalton frowned to Preston, feeling the same way. "Calm down, Preston. We know all the risks. We be IT geeks, too. This is our only shot both figuratively and literally, buddy." He turned with a stern face and a nod to see each rebel.

Preston raised a finger with a worried brow to see Rich. "Do you? It takes one smartass bot geek with an awesome set of genius hacking computer programming skills to fuck this up, only one. The one can tear through a single motherboard like a 4 x 4 jacked up truck, plowing a corn field without damaging the truck, but threshing the tusks into yellow sawdust."

The rebel-geek parted the lips. "Sir. Preston, we know that too. Your man, the rebel-PhD named Albert. He's been recruiting and gathering all the devoted American geeks and nerds from the east coast to the west coast, from the south farms to the north factories for this specific operation which is appropriately named Mission Dump. He is forming our own boiling pot of an American badass bot army for patrolling the wide and vast unlimited cyber space, using their awesomely hacking skills to attack, contain, and identify the alien, if you wanna use that term."

Rich said. "The signals are rigged from our own American outer space satellites which greatly reduces any chance of any outside single hacker from any other foreign country also. Preston's correct. If we get hacked, then it will be an inside job, but we'll find the hacker then..."

"The treasure will be lost into the open waters of the ocean." Preston shook his skull with a sour frown to see Dalton. "We can't save it. We can't lose one single helicopter."

Rich smiled. "Right, new Mr. President. If one helicopter, containing an estimated maximum tonnage of 50,000 pounds of gold or 25 tons out of 428,000 tons that the assholes are getting from us mathematically computes roughly into .005 percent of a single loss shipment from all the other 49,000-boxes, then they can eat it. If one smartass bot geek attacks, then he grabs one helio out of 49,000 machines, that 2.0408 percent. As IT king, a bot geek will only be able to grab one shipment and not be able to sabotage the rest of the other 48,999 copters. Since our badass American rebel-hackers are more swifter and sharper enough to handle a slight minor irritation to our buttholes, Mr. President. Calm. Relax. Peace. Smile. Be happy. This is a great plan, Preston," grinning.

Preston lifted and slapped both hands down onto the table surface with a worried brow. "Look, the American dollar sucks. Wonder if, they demand the loss shipment, because we calculated the gold at the wrong currency rate and then still own more." He felt his stomach performing with one thousand and one butterfly flutters from single mental thought of losing one solo helicopter of precious US treasure into very deep blue ocean water along any American coastline.

Rich chuckled. "Don't insult, Dalton. He calculated the gold at the current Euro dollar exchange rate. Right, Dalton? You're over acting your role, Mr. President," he shook his skull with a grin.

"How about we dangle a carrot in front of the prancing pony, offering a drone helicopter for the foreign illegal hackers to grab?" Preston said, desiring to save hundred percent of the helicopters and gold shipment for the hundred percent repayment of the US debt back to the foreigner countries.

The rebel-geek shook a skull. "Preston, under normal circumstances, I'd vote for that. This is not normal. If we dangle a dummy helio drone out into cyber space and it is captured within a ten minute catch, then the smarter foreign illegal hacker will want to play with our real toys. You're asking for mega-major trouble there."

Dalton nodded, understanding the risk and reward of the new IT operation. "The geek's right, Preston. We do not go down that cyber roundup. We stuck with the original plan of the mother and her adopted children slaving all the helicopters into a box formation with a single drone, using the new motherboard concept." Preston nodded with a sour face and a sour stomach.

The rebel-general said. "We don't have 49,000 active or inactive pilots that can make up either experienced or newbie civilian or military pilots. This isn't a Hollywood movie production show, Preston. We can't just train an average smart girl or boy to fly a helicopter. And your third spectacular plan of a layered air defense protection matrix. The matrix consists of a single row of hundreds of jet fighters, flying over the rotor blades of attack helicopters hovering off all three sandy coastlines of the USA. Then our American machines will protect our armed guards on the land coupled with the beautifully white silky stream of jet fighters, cross crossing each other jet exhaust in a bright rising sun of an east morning sky for both shit and giggled to scare the bastards. That's a brilliant plan, but that's the best we got, Mr. President."

"You should write teen love novels, sir." Rich smiled and viewed the rebel-general.

"Shut up, Rich." The rebel-general turned with a stern face and pointed to the girl, "Go, nerd."

The rebel-nerd smiled. "We can't do a 3-D mockup of the air flight stimulation, Preston. The general has forbidden the colorful electricity sparks flying over the skyline, showing and sharing our secret with our enemies. So I brought a set of toys, that I stole from my son's treasure chest." She placed five toy helicopters in a row on top of the table surface. "This is a row of slaved helicopters. And this is the gray drone..."

"It is a gray shark kid's toy." The rebel-general looked down with a sour frown to see the toy.

The rebel-nerd looked up with a lady sneer to see the rebel-general. "I'm short on both time and patience, General." She lifted and held up the gray toy shark with a smile and a nod to each rebel. "This is a gray drone. The drone will lead like Brother Jesus did the multiple of people to the water, except substitute the crowd of warm blooded people for a crowd of cold metal helicopters. My cell phone is the notebook. The notebook will be located within the drone's cockpit console, sending electronically signals to each motherboard bolted onto the flooring of the drone. The drone simply will act like that rope attached to that full and heavy pail of water that dumbass Jack failed to draw from the stone water well," giggling. "The drone will draw all the helicopters to a designated aircraft carrier." She handed the shark to Preston with a nod and a smile. "Preston, you play the drone. General, please lift two of the toy helicopters into the air, stimulating flight, while I lift the other two." The rebel-general grabbed two toys and held them side by side in the air as the rebel-nerd air traveled her two toys, positioning all them in a semi-crooked row. The rebel-nerd commanded. "Move the drone to your face, Preston!" Preston motor boated his lips like a funny sound of farts, slowly moving the nose of a gray toy shark to his face as the rebels laughed. The rebel-general dropped his two toys down to the table surface with a chuckle and a grin. The rebel-nerd bounced her toys up and down with a grin and a giggle. The other rebels joined the funny moment with laughter too. The rebel-nerd smiled and viewed Preston. "You're going to make a great leader, Preston." She raised her toys even with her chin with the rebel-general. Preston positioned the gray shark in front of his face with a grin. The rebel-nerd said. "A better straight row of flying helios will move simultaneously by a series of electronic computer commands directly from the motherboard on the shark. Gotcha. The drone will talk to the notebook which will do a much better job than any human pilot." The rebel-pilot grunted as she smiled. "Picture in your mind this. Rows and rows of helicopters will fly in a box formation like..." She frowned. "What flies in box formation?"

"Birds fly in a V-shaped pattern." Rich smiled.

"Forget it. Please continue, nerd." The rebel-general ordered, holding the toys.

The rebel-nerd said. "The box formation sets up a docking control pattern for a one-at-a-time landing of each helicopter safely or dangerously on top of the semi-rectangular weird-ass shaped aircraft carrier by the motherboard inside the drone. There will be one drone for every box of assigned helicopters for one warship. The general's brilliant military staff is calculating the figures right now. The warships face to their native homes. So we will program the helicopters to land on the bow section first. Then each copter will dock going across from left to right, filling in each row like a batch of cookie dough, until we hit the last row. And then we are done, sir." She raised her arms with the toys with a smile and a nod, dropping the toys to her lap.

"Damn right." Dalton smiled.

The rebel-general looked with a stern face to see the rebel-pilot. "Pilot, ya got something to add, son?"

The rebel-pilot nodded. "Mission Dump should be planned and executed early in the morning, right after sunrise on the west coast. That's around o-five-hundred, Preston. The air waves are much smoother and the ride should be less bumpy for Mr. President and his little slave girls," chuckling.

"Okay." The rebel-general tapped the table surface. "The next issue is fuel. We house thousands of square feet of airplane warehouses and millions of acres of landing fields. All is useless without fuel to go-go."

"Math quiz number one, if a copter flies ten miles against a slight steady headwind of five miles per hour and did not return to his mama, how much fuel does it need to fly away from us?" Dalton smiled.

The rebel-pilot said. "A copter burns an average about 7.19 miles per gallon. Are we going to give them all our precious gasoline? I hope not, since that's a seriously limited and valuable planet Earth element in the USA that we don't possess currently."

"Hell naw." Dalton frowned.

"Naw." Rich shook his skull.

"Some single other smartass body, besides me, calculate the proper gallon fuel tank for the short ten mile copter flight, because that's all we're giving them foreign bastards." Preston grinned.

"A Blackhawk helicopter has a 230 gallon fuel tank with a range of 1,200 nautical miles," the rebel-pilot said.

"Not needed," the rebel-general shook his skull.

"We fill the gas tank with four gallons to ensure that I land in one piece with my copter on that aircraft carrier, instead of an open sea floor." Preston chuckled.

"A half-mile distance will take four minutes, eleven seconds at eight miles per hour," the rebel-pilot said.

"That's ten miles in forty one minutes, too long." Dalton looked down with a sour frown and thumbed typed on his mobile telephone, shaking his curls.

"I finish fucking my wife faster than that." Holt smiled.

"Hush it, Holt." Cole chuckled.

"At sixteen miles per hour, four minutes, eleven seconds covers one mile from the shoreline, that's twenty minutes and five seconds of flying time," the rebel-pilot said.

"A little better would be greatly appreciated the boy don't wanna give his five o'clock shadow in front of the damn Chinese. Shit." Dalton frowned.

"The boy wants to be home before suppertime, Admiral." Cole laughed.

"At thirty two miles per hour, four minutes, eleven seconds covers two miles, that's ten minutes and twenty seven seconds of flying time and then landing on the first warship," the rebel-pilot said.

"A nice little quiet boat ride." Cole smiled.

"Make the whirlybirds go faster, General," Trent nodded.

The rebel-general exhaled with a huff of frustration, shaking his skull. "Not with 49,000 fucking flying machines in the air all at the same time, Trent. The safe trip, I will order will be carried out at thirty two miles per hour, taking ten minutes, more or less, and a few seconds," the rebel-general nodded.

"That explains the horizontal trip. What about the vertical landing of each copter on top of the deck of each aircraft carrier?" Preston frowned to the rebel-general.

"Math quiz. How long does it take to fall from 30,000 feet at 200 miles per hour? The answer is one minute. To start off, ya got to accelerate from zero miles per hour velocity up to 200 miles per hour first, which is 0.556 miles-per-second or 293.333 feet-per-second, Cole. Then once ya reach the set mark of 200 miles per hour, you jump off the 30,000 feet mountain peak which is divided by 293.333 feet per second which equals 102.2727 seconds to fall and splat on the red clay dirt or gray silver limestone rock. There's sixty seconds in a minute, Cole. So ya bust on your ass on the grass in over one minute and forty two seconds," smiling.

"Dalton's right." Trent smiled.

"Dalton's a shit ass." Holt chuckled.

"The copter is traveling at thirty two miles per hour and falling from 2,500 feet to a zero gravity drop zone. That's 2,500 feet divided by 32 miles per hour which is 78.125 seconds per feet." Dalton calculated on his mobile telephone.

Preston thumb typed on the math app of his mobile telephone too, and gasped, shaking his skull. "That's over 17,160 seconds which is 286 minutes or roughly five hours and sixteen minutes. I can't stay on an illegal alien warship for five hours, Dalton." He looked up with a worried brow to see Dalton.

Rich shook a skull. "Preston, I can understand that you don't wanna stay on the ship with them bastards for five hours plus. But you can't just leave the boat during Mission Dump. It'll be both too dangerous and too rude. We have to show your face for our stupid ass mistake..."

"Why not, Rich?" Dalton turned with a sour frown to see Rich.

"Yeah. Why not, Rich?" Preston nodded.

"The helios are programmed by the motherboard, making Preston useless." Dalton chuckled.

Preston dropped his mouth and shut it with a nod in silence agreement with Dalton's new plan.

Rich frowned at the two young men.

"Let's see." Dalton looked down with a grin and thumb typed on his mobile telephone phone. "In the modern age of computer automation, Holt's favorite beer is filled in twelve ounces of malted liquid which is mechanically produced at 1,800 bottles per minute. That's 1,800 bottles at twelve ounces which is 21,600 ounces. Then 21,600 ounces is divided by sixteen ounces, one single pound. A figure of 1,350 pounds..."

