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Back the Blue
Wake Christopher, Chapter 6
© 2022 James LaFond
King County Tactical Mobile Command, Green River Falls, Ghost Town of Franklin Home Church, 2:30 P.M.
Justice abode…
The Other mounted its dark horse…
Captain Colter Johnson of the RRS, [1] was stoked as he swung down out of the Reparations Recovery Vehicle to inspect the perimeter. The blue turret with the minigun and grenade launcher, manned by Sergeant Westfield, tracked along his line of sight. He and Westfield had worked together so much these past ten years, that they knew each other’s next move.
Westfield was old school, had been a brick-thrower for BLM way back in the day, and although eligible for retirement, had maintained his status as First Gun on this team, manning the main 4-wheeled car of the tactical vehicle with him and Ringo Higgins. Higgins was the best driver and mechanic in the Reparations Recovery Service, attached to King County, called Tactical Investigations, or Tac for short. Higgins was white, but almost human in his own way. In any case, they knew Higgins could be counted on.
But Emotta, the King County Negotiations Officer, in the gray two wheeler Com Car [3] trailing the main car, she was neurotic and prone to throw fits in the initial process.
‘Keep a handle on Emotta. Keep it cool. This location has confirmed long guns.’
The Green Rive Falls roared off to the left as he looked at this old, dilapidated house, with its two back legs on stilt pillars keeping it from sliding 300 feet into the gorge. The small one lane access bridge to Black Diamond was blocked already by the advance team, the Social Justice Witnesses already in place, their shuttles parked off to the left in the Ghost Town of Franklin lot, on the other side of the river.
‘Pride is a thing I am prey to,’ he mused as the Rainbow Warriors, Black Lives Matter and Antifa para-civics chanted, “Back the blue, back the blue, back the blue!”
The Rainbow Warriors then chanted, “No nations, no borders, no genders, no hoarders!”
Antifa chanted, pink and purple haired and beautiful, in their vegan-skin body suits, “Patriarchy must go!”
The tall, blonde, BLM leaders and their dark-sun-glassed, black suited bodyguards, stood silently for a moment, and then the women chanted, as the rain pattered down from the gray sky, “Repair the Past—pay—only the guilty pray!”
Colter had an image flash across his mind, cultivated from daycare through the Reparations Academy, of the many gun wielding white men who awaited his foremothers at the Virginia docks to buy, and rape and oppress them for 400 years, and in him an urge for justice surged.
Johnson had a very strong “inner cop.”
‘Tone it down, Captain. You need to bring these people in for deprogramming and reeducation. It’s not there fault that they were raised in a separatist white supremacist cult. There are children in there.’
“Emotta, do we have com links with the cultists?” he spoke into his headset.
Her voice came back crisp and erratic, “Negative, Captain. The entire bunch seems to be in violation of Community.” [2]
‘There is a darned dog—a golden retriever—walking out of a second floor window onto the mossy roof over the porch. What a cool dog. I hope your master has some sense, boy.’
Colter stepped out into a prominent position, were he could be shot by a reasonably competent gunmen, his weapon shouldered, and raised his left glove up and outward to show the white palm of parley.
The door of the shambling shack opened onto the porch and a long-haired white man, with beard and cap with an illegal Confederate battle flag stitched onto it, wearing blue jean overalls and a red sweatshirt underneath, stepped out with a 30-30 lever action between his hands.
‘This could get hot. But you can bottle it and bring it in. Easy...’
Colter made to ask if he could come closer for a man-to-man and then the Antifa, BLM and Rainbow Warrior mob rushed closer and “Booed,” the man and drowned Colter out.
He didn’t know what Emotta was thinking, but she opened up on the pink horn and shrilly insisted, “Lay down your weapon and bring out your hostages?”
The Social Justice Witnesses then began yelling and screaming and chanting in a confusing din, drowning out the man, Colter never knowing what he said in those two short sentences.
Obviously angered at the mob, which had unfortunately advanced aggressively just as Colter advanced diplomatically, the redneck gun-keeper and food-hoarder flipped them the middle finger and then returned inside.
The turret whined as it eased over a notch, Westfield adjusting acutely to the development. The red sleeve of the man was seen as he opened a green shuttered window, leveled his weapon and fired, pinging a round off of the pink turret of the Com Car, eliciting an insane scream from Emotta over the amplified electronic horn, “Fascist,” she screamed, “Fucking fascist!”
“Westfield,” he said into his head set and just then he took a heavy round in the chest plate and was driven back against the main car.
‘I can’t breathe. Was that armor piercing?’
Emotta screamed insanely in gibberish through the pink Com Car horn.
‘I can’t feel any blood—probably okay.’
The witnesses chanted, and screamed and threw rocks at the shack.
‘Tell Westfield to hold his fire.’
A round sang out from the shack and a Rainbow Warrior fell back, clutching her leg and screaming in horror as the cry, “Medic” went out.
‘I can’t breathe.’
