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Old 11-19-2013, 06:27 PM
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Old 11-19-2013, 07:21 PM
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CHAPTER 6
I had made the decision to start on the front of the business card, now repurposed for a different use altogether. I reasoned that it was only fair I pick Agent Michaels first, given the fact that he was the one to start shooting first. He could at least be thankful I had vastly different ideas about collateral damage than he did. Rob and I didn’t know where Agent Riley Michaels lived, but a reverse phone number search on White Pages search got us within a reasonable area. I could have found his address via the DHS employee portal, but I dare not tip my hand too soon. After several days AWOL, I’m sure inquiring minds were beginning to ask questions. In hindsight, I should have come up with a plausible reason to be gone. Well, I thought, this is my first rodeo after all. Michaels’ Facebook page was rife with photos of his house and family, several of which contained helpful identifying features. Social networking could work both ways. A few hours of cruising through the general area enabled us to find a house that matched the photos. A few discreetly placed game cameras allowed us to record his comings and goings, made easier by the foreclosed homes in the area. Lynchburg was slowly beginning to resemble Detroit, and we still had one of the highest employment rates in the state at 31%. After three days of watching, waiting and arguing, Rob and I had a plan. Ideally we would have waited a week or two, but time was of the essence here. It helped that the man was extraordinarily predictable in his behavior, maybe we all are. A pattern had quickly emerged. I resolved to end that pattern tomorrow.

Rob and I walked down a nameless, forgettable suburban portion of Lynchburg; lawns that were mowed, but not manicured, cars that were nice, but not this model year. Working stiffs lived here, but middle management. Government workers, and those still clinging to full time employment. Far from the ghetto, but still not quite able to afford the McMansion. Heh, long live the American dream. Rob and I weren't kitted out, nor were we sporting camo or grease paint. Hoodies and messenger bags are also camouflage; we looked like grown kids coming or going to mom or dad's house. I just hoped no one stopped their car and asked us what we were doing in the neighborhood. We certainly weren’t coming back from the convenience store. Multi-family dwellings were increasingly the norm, and having three generations under the same roof was now a common thing. I counted on the new normalcy of seeing adult males walking to and from work to keep inquiries at bay.

Riley Michaels had left for work every morning before his wife did, and well before his kids went to school. As Riley got dressed that morning, Rob was playing lookout, and I was mating the upper and lower of my S&W together by feel in the darkness. We had found a foreclosed house at the end of the block, and I was lying prone in the morning dew while Riley got into his car. As I laid in the middle of a suburban backyard, I thought about the insanity of it all. This stuff happened in Baghdad or Kabul, not small town Virginia. What had happened to the country I grew up in? It was chilly that morning, the sky still had a tinge of gray in it as the sun rose. The small pickup’s engine started, and as Riley waited for the engine to warm, a block down the road I pulled my charging handle and seated a round. The gray was slowly giving way to a second sunrise behind me as Riley pulled out of his driveway for his last commute. He slowed down, hitting a speed bump midway down the block and his little pickup truck coasted to the stop sign. To his left a beautiful sunrise took shape, throwing coral and sherbet colors over the sky; in the brightness, he never noticed one of the fence slats pulled slightly to the side.

As the truck came into my narrow field of view, I knew I had only a second or two. I didn’t know if he would stop completely or not. He had the other days, but who stops every time? What if there was traffic? Doubts began to swirl. There he was. Encircling his head was a glowing red reticule. The dot in the center of the circle began doing little figure eights on his cheek as I struggled to slow my breathing and fight the adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream. Numbness returned to the pit of my stomach. Could I shoot when it counted? Remember the fundamentals, I kept telling myself, remember the fundamentals. Breath in. Breathe out. Hold. Don't pull...squeeze. The tiny 55 grain projectile exited the sixteen inch barrel at 3100 feet-per-second, the gasses exiting the gun turning the dew into mist under the gun. It took the tiny projectile a millisecond to cover the 51.3 yards from the end of my barrel to the little truck.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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Old 11-19-2013, 08:07 PM
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Originally Posted by bob2231 View Post
Worst thing ever to come out of Canadia,Moosehead XXX.
Got a headache halfway through the first bottle and threw the rest away.
In Canada, Moosehead is a beer, in Wisconsin, it's a misdemeanor.
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Old 11-19-2013, 09:37 PM
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Good read, tagged for interest.
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Old 11-19-2013, 09:49 PM
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Funny about whiskey,the county where Jack D's is distilled is dry.
You can make it,and sell it.
But you have to drive to a different county,at the least,to drink it.
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Old 11-19-2013, 09:56 PM
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Originally Posted by bob2231 View Post
Funny about whiskey,the county where Jack D's is distilled is dry.
You can make it,and sell it.
But you have to drive to a different county,at the least,to drink it.
Mmmmm, taste the freedom. You can buy a whole barrel there I heard, pick it out and have it labeled. A whole lotta fifths I would think.
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Old 11-19-2013, 11:20 PM
Jungle Work Jungle Work is offline
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Excellent Story and you tell it in an Excellent Way.