Holt chuckled. "Dalton's a shit ass..."

The rebel-nerd looked down with a nod and a stern face and typed on her laptop. "I understand what Dalton's trying to calc. I can comprehend Preston's deepest desire to tarry his tail off that terrible ship, as soon as possible. I can rig the sloping descend at 150 miles per hour, Mr. President," she looked up with a smile to see Preston.

Dalton shook his curls. "That's..."

Rich ordered. "Shut up, Dalton. Let the real expert finish."

The rebel-nerd read her laptop. "The copter is falling from 2,500 feet divided by 150 miles per hour which equals 16.6 feet per second for 220 copters. This is 3666.66 total seconds of diving time onto the deck of one solo aircraft carrier. That translates into sixty one minutes for the entire 49,000 helicopters to finish mother...boarding," smiling.

"Much better," Preston nodded.

"Raise it to 200 miles per hour," Dalton ordered with a stern face.

The rebel-nerd shook her curls. "Too risky. The motherboard can't handle any speed better than a velocity rate of 150 miles per hour."

"A flaw." Dalton chuckled.

"A fact," she smiled.

"Shut it, Dalton." Rich tapped on the stack of papers with a nod and a smile to see Preston. "Preston's time will be well spent on-board the warship. This is a business termination, gentlemen and ladies, not a tea party. The foreigners are not coming back here, ever. A business transaction ends with the signing of the buyer to the seller in the format of a written contract. This legal document terminates all our foreign financial loans from all our foreign investors." He hands the paper to Preston. "Read it out loud for all ears, Preston."

Preston grabbed the paper, lifting and hiding his face, clearing his throat and read out loud. "Hereof, this eighteenth day of August, the debtor (USA) and the creditor (Foreigner) have settled the final sale or transfer of cash or non-cash value of $24 trillion dollars, making the financial monetary non-USA loan agreement terminated with no cash or non-cash exchange and/or additional cash or non-cash penalty, as signed below by Preston Kingly, President of the United States, and United States Attorney, Rich Richmond..."

"I wanna be the big powerful attorney for the USA." Dalton banged his fists on the table surface with a nod and a grin.

Rich ordered with a fatherly tone. "Shut it, Dalton. You're required to get a signature from every fucking foreigner delegate, who will be attending our flight show on those two duplicate sheets of white paper with black letters in the color blue ink...."

"Add the color of red somewhere on that USA legal document, making it a true American red, white, and blue," Dalton chuckled.

"Hush it, Dalton." Cole ordered with a brotherly tone.

Rich smiled at Preston. "They'll sign below your presidential name, starting on the extreme left hand column then go all the way down to the bottom, then shift the fucking foreigner's name and nation to the right hand column. And then the fucking foreigner name and nation goes all the way down to the edge of the sheet, then flip the paper over to the back of the document..."

"Not right, Rich." Dalton frowned.

"Shut it, Dalton." Holt reprimanded with a brotherly tone.

Rich raised two blue ink pens with a nod and a grin. "After every fucking foreigner has signed with these blue ink pens their name and their native country, then you present one legal document to that asshole Prime Minister of England, who acts like he's hosting of dog show." Preston nodded at his first official presidential act.

"Will they sign it?" The rebel-general frowned.

Rich smiled. "Yes sir. They will. Their foreign lawyers like me have advised a permanently termination of the legal monetary transaction. Or we can yell fox, claiming that they robbed us of all our monies."

Dalton nodded. "They are Rich. That ain't no lie, buddy."

"Shut it, Dalton." Cole smiled.

"Anything more, rebels for our new president's eardrums?" The rebel-general looked with a stern face to see the rebel-engineering-nerd, the rebel-computer-geek, and finally the rebel-pilot.

The rebel-pilot shook his skull. "No sir, General. This is a one-wide trip not to hell but to paradise. Let the drone do the driving. Then let the bastards leave our lands, our waters, and our country, foreverly."

"Well spoken, our native American son." Rich smiled.

The rebel-admiral exhaled a huff of worry. "Preston, I respect your authority as our new president. And I wanna add that this is our only working plan, coming from the black board, the board room, and the board of directors, who are currently sitting around this table. The helicopter will not be hauling heavy cargo like a heavy swaying battle tank from its belly or transporting any US citizens, who can be blasted out of the baby blue sky and then diving and drowning into the open waters. If the aircraft carrier decides to shoot a missile..."

"What fucking missile?" Holt frowned.

The rebel-admiral pointed with a chuckle and a grin to the television. "They carry some, not many. The ship's armed with two octuple missile launchers, sending two sea sparrow missiles into our front door. But it only takes one, ya'll." He winked to Preston. Preston gasped, turning with a worried brow to the television screen. The screen showed numerous battle ships.

"I have heard that phrase too many gawd damn times." Dalton shook his curls.

"Do or don't, Preston?" The rebel-general asked.

Preston turned with a stern face and a nod to see the rebel-general. "Do it." The rebel men and women stood from the table, scattering and leaving the Oval Office to perform their primary duty on Mission Sting. Preston turned with a wicked grin to the nose profiles of each rebel. "Dr. Sylvia? General? Could you please stay for a little while long?" He nodded and viewed Dalton. "I...wanna ask about flight sickness on the soaring in a big military helicopter..."

"What?" Rich turned around with a confused brow, parking both his hands on his hips, standing in the archway. "Ya flew on the helicopter from DC to Camp David. Did ya vomit on the plane, Preston?"

Holt laughed, sitting back down in his assigned seat. "That was Arthur, not Preston."

Rich frowned. "O. You're taking a big military helio from the San Diego base, Preston. You'll barely feel any motion."

Cole stood in the empty hallway, standing perpendicular to Rich, yelling. "Rich, let's go."

"I...never...uh...have flown on a big transport military copter, Rich. I don't wanna arrive...uh...sick and vomiting on the Prime Minister's alligator shoes," Preston grinned. Dalton laughed with Holt.

Rich frowned. "What?"

Cole reached and slapped Rich on the collar bone with a nod and a grin. "Rich, let's go." Rich shook his skull, watching Preston reseat an ass around the table and turned with a confused brow to see Cole. Then, he and Cole moved away from the Oval Office down the trashy hallway without talking.

At 04:04 p.m, inside the West Wing hallway, Cole stomped down an empty hallway, saying with a nod and a grin. "Rich, he's nervous and worried and excited, since he has volunteered to be the President of the United States of America. Any other sane person would not like me," chuckling.

"And me." Rich smiled.

Cole turned with a smile to see the glass windows of the manicured lawn of the White House. "Preston will make a good president. He leads with a good heart and a smart head. Examine all them quick-ass decisions that he has made so far that affects all the naked feet of Americans living here?"

"I know that."

Cole continues. "Our block community concept is working perfectly. Folks are living, working, and playing, even churching together." He moved with Rich down a long beige corridor.

"It's the barbeque." Rich smiled down at the dirty floor.

"I like the barbeque too. Within the protective concrete walls of the block community, it's safe and happy for the family unit. The family members are taking care of each other. The mamas watch over the babies. The daddies watch over the mamas. And the grandparents watch and teach to everyone. So nice. The family unit is back together and running well, not the US Federal Government taking care of all people."

"The US Federal Government did not exist anymore, Cole."

"Thanks to you, Rich along with our other billionaire friends. We've changed everything. America will be different and then grow into a nation of individuals that value hard work over easy greed as we continue the block community movement. We build more tiny our towns for the rest of the country, where folks can live in peace and happiness. There'll always be pockets of killing thuds and mean gangs, living outside every single block community. We've prepared folks for this by teaching them to use hand guns and rifles for both fun and protection but mostly protection. Evil did not stop growing, Rich. It only fights harder. But good folks fight more harder. And each block community has been tested with bad evil and evil has lost. Those young boys and girls are really good sharp shooters, even with the twelve gauge shotguns. This is what happens, when ya let the young kids protect their mamas and daddies and neighbors from bodily harm."

Rich mumbled. "Arthur?"

Cole moved and looked down to see the dirty floor with litters of paper cups, spilled food, and food wrappings from the invading rebel teams. The rebel-teams were cleaning out the stuff from the numerous book shelves, desk drawers, and wall closets inside the White House. Cole exhaled with a huff of frustration. "And Wade. He changed too. Remember? He opposed our idea of bankrupting the USA, very risky. We could have lost everything instead we won, Rich. We hand off the treasure and paid the foreign bastards then we be done with the rest of the world. We have discussed and challenged Preston, Arthur, and the other smart people, who fancy their PhD work along with their bright neurons. We want them to find different alternative forms of fuel for our homes and our transports. We talked about the smart people, teaching the younger kids to invent, and to design, and to mold the new frontier in the areas of medicine, solar energy, and even making a good pair of cowboy boots," chuckling. They moved and stopped at a set of side doors, leading out into the manicured lawn.

Rich exhaled with a huff of frustration, turning with a sad frown to see Cole. "I feel guilty about Miss Tanita. She didn't have a chance outside Moville. I was right. She's dead now."

Cole exhaled with a huff of frustration. "Rich, she made that decision for her family. Now, all her family members are dead except for Arthur, Miss Ilenn, and their unborn baby. Thank goodness. Miss Ilenn was pregnant and couldn't leave Moville. We can't control an individual's free will, Rich. Hell. Almighty God can't control free will, coming from a dumb shit. Let's praise Almighty God for the babe that He sent down to Miss Ilenn. The unborn baby prevented Arthur from leaving Moville, not the opposite. Arthur's a good man and will be a good Vice President of the USA with President Preston. These boys and girls are young, strong, smart, and helped take back America. Now, they're determined to make America, the original peaceful and prosperous nation that our forefathers intended in 1776. Let Preston, Miss Pamela, Arthur, Miss Ilenn, Arthol, and Miss Ida do their thing, while we retire and watch," nodding.

"Retire, I like that word." Rich turned with a grin to see the windows, the blue sky, the white clouds, the flying birds and the pretty flowers.

Cole slapped Rich on the forearm, swinging to the doors, saying with a nod and a smile to his nose profile. "Good home to Carole! Kiss your wife. Hug your children and grandchildren. Better yet, take the next two days off for a short vacation. You deserve it. You soloed planned and executed literally 'the take back' of America from a pod of evil Americans. I'll take care of your young charges for the next few days, giving smartasses Dalton and Holt, who can't even be split up like a banana peel with my job tasks. How's that sound, Rich?"

Rich nodded. "Great, Cole. I..." was both gladness and sadness. That it was almost over.

Cole smiled. "Ya wanted out of the kidnapping business."

"Yes." Rich smiled.

"Take the presidential copter, killing the fertilized green lawn. Then you can board one of the private jets from Andrews. Go back home before I have Dalton cut the outer spacey satellites. Or ya won't be able to travel back to Alabama, Rich? And promise me, you will relax and enjoy your own family unit. We won't tell Preston ya baled and went on a vacation day at Moville. He's nervous enough with all the diplomatic work required for him to learn about them foreigners' silly social ways, before he shook a left hand, instead of licking a tiny dick," chuckling. "Ya know them foreigners. They gots some pretty shitty traditions. On August eighteenth at five in the morning, before the sun bleeds into the skyline report your face at San Diego in California like ya planned. Then ya can greet Preston before his first official presidential visit to them assholes on board an enemy warship." Cole slapped on Rich on his back spine and gently shoved him to the door knob. "See ya'll on August eighteenth, Rich. Bye. Say 'hi' to Carole for me."

The side door opened. Rich went out the door with a grin and a nod, jogging to the helicopter. Cole watched the rebel-leader of the rebellion enter the helicopter with a smile, turning with a stern face to see the nosy commotion down the hallway, and yelled with a grin. "Cam."

Cam stood inside an archway, darting his eyelids to the sound of his name, and turning and spotted Cole, who waved a hand. Cam moved with a smile to Cole, extending a handshake. "Hey, Cole."

Cole shook and released the hand with a nod and a smile. "Afternoon, Cam. How's the robbery going?"

Cam thumbed over a collar bone at the noisy commotion down the hallway. "Very well, Cole. I'm recruited some real patriotic Americans, who want booty and lootie and tooty. When I whispered with my lips them words Mission Sting, they wanted in and wanna go down to the shoreline and sting some of them bastards like little bumblebees."

