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Post by rvm45 on Jul 22, 2014 9:43:00 GMT -6
Clan
Chapter One
When I was a boy my father used to load the family into the car and take us down to Kentucky on the weekends.
We didn’t go every weekend.
Kentuckians have—or at least had—the curious custom of moving to adjoining states to find work and then going back to Kentucky every weekend to reunite with their extended family.
They called it “Going Over Home.”
There’s even an old joke about the man who’d just got to Heaven and is horrified to see one of the saints chained to an ivory pillar.
“Never mind him,” the angelic guide tells the new arrival. “He’s a Kentuckian and we have to chain him up on weekends to keep him from Going Over Home.”
We weren’t Kentuckians of course. My family had been native Indianians as far back as anyone could remember.
{Yeah, if you like the word “Hoosier” then you use it. This is my tale.}
My Uncle Ralph and Aunt Sweet weren’t Kentuckians either, but they’d moved down there before I was born. Uncle Ralph had made a great deal of money in the building boom around Kentucky Lake and Lake Barkley.
You sure couldn’t tell that he had money from the way that he dressed or lived though.
He was given to bib overalls and he wore socks but didn’t wear shoes indoors. He was bald as a cue ball. He only had a few teeth left. He drank cup after cup of coffee from a saucer and chain-smoked Winston cigarettes.
His wife Sweet was my father’s sister, though she was twenty-one years his senior. She was a big loud spoken woman who must have weighed three hundred pounds.
When I was a boy and I’d read the Sunday comics, I was outraged that the cartoonist drew my Aunt and Uncle and gave them the sobriquets “Snuffy” and “Loweezy”. Why couldn’t he call them by their God-given names?
Now it is true: Uncle Ralph didn’t wear a big rumpled black hat. He neither ran a still nor drank strong drink. I understand that he was a reformed alcoholic—having taken his last drink before I was born.
And so far as I know, Uncle Ralph never went on chicken stealing expeditions late at night either.
I can’t tell you a lot about Uncle Ralph. He wasn’t even mildly interesting to me as a boy. I do remember that he was very well read—though he rarely showed his erudition—and he was one of those fellows who’d read six or seven books simultaneously—not at the same time of course. He was no idiot savant. He’d just get bored and then switch back and forth.
To tell the truth, I never saw him reading—though his bedroom had bookcases bulging with books. On weekends, when the family visited, he was far too busy conversating to read books.
Uncle Ralph had a rather large extended family and many of them visited him on weekends.
The more folks that visited, the happier Uncle Ralph was.
Aunt Sweet kept about a half-acre kitchen garden and she raised chickens and rabbits. There were apple and peach trees—plums too—and there were grape orchards.
Weekend after weekend she cooked enough to feed a camp of lumberjacks and never complained. I don’t think that she either enjoyed cooking or thought of it as a chore either. It simply was.
I might be wrong though. Maybe she found cooking to be a satisfying means of self-expression.
One of the other women would help her occasionally—doing preliminary work like peeling potatoes and carrots, snapping and washing string beans or whatever. Aunt Sweet did a good two thirds of the actual work and more though.
I wish that I could revisit one of those weekend get-togethers as an accepted but hardly noticed guest.
Breakfast was homemade biscuits, link sausage, bacon, fried or scrambled eggs for egg-eaters, milk gravy, orange juice, Kool-Aid, milk or coffee and plenty of real butter and homemade blackberry and grape jelly.
Dinner and Supper featured plates piled high with fried chicken, fried rabbit and fish caught by someone at the Lake. There were mashed potatoes, garden green beans, corn, navy beans, sometimes there would be fried okra or fried green tomatoes…and peach, cherry or blackberry cobbler for dessert.
Come time to bunk down, every bed would be filled. There was a set of bunk beds against the wall in the front room. The Bunks were only used on weekends and there were beaucoup folks sleeping on mattresses or feather beds thrown on the floor.
Uncle Ralph had a daughter that lived about a quarter mile down the road and a niece that lived less than a mile away. Sometimes they’d accommodate some of the overflow.
We went often, but not every weekend. Probably not quite one in three weekends but a bit oftener than once in four. I don’t know what exactly prompted my father that this was a weekend that we were going. The first that my sister and I would know of it would be when he said to grab some clothing because we were going to Kentucky Lake.