Thanks.

Jungle Work
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Old 11-20-2013, 04:15 AM
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Enjoying the story, great writing. Thank you.
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Old 11-20-2013, 07:37 AM
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DUH (to be continued) you going of vaction lol
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Old 11-20-2013, 10:47 AM
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ravinglawyer13 writes a nice story so far. It rather reminds me of a book I read by John Ross called "Unintended Consequences". Although they both describe government totally our of control and in violation of our highest law of the land, they go about that telling their stories from two very different perspectives, both of which were very relevant for their time periods.

I'm looking forward to seeing more of this writer's work. Thanks for sharing.
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Old 11-20-2013, 11:47 AM
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Originally Posted by varmint View Post
ravinglawyer13 writes a nice story so far. It rather reminds me of a book I read by John Ross called "Unintended Consequences". Although they both describe government totally our of control and in violation of our highest law of the land, they go about that telling their stories from two very different perspectives, both of which were very relevant for their time periods.

I'm looking forward to seeing more of this writer's work. Thanks for sharing.
I appreciate the comparison. Having said that, the current roller coaster Raylan may be coming to an end, who knows. People are only thinking in 2D here. Geopolitical insanity waits for no man. Think polygonal battle space. The conflict in Syria inspired some of the future chapters. Think of your hometown. How would it fracture? Racially? Politically? FedGov v. private sector? Cops v. gangs? Rural v. urban? Rich v. poor? Or to a certain extent, all of the above? Food for thought...
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Old 11-20-2013, 01:03 PM
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Default Silver or lead....

Silver for vampires, lead for zombies.... or am I missing the point (again!)
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Old 11-20-2013, 03:20 PM
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CHAPTER 7

As Rob and I exfiltrated from the first casualty of my private war, I wondered how quick the response time would be of the police. I had hoped, but not counted on, the fences and surrounding houses to have a mild baffling effect on the sound of the shot. After all, most Virginians in this area owned firearms, and did not fly into a panic at the sound of a single gunshot. I knew there would be gunshot residue in the back yard, and the forensics guys would likely find where the shooter had been. I had been careful enough to grab the single shell I had used. Provided the bullet had not fragmented or deformed, a fact I doubted, they would also be able to tell the caliber and perhaps manufacturer of the weapon. S&W was one of only a couple manufacturers to employ 5R rifling after all. At the end of the day, I counted on bureaucratic incompetence to give me the time I needed. The wheels of “justice” took time to turn unless the case was of political importance, in other words, as long as it stayed out of the news it would be just another case. Granted, I'm sure the agency would have a hard-on for the guy who did it, me, but it would be a local problem. If the independent media was to be believed, the veneer of American society was beginning to wear thin. Ideally any potential evidence would be backlogged or at least unable to be expedited...until it happened again.


As I reflected on these facts, I realized that ultimately, I didn't care. As we walked away as casually as we could toward my stashed truck, Rob looked over and said. "Raylan, we should have used your 12 guage man. Almost untraceable, and just pulled up beside him and done it that way. It would have looked like a gang hit, and sent them in the wrong direction." "I know, I know Rob. I did it this way for a reason. They'll know it wasn't a gang. It was somebody with some know-how and a good enough reason to pull the trigger. I want then digging into what that reason was. I would want them to wonder what would drive a man to such lengths. Call it a secondary objective. Ruby Ridge highlighted massive federal overkill, but it was people like US that had to die. It always is. Maybe the locals aren't as complicit as I think. Keep your ears open, I'm sure this is all the local PD will be talking about for awhile. If they don't start digging into the GreatNation incident then we'll know they are either quislings kowtowing to the fed or openly complicit."