Cole nodded. "Excellent. Don't wait for an entire truck to fill to the rim. Start moving them trucks, even with one-fourth loads so all the pretty merchandise can be properly loaded onto them damn helicopters. Got it, Cam?"

Cam nodded, swinging back to the American patriots of men and women, who were removing an assortment of art paintings, picture frames, face portraits, wooden clocks, ceramic dishes, and face sculptures from the White House hallways, wall corners, private offices, and the entire kitchen dishes. Cole chuckled with a nod and a grin, watching the action.

At 06:06 p.m., inside the Oval Office, President Preston nervously stood in front of the three shiny glass windows inside the Oval Office without a wooden podium. He held the paper note cards between shaky fingers, wearing a pair of faded and ripped blue jeans from his violent coup d'toot that took over an evil White House government entity with bullets and blood. A clean white short-sleeved shirt wore the bold crimson blood red letters: USA that glowed underneath a dark blue sports jacket. The sports jacket did not hold a jacket insignia. Preston did not wear a vertical necktie or a horizontal bow tie or a white and pressed dress shirt. And he looked a little stained and stranded on his sunburned face.

The national television camera man fiddled with the solo overhead microphone where Preston would address to every single American telecommunication device within the USA and some outside of the USA too. The image and electronic signal would carry throughout the world by use of the powerful outer space satellite waves to every single television monitor, mobile telephone, laptop computer, radio even on landline telephones for folks without the current electronic toys to hear, not see. The television camera man held up his hand with five fingers, retracting each finger. "Four, three, two, one. Live."

Preston did not smile greeting in his rich baritone timber, looking into the square four inched by six inched camera lens. "My fellow Americans. This is a very sad day for the United States of America. There are three hundred war battle cruisers from various foreign countries, hovering outside our American waters near our American sands that color in gold, white, and beige from the cities of Portland, Maine, down south to Miami, Florida, over west to Mobile, Alabama, across the mid-southwest to Brownsville, Texas and up the northwest to Seattle, Washington, and back down south to San Diego, California. We have lost Hawaii, Puerto Rico, and the other Caribbean territories to our enemies that float their battle armada, demanding their money back.

"We had borrowed it to pay our own outstanding debts to live happy and free on American soil. We will comply or..." smiling. "I am your new President of the United States, Preston Kingly. Ya can call me, Preston from the great US State of Alabama. I have a family like you. I have a beautiful smart wife named Pamela and an infant son, still breast feeding. I do not want anything bad to happen to my family like you. Therefore, we will comply. We will give back the twenty four trillion dollar America owned debt owed to...try to keep up the gawd damn list is really long...

"Australia, Brazil, Canada and in alphabetic order too. China, France, India, Italy, Japan, Mexico, Saudi Arabia, South Korea, Spain, Thailand, the United Kingdom, and other foreign nations. The scheduled foreign exchange of our treasure will occur as you sleep in your bed, eat your breakfast in your kitchen, drive your car to work, or shit turds inside your toilet. That's all ya'll need to know, except that I will personally lead this foreign exchange operation.

"There will be no senators, no congress, no committees, no ambassadors only me, working directly face-to-face with all the selected representatives from all the different foreign governments. Then our twenty four trillion dollar debt will be erased to zero point zero dollars, US. For this grand plan to be implemented with the greatest success, I am your new President of the USA and I have decided to cut off the orbiting satellites above planet Earth that connects you to the world.

"For ya'll really dumb dumbasses, there will be no television programs, no cell phone connections, or internet access for a little while. This is only a temporary measure. Then all the outer space satellites will be turned back on, so you can see these bastards leave our lands, our sands, and our waters. The United States of America will never ever allow any more foreign asses, on our real estate property or conduct any more foreign business transactions, including goods and services with the rest of the world. We are truly on our own like the historical thirteen colonies and colonists after winning the Revolutionary War in 1776. Please see your American history textbooks for more information about freedom, too. So please as your new president continue your day-to-day family, social and work activities, because I will be happy to personally take care of this matter for the people of America," he smirked into the camera lens.

The television camera man said. "Cut. The live-feed is off," he clapped, ,moving on his expensive leathers to Preston with a smile and a nod. "That was an awesome speech, Mr. President. I predict that the entire world that owns a telecommunication devise will be watching you with their eyeballs glued to the television screen for this historical once-in-a-life-time event. Can I ride with ya, Mr. President inside the helicopter to the warship, sir?"

Preston said with a stern face and a serious tone. "Naw. This is a one-man mission. I am that man."

The television camera man turned with a sour frown, checking the control panel on the camera console for the recording, and gasped. "Our television station has lost power. It's off. The USA has no signal to the rest of the world."
August 18th Saturday

05:01 a.m.

San Diego US military base (2,272 miles due west from Washington DC)

Sunny without fog and rain

Six mph winds with 82% humidity at 65ºF

Rich and the rebel-general moved between Preston to the large helicopter that was newly painted in shiny neon puke green. The copter also displayed a newly painted bright red, blue and white American flag on each side, compliments of the USA. The rebel-general handed the headphones to Preston. "Pre-flight check's done. There's going to be a lot of cockpit noise from the twin engines of the heavy transport Chinook. Always wear your earphones even being shot at..." Preston slammed his boots over rough concrete, turning with a worried brow to see the rebel-general. The rebel-general laughed and slapped Preston on the back spice, saying with a fatherly tone. "The pilot will fly at a steady 2,500 feet. Ya will sail right over the smooth baby blue open waters, this morning. Good luck, Preston."

Rich checked and pocketed his mobile telephone into his jeans. He moved ahead and grabbed Preston by the arm, rushing them to the door of the Chinook, yelling over the roaring engines, and pointed to the small helicopter. "The baby's coming. Miss Ilenn's at the hospital. There's a fighter jet and a pilot on stand-by here at San Diego base to fly Arthur back to Bama. Put him on the small copter that will follow behind you but not close enough to eat your down draft. Reassure, Arthur. He'll be back home within ninety minutes from here in Sand Diego for the birth of his son. Good luck, Preston." Preston stopped at the door, turning with a grin and a handshake, giving a fatherly hug to Rich for both success and victory of Mission Dump, exhaling with a huff of nervousness, and turned and entered the hatchway. The helicopter door opened.

At 05:05 a.m., the helicopter door closed. Preston moved ahead and stood in the archway, exhaling with a huff of nervous again, seeing the clean and shiny window shield of the base and the flight crew personnel, scooting into the co-pilot chair and turned with a nod and a smile to see the rebel-pilot.

The rebel-pilot looked down and fiddled with the Chinook's instrument controls. "Good morning, Mr. President!"

Preston reached and webbed the safety belts around his body with two nervous hands with a smile. "Morning. Your name, Pilot?" He placed a pair of black tinted cheap sunglasses over his naked eyeballs with a grin.

"Pilot, sir. Head phones, sir!" He slid the head phones over his eardrums and pointed to the head phones in the hands of Preston. Preston slid the head phones over his naked hair roots. The rebel-pilot wrapped a hand around the cyclic as the copter slowly rose from the smooth concrete. The rotor blades spun at forty five miles per hour. The helicopter turned and flew to the Pacific Ocean.

Preston sat, sweating inside his palms and between his toes, wearing a new pair of cotton socks, singing in a sissy tenor via his headphones. "Jerky."

"Floaty is the official military term, Mr. President," the rebel-pilot said with a grin into his headphones.

Preston smiled at his own nervous silliness, looking out the side window at the fast moving landscape. The helicopter glided forward at thirty two miles per hour over the smooth vanilla colored pavement of the military base. He said into his headphones. "Call me, Preston. Please, pilot."

"First time, Preston?"

Preston said with smile into his headphones. "Apparently, first and last time, we've never see this helicopter again unless the Chinese decides to come to our Fourth of July birthday party, next year."

"Betta fucking not."

"Damn fucking right." Preston chuckled, trying to control his nervous and scary emotions being the new president. He was visiting an enemy warship for the first time in his short life, trying not to think about don't mess the fucking rebel-mission. He meekly said into his headphones. "The windows are big."

"Visibility is best in a copter. Ya don't have a nose sticking out like on a plane or even a car which might be a little awkward to some folks. Helios are great especially with the doors off, sir. There's nothing like having nothing between you and the air molecules," the rebel-pilot smiled.

Preston felt a little better, knowing that he and the pilot were anxious, eager, excited, and nervous about engaging the enemy at sea. He said into his headphones. "The ride's not bumpy or scary, pilot."

The rebel-pilot smiled, wasting more minutes of Preston's valuable time inside the cockpit. "This big bird has more mass, making for a less bumpy ride, Preston. You're sitting in front of the rotor mast. Ya know that thing that held the mechanics of the blades? The mast is a pivot point for yawning as the bird turns to the left or to the right while compensating for pitch. It'll be easier on your tummy, honey with that much metal behind us, sir."

Preston turned with a grin, bumping his forehead into the side window, seeing the below landscape. The helicopter flew across a tiny crop farm, where the farm machinery was idol, because every American was glued to the television set for the historical event of a life time. Then, the big Chinook flew over a row of ocean front condos, where no people in skimpy bathing suits floated inside the swimming pool, because every American was inside a house, sitting an ass upon a sofa couch, as Preston crossed the Pacific Ocean to an enemy warship. Then, the copter flew over a long strip of golden beach of San Diego then smoothly sailed over the sparkling blue Pacific Ocean waters, flying to President Preston to his awesome purpose in life to save the USA from their foreign enemies that wanted their twenty four trillion dollars of USA debt. The helicopter suddenly dropped down like a rock to the ocean water as Preston grabbed the seat with both his hands looking like a chicken shit.

The rebel-pilot looked around and fiddled with the controls as the engines cut off for two seconds and then re-engaged.

The second rebel-pilot inside the small personal helicopter chirped with a nasty whistle into the twin headphones of both the first-rebel-pilot and Preston, saying. "Copter, right behind you, asshole pilot."

"Roger that, asshole number two pilot! Mr. VP's pilot and copter's tailing us, sir," the rebel-pilot said with a sneer then smiled into his head phone to Preston. "Sir. We were a little tail-heavy. If the front tip of the landing skids leave the ground first like I had noticed during our slo mo take-off from the San Diego Base, then your helicopter is tail-heavy. This is not good, sir. We're flying over open waters filled with sharks and assholes like them foreigners. You can't see, but I can. Our tail rotor is almost touching the water surface. I cut the engine..."

"What?" Preston slammed his hands and his body forward into the hard shiny console, turning with a worried brow frown to see the rebel-pilot.

"When the tail rotor is too close to the water or inside the ocean water, that's very bad, sir. During the flight cruise, the immediately solution is to enter into autorotation. The tail rotor is called the anti-torque rotor. I cut the engine and got rid of the torque, normally done with an autorotation landing. Then I powered the engines back on, clearing our torque quickly, Mr. President," the rebel-pilot chuckled.

"Jeezus." Preston shook his skull, scooting an ass back into the worn leather, wiping his face with two sweaty palms.

"Don't worry. I checked the 'Jesus nut.' We're good to go, sir."

Preston smiled at the military humor. "That's the single bolt that lines up with the solid paint line, holding the entire helicopter together, right, pilot?"

"Right, sir. Don't worry. I just perform a copter engine-out which could be dicey from some junior pilots, not me. In a low-inertia rotor system, the bird's collective lever is lowered down immediately which in turn lowers the pitch of rotor blades while conserving the RPM's. Without the rotor RPM's, your goose is cooked, sir. Then I kicked in the anti-torque pedal to prevent yawning, at a short loss of engine then entered a dive..."

"We? Dived?" Preston sneered.

"For .006 seconds, sir. The drill is to lower the collective, remove anti-torque, and nose over like a nice smooth glide, then your RPM is stable. Your speed is stable and you can land like any other landing with no hovering before your touchdown, sir. An autorotation is one of the most fun things you can do in a whirlybird. I enjoy the hell out of 'em, sir," grinning.

Preston exhaled with a huff of frustration. "Fly me straight to the Liaoning." He turned with a stern face to see the pretty crystal blue waters, calming a beating heart from the silly pilot's antics.