{That wasn’t precisely true. Uncle Ralph moved to several farms while I was a boy, but they were all at least a good twenty miles from the Lake proper.}
I know that three-day weekends were a favored time.
I was never particularly moved one way or the other about going down. It could get downright boring when there weren’t any children my own age to play with. Most of the adult conversation was uninteresting to me.
On the other hand, the food was good. We’d almost certainly get to go swimming in the Lake at least once in warm weather and I could shoot my pellet pistol in the empty fields.
It never occurred to me to ask my father just exactly how he determined if it was an “Over Home” weekend or not—until he was gone and it was too late to ask.
I do know that there was a crowd every weekend, whether we went or not.
Anyway, Uncle Ralph died when I was twelve or thirteen. I didn’t really mourn. He’d never given me any grief, but I just never felt any sort of bond with him back then. Curiously, I feel more connected to him decades after his death than I ever felt towards him in life.
That put an end to the Over Home weekends. Aunt Sweet sold the farm and became one of those old ladies who always stay with relatives—a month or two here, occasionally three or four months there—always in succession.
Surprisingly for such a heavy-boned and active woman, she dropped weight and shriveled up. I hardly recognized her in the casket.
Aunt Sweet had outlived her husband by almost thirty years. She came close to living to be one hundred. They say that she was blind the last twelve or thirteen years.
I pray that Jesus calls me while I can still see, hear, hold my water and know who and where I am.
A man is fortunate if he dies while it is still good to be alive.
In the modern world, most of the close-knit extended families are stitched together by the old ones—grandpas, grandmas and great aunts and great uncles who grew up with multiple brothers and sisters and are determined to stay in touch.
When they die, their children—many who have moved to Florida, California, Texas, Chicago or maybe Atlanta—aren’t fond enough of their cousins to get together several times a year.
The average number of 2.2 children per family also knocks big holes in the idea of having beaucoup cousins.
All of my extended family weren’t clustered on the same branch of the family tree. I have quite a few blood kin who can claim no common ancestry with the Kentucky Lake branch—unless you want to trace it all the way back to Noah where all our family lines intersect.
The extended family used to visit on Thanksgiving and Christmas and maybe have a giant summer picnic or two in the park.
I played with a many second and third cousin at the get-togethers and now I don’t remember their names and I couldn’t pick them out of a police lineup. Fact is the memories have faded to the point that I couldn’t pick out their childhood photographs.
Now all that might make into a good nostalgia essay or perhaps an anthropological anecdote.
Except…
I got a call from my cousin Marshall—third cousin if you’re writing a book and need to get all the details straight.
********************* ************************* ****************
January 1990
“Can you drive down and visit me,” Marshall asked.
I hadn’t heard from Marshall for over a decade, but he was one of the good ones.
“I’d like to Marshall, but that’s a long drive. My van gets about twelve miles per gallon and I’m pretty near broke,” I said.
“If I wire you some money—more than enough to repay you for your gasoline and your time—will you come then?” he asked.
“Sure, I’ll be happy to come. Kin is kin and we haven’t stayed in touch over the years,” I said.
My eyebrows went way up when I picked up the check from the Western Union office. It was for twenty four hundred dollars.
Marshall told me that he had a farm south of Dycusburg Kentucky near the Cumberland River and he gave me directions how to get there.
When I arrived I was surprised to find Marshall confined to a wheelchair and looking gaunt as all Hell.
“Guess I should have warned you,” he said.
“I know that I should have said something but I really needed to talk to you. People act funny around the sick and the dying. I was afraid that you might not come.
“I have ALS. The doctors don’t give me much longer even in their best case scenarios,” Marshall said.
“It’s a damn shame Marshall—only thing is, better you than me,” I said.
He nearly fell out of his chair laughing at that.
“I knew that you’d cheer me up,” He said.
“Do you remember the weekends at Grandpa’s farm,” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Do you read any of the survivalist stuff online?” Marshall asked.
“I write some of it,” I told him.
“I moved to New York and I made a fortune in the stock market,” Marshall said.
“Is that allowed?” I asked.