He heard Westfield in his headset, “Rockin’ en rollin’, Sir. Hang in there.”
The grenade launcher punched the sky behind and above him as he leaned uselessly back on the wheel well.
‘Stand, Colter, stand your weak ass up!’
He saw a grenade from the turret breach the window behind the dog on the porch roof. The house then erupted slightly, with gouts of flame and dust, the front door spitting out the blond head of a small girl, the dog jumping sideways off the porch roof.
The fire from the single lever action weapon slowly punched the air, “dinking” off the armored vehicle.
‘I’m standing, square, think I can breathe, exhale first!’
Westfield brought the minigun into play against the stilts under the house, propped some 300 feet above the Green River Gorge, and let go a machine whine that thrilled Colter even as he managed to regain his balance and tried to call off Westfield, for he could see the man with the gun surrendering.
But he could not gather his breath quickly enough to gain voice, as the round had knocked the wind out of him, for his body armor fit just a little to snug.
His solar plexus popped back out and cold wet air rushed into his hungry lungs.
Then, as the Social Justice Witnesses chanted in ecstasy, “Back the blue, back the blue!” the back of the house gave way with a great creaking moan.
‘Oh no—the kids!’
The porch roof collapsed, pancaking behind the old dog, pushing it onto the gravel yard with a pitiously broken leg, surfing on the rain gutter that pushed him further away from the collapsing structure.
‘Poor boy.’
Then the back of the house, with all of its screaming, crying, surrendering and God-praying contents, spilled into the gorge.
“Cease fire For Earth’s sake, Westfield! Martin Luther King—what was that?”
Westfield sounded crest fallen through the com link, tough to detect in an old veteran, “Sorry, Cap, thought you had took a throat shot. Just got hungry for payback.”
The witnesses were mob-rushing the remains of the house as the involved community recovery element and Colter made peace with his old friend, “It is what it is, O.G.”
Emotta could be heard masturbating in the Com Car and he snarled, “For Planet’s sake, Emotta, cut the coms while you beat-off!”
Westfield counseled him, as Emotta cut out of coms, “That’s the bitch about being on the right side of history. When you’re winning, the weirdos attach themselves to the good guys so much that sometimes it’s hard to recall you are the good guys.”
A confidential red video alert that “Return to Base Required ASAP” flashed on his headset display under his rank filter.
“Roger that, O.G. Higgins, you there?”
“Yezzir,” spoke up his driver from within the guts of their mechanical warhorse.
“Black-box the audio-video log and get us back to base—now.”
“Yezzir!” growled Higgins as he cranked up the unit and drove over the bridge where the dignity of the BLM dignitaries was somewhat besmirched by their clinging to the railings over the gorge were they had just sent a dozen women and children and one nut job polygamist. The Rainbow Warriors and Antifa were already looting what wreckage remained clinging to the shoulder of that thrice deserted mountain.
‘It’s a dirty job, Colter. But someone has to do it. And if not you, or the likes of you, it would be even dirtier. If you step aside, command will devolve on the likes of Emotta.’
‘Hasn’t it already?’
A chill played down his spine and a snarl creased Captain Colter Johnson’s lips as something inside of him bristled at his honorable command being inherited by one of the crazy trains [4] coming up in the ranks.
-1. Reparations Recovery Services Corporation, an NGO that partners with governments, businesses, communities and the aggrieved, to achieve racism closure. As such, Johnson and his men are security contractors operating under contract to King County Tactical Mobile Command. The King County officer attached rode in the Communication Car, and in this case, was Warrant Officer Emotta.
-2. Willful failure to maintain social media and medical media contact is a felony in many municipalities.
-3. Communications Car
-4. Transexual officers were well known for violent outbursts and emotional breaks in the field. This was not something that could be safely discussed. So Westfield, Higgins and Johnson communicated these concerns in outrageous metaphorical “crazy train” discussions of a mythic, out-of-control diesel train symbolizing the dyke tranny.
This is the last open posting of Wake Christopher or Whack the Blue.
The remaining chapters will be posted on Lynn Lockhart’s War Against Reality Substack site.
The remaining chapters of Wake Christopher are:
Wake Christopher, Chapter 7
Cognitive Resource Command, Department of Homeland Security, Paradise Conference Center, Mount Rainier, Washington, 3:47 P.M.
Wake Christopher, Chapter 8
The Port of Tacoma, Washington, Yangtze Railroad Freight Liner, 107, 5:47 P.M.
Bond Service
Wake Christoper, Chapter 9
Yangtze-Maersk-Amtrak Station, Tacoma, Washington, 7:09 P.M.
Wake Christopher!
Wake Christopher, Chapter 10
Fort Lewis Washington, Office of Homeland Diversity, 11:55 P.M.
Crowd Control
whack the blue
Doctor Breck & the Crackpot
crag mouth
the fighting edge
orphan nation
when you're food
'in these goings down'
the greatest boxer
taboo you
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