The rebel-pilot smiled. "Yes sir. We're steady at 2,500 feet, zero wind speed. A perfect day for flying you for to meet a warship. I'll entertain you during our short and sweet road trip about seven more minutes and sixteen seconds, Preston. A small copter will be a little more bumpier ride rather than this big work horse. Overall, flying in a helicopter is a little like flying in an airplane. The only difference, the takeoff and landing maneuvers stimulates an amusement theme park's roller coaster ride at times. Once the copter has made the transition to forward flight, the flight will be pretty flat out smooth like silk inside your guts. The major difference of a copter versus a plane, a helicopter flight is more affected by turbulence inside the seat than an airplane. If the helicopter is not sound proof, then it will be much louder than an airplane. You should wear the headset which reduces noise levels. Always wear your earphones, sir." Preston stared at miles of blue clear water and baby blue sky. The sun slowly rose on a beautiful rain-free eighteenth of August. The rebel-pilot expelled his nervous energy too via his headphones, flying to the aircraft carrier. "It's easier to be air sick inside a copter due to the smaller dimensions than an airplane. A helicopter is affected more by violent air turbulence. If ya like roller coast riding and the feeling of your stomach inside your throat, then you'll be fine and dandy. The new jet-powered helicopters are designed for a passenger's quietness and comfortness. A take-off is sorta like going up inside an elevator with your personal pilot at the floor lever, since your guts won't feel the ups and downs like from another hotshot pilot. It'll be more like a zero-g flight. The trip will be loud on your ear buddies. This is a straight and narrow bird flight. So you won't feel that much different of a seated body and a dizzy head inside that worn leather seat. However, our landing is going to be a hard jolt, not executed upon a perfect suitable softie grassy landing spot. There will be a tiny bit of tail drag due to our heavy treasure in the rear."

"I feel so warm and fuzzy, pilot." Preston grinned with a set of calm emotions, listening to the babble of the nervous rebel-pilot too.

The rebel-pilot snorted. "Goody! I'm doing my job. An aircraft carrier is about 1,000 feet aft to port and 250 feet of starboard. That's a runway. The deck is wide like two asphalt paved city street roads on the Liaoning." Preston knew that information too. But, the rebel-pilot was slightly nervous and excited with pumped-up energy like Preston. The new USA president felt a flip-flipping stomach of one thousand and one butterflies like a kid taking his college test without studying. "The Liaoning is a never completed ex-Soviet Union carrier, sold to China by way of the Ukraine before being refitted in the nation of Dalian. See how them Middle East and Asia worlds work together, bartering their ships, their planes, their hostages, and their money? Now, they've ganged together like a bunch of street thuds to take over the block. Well them thuds have picked the wrong street corner. Right, Mr. President?"

Preston chuckled, feeling much better with his brilliant and hopefully successfully Mission Dump plan. "You're damn right, my faithful American brother." The rebel-pilot smiled, concentrating on the drop zone of the approaching Chinese aircraft carrier. Preston stared with a grin at the blue water and the approaching warship deck "How's our treasure in the rear, pilot?"

The rebel-pilot flew the helicopter with a smile and a snigger. "With no viewing windows, sick as a dog, puking their brains over someone's ass, as the old American saying goes."

Preston stared with a grin at the military warship. "Good enough." The warship was not a perfect rectangular shape, looking like a rectangular shape which got beat up by a chain saw. The rear of the carrier was called the aft, displaying a U-shaped design. The bow (front part) appeared like the infamous universal bird signal. A middle finger bone extended upright between an index finger, a ring finger, and a pinky finger knuckles for calling a nasty person an asshole. Preston did not laugh with his mental fun amusement. Mission Dump was about the USA remaining free, independent, and mighty which will be thoroughly tested here on-board an enemy aircraft carrier, as long as, Preston remained both cool and brave. His twisted guts kept bean jumping from his nervous belly tissue, straight up into his tight esophagus, then leaped down into his throat tonsils, since he still had tonsils. His mouth salvia thickened with both fear and excitement, focusing his two eyeballs and his one brain on the vertical tall white tower island and the horizontal long black deck. The flat deck was dark black like any US major highway without any cars, glittering in blackish-silver colors against the baby blue of the Pacific Ocean from the early morning moisture and bright sunshine. The bottom of the ship was silver-green-tinted glowing colors from the green algae and steel metal like a grayish artificial soil formation below the sliced black deck.

The rebel-pilot cut the electricity power from the twin engines, making the cockpit dead silent as the ocean winds viciously hit the protective viewing windows. Preston gasped, ripping off both the sunglasses and the headphones in panic and shock, turning with a worried brow and a yell to the see pilot. "Ya cut the power? We're floating or falling, pilot?" The rebel pilot sat back with a grin, looking at the cockpit instrumental console and the vast array of small circular gauges. Then a steady beam of pink laser light hit and completely surrounded the helicopter like a giant protective goddess hand. The rebel-pilot laughed. Preston swung with a confused brow to see the beam. "Pink."

"The general's contribution, when we tested the motherboard."

"That motherfucker chose out of all the pinwheel colors a girly tint of pink for my first and only arrival on a foreign military aircraft carrier of my first and only official presidential visit to a foreign government," Preston gritted his teeth, seeing the pretty soft light pink around all the Chinook glass windows.

The rebel-pilot looked with a grin to see the nose profile of Preston. "I think the pink is for the fucking pussies on this boat, sir."

Preston reduced his growl down to a snigger with a nod, replacing the sunglass, absorbing the wise statement. "The motherboard was tested at San Diego," he tried to calm the raw nerve endings from the silly shock, recalling the written report. He had received the datum from the rebel-general, guaranteeing a successful ocean flight. The rebel-pilot darted his eyeballs side to side at the pink beam and his cockpit console, looking for any malfunction or trouble. Preston leaned over to see the partially working instrument cockpit console, absorbing the dials of air motion and air movement of this scary-ass maneuver, still silently cursing at both Rich and the rebel-general for not hinting at the true alpha test here now over the Pacific Ocean near an enemy warship with man-eating sharks in the ocean water too.

The rebel- pilot said with a chuckle at Preston's chicken shit reaction, staring at the cockpit console too. "Not with this much weight over the open waters, we didn't wanna give our secret way, Preston."

Preston turned with a stern face and a calm demeanor to see the DZ. The letters stood for 'drop zone.' His stomach flopped. His toe bones sweated. And his finger bones curled into a set of balls from both nervousness and excitement. "Good point, pilot!"

"The motherboard electronically catches us. She taps into the rows of metal pins that make up our embedded notebook inside this dash console panel," the rebel pilot reached and patted the dashboard. "The new slave data architecture on these gauges rapidly calculates our decent. Boom." He lifted and slapped his hands on his legs with a laugh and a grin. "The drone is functioning within excellent perimeters, Mr. President. She has been taken control by the computer, hauling our ass down into the pre-programmed spot on the far end in the first row, southwestern corner slot. This is a smooth ride for the tummy. I felt the drop for a few seconds, before the motherboard literally grabbed us in the air. We're flying free and happy now, Preston," the rebel-pilot watched the instrument panel, not Preston.

Preston exhaled with a huff of frustration from holding his breath. "Will each helio stimulate this maneuver?"

"No, Preston. You're a programmer. The motherboard pings onto each notebook inside every single helicopter all at the same time when our rebel-nerd presses her right index non-manicured fingernail on the enter button of her laptop. Awesome shit. Right, sir?"

"Right," Preston said with a stern face and understood the new hi-tech superpower magic.

The rebel pilot watched the instruments with a grin. "We are mark 2,000 feet and descending and missing the communication antennas. 1,500 feet. 1,000 feet. Don't remove your safety webbing, Preston. Secure your body into that chair. We're at 500 feet and falling like a streak of angry white lighting." The stomach in Preston was performing multiple somersaults inside his twisted guts, but Preston held the throat bile like a real man, instead of a baby wussie while hoping that the big helicopter did not accidentally slid off the carrier deck and then fell down into the deep blue ocean waters. The rebel pilot darted his eyeballs at the approaching deck as his hands held the edges of his seat. "Stand by! This will be a little rough."

Preston grabbed the edges of his seat too, holding his breath, seeing the super large warship deck also. The rubber tire wheels hit and bounced up a few inches for a few milliseconds with a squealing sound and finally rested the tires with a popping sound on top of the hot black asphalt deck as the drone received and executed the land signal, coming from the motherboard. The motherboard had roughly guided the helicopter down from the skyline and to its pre-selected proper hot spot of top of the flat desk with excellent success. His ass jumped about one-sixteenth of an inch up from a loud hard jolt of metal on the solid hard surface. His teeth enamel cut into the tender mouth cheek tissues, but Preston was safely webbed into his worn co-pilot seat. Then, his body fell back down into the old worn leather which really needed much more thicker soft leather padding for a second slave helio trip. Preston snorted with his silly mental thought.

05:13 a.m.

Chinese aircraft carrier, the Liaoning

Partly cloudy sky

Sea surface air temperature at 62°F

Real time wind speed twelve mph west by northwest

Ten miles visibility with 62 percent humidity

Top deck setting

The helicopter landed on top of the warship deck. Preston slid off the co-pilot seat, exhaling with a huff of sour breath and turned with a grin, slapping the rebel-pilot on the collar bone for being an entertainingly redneck asshole during copter flight. They both chuckled. Preston removed the sunglasses and the head phones, placing the items inside his co-seat as gifts for the foreigners. He spun around and moved ahead with a nod and smile to the archway of the helicopter. "Let's not forget our new Mr. VP!" The helicopter door opened into the bright new day of sunlight and winds.

The rebel-pilot continued to secure the cockpit, pressing a button that destroyed the inner guts and wires of the machine, so the USA helicopter would not fly off the warship deck and attack the soil of the USA shoreline or peoples. He slid off the pilot seat and spun around with a grin, following behind Preston and exited out of the bird.

Preston stomped down the mini-steps onto a hard deck surface, standing in a bright sun and a windy deck of Chinese aircraft carrier, the Liaoning. The rebel-pilot slammed into the back spine of Preston, making Preston step forward as they both chuckled from nervousness. Then, the rebel-pilot spun around to see the open door, pressing another button to seal the doors permanently, so the foreigners could not access the cockpit and activate the helicopter for their evil purposes.

Preston moved and jogged towards the warship bridge. The helicopter door closed automatically like it was programmed to do. The rebel-pilot swung around with a grin and a chuckle, running and pulling up beside Preston and moved towards the warship bridge. This was the first helicopter to land on the first foreign aircraft carrier. The entire set of boxes (helicopters) by the aerial formation of from the command of the drone motherboard had already lifted into the air and were flying as planned to arrive each warship in less than fifteen minutes.

Mission Dump had official began now.

Preston saw two figures next to the aircraft tower, quickly recognizing one as Arthur. The other was the Prime Minister of Great Britain, the official host of the one and only historical financial exchange world event. Preston slowed his pace into a steady walk, calming his lungs and his heart rate, extending his hand for Arthur. He purposefully ignored the tall and stern faced prime minister, grabbing Arthur by the forearm, jerking them to the aft (rear) of the aircraft carrier. They strutted ahead in a brisk pace to the water. Preston shouted out loud as the ocean twelve mile per hour cross winds beat down his vocal words. "Ilenn's having the baby," he pointed to the bubble helicopter in the air space over the rear of the warship. "Take the copter back to the San Diego military base. There's a jet fighter on stand-by, waiting for ya. You'll be in Bama less than one hour and thirty minutes inside the B'ham airport. There's a sports car, waiting to take ya to Ilenn at the Hoville Hospital. She's doing fine, breathing hardy and cussing your name loudly. That's common for us first-time daddies. Don't sweat fire ants. After the babe showed, she'll be her old sweetheart self."

Arthur leaned with a chuckle and a grin into the ear of Preston. "Ya know another Ilenn, Preston? Hey. Ya sent the right man for the job, Mr. President. These assholes quizzed me with millions of dumb ass questions, ranging from the academic subject matters of American history to the pussy filled American politics. So, I failed miserably being a dumbshit, sir." They laughed. Arthur said with a stern face and a serious tone. "Be careful with them assholes, Preston. I wasn't poisoned by their shitty foreign tasting food. But I am not the new smartass President of the United States of America. I wish I could stay and play bodyguard for ya. Why didn't you bring an armed man, Preston? Are ya carrying concealed your pistol, boy?"

They stopped and slumped forward together in a huddle, talking and watching helicopter land. The Chinook rebel-pilot led first to the copter, bending and kissing his boot toes away from the twirling rotor blades.