“Please quit wisecracking and listen to me. I had this high falutin idea that I’d make lots of money and then move back to Kentucky and buy me a big farm.
“I could have afforded a great big farm ten years ago, but I got a bit set in my ways. Now I own a big farm and I can’t even walk my property line.
“I had a degree in economics, but I largely relied on my instinct and intuition as a broker. It worked for me.
“My intuition tells me that the world is about to go to Hell in a hand basket.
“Me? I probably won’t be here to see the great collapse, but you almost certainly will.
“Do you remember the old get-togethers at Grandpa’s?” Marshall repeated.
“What was there? Over a dozen able bodied men? If things had hit the fan back then and everyone had shown up at Grandpa’s with their hunting rifles and shotguns, we’d have been fairly secure,” he said.
“Maybe. If it was early spring we could have put out a lot bigger garden—much larger. If it was in fall or winter, we’d have been rather short on food.
“Ammunition would be another thing. How many folks would have had more than a box or two of .30-30, 12 Gauge or 20 Gauge? There might have been several hundred rounds of .22 LR—for what .22 would be worth,” I said.
“You’re hitting a couple of the main nails right in the head Cousin,” Marshall replied.
“I want to quietly prepare a place for my kin—an Ark of safety as it were. Trouble is, I’m not active enough and I probably won’t live long enough.
“What happens if I turn this place into a super retreat and then I die?” Marshall asked.
“I suppose that your brothers and your father would inherit the place,” I said.
“Exactly! Those money-grubbing bastards would put all my guns up for auction and sell the farm for what they could get out of it,” Marshall said.
“What if I left the farm to you, with the understanding that you are beholden to help out my family when the time came?” he then asked.
“Two things occur to me. Number one, if your father and brothers are that greedy, they’ll challenge the will. I understand that the advanced stages of ALS can radically affect one’s thought processes.
“Second, suppose they let me keep the farm and the operating capital that you’re going to leave me. It probably isn’t prudent to let them know that you’re building a group retreat. Word gets around way too easy.
“If you put off telling them till the last minute, how many will be able to find this place? Even if you tell them well ahead of time and give them maps—how many will make it here?
“Your kin are spread all over the lower forty eight.
“Then there is the third factor. What would posses me to invest my time so selflessly to saving a bunch of silly-ass grasshoppers?” I said.
“I can address that last one right now. I intend to compensate you generously in several different ways.
“I’ll have to think of those other points,” Marshall said.
“Take your time,” I said.
“There’s nowhere that I need to be. I reckon that you’ve handsomely compensated me for a week or two of my time—or even a month for that matter,” I said.
“Don’t you have a job to get back to?” Marshall asked.
“Jobs never last. Lately it’s getting harder to find new ones. It’s like word gets around and I’m black-balled,” I said.
“I can’t imagine why. ‘Better you than me’. Ha! O well, being black-balled is better than being blue-balled,” Marshall said.
“You hopeless old reprobate!” I reproached him.
“Hey! I’m not old—and not likely to ever be,” Marshall said.
********************** *********************** **********************
“I’ve thought about what you said last night,” Marshall said.
“First off, I’m forming a corporation. You and I will be equal partners and equal co-owners. The charter will be written so that you inherit the whole thing if I die.
“The papers will say that you receive your half of the partnership in exchange for ‘valuable personal services’,” Marshall said.
“Grand! Now everyone will think we’re a couple,” I groused.
“You don’t have the money to buy a half interest. I could just credit you with investing equally, but then the IRS would want to know where you got that kind of money.
“I can’t walk. There’s no way that I can do the legwork that running a successful farm would entail.
“I’m generous to a fault and you’re kin—so I reward you rather lavishly for your services.
“Dude, you’re still going to have to pay some big taxes. Your half is ‘Income’, but we’ll have good lawyers and accountants to keep the taxes as low as reasonably possible.
“Besides, when did you start caring what other folk think?” Marshall concluded.
“I’m not so sure what to do about that other,” He said.
“I might,” I said.
“Why did folks used to visit Uncle Ralph’s?” I asked.
“They wanted to boat and fish on the lake. They liked the free food and the country ambience and they liked to stay in touch,” Marshall said.
“Well we don’t have the lake here—but the Cumberland River isn’t too far off.