After retrieving my truck, I drove home and flipped on the news while I cleaned my AR. The pundits on CNN, which I considered state-controlled media, were blaming Texas for the impending OPEC boycott. Texas had apparently refused an offer to become a member, and OPEC then delivered FLOTUS an ultimatum. Control your states, or no more oil. OPEC stood to lose billions of dollars per year should Texas begin expanding its crude oil and natural gas exports. Venezuela stopped exportations to the United States out of solidarity and fear, as did several other nations. FLOTUS had announced a plan to buy oil from our "allies" at market prices, effectively quadrupling the price per gallon. "Well Peter, what about the government reserves? Can't we just tap into them?" The concerned liberal host asked. I smirked. Within the last several years, the government had begun selling off or using its Strategic Petroleum Reserve, and was down to the last 10% of it's 727 million barrel capacity. In other words, with absolutely no panic buying, the US had 3 1/2 days of gas left. The dollar was quickly losing its reserve currency status, and thus any economic power we could bring to bear was rapidly diminishing.

The X factor in all of this was the sheer animosity the United States had created the last decade. The NSA had time and time again violated treaties and national sovereignty as they spied on friend and foe alike. Ironically, other countries had much less tolerance for this type of privacy violations than your average US citizen. Drone strikes in the Middle East continued to be our answer to any and all potential "terrorists." Within the last five years we had also bankrolled and armed numerous groups of*"freedom fighters," only to find out*later that we had become one of*radical Muslim's*largest benefactors. We had no friends. Our weak and bipolar foreign policy had alienated virtually everyone. The chickens had finally come home to roost.*As I*got up to turn*the TV off, the camera was panning to the very first gas lines I had ever witnessed.

Dale Redman stepped out of his patrol car into the sunlight, squinting in the brightness. It was early fall, his favorite time of the year and he had been looking forward to some dove hunting later that day. That was before the call. A suburban mother had called 911, hysterical about a dead man in her neighborhood. She had been out walking and happened upon the rather grisly scene. A patrol car had been sent out and confirmed her story, and had relayed that the man had DHS credentials in his wallet. By the time Dale arrived, the CSI geeks were flitting like hummingbirds to and from the vehicle and surrounding area. He sauntered up, hitched his left thumb on his belt and barked at the sergeant on scene. "What's the deal here, sergeant?" "Well, sir, the cause of death is pretty straight forward. Guy died of acute lead poisoning. Bullet in the noggin...blew damn near half his head off. Took the top of his skull right off, looks like a rotten watermelon in there. Very ugly...no wonder the lady was freaking out when she called. Honestly, crazy as this sounds there he had his wallet and everything on him. Doesn't look like a robbery or carjacking gone wrong to me. The guy was carrying, and it's still in his holster. Doesn't look like*he*flashed his creds*because they were still in his jacket pocket. Almost looks like a hit, but he's a fed...no one's that stupid. Maybe they got the wrong guy." Dale sighed, "Well son, let's go take a gander."

Dale had to repress the bile rising from his stomach. Lynchburg was a quiet town and what few murders occurred over the years were mostly gangs settling scores and the occasional drug deal gone bad. The top man's head was nearly gone, and the interior of the vehicle looked like a tornado of tiny bits of play-doh and tomato soup. The driver's side window had a single bullet hole, impossibly small he thought, to wreak such carnage. The location of the hole gave him pause. It was 4-5” below where it should have been. He casually wondered if the man had been crouching beside the truck and shot from an angle upward. He called one of the forensics guys over. “Hey Roy, what do you make of this here? The bullet hole in the glass is in the completely wrong place. Looks almost like the guy was squatting beside the truck and shot upward. Only problem is, the exit hole should be somewhere in the roof. It's not. What gives?” The forensics guy smiled. “It's the glass, Dale. Bullets generally deflect upward when going through glass. At a ninety degree angle like this window it's only a few inches upward. Angle the glass and it get's complicated, depending on the type, angle and distance the shot and the glass were taken at. The shooter was probably aiming at the base of his head and the deflection caused the round to hit just below the crown of his head.”