Preston slapped Arthur in the chest, hitting his dirty cotton T-shirt which still contained the dried red blood stains of the two dead and executed rebels. Calvin and Leon's red blood flew across the Oval Office when the former US president executed them in an assassin cold-blood murder at the White House during the toot d'coup. Preston smiled. "I learned to fight with my fists at five years old from my daddy. Then I beat your ass on the playground with those same fists in Pre-K. Remember, Arthur? I'm a fucking American raised on southern grit, guts, and gravel. Those assholes need to be afraid of me," he back stepped with a grin and a chuckle, pivoting to see a pussy-sour prime minister. Arthur jogged with a smile to the helicopter to see the birth of newborn son in a few minutes. Preston occasionally glanced over his collar bone, watching Arthur load into the helicopter and sprinted to a non-smiling prime minister, slowing down to a walk, and extended his handshake for a proper southern gentleman greeting.

The prime minister slowly reached out his hand for the greeting too. Preston plowed his hand into the open palm of the foreigner, slightly squeezing between the pale skin and the weak bone, tightly griping his four fingers and his thumb around the slender hand of the prime minister. The guy turned a little pink on his twin apple cheekbones from surprise and pain. Preston jerked the tall slender man forward into his smirk as their flared nostrils bad breathed on each other's bottom lip. They were about the same height, not weight. The prime minister was dressed in his mama's ankle-length silky bathroom robe of electric blue. The silky bathroom robe hid a pale gray wool business suit, a pale yellow cotton dress shirt, a silk bowtie of tiny stripes of dark-blue and blood-red that choked his Adam's apple. The prime minister was fifty something years old compared to Preston's twenty something years of age. The prime minister back stepped on his polished and shiny black expensive leathers from that surprise invasion of his personal air space.

Preston grunted like a tough shit ass, covering his double-beating heart organ and a racing heart pulse. His pumping raw nerve endings sparkled with tons of energy, flaming down from his neurons and to his toenails. He had not been this hot and nervous, since he asked Pamela to marry him or watched the birth of their son. Preston smiled with a pair of dancing baby blue irises, loosening his hand grip just a little, saying with a smooth baritone timber, "Nice to meet ya. I'm Preston, sir. Sorry for the football interception. My vice-president is going to be a daddy within the next hour. So I wanted his ass off this boat to witness that special event of precious life with his newbie son and his pretty wife." He used a set of southern manners that were not taught to him by his mama as a young child in Birmingham, Alabama. The prime minister smiled without showing any teeth, thumbing with a nod and a grunt over his collar bone to the closed hatchway. Preston released his taunt grip from the prime minister's hand, and flipped his hand up in the air for shit and giggles like a quick draw visual show down of anticipated violent force. Then he gracefully turned to see a four armed guards without smiles in the traditional green, beige, and brown military fatigues. Each guard tenderly patted an M-16 rifle, resting sideways in their arms.

The heavy warship door opened.

At 05:21 a.m., inside the interior observation room setting, Preston strutted ahead with a smile and a nod to each guard, moving through the open hatchway. He did not know the location of the plotted and planned foreign international diplomatic meeting spot and side stepped out of the archway. The prime minister entered through the archway, turning and resuming the lead down the middle of the hatchway, dragging his mama's bathrobe tail behind his ass over the dirty floor in silence. Preston moved and strutted behind the prime minister as a pair of two new guards pulled up beside Preston. They were really short, coming up to the two pointy elbows of Preston. Each guard stood short at five feet flat compared to the six feet plus frame of Preston.

Preston continued to move ahead and grin behind the back spine of the prime minister, relieving his jumpy nerves and his active neurons. The prime minister slowly paced down an empty corridor of dull gray color. Preston saw more dull gray walls of emptiness and a guard roadblock ahead of the open corridor. The prime minister slowed his pace a little more as Preston pulled up beside him. They moved side by side like men.

The prime minister drones in his British alto without a smile, staring the roadblock of guards in the fair distance. "Welcome, Preston! I am Edward Charles Badon, Earl of Brunswick, and the Prime Minister of Great Britain. You may address me as Edward, using the less formal name identification. Since you, Yanks like things plain and simple. I am so pleased that you could join us this early morning hour on the Liaoning. This aircraft carrier is owned by the Chinese Republic Government, but even nowadays an aircraft carrier remains the ultimate symbol of a nation's power. As I quote the words of my Englishman Geoff Seale, who said 'an aircraft carrier is a significant diplomatic tool.' The single island tower of the Liaoning has three bridges, weighing at 580 tons with more than thirty one miles of electronic feeding cables for the radar and telecommunications equipment along with 3,003 plastic pipes for water, air, and cabling." He exhaled with a huff of breath, stopping and turning to the side.

The elevator door opened. Edward entered the elevator carriage and about faced to see Preston with a nod. Preston moved inside with a nod in silence, pivoting and standing next to Edward again. The elevator door closed. Edward did not smile but stared at the metal doors. The elevator carriage moved upward with a slight jolt. Preston looked at the doors, nervously patting his breast pocket, double checking the two papers and two ink pens. Edward said to the closed door without a smile. "An aircraft carrier has three towers and a control room. The first bridge is..."

Preston quickly comprehended that this was the selected tart atmosphere of the diplomatic conference. No other foreign diplomat was going to lightly chat about the completely and competently people-hostaging and bank-robbing the USA of their US national treasure. This barbarian act would leave the US American dollar which was currently valued at thirteen cents to drop down to one penny or worse equal to zero pennies which would destroy the US American economy. Then, a fragile USA government, including the assets of the land and the wills of the people, would be ripe for a political raping and robbing takeover as Preston quietly sneered among his nasty mental thoughts.

Edward said. "The command center for the ship and flight deck, where all navigation operations are carried out, contains the radar equipment, telecommunications instruments, and more. The second level is called the Captain's Bridge for obvious reasons. The third bridge is called the Flag Bridge, where the Chinese admiral and his sailor staff can watch the flights, take-off to landings, or maybe something more exciting in-between like a dog fight over the oceans waters, if availed. We bypass the Flag Bridge. There are several military typed, conversing with very important information inside the ready room from various foreign countries too. We shan't disturb them, especially today. Last is the control tower, where airborne operations management, such as takeoff, flight, and landing maneuvers, is carried out..." The elevator carriage halted. The elevator door opened. Edward ended his semi-threatening pre-war sermon, moving out the carriage, dragging his pretty bathroom robe behind his ass again.

Preston stood in the semi-dark elevator carriage, waiting for the bathrobe to exit the dirty floor, seeing a well-lighted room, and exhaled with a huff of nervousness from holding his breath, and tried to calm the thousand and one flip flopping butterflies inside his twisted guts along with an Adam's apple chocking his esophagus. He brushed two sweaty hands down his torn and faded dirty blue jeans and exhaled with a huff of courage. He moved and strutted out the elevator over a floor of beige tile, and halted. He shielded eyelids with both his hands from the bright USA sun that bounced off the reflective floor inside the room. The beam of light came from three half-walls of clear undivided glass, showing a marvelous panoramic view of the crystal blue Pacific Ocean on the west, north, and south sides of the diplomatic meeting room. Preston smiled at the beauty of Almighty God's work as a terrible rumble of blown nostril air broke his pretty daydream. He observed a squared shape room, holding twenty dignities that sat inside their individual three feet wide royal purple colored leather throne-type chair. He cocked his skull in puzzlement, expecting to see a control room like the Birmingham Airport traffic control tower in Alabama instead of a crowded room of faces that stared back at him too.

Edwards turned around without smiling, observing Preston's stunned stupid look, droning in monotone Brit tenor. "The control tower has been ever so slightly modified for this spiffy occasion and your impromptu visit, Preston. A clever arrangement done by the Chinese? Aye!"

Preston stared at each stone-faced foreigner, absorbing the colorful cultural clothing styles from a blue towel-wrapped skull and body of the dark-skinned Saudi to a straw-colored red and blue sombrero hat and poncho cape in red, green, yellow, and orange geometric vertical lines over his both Mexican skull and business suit. His eyeballs cut towards the solo leather throne chair of royal purple in the center of the room for him. A tiny side wooden table sat on the right side. He stopped and touched the soft leather, wearing a royal headrest and cut his eyelids back to the blue silky robes of Edward. Edward stood and leaned against the wall, watching Preston, who was trapped on board an enemy aircraft carrier. Preston felt sad, not bringing his personal hand gun which was coupled with a twin set of twenty-two gauge bullet belts of extra ammunition, since he would liked more than anything in the whole wide world to shoot one seeing eyeball out of each fucking foreigner's skull bone. Instead, this was the USA's good bye visit to the world, since they could kiss his country's ass.

The United States of America was doing it alone without any outside help from any foreign country, ever. The United States people were going to learn to live plus work on their American soil by growing their own crops for food, making their own clothes, raising their own animals for food and shoes, building homes for the homeless, and educating their kids about their own America culture. Children would be schooled in math, science, history, geography and other academic subjects for working in their American home town too. The new America would create a nation of hard-working people, depending upon their mama, daddy, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, and cousins and not on any type of foreign government for their native goods, services, or merchandise which would made by a foreigner's red blood and body sweat too.

Each American would work sunup to sundown for their shelter, food, water, and protection, because they loved and cared for their extended American families, not man-made material things. And they possessed love for their American country, helping it to discover untapped resources for fuel for traveling cars, unless every American wanted to ride a horse or pedal a bicycle to their working job. And the smart Americans will work together to find new medicines to help people sick and dying of terminal diseases. They will work together to find new sources of fuel for both homes and buildings, unless they wanted to die of frostbite in the wintertime or heat stroke in the summer time along with millions of other social and cultural needs.

This was a dangerous time for the USA, depending upon her own people and her new leadership, leading them into a prosperous and peaceful time, and not war, corruption, or dishonesty. If an American did not want to pull his or her fair share of a mental and physical weight in terms of hard work, then the American would be pitched out from the newly constructed block community into a wild and violence street life. The rejects could live and survive with the mean thuds, killing gangs, and deadly mercenaries that only wanted to rob and rape and not learn and live.

Preston had volunteered to become the President of the United States of America, ensuring his infant son and other American's infant sons and daughters had a simple plot of green grass to play hide and go-seek, a warm house to celebrate their birthday party and un-wrap gifts on Christmas Day, a new American dream. He sneered at Edward. "We're Americans. We're pretty smart and clever always." Edward pointed without a smile to the table behind Preston's ass. A single table held peaks and valleys of colorful food plates, covering the entire length of the wall. Preston turned around and moved to the beginning edge of the table, raising a gigantic dinner plate from the white pressed table cloth.

The dinner plate decorated in a solid white background with a colorful emblem of the United Nation Logo in the center, covering more than half of the plate's diameter trimmed in a smooth gold finish. The logo reminded Preston that the USA was immediately dropping their school desk and student attendance from all and every the major and minor world organization, including the United Nations, NATO, European Alliance, and other global world agencies. Preston did not know all the names, but Albert would. Albert was the smart brains for the new USA Government that would help guide Preston and Arthur with the rebel-generals, rebel-admirals, and rebel-billionaires with their valuable world business and military knowledge.

Preston cut his eyeballs down the long table, seeing a printed tag name over each food entrée, smirking. He recalled the verbal warning from Arthur, poisoning the food. Preston decided to place one single item, coming from each foreign food dish upon the supersized platter, since his mama had taught him a set of good southern table manners. The words of his mama echoed between his eardrums. "You do not have to taste the food item just place it to the side. So, the tender and caring feelings of your hostess are not hurt from you ignoring her prepared southern dish, honey."

Preston reached out and used the tongs, grabbing the first food item listed under the tag name, Albania. Albania had not sent an aircraft carrier or a research vessel. The tiny country of Albania was one of many Greek independent land locked countries and the world's largest producer of olives with their country's natural dino petroleum and crude oil. The useless worldly data information was shared and taught by Albert to Preston two days ago, making Preston a grumpy USA president. However, the USA did not own the country of Albania any US dollar monies, either.

Preston turned to see the first foreigner chair in the front row. An elder dark-skinned man wore a white flat cap over a black skull and not covering his earlobes. The male diplomatic was dressed in a white cotton queen-sized girly dress with a thick cotton dull green band around a waist then travels on the right shoulder. Each one of the dignities was dressed in their native Halloween costume.