“But picture this,” I said to Marshall.
“Let’s put in an Olympic size swimming pool. We’ll get a few horses and put in a bridle trail. Maybe we’ll add an archery range and/or a rifle range.
“Add some playground equipment for the small children.
“Can you afford a square mile section of woodland dedicated to hunting?
“The pool and the square mile hunting preserve are the only really expensive parts.
“Times are tight and getting tighter. They can stay in campsites that you provide—for free. You can hire a couple or three cooks and serve up good country meals like Aunt Sweet used to serve—for free.
“It’s a shame that we have to bait them in, but that’s the modern world for you.
“People used to come down on weekends. That’s still cool for anyone who still lives close enough and wants to.
“A lot of folks will want to come on their vacation. If they’re going to drive five hundred or a thousand miles to get here, they’re going to want to spend at least a week.
“I recommend that we not turn anyone away, whenever they can get here, but we should figure out the one four week period that is the best all-around time for visitors to be here and promote that as ‘Reunion Month’—though it can straddle a couple months if that’s ideal.
“You want your kin to interact and get to know one another.
“You can play it off as ‘Marshall has one foot in the grave and he’s willing to spend big money on a nostalgia trip.’
“If you have a big farm, you won’t have to dedicate a large percentage of your land to your playpen,” I said.
“When the crunch comes, you wouldn’t even have to invite them down—though I would, discretely. But they should think of this place as a desirable storm shelter naturally without prompting,” I continued.
“What about the square mile plot of woodlot?” Marshall said.
“Well, I fixated on a square mile, because I read that is the size of Ted Nugent’s personal hunting ground in Michigan.
“Attracting hunters will get some men, boys and even a few girls coming back in fall and winter. It will also attract a few folk who simply won’t be interested in your summer fun and games.
“And hunters and riflemen are good folk to have on our side.
“Another thing, hiring a couple or three cooks and two or three farm workers—while paying well—will connect us to the local community.
“Am I planning on spending too much of your money?” I asked.
“No, no I have far more money than both of us can spend unless we just deliberately throw money away,” Marshall said.
“And I like your ideas.”
“Just one thing,” I said.
“Don’t be shy,” Marshall said.
“I have kin that aren’t kin to you. I’m not in touch with most of them, but there are a treasured few.
“Anyway, when word gets around about your resort my family may want to renew lost ties…”
“You’re going to be a full partner. Ask whoever you want to come,” Marshall said.
“Yeah, like one other thing—can I hire folk from my church?” I asked.
“I know several who are very good workers and who need the money,” I said.
“You know some from around here? Sure, why not?” Marshall said.
“You didn’t let me finish. I go to a black church,” I said.
“You’re a Satanist?”
“No dill-weed! Almost everyone in my denomination is black,” I told him.
“No one in my family was too upset when Uncle Brian came back from the Peace Core with an African bride—and that was back in the ‘60s.
“I think we’re safe in saying that most of our kin just doesn’t care—much,” Marshall said.
“At least no one will care enough to boycott a good thing,” he added. .....RVM45
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Post by rvm45 on Jul 22, 2014 9:44:58 GMT -6
Chapter Two
May 2000
“We’re going to the farm this weekend,” Jessie’s father said.
“I was talking to Cousin Deacon online and he says the water is getting warm enough to swim.”
Jessie was six years old and he wasn’t into kinship charts and diagramming folk’s degree of consanguinity. He just knew that he loved going to Cousin Deacon’s farm. There were all sorts of fun things to do there.
As a point of fact, Jessie and his parents weren’t related to Cousin Deacon at all—but the appellation “Cousin” had clung to both the partners. Jessie’s father Mark was a distant cousin of “Cousin Marshall”, but Marshall had died in 1997.
It was an odd occurrence, but the two diverging branches of the family tree had stayed in close touch while biologically closer branches had lost all contact.
But Mark had been a distant cousin of Marshall’s as well as a boyhood friend. Marshall had invited Mark to visit and bring his family. Then he’d politely insisted upon it.
Deacon had pigeonholed Mark at Marshall’s funeral.
“Mark, “ he’d said. “I want you to know that one of the main reasons that Marshall built his farm was so his family could join him there and enjoy themselves.