Dale made the obligatory call to DHS and within a half an hour he knew the place would be crawling with self-important agents, intent on wresting the scene from his control. He hollered at the sergeant one last time. "Make sure whatever evidence you get here, I want copied in triplicate. I need to make sure we have a sense of what's going on here before the knuckledraggers get here and demand everything." As he sidled back to his car, he dreaded the paperwork he knew he was about to be buried in and casually wondered what would posses a person to take such actions against a federal agent.

Later that evening, I had a flash of inspiration, or madness, depending on who you talk to. I quickly dressed and headed toward Lynchburg. Agent Michaels wasn't the only one I had been keeping tabs on and inquiring about. It was a simple, churlish attempt at PSYOPS, but that little gesture would come to mean so much. The unintended consequences of that simple action would come to define my life. I walked down a second suburban middle-class neighborhood that day, but I was just walking. I paused for a second at the address I was looking for, ensured no one was around and slipped something into the mailbox. I continued on, like an average American just out enjoying an evening walk, casually wondering what Agent Jerod Trant would think of my little present.
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Old 11-20-2013, 04:13 PM
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i got a guess but one of those little pamphlet copies of the U.S. Constitution or Declaration of Independence would be a good calling card.

This needs to be our theme song by Twisted Sister

WE'RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT
NO, WE AIN'T GONNA TAKE IT
WE'RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT ANYMORE

WE'VE GOT THE RIGHT TO CHOOSE AND
THERE AIN'T NO WAY WE'LL LOSE IT
THIS IS OUR LIFE, THIS IS OUR SONG
WE'LL FIGHT THE POWERS THAT BE JUST
DON'T PICK OUR DESTINY 'CAUSE
YOU DON'T KNOW US, YOU DON'T BELONG

WE'RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT
NO, WE AIN'T GONNA TAKE IT
WE'RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT ANYMORE

OH YOU'RE SO CONDESCENDING
YOUR GALL IS NEVER ENDING
WE DON'T WANT NOTHIN', NOT A THING FROM YOU
YOUR LIFE IS TRITE AND JADED
BORING AND CONFISCATED
IF THAT'S YOUR BEST, YOUR BEST WON'T DO

WE'RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT
NO, WE AIN'T GONNA TAKE IT
WE'RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT ANYMORE

WE'RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT
NO, WE AIN'T GONNA TAKE IT
WE'RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT ANYMORE
NO WAY!

OH......
OH......
WE'RE RIGHT/YEAH
WE'RE FREE/YEAH
WE'LL FIGHT/YEAH
YOU'LL SEE/YEAH

WE'RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT
NO, WE AIN'T GONNA TAKE IT
WE'RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT ANYMORE

WE'RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT, NO!
NO, WE AIN'T GONNA TAKE IT
WE'RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT ANYMORE
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Old 11-20-2013, 04:45 PM
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My skin is crawling and nerves just need need need MOAR Thanks for the update
I think the empty case yes what better way to strike fear into a killer ,it's your turn next!
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Old 11-20-2013, 05:21 PM
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Great! Keep it coming.
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Old 11-20-2013, 06:28 PM
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Great read so far, really enjoying it.


Semper Fi
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Old 11-20-2013, 11:56 PM
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Good read so far. It may take a bit longer into the future than what is portrayed here but all feasible. Hope he gets back to Texas some time.
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Old 11-21-2013, 03:07 AM
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Chapter 8
Jerod Trent considered himself an easy-going guy. He provided a modest, suburban home for his wife and daughter, drank a little, exercised less, and considered himself mildly successful. His personal motto had always been "go with the flow" and thus far it had served him well in life. His reputation for not rocking the boat or asking awkward questions had led to several promotions within Homeland Security. It was just a job to Jerod, but he enjoyed the perks that came along with having a badge, such as insurance and a salary indexed daily to the inflation rate.