Preston twisted back to the first food dish, exhaling with a huff of annoyance. A tiny Albania flag was glued sideways onto a small plain white silver of paper. The paper was nailed on a small black pole, showing the country name Albania. Below the country name and flag, a large serving platter contained a triangle shape of green olives with black pits, drowning in shiny olive oil. He grabbed two olives and carefully dropped them into the plate. The olives danced and bounced with each other in the middle of the UN Logo. He read the next label Armenia, a former Soviet Union independent Territory. The USA definitely did not owe them any monetary government loans. Preston raised a mini-stuffed green pepper onto the plate. He mentally realized that the Chinese government had invited the world to show off the humiliation of the once great and mighty United States of America. He stared at the next tag name of Australia, staring at two mountains of a dark brown colored kangaroo meat which was thankfully posted on the sign. The kangaroo steak tips swam in brown meat sauce, selecting the tallest one in the pile. He elegantly tossed it up the plate, mentally noting that the USA did not owe any money to the country of Australia, either.

Preston stared at the side wall on his right. The twentieth positioned foreigner was sitting in the wall corner which was a tall female, wearing her native foreign country's Halloween costume too. Preston turned and stared at the last chair in the front row. A smiling little man from the country of China sat in his silk colorful robes. He realized that all the foreigners were seated in alphabetic order with a chuckle, lifting a mini yellow toasted Belgian waffle. The USA owed the country of Belgium a whomping $525 billion which was about to paid in full within the hour. He sniggered, grabbing a small coffee cup of steaming Brazilian coffee underneath the foreign country flag. The USA owned them $156 billion. Preston rapidly paced down the table, collecting the tiniest piece of each meat, cheese, or cookie, dumping it upon a growing flower pot of food. He did not want to be rude yet. Since this was also an international business meeting of the world and not hosted by the USA. He glanced down at his wrist watch, noting the box formation of the helicopters would be hovering over the communication antenna of the ship tower, almost now. The docking procedure would begin on each parked warship all at the same, coming from the bad ass slave technology, the flying drones, the motherboard notebooks, and the brilliant minds of red blooded Americans.

Preston gently turned away from the food table, holding an oversized platter of food. He slowly moved to the solo chair. He carefully sat the plate on a side table then lowers his ass into the chair. He sat in the middle of the leather, not on the edge and not deep into the leather. Preston looked to see their sour faces as they scan his warrior face.

Edward pointed to Preston's plate, droning in British tenor. "Try the English scone, a prized native specialty from my home country. They are simply divine, with afternoon dandelion tea." Preston cut eyeballs to the plate, staring at the food mountain. He has overloaded the plate with food items, being a proper southern gentleman. Edwards cleared his throat. Preston looked to see him. Edward paced to the food table and halted, grabbing the English cookie then popped it into his mouth, chewing with British good manners, keeping lips closed as the other foreigners react to the silly maneuver. Edward swallowed the food and droned in his Brit tenor without a smile. "The food entrees are very safe to consume, as well as, very delicious, Mr. President." Preston turned to his personal food plate, searching for an English scone. He grabbed and popped a cookie into his mouth. His taste buddies enjoyed the bland favor combination of flour, milk, and baking powder with a slightly touch of cinnamon.

The soprano voice of the foreigner sat somewhere in the third row out of Preston's eyesight, asking in proper English. "Why is there a drone targeted at this warship, Preston? This is a diplomatic visit. We do come in peace. We do plan to leave in peace. What is the reason for this military object that hovers in our air space, before the Liaoning, not very peaceful?"

Preston chewed and then swallowed, holding the coffee cup for enjoyment, and stood, fingering the windows. Each foreign aircraft carrier was facing to a western sun away from the American shoreline, making it easy for them to go back home, after the drop off of the US treasure. He nodded. "Yes ma'am. That is a drone," The foreigners gasped. He waved his free arm with a smile and a nod. "That's an empty drone that only contains within its guts a single computer machine the size of a standard laptop, not a dangerous weapon. The computer is slaved. That's the fancy word for a devise master computer that remote controls all the slaved helicopters from our USA land dirt onto each warship's deck. And then the computer inside the drone will electronically dock each helicopter safely and systemically upon the carrier deck. If ya'll will turn your pair of eyeballs or maybe your chair to face the window, then you can see that the drone has been activated. The first pink laser beam has been connected to all the assigned helicopters for this particular warship." Loud sounds of scraping metal from the chairs with grunts as the foreigners shifted their assigned throne chair for a marvelous speculate once-in-a-life-time sight of flying and landing helicopters by remote control of a computer without hand humans and eyeballs. Preston stared at the second and the third helicopter, narrating between eating bites of the good food. "The helicopters are probably directly over our heads. O...can you see...that...by the dawn's early light, with the moon twilight's last gleam on a helicopter...that did not have broad stripes or bright stars...but can hold it own during any perilous fight over..."

"Your words sound so familiar, Preston." Edwards said in the nose profile of Preston. "Humming into my ears, much like, the famous and worldly recognized theme song The Star-Spangled Banner."

Preston stood a little taller than the foreigner, smiling to Edward. "This is my favorite song. I sing it all the dang time, since it is the great national anthem of the United States of America. The words long time ago were written by Francis Scott Key while witnessing the bombardment of Fort McHenry in the Chesapeake Bay, in the War of 1812 with the British Royal Navy." Preston popped the mini-Belgium waffle into his mouth and chewed with both his lips and his tongue open disgust and fun as his vile mouth chewed with a chuckle.

Edwards jerked a face down to the floor, closing his eyelids from the awful sight of an uncouth American in his presence, looking down to the floor. "You seem to know your world history, very well, Preston."

"All Americans do, Edward." Preston chewed both his words and his molars and swallowed the sweet treat. Then he grabbed the tiny chocolate candy from the country of Switzerland. Edward slowly pivoted away from Preston, guarding the south window again. Preston reseats an ass into the soft leather, enjoying the food and softly cussing for his eardrums only, "Foreign asshole," then he sings softly, "O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming and the rockets' red glare. The bombs bursting in air gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave," he hummed and raised the Africa fish stick to lips, enjoying the tart favor.

"Let's crack open one of the helicopters, after three or four rows have been completed, Edward, to see our gold," an alto voice of the foreigner faces the window, sitting inside her chair.

Preston's heart rapidly dumped into his twisted guts with panic, standing with the dangerous alert, since he could not exit from the Chinese warship until the completion of Mission Dump. All 49,000 helicopters must be electronically dropped down on all three hundred warships plus forty research vessels, before Preston could go back home. He turned with a worried brow to see Edward.

Edward held another English scone with a cup of steaming tea, "No, dear. That would be absolutely too dangerous for any of us to try to access an entrance point into one of the big nasty looking military helicopters as the drone is executing the computer commands. One of us might get injured or worse killed, then I will be in big trouble."

Preston dropped his ass down in the seat with deep breathes, calming his elevated heart rate, controlling his active neurons.

Edward turned with a nod to see Preston. "Please continue, Preston."

Preston nodded in silence without standing. Both his kneecaps and his boot toes can't stop shivering and shaking. He exhaled with a huff of frustration, finding his natural baritone voice. "The computer inside the drone has activated. Now, the computer will signal one at a time for safety reasons, a single helicopter from the air then gently sit it down right next to the previous one." The landing helicopter sounded with a big bang onto the deck. He nodded. "See there, I landed the first big helicopter on the extreme southwestern edge of the carrier. Now, the computer is placing a second copter right beside the first one. The computer has been programmed to dock eleven copters across the bow, then twenty copters lengthwise down the deck to the stern of the carrier for a total of 220 helicopters. The copters carry our treasure. So at the end of this operation, there will be a total of 220 military-type helicopters which is our gift to you, fine folks docked on every single warship. Since the aircraft carrier can handle the extreme excess weight of our treasure to you."

Edward said. "This is the exact reason. We and the other governments collectively and selectively agreed and then slightly modified all the world's existing aircraft carriers. The slight modification includes removing some of the military weapons..." Then, he popped another English scone into his mouth, chewing and not bothering to sit an ass inside the assigned alphabetically throne chair of Great Britain but boldly leaned to his shiny bathroom's robes against the dirty windows. He stared at the Preston.

Preston stared at the forward glass window, sitting and chewing on the bites of the mini-samples of foreign cuisines. His stomach had settled down the thousand and one butterflies. Mission Dump was working perfectly. He saw another helio drop neatly to the bow deck, not bothering to count the helicopters. Preston said. "Once we've exhausted the military helicopters, we use a set of privately owned civilian helicopters filled with our treasure for ya'll, fine folks too. The little copters will number 980 on an aircraft carrier, based on the weight specifications provided to us by your naval admirals. This entire operation should take a short time period of sixty one minutes." Then he whispers for his eardrums only. "Then, I'm gone foreverly." The foreigners stood inside their seats of padded chairs and watched that each flying machine loudly thumped and thudded down on the long black deck. Preston ate the very tasty Swedish white creamy meatball, slowly standing, side stepping from Edward with a big wicked grin.

Edward consumed another English scone, watching the play by play helicopter action outside the undivided glass windows. "Absolutely fascinating flight show of high tech ingenuity and genius coming from you, Yanks."

"Thanks ya, kindly." Preston reached and pulled out the two papers with a nod and a wicked grin from his jacket, holding even with Edward's nose profile. Edward turned with a stern face to stare at the folded papers. Preston exhaled with a huff of frustration, clearing his throat with a grin and a nod. "This is my first presidential visit and my first business transaction with ya'll, foreigners. So's if you and the other representatives would kindly sign this legal document in blue ink," he raised the two ink pens with a smile. "I brought the writing utensils which releases the USA of our twenty four trillion dollar debt. Then I'd be a true American hero, sir," he slithered the letter 'S' from his smirked lips as Preston was dealing with a nest of serpents that deserve exactly what they get from the USA.

Edward smiled for the first time with a set of crooked yellow stained teeth, grabbing and lifting them to his face, and silently read, saying with a yellow stained toothy smile. "I acknowledge your American attorney, who has provided a second set of originals for my private file which will be shared with the rest of the world." He moved forward away from Preston, dragging his bathroom robes across the dirty floor, stopping at the Chinese representative first. They bumped foreheads with a set of nod and a grunt. Edward lifted up a torso, turning with a nod and a smile to see Preston. Preston moved to his throne chair, reaching and grabbing his supersized platter of food, and swung back to the window, turning and leaning against the glass window. He felt the rising sunrise on his collar bone, eating the good food. Edward glided to the chair, shifting the side table in front of the single chair, parking his ass inside the purple leather, writing his signature and his country on the first line as Edward Charles Badon, Great Britain. He stood upright, moving towards the first person of the first row of the first chair, stopping and leaned down with a whisper of secret words to the male. Edward side stepped to the next foreigner in the next chair, leaning down, whispering a set of secret worlds to the female. The male stood upright from the chair and moved ahead towards the solo chair and table, and halted, forming a semi-crooked horizontal line, leaning over to sign the legal document with the blue ink pen. The male stood and turned with a smile and a nod to see Preston. Preston continued to chew and enjoy the Italian pasta stuffing, licking three fingers like a redneck with the delicious red sauce and carefully watched all the foreigners sign the legal document in blue ink which would release the USA of their twenty four trillion dollar international bank loan debt.

At 6:33 a.m., Preston burped loudly after consuming ninety eight percent of the good food like a good little southern cowboy, pounding his chest with his fist, helping the food go down his esophagus into his tight belly, and felt stuffed like a baby piglet after drinking his mama's tit milk. The female foreigner in a red hat turned and sneered a pair of red tinted lips at Preston as she had heard the disgusting true American hillbilly mouth song, moving away from the new President of the USA. Preston grinned and giggled, sliding down the window to the wall corner, placing an abused plate on top of the pile of dirty dishes, feeling really sorry for the unlucky Chinese solider that had to clean that mess of platters.

The foreigner from the country of Turkey stood upright from the chair and yelled in broken English, pointing the window. "No more planes. Come. Done. It's done. Go down, down stairs. Leave here. Open the plane. Open the plane. Come. Come." He turned and ran down the opposite side of the wall.