“We’ll all miss Marshall, but he’d be very disappointed if you didn’t continue coming to visit his farm—and I’ll call and “E” Mail you without let up if you stop coming.”
Mark had felt a little odd the first time he’d presumed on “Cousin Deacon’s” hospitality.
“Do you know what a clan is?” Deacon had asked Mark.
“There’s the nuclear family—parents, children and maybe grand parents.
“There’s the extended family—Aunts, Uncles, Nieces, Nephews, Cousins and so forth and so on.
“But what if you include in-laws, cousins out beyond the fourth and many times removed, and back when extended families tended to be clustered in the same geographic area, small families that had dwelt amongst them for two or three generations, but hadn’t yet married into the group?
“That’s what you call a ‘Clan’—with a ‘C’, not a ‘K’ as in ‘Klan.’
“You and I may not be blood kin—not in the strictest sense of the word—but we’re Clan. That means that we are kin—blood kin. Never mind what I just said. I only said it for contrast.
“Look, Marshall believed that we were getting farther and farther from the concept of kith, kin and clan in the modern world. He thought that it was a damned shame.
“I totally agree with Marshall on that score, but it was Marshall who had the money and the will to put this place together. He left his half of the farm to me, largely so I could keep his dream alive.
“Who was it said:
“ ‘Family are the folks who have to take you in when there’s nowhere else for you to go’?
“Well things aren’t quite that dire, but I’d be honored you would come and share my bounty and help me stitch the clan together. I’d be in your debt,” Deacon had told him.
******************** ******************* ******************
They called the cafeteria “the mess hall” but it reminded Jessie of school cafeterias.
You picked up a tray and slid it along stainless steel rails—just like in a cafeteria. There were sneeze shields, but you helped yourself—more like a buffet or a smorgasbord than like school.
The food was different though—more home style. No school cafeteria served food like this. There was always plenty of chicken, rabbit and pork. They raised and butchered their own right there.
The farm raised and butchered their own beef too and when Jessie was older he’d see the small slaughterhouse that was contained in one of the outbuildings.
But beef only made an occasional appearance on the menu. Fish wasn’t a daily staple either.
The farm kept a couple catfish raising lakes as well as raising tilapia fish, but there wasn’t enough to let everyone chow down upon them every meal. In point of fact, the farm was a bit too far north for commercial catfish farming to be economic—but raising fish to feed the family was cheaper than buying fish retail—or even wholesale.
There were all sorts of dairy products and homegrown vegetables.
Jessie helped himself to a fried rabbit’s hind leg, a large chicken breast and a few of the small link sausages. He placed a modest spoonful of green beans and a few slices of tomato and went to sit down.
The hall was filled with long picnic style tables like a school cafeteria or a military mess hall. Deacon had planned the layout of the tables to encourage the folks to mix and mingle a bit. If he’d built a bunch of smaller tables, each family would have tended to colonize its own private island.
“Boy, you better eat all of that! We don’t like waste,” a stern voice said to him.
Jessie was surprised to see a black boy his own age and a girl who seemed a bit younger standing beside him and holding trays.
“Are you kin?” Jessie asked wide-eyed as they sat down across from him at one of the long picnic tables.
“I’m Ronald and this is my sister Isis. My mother is head cook,” he said proudly.
“They call her ‘Aunt Cookie’—because she cooks, don’t you know? That’s not her God-given name.”
“Listen, Isis can be a bit bossy sometimes, but she means well,” Ronald said with all of a six year old’s pride in his greater maturity.
“Too much waste is bad, but if you take a bit more than you want the hogs will be glad to get it—the hogs or the compost heap,” Ronald said.
After he’d finished his meal, Ronald spoke to him.
“If you’d like to see something really funny, grab a few of those small sausages and three or four pieces of bread,” Ronald said.
“I would, but they’re onto me and Isis.”
Jessie had no idea what was up, but he grabbed and secreted the foodstuffs as asked.
Ronald and Isis led him around behind one of the barns. There was a huge dog on a chain waiting there.
“This is David,” Ronald said.
“He’s my dog. He’s a Bloodhound,” Ronald boasted.
Each of them fed the dog a couple of the little-finger sized links of sausage.