Jerod sat semi-comatose watching college football on his day off. His daughter Isabelle was playing with the latest game system on the floor of the living room, next to his properly-worn, leather recliner. Neither spoke to each other. Suddenly, Isabelle got up and in an exuberant voice reserved strictly for ten year-olds, asked "Daddy, can I go get the mail? Please? I promise I won't drop any, I'll be real careful. C'mon daddy...please, please, please, please?" "Ok, honey, just be careful of the cars. You have to get close to the street, so make sure you look both ways. Don't run..." "M'kay" she shouted over her shoulder as she ran toward the front door. A few minutes later he heard the slam of the front door and the shuffling of little feet on the hardwood floor. She came into the room, looking intently at a small object she held in her hand, while the mail was precariously tucked under her other arm. "Daddy, what is this? Can I keep it? What does Eeeyee Veee mean? Did someone leave you a present?" "I dunno pumpkin, let daddy have a look." Jerod looked casually toward her and held out his hand, eyes still on the TV. He felt a cold round object drop into his hand. It's identity registered even before his eyes could dart over to it. "Honey, daddy needs you to go upstairs for a little while. Right now, Isabelle. You do it right now." Isabelle sensed the worry and urgency in her dad’s voice, and she went upstairs without complaint. Jerod's hands shook as his mind desperately tried to play catch-up. He could feel a rising tide of fear, coming in waves...drowning him. He tried to get angry. Hell, he was a federal officer! No one threatens a federal officer without a death wish! Jerod Trent had the full weight and support of the United States federal government behind him, his badge proved that! No, all he felt was fear. He had heard about Riley today, shot in his vehicle. Until this moment he considered it an unfortunate mistake, nothing more than a random, tragic occurence.

Riley had been known to look the other way in return for a favor or two, and Jerod’s personal theory was that Riley had gotten in on something over his head. It was Riley’s MO, everything was 110% with the guy. The Lynchburg field office was penance for Riley. Jerod didn’t know why, but if office gossip was to be believed, he had embarrassed the agency in a big way. Obviously firing him was out of the question, so Riley had been shifted to Lynchburg; out of sight, out of mind. Riley was a true believer, and ambitious. He had wanted the glory, and the political pull that went along with it. Jerod wanted a paycheck, and had never considered himself a true believer like his recently deceased coworker.


Jerod leaned back in his recliner to think, massaging the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He would report the threat, because it was the right thing to do. No, you’re scared Jerod. You’re the one in over your head, he thought. It was that damned fiasco at GreatNation. It could be nothing else. He hadn’t remembered firing his weapon, but in all the confusion he had managed to dump half a magazine into a family. The whole thing had been Riley’s idea. “Let’s teach these rednecks not to **** with DHS” he had said. Sure, why not? Scare them a little and make them think twice about hassling the government facilities and workers. Put them in their place. The whole thing had gone wrong after that. Kids screaming, the security guard shows up out of nowhere, more screaming…the shooting. It had all been one giant misunderstanding. What wasn’t a misunderstanding is the clear threat conveyed by what was in his hand. Who had it come from, he wondered. Probably family, an avenging brother or father, maybe a close friend. One thing was for sure. Jerod would not mention the connection to Amaal. If word got out about the accidental shooting, the normally friendly press would have a field day. Questions would get asked that Jerod did not want to answer. More importantly, his comfortable life here would be in jeopardy. No, the why was not important. What was important was that Amaal knew he was being threatened and she put a stop to it. It was one ****ed of redneck, how hard could it be?


Jerod got up, and sat back down at the table and continued to stare at it. He inspected it from evey angle. He remembered it from his field agent training, but suddenly he saw it in a very different light. It was small, but it looked sinister. Physically small, but able to wreak great havoc on the human body. On the bottom was a small silver circle, around which was engraved: Hornady 5.56. On the brass casing a was a message. Someone had taken a Sharpie and written the letter I and the letter V. Jerod wasn't sure what that stood for, but he sure as hell wasn't sticking around to find out. He immediately called his ex-wife and told her to come pick up their daughter. His next call was to the local field office to report a death threat against a federal agent.