Preston gasped, moving and intersecting the foreigner without touching the man's body and shook his skull and his hands at the guy. "Naw. Naw. If I were you, I would not. No way at all touch the metal," he pointed to the helicopter, saying with a nod and a sour frown. "The metal absorbs heat and light and more heat. Ya know hot metal burns your fingers?" He touched his hair with a nod. "Ya'll know I would not touch the helicopter's metal, until it cools down." He looked down to see his wrist watch and looked up with a nod and a grin to the guy. "I say another twenty minutes, after the laser beam cools the wiring pins which are made of heat absorbing titanium alloy. Ya know it burns your fingers?" Preston wiggled his fingers for the dumbass foreigner that did not speak English, shaking his skull and his hands for the universal signal of negative.

Edward moved and pulled up beside Preston, watching with intrigue and interest the silly new President of the USA, turning with a nod and a sour puss face to the standing foreigners also. "We should heed the new president's advice. We don't want anyone harmed for negligent. Please reseat or enjoy the delicious food entrees. We watch for the cooling down period of twenty minutes," he turned and smiled to Preston.

Preston nodded in silence acknowledge to Edward, moving towards the open elevator door with the quick plan of escape. The USA helicopter was probably near the edge of the aircraft carrier deck. He moved inside, turning and waving his hand side to side next to his goofy grin like a little four year old kid to his dog on the first day of kindergarten to the rows of foreign nations with a grin. "Bye, ya'll. It's been fun," he turned and entered the open elevator doors, whispering for his eardrums only, "...not." Edward moved ahead and tailed Preston into the elevator carriage, standing beside him. The elevator door closed. The carriage swiftly moved down to the ground floor.

Edward turned with a set yellow teeth and a nod to see the nose profile of the silly young inexperienced President of the USA. "This has been a tremendous pleasure and a successfully legal business venture with you, Yanks of the new re-structured America, Preston. I look forward, in the future, adding more business transactions, within our financial portfolio, Mr. President." The elevator carriage halted. The door opened.

6:38 a.m.

Chinese aircraft carrier, the Liaoning

Sunny sky

Top deck setting

Preston moved ahead with a smile and turned to the face an empty hallway which lead towards the flat deck, then towards the small helicopter, and finally back home to the USA. Edwards stalked behind Preston, dragging his mama's bathroom over the dirty tile. Preston turned without stopping through the archway and hit the bright California sunlight, shading the eyelids from the sun.

Edward moved through the archway too, tapping Preston on the collar bone, bad breathing into the neckline of the young president. "Nice to meet you, Yank."

Preston turned around with a grin and a handshake to see Edward. Edward looked down at the pre-offered hand in hesitation to encounter another painful hand gripe from the young and strong president. Preston said with a smirk and a nod, twisting his handshake into a pointed index finger to the sun. "Edward buddy, I wanna point out for all ya'll here and now. Right behind them boxes of the 49,000 helicopters, there is a row of US armed attack helicopters which are six miles across the American shoreline. And right about now, them attack copters are brushing up against your tail pipe, pal. So, I'd crank them cold engines and swiftly hustle your ass out of our warm waters of the Pacific and back home to your native country. Our business is done, bubba. O! And to add to that mental disturbing pic, there's a heavenly view of over 1,000 US armed jet fighters, buzzing above your skulls and hair roots, guarding each one of our American shorelines as well," he slapped Edward on the bicep with a sneer. "Have a nice fucking day, Edward!" Preston turned around from a shocked and stunned Edward, chuckling with delight, carefully sprinting around the metal sides of the Chinook copters to the bubble-shaped two-seater helicopter for his escape from hell. The helicopter landed on top of the deck of the enemy warship.

San Diego shoreline within California, USA

Helicopter ride of Preston

Preston run ahead and ducked down from the rotating blades, jerking open the door, and leaped into a pink candy colored chair, singing in a sissy alto. "Pink?" The rebel-pilot handed the head phones with a chuckle and a grin to Preston. He didn't hear the single word from Preston but lovingly enjoyed that stunned facial expression. The business helicopter belonged to Miss Molly, who loved the color of pink. Preston tossed the head phones over his earlobes, fiddling with the body webbing. The helicopter launched from the deck of the enemy warship.

The rebel-pilot turned and flew through the air to the coastline of American, saying with a grin into his headphones. "The general thought the color would give ya a good laugh. This is Miss Molly's personal copter. Strap in, Mr. President. I'm taking you back home to the ole good USA."

"Hot damn." Preston felt hundreds of emotions from exhaustive relief of not dead of food poison to elation of happiness for his country's freedom to hateful revenge of any foreigner, and finally anxiousness in a big hurry to see both his wife Pamela and his son Buckaroo. The helicopter rushed through more air turbulent than the big Chinook military craft, shaking the boot toes of Preston over the tile floor. He was too elated and happy to be afraid of the loud flying machine over the open waters of the Pacific, saying into his head phones. "How many minutes until we land, pilot?"

The rebel-pilot handed the laptop to Preston with a grin. "This copter can travel at 144 knots, roughly 166 miles per hour. We're ten miles out to sea. Translation, I'll press the pedal to the metal and get ya home in fifty five seconds. How's that, boss?" Preston opened up the laptop with a grin and a chuckle. The rebel- pilot said into his headphones. "Check out your flight, Preston?"

Preston watched the laptop screen. A roaming news helicopter television camera panned closer into his flying copter, heading east away from the warship. Then the camera lens focused on a sideways flag which was attached to the landing skies. The flag waved back and forth in the calm California breeze, displaying a solid red background with a big blue letter X. White stars are sewn inside the letter X. Preston laughed with a grin. "The rebel flag? It's the old Confederate flag from the civil war for the southern rebels."

"Yes sir! You're the rebel that has led the rebellion. So we've adopted the old rebel flag for both honor and heritage of the new United States of America."

"Awesome."

The pilot smiled and jerked his finger across the nose bridge of Preston at the usually scene on the shoreline and waters of the Pacific Ocean, moving and turning up the volume on the broadcast radio inside the helicopter. "That's more awesome, Preston. Look at the shoreline."

Preston turned and dropped his mouth, hearing the Star Spangled Banner national song over the radio waves. There were about twenty snaky crooked lines of true red blooded Americans, standing on each other's toe bones over the golden sands of San Diego or inside the cold waters of the Pacific Ocean, representing millions of Americans. They waved up at Preston's helicopter. He reached and lifted the binoculars to his eyeballs. Each American held in a right hand one or two type of deadly lethal weapons, consisting of a gun, an axe, a pitchfork, a knife, a club, a baseball bat, or another body destruction weapon. The left hand held the new rebel blue and red flag of the new USA as the national song repeated from the beginning in musical G chord.

The words of the national anthem of the United States of American played over the radio. "O...say can you see...by the dawn's early light..."

Preston grinned from happiness as his throat tightened with a lousy sissy alto. "I..." am so proud of all them damn Americans.

The rebel-pilot chuckled at the sissy emotion of the new President of the United States of America, "I feel the same way, Preston. I'm proud to be a gawd damn American, Mr. President, sir."

Preston shifted the binoculars around to the sands and by sheer luck or the grace of Almighty God, picking out from the million American citizens his wife Pamela. She held their son Buckaroo in her right arm and waved a baseball bat with the other, standing protectively stood between his parents and her daddy. Pamela spotted the helicopter coming to them, handing the baseball bat to her daddy, turning and running to the drop zone for the helicopter with Buckaroo. The rebel-pilot flew and landed inside a painted round circle of bright red, so no one got a skull sliced off. Preston slammed open the copter door and leaped inside, ducking down his face and his waist from the rotating blades and run on his kneecaps to Pamela who held Buckaroo. He hugged her and his son as Buckaroo squealed like a baby piglet from the sudden shock. Pamela softly sobbed with tears on the collar bone of Preston, feeling too much excitement and emotion for the past three days. He mentally thought the same nightmare thought, greatly desiring to go back home to Alabama for a short needed restful vacation and a nice cold beer, before he resumed the role as the President of the USA.

7:07 a.m. (USA Pacific standard time)

Chinese aircraft carrier the Liaoning

Sunny sky

Sea surface air temperature at 72°F

Real time wind speed nine mph west by northwest

Nine miles visibility with 65 percent humidity

Top deck setting

Each nosy and eager international reporter, not an USA news reporter, dangerously landed one at a time their news helicopter on top of the tiny black empty spot, the southeast corner of the aircraft carrier which was used by the helicopter of the USA president. Now, the Chinese soldiers worked soldering torches, firing and blasting at one of numerous sealed helicopter doors. The television reporter stood beside Edward, saying with a puzzled brow to the door. "Why is the door sealed on the helicopter, Eddy?"

Edward smiled, staring at the door on the helicopter. "To keep the gold nuggets from falling out during the ocean ride, dear."

"How much gold is inside that helicopter, Eddy?" She smiled.

"The precious treasure will vary, of course, based on the height of the helicopter. All the helicopters have safely docked on every warship plus the little tiny helicopters on every research vessel, carrying the twenty four trillion dollars worth of their precious American treasure. The USA has finally paid after years of harassment their entire monetary debt to the world. And we have finally successfully bank-robbed the once mighty and great United States of America."

"If we have their American treasure, then the US economy will fall," she smiled.

"No, dear. The USA will fall back into our hands for the taking." Edward smirked. The Chinese soldiers jumped back from the falling steel door with a loud boom.

The female reporter turned with the microphone to her lips and smiled to the television camera lens, saying. "This is Elisa Krew from the country of England, reporting to you live and streaming on-board the windy deck of the Chinese aircraft carrier, the Liaoning. The warship has navigated about thirteen miles successfully out of American waters without starting World War Three. This is the place, space, and time of an unprecedented historical moment in our new world history. A soldered and sealed single steel door on the big US helicopter which is called a Chinook has been completely removed on the very first of 49,000 pieces of flying helicopters. All free gifts come from a bankrupted United States of America. We watch Prime Minister Edward Badon from Great Britain stroll into the interior of the helicopter, seeking the gold. Glittering gold bricks, gold bars, or golden nuggets and not for mouth consuming but food buying in our depressed economy." She turned to see the helicopter and screams. "O my gawd. O my gawd. O my gawd. Unbelievable. Imaginable. This is not real."

The television camera turned and panned onto the single person, who was a short male with a head of black hair and a tone of wrinkled dark tinted skin. The male stomped on his naked feet down the last step of the Chinook helicopter and stood on top of the cold deck, looking up to see the sky, the helicopter, and returned a smile to Edward. Edward stood over the hair roots of the male, since he was taller, saying with a puzzled brow. "Who are you, sir? What are you doing inside that US helicopter, sir? What is inside your hands there?" The male held a food platter that displayed the name and the seal of a dead former President of the United States, handing the food plate to Edward, turning with a smile and a wave to the television camera lens. More short humans of males, females, and children emerged from the helicopter door in bare feet too. They moved and formed a semi-crooked snaky line over the top of the deck also. Edward held the foot plate, saying with a confused brow to the male. "Name? Tell me your name, sir?"

"Juan, I be from Mexico," he spoke in broken English with a heavy Spanish accent, smiling and waving to the gathered news media reporters, foreign dignities, and recording television camera lenses. Edward examines the sunburned face of Juan and stared down at the USA food platter, completely comprehending the silly grinning Mexican people. Each person held a USA gift, consisting of a plate, a fork, a clock, a cup, a picture frame, or other objects. Each object was labeled with the name of a dead former President of the United States. Thus, the human plus the present represented the national treasure of the USA.

Stunned and shocked foreigner dignities stomped in their fluttering silky bathroom robes like Edward from the ocean winds and surrounded Edward. Edwards looked down with a sour frown to see the plate and looked up with an angry brow to see the dignities. "We have been duped by the USA, ladies and gentlemen. There is no gold. There are no golden bricks or golden bars or golden nuggets. Instead, the United States has loaded and flown inside all their US helicopters from their American sands all their thousands of illegal immigrants, mostly from the country of Mexico. The illegal immigrants had invaded their American soil like a pack of cockroaches and then dumped the entire lot upon the deck tops of our warships. Each warship is our national property that is represented by our native country. By international law, we are responsible to protect, food, and shelter all of these people, who are not our citizens." Edward handed the plate to the closest dignity for inspection and pointed with a sour frown at the object. "This is a single eating food plate from the formal table setting in the kitchen of the White House. It possesses a presidential emblem from a former president named Richard Nixon, before I was born," growling. Each illegal immigrant smiled and presented an item to each solider. The solider guarding them accepted the gift, such like, a painting, a sculpture, a clock, a portrait, an eating-plate, or another item. Edward sneered. "And we signed that cursed legal document presented by Preston. Wait. I have a legal document. We can carry our financial fight into the international court system. Aye. This is not over, my new world allies." He pulled out the precious legal document from his business jacket, reading out loud. "The final sale or transfer of cash or non-cash. Or non-cash. Or non-cash value of 24 trillion dollars." He cursed and grabbed back the presidential plate from the hands of the dignitary, flinging it against metal side of the second helicopter. The USA plate broke into trillions of pieces of white ceramic.