“You gonna give him the bread too?” Jessie asked.
“Nah. Save that for later,” Ronald said.
All three children petted the dog and stroked his long ears, but then Ronald started baiting the dog.
“Bloodhounds are kinda a grumpy breed of dog,” he said.
“Kinda a grumpy breed of dog!” Ronald chanted over and over while slapping the dog’s nose with increasing force.
The dog had turned into a snapping snarling fiend and Jessie stepped back outside of the chain’s reach. He noted that Isis also made a strategic retreat.
“Dude, it is like: you shouldn’t be abusing that dog,” Jessie said.
Ronald stopped slapping momentarily to stare at Jessie over his shoulder.
“Abuse Hell! We’re playing,” Ronald said.
“I’m telling mommy that you cussed,” Isis said.
“Using the word ‘Hell’ isn’t cursing,” Ronald said in a tone that brooked no argument.
“Whatever your moron of a Sunday school teacher may have told you.”
David wearied of waiting for Ronald to stop talking and resume slapping and he pawed at him impatiently.
Eventually Ronald miscalculated and the dog caught him with a bite. It was an accident and he immediately pulled up—but Ronald still ended up with a single puncture in his forearm.
“Do you see that?” He demanded proudly, while holding up his bleeding forearm for both of them to see.
“David is my dog and he loves me. He never bites anyone else hard enough to break the skin,” he boasted.
The children put the Bloodhound on a leash and they walked over to the fishpond to watch the fishes eat the bread that they threw on the water for them.
The pool opened at 2:00 pm. Adults could go swimming whenever they pleased, but children were only allowed to swim when a lifeguard was on duty and there was a high chain link fence around the pool as well as a locked gate.
“This is my Uncle Hamilton,” Ronald said proudly as he introduced Jessie to the lifeguard.
“What y’all gonna do with that dog,” Hamilton demanded.
“You know that he likes to swim too,” Isis said.
Hamilton shrugged in comic resignation.
After a couple hours of swimming, the children went to the range.
A fellow named Stevie gave them a brief talk about safety:
“Rule One—All weapons are always loaded. If anyone hands you a firearm, the first thing you do is to check to see if it’s loaded. If your gun has been out of your hands—I don’t care if you just set it on the toilet paper dispenser while you finish your paper work—check it again when you pick it up. Notwithstanding all guns are always loaded.
“Rule Two—Never Point a weapon at something that you’re not willing to destroy. Some folks practice dry-firing at their television screen. They don’t intend to destroy their TV, but they’re willing to, in case of mishap. You aren’t willing to destroy most people and certainly not your pets and family—so never, ever never point a gun at them.
“But what if it ain’t loaded Cousin Stevie?” Stevie mimicked.
“See Rule Number One. Your gun is loaded. All guns are always loaded.
“Rule Three—Never put your finger on the trigger until your sights are on target and you’re ready to fire. You know, following that one rule would prevent over ninety-eight percent of firearms accidents even if you’re a total chucklehead and completely ignore all the other rules.
“Problem is, a chucklehead who won’t follow all the rules isn’t going to follow Rule Three with any degree of consistency either.
“Rule Four—Never shoot until you positively identify your target and always try to have an idea what lays behind your target.
“You don’t shoot at the sound of something rustling leaves or breaking twigs when you’re hunting. If you see a flash of white—make sure it’s the tail of a white tailed deer and not someone’s hanky or white “T” shirt.
“When you’re being fired upon you don’t even fire at presumably hostile muzzle flashes until you’ve positively identified them.
“The second half of rule four is the most flexible. Under fire, you may do well to positively identify your client and get him in your sights—much less worry about his background. Hitting him eliminates most of that concern.
“Incidentally, it is generally better to take the chance that your round may fully penetrate the client and hurt someone downrange—which may or may not happen—than to accept the absolute certainty that he’ll harm you if you don’t shoot.
“Are we clear?” Stevie said.
“We just want to shoot some pellet rifles Cousin, not storm the beaches of Iwo Jima,” one of the teenagers said.
“A pellet rifle is quite capable of putting out an eye—as trite as that sounds. It can make a nasty puncture and it is conceivable that in the right circumstance that it might kill someone—however unlikely that may be.