The story of an alleged gunman sniping a DHS agent another made local headlines, and was the subject of much internet debate. While the legacy-news media could not be bothered with such low-brow news, the digital media ate it up. Speculation was everywhere about the identity of the individual, who he worked for, was he a right-wing nutjob from Texas, a jihad-crazed Saudi...veteran with PTSD?
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Old 11-21-2013, 04:09 AM
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Chapter 9

The next morning, Jerod was summoned to the corner office for a meeting with the head of the Lynchburg field office. Amaal greeted him, and asked Jerod to take a seat. “So Jerod” she began, “how are you feeling? I hope the accommodations are adequate, it was such short notice. How are you coping with the stress?” Jerod lied, and assured her he was doing fine. “Good, good. Now, do you have any insights into who may want to threaten you? Any neighbors that object to an African-American living in their neighborhood? We are in the south, such a thing is to be expected from the people down here. I had someone run background checks on your neighbors, but as you know, hate groups like the Klan and the Tea Party do not have official member rolls. Agents are over there now searching their houses, I’ll let you know as soon as we find something.” Jerod attempted to sound natural as he answered. “I really appreciate it Amaal, this whole thing has really disturbed my family. I have no idea why someone would threaten me, but perhaps you are right. We are in the south. I’m afraid can’t think of anything, and I have no idea what those letters mean.” Amaal promised to keep him in the loop, and Jerod made the obligatory thank you’s and will do’s as he left the office. He was visibly relieved that his story was not being questioned, and for the first time in 24 hours, things were looking up. Maybe he could get some extra vacation out of the deal, after all he had been mentally terrorized.

Amaal’s next visitor was a tall, thin man with a rather Lincoln-esque beard. Homeland Security had recruited Dr. Petriski out of Georgetown after he had distinguished himself by writing several groundbreaking papers. The psychologist had been the first to coin the term hoplophilia, a love of weapons, and directly compare it to other mental diseases such as pedophilia and necrophilia. While the connection had been tenuous at best, it had been a boon to those seeking to delegitimize gun owners as social deviants. Amaal had called in a few favors and managed to get a picture of the bullet Jerod had received on Petriski's desk. He had taken the time to come down here, so the letters must mean something. “Dr. Petriski, it’s so nice to see you again. I hadn’t expected you to come down so soon with an answer. I guess that’s what makes you the best.” “Just call me Paul. Amaal, it’s nice to see you again as well.” Amaal placed her hands flat on the desk and said “So what do we have?” As was his habit, the doctor began to pace back and forth as he spoke. “It’s really extremely interesting what we have here. As you know, bullets are phallic in nature. To a hoplophile, it is a direct extension of his masculinity and a subconscious declaration of chauvinism. It indicates a desire to return to a male-dominated, patriarchal society. To use such a phallic symbol to deliver a message connotates an attempt at showing dominance. He wants your agent to KNOW that he can kill him. Hoplophiles find fulfillment in the knowledge that they wield power over others, many desire people to know that they wield such power. Hence the popularity of bumper stickers, flags and other paraphernalia proclaiming their perceived status as demigods. The fear felt by reasonable people at this fulfills a need to compensate for their lack of sexual and moral openness and furthermore it validates the power they think they wield.

The “I” and “V” on the bullet casing is not an acronym or initials, in my opinion. The most reasonable explanation is that it is the Roman numerals for the number four. It could be the number of days before he attempts to kill your agent, or it could be the total number he desires to kill. However, it makes no sense that someone would use a relatively obscure numerical system to indicate something like that. It indicates a predilection for history. Given the obsession many hoplophiles have with the Christian sacred text, it is quite possible the reference is Biblical in nature. Of all the cross-references and analogies I searched, the most plausible one is a reference to the book of Revelation. The book itself describes a fantasy judgment consisting of dragons, virgins, plagues and all manner of death and destruction for those of the wrong creed or color. One particular passage focuses on several angels riding on horses. Interestingly enough, the fourth horsemen in this tale…here, let me read it for you. ‘And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death.’ I think the man has delusions of grandeur and thinks he is some kind of judgment of God. The man fears progress, and thinks as society has evolved past his primitive social framework, that the end times are here. His world is crashing down, and ours must as well. I keep telling people how dangerous this book is, it is radical, very radical in its teachings. Just look at the hatred it has spawned for Islam.” Amaal stood up, “thank you Paul. This discussion was very informative, and I think you’ve given my office a lot to work with. After considering what you’ve said, I think you’ve reached some valid, thought out conclusions. I’m sure this will prove to be extremely valuable in our efforts to catch this terrorist.”
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