8:14 a.m. (mountain standard time zone)

City of Sasbe in US State of Arizona

(461 miles, southeast, from San Diego)

Sunny with two mph winds

51 percent humidity at 82ºF

Desert setting

Cam, Holt, and Dalton moved ahead with a smile trotting from the private jet into the dusty orange soil. Each one watched their individual mobile telephones, seeing the current world news. Dalton had reactivated the outer space satellites, after Preston had been safely carted off the enemy aircraft carrier. They grinned, viewing the live action feed. The face of the Prime Minister of England showed shock-ness then sadness, then shit-ness. Cam, Holt, and Dalton chuckled with amusement and strutted to Cole. Cole stood on top of the dirt and held a pair of binoculars kissing a face while watching each illegal foreigner walked through the busted planks of the US-Mexican border patrol wooden fence. Dalton shouted to the eardrum of Cole. "Hey! Where's my girl? Ya know the one named Senator eighteen?"

"She's dead." Boss one moved ahead and pulled up beside Dalton, chewing on a wooden toothpick.

Dalton shook a skull. "Tough shit! She was a quick study with that shotgun for never shooting a twelve gauge before. How she die?"

"Rattler." Boss one wore the shirt with the 'Boss 1' designation, cradling his rifle like a baby pit bull puppy.

"Shit. We warned her. How's the other VIP shit asses holding up?" Dalton inquired.

Boss one wore his sunglasses, saying without emotion. "Some alive. Some dead. Some cry. Some pray."

"Same old shit. That's life hard ass, if ya ain't me." Dalton laughed with his Bama buddies.

"Dalton? Holt? What ya'll boys doing here?" Cole watched the foreigners through the binoculars.

"Get lonely." Dalton chuckled.

"Get pissed off, after Dalton killed all our alien hostages. There's no work for us to do. El Paso's dead, literally." Holt chuckled.

"I like dead." Dalton smiled.

"What, Dalton? Holt?" Cole watched the foreigners through the binoculars.

Holt chuckled. "What'da ya watching, Cole? Since Dalton ordered the power back onto the outer space satellites."

"The cruise ships are heading to the island of Cuba from the city of Miami Florida now." Dalton looked down with a grin to see his mobile telephone phone.

Cole turned with a sour frown to see the twin rebel rednecks. "Cruise ships? What fucking cruise ships? Someone stole some cruise ships? We don't own any cruise ships, Holt."

"I believe Cole is both confused and correct." Holt winked to Dalton.

"I believe so." Dalton winked to Cole.

"I believe that Holt and Dalton have some confesses to tattle." Cole frowned to the rednecks.

"I believe so." Dalton held up his mobile telephone and pointed to the tiny screen.

Cole leaned into the mobile telephone tiny screen.

The television media helicopters were currently displaying a set of dancing people on the top deck of the cruise ship. The people cheered, waving and partying with a good time.

He scooted back with a confused brow. "Tattle tale, Dalton?"

Dalton exhaled with a huff of frustration, looking up with a sour frown to see Cole. "Now listen, very closely. Because, I ain't repeating this shit, again. There are about 300 cruise ships docked at sea harbor ports around the entire world. In the US, we got the 200 out of the 300 ships. Now, me and Holt stole for our evil purposes a cruise ship. A cruise ship can cram 33,500 folks inside the guts of the ship. But the 3,000,000 elite and pampered guests going back to their original home of Cuba requested all 200 ships. The big beautiful state cabins with attached verandas keeps the sun, the wind, and the water out of your perfect hair roots. That fine ship includes six day spas, four fitness centers, a library, two theatres, an indoor and outdoor swimming pool, a few gyms and a few merchandise shops..."

"It's only sixty miles south to the small tiny island of Cuba at 22 knots. That's about 23 miles per hour. The cruise ships will arrive in Cuba within three hours." Cole read his mobile telephone, seeing the party on the cruise ships.

Dalton smiled. "Right you are, Cole! So, we gave the departing Cubans all 200 cruise ships, instead of a set of 200 battle cruisers. A USA battleship held up to 40,000 folks like they first requested like a bunch of dumb shits," he chuckled with Holt and Cam.

"These 200 ships with 33,500 folks can hold 6,800,000 people. So..." Holt smiled.

"They wanted a great deal to live Miami." Dalton grinned.

Cole exhaled with a huff of frustration, looking up to see the rednecks. "What deal, Dalton? Holt? Cam?"

"Did ya know every year, forty million non-US citizens come and stay here in America for lots of fucking ass various reasons like being a tourist or an academic or an occupational worker or a diplomat? When that bull stomped and killed that damn grizzly bear in the stock market and someone stole all of Uncle Sam's money, them smart-ass tourists fled first and then were followed by the smarter diplomats, second. Which, of course, it left tons of dumbass young and innocent college students, last." Dalton laughed.

Cole shook a skull. "Naw. Ya didn't, Dalton?"

"Holt's brilliant ass-kicking idea." Dalton elbowed with a chuckle to his Bama-buddy.

"Holt did not either." Colt looked to see the smile on Holt.

"The legal and illegal American and non-American Cubans have taken all the cruise ships along with the weapons that are overflowing from the dry banks of the emptied swimming pools, since we dumped the loose furniture off the ships for live bodies of folks. They tarry to their little island now. These numbers are rough mine ya about one million leftover non-American tourists plus one million foreigners stuck inside a college dorm room fucking our American girls." Holt chuckled.

"And American guys," Dalton smiled.

"All caught in fucking sex acts plus one million foreign medical physicians, nurses, computer geeks, engineering nerds, and math dorks, who had worked and played." Holt chuckled.

"Correction there, buddy. Who used to work and play here but don't no more." Dalton chuckled.

Holt nodded. "Plus 800,000 foreign office clerks and waitresses for a personal slave population to use and abuse..."

"Rape and rob too," Dalton smiled.

Holt frowned. "Shut it, Dalton. I'm telling the demon tale." He read his mobile telephone. "Plus, one million Canadians from different spots, mostly visiting tourists or working employees, because the Cubans plan to money ransom for some fast cash into their empty national bank account from the Canadians, back to their own home country. Plus, the Cubans will ransom the one million other foreign peoples in the fields of medicine and science along with the poor foreign suckers here in the US that got catch with their dicks in the wind storm. The foreigners include...keep up the list is long...Japan and not in alphabetic order, either. The United Kingdom territories, Germany, France, south Korea, Brazil, Australia, China, Indian, Taiwan, Romania, south Africa, Israel, and others that should not be named," he laughed with Dalton and Cam.

"You didn't a name, the Mexicans?" Cole frowned.

"O. We did not. They're moving over the water like Brother Jesus inside a boat, floating over the Michigan waters into the country of Canada. The Canadians can house, feed, clothe, and baby them bastards, while they fuck them out of money and resources too." Dalton laughed.

Holt raised his mobile telephone, pointing the screen. "Look at this video!"

The man runs towards the land, instead of running to the water.

Beatrice bends down on one kneecap, leaning to the right, pointing her twelve gauge shotgun at a moving target, positioning the double barrel parallel with the water. She kneels in ankle-deep water of the Michigan Great Lakes and fires.

A bright flash discharges, hitting the man in the chest as he tumbles onto his kneecaps.

Beatrice whips the shotgun from a cheekbone and racks the gun, loading the chamber with a second twelve gauge cartridge. She slams the butt stock into an armpit, dropping her face down into the wood and presses the trigger. She expels a second round, hitting and exploding the man's skull.

She pulls the gun from her body, stands, and shouts. "USA. USA. USA..."

The other citizens of the USA stand on US land or inside US waters, witnessing the cold-blooded murder. Then they rebel yell in unison. "USA. USA. USA. USA..."

Dalton and Cole laughed as Holt pressed a button on the mobile telephone of Dalton, repeating the "death scene." Cam shoved a foreign male to the nose profile of Dalton, saying with a sneer and a sour frown. "Last asshole to exit our property, Dalton!"

Dalton turned and winked to the foreign male. "You be a lucky, son of bitch, sir. I would be very honored to escort your ass off our precious American land." Dalton grabbed the arm of the young male, dragging him to the Mexico border, saying with a smile and a nod. "If you do not understand me in English, you go there." He released the arm of the young male and pointed to the wooden planks inside the busted border patrol fencing to the open hole. "Enter. Go through. Get in. Go on. Does one of them words penetrate your stupid neurons?" The foreigner sniffed at the dirty cowboy and elegantly moved through a vertical opening of wood. Dalton yelled at the ass of the foreigner. "Hey, asshole! Gotta warn ya! The situation has become very dangerous for Europeans, entering the country of Mexico. Many bad-ass Mexicans have highly more badassery attitudes of ya'll, foreigners. A new set of recent printed US Federal Government reports documented ocean waves of mass murders, kidnappings, assassinations, false imprisonments, rape, and bank robberies. That there's some very good reasons to stay out of Mexico, buddy," laughing. The foreigner disappeared behind the wooden fence, moving ahead into the country of Mexico and out of the USA. Then a short Mexican soldier slid and blocks the USA homemade archway inside the busted border patrol fencing with a sneer. Dalton back stepped with a gasp and touched the gun handle with a laugh, standing safely on American soil, not Mexican ground. He smiled, deciding the asshole Mexican had seen enough of his handsome face.

Dalton spun around with a smile and moved ahead towards the huddle of Cam, Holt, and Cole in the far distance. His buddies continued to chuckle and reviewed Beatrice's assassination thread. Dalton sipped some of the warm bottle of beer, since the hot air had rapidly heated the coldness. Dalton halted next to Cole and pivoted to the wooden fence that represented the property of America, chugging down the rest of the warm beer, and stared down at the glass bottle with a wicked smile. He trotted away from his buddies, standing a safe far distance and tossed the long-neck beer bottle up to the air, watching. The bottle hit its air wave peak trajectory. He drew both his twin hand pistols from the gun hostler. He accurately targeted, aimed, and shot, blowing a single bullet precisely through the long-neck glass of the beer bottle with his right hand. Then he swiftly targeted, aimed, and shot, exploding a single bullet from his left gun hand precisely into the middle belly of the glass. The bottle burst the material into thousands of tiny pieces of dust and glass. Dalton rebel yelled. "Up your assholes, ya'll stupid non-American bastards. We've just begun to fight. Yeehaw!"

Cole ordered on the mobile telephone. "Start the fireworks display!" The sound of loud cracks, popped, zings, and pings with a show of colorful streaks of red, yellow, blue, orange, and green shot out from a sandy bunker, where the firework booth was housed without endangering any Americans. The streaks of prettily flared flames rocketed up and to the heavens. But a pair of naked eyeballs could not see all the pretty colors like at nighttime, since it was almost eight o'clock in the morning in the great State of Arizona. Sasbe was one of many designated dropout points for the captured and contained illegal aliens that were hidden inside the house pods which was owned by the rebel-billionaires across the USA. The other set of illegal aliens were hidden inside every dark belly of every single slaved helicopter that had been successfully and safely settled on top of a foreign aircraft carrier, an artificial foreign soil of the foreign country.

Now, all the illegal aliens were literally off the landmass of American dirt, sand, grass, and pavement, secretly given away like a daddy of his precious daughter. A nice present, all the foreign governments equally shared in the USA treasure in exchange for the full payment of the USA debt of 24 trillion dollars. The USA debt was retired with a shared legal document which was signed in blue ink by all the foreign representatives from their native country, compliments of the new USA President Preston Kingly.

On the dirt of Sasbe, each American sat or prayed or chatted or drank or ate or peed within the orange sands and then suddenly jumped up on a pair of feet while cheering with the rebel yell of Dalton. "Yeehaw. Yeehaw. Yeehaw..." Each one danced and celebrated the new American dream.

And the American Fairy Tale continues happily...