“At any rate, it’s my job to tell everyone the four rules of firearms safety every time they come to the range. Eventually the rules will become instinctive after hearing and practicing them so many times,” the rangemaster patiently explained.
After a rocky start Jessie was able to shoot quarter-sized holes in targets ten yards away when shooting from prone by the time he finished. Stevie assured him that once he had his sight picture and trigger press down pat that other positions and longer ranges would soon fall into line.
The children switched to twenty-five pound bows and even shot pellet pistols briefly.
Jessie told his father all about his day the family ate supper together.
“You’re older and bigger than you were this time last year,” Mark told him.
“I thought that you’d enjoy running around on your own. Just be careful. Don’t leave the property or climb any fences and listen to the older cousins when they tell you something,” Mark told his son.
“Is that a good idea? I’m not so sure that running around with the help and shooting guns is a good thing,” Jessie’s mother said.
“They’re pellet rifles, didn’t you listen to me?” Jessie demanded.
“I think that it will be good for him,” his father concluded.
**************** ***************** *********************
There were a couple small barracks—one for girls and one for boys. The children could have stayed with their parents, but it was much more festive for them to bunk together. And Deacon had a weather eye on the children forging bonds that would last.
Ronald’s mother had a house of her own on the property, but she was quite tolerant when Ronald wanted to bunk with the other children occasionally.
As Jessie lay down to sleep, he thought how cozy it was to have almost a dozen other young men including a sixteen year old cousin to keep an eye on them all sleeping in one big room.
Bad dreams and night terrors would be a small worry here.
His new best friend Ronald slept on the bunk next to him with David lying between them on the floor.
Jessie thought that it had been a very satisfying day. .....RVM45
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Post by rvm45 on Jul 22, 2014 9:47:03 GMT -6
Chapter Three
June 2007
“I wish that I could stay here permanently,” Tyrone said.
Tyrone was Deacon’s cousin on his mother’s side of the family. He had a reputation for being a bit lazy—which bothered Deacon very little.
“Tyrone” sounded European or upper crust—or black, which Tyrone was definitely not. His mother had gotten the brain cramps when it came time to name baby Tyrone. Both his older brothers had good solid working class names and both of them had grown up to be millionaires and misers as well as being stuck-up wasters of perfectly good oxygen.
Tyrone had followed a different life path. He kept a pick-up truck and he hauled waste and salvaged old motors, electric appliances and refrigerators. When he couldn’t fix a fan or an icebox, he salvaged the copper.
He did handyman work for his landlord in exchange for some of his rent and he only worked hard enough to keep the wolf away from his door. Now that Tyrone was almost sixty, it was getting harder to make ends meet.
“So stay. What’s stopping you?” Deacon said indifferently.
“Didn’t want to overstay my welcome,” Tyrone said.
“What welcome?” Deacon asked him.
“Are you serious? I can just move in with you?” Tyrone asked.
“Why not? You’re kin. We can use an all-around handyman like you occasionally—nothing too strenuous. We’ll put you on the payroll and of course room and board is thrown in. There’s good hunting and fishing around here too,” Deacon said.
******************* ******************* *************************
“It’s good to see you guys again,” Jessie said to Ronald and Isis.
Jessie and Ronald were thirteen years old that summer and Isis was twelve. David was a happy memory by then but his granddaughter Esmeralda was the siblings’ constant companion.
They swam and rode horses together. Jessie had his own .22 rifle now. He had a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum too, but the laws being what they were he could only take it to the range if his father went along.
Ronald also had a .22 rifle and he had a double-barreled 12-gauge shotgun. Isis had a .22 rifle, a single-shot 20-gauge and a very nice cut-down youth-sized double-barreled 28-gauge. They all had their own bows and arrows now too and Jessie had a crossbow as well.
Jessie’s father had a whole month’s vacation now and they also came down for a couple or three of three-day weekends every year. Jessie had also convinced his father to let him go deer hunting in the fall.
****************** ******************* ***************************
There was a surprisingly well-equipped tool room in one of the outbuildings. There were a couple of expertly reconditioned LeBlond lathes, a big South Bend lathe, three Bridgeport mills and several lesser Chinese machines.
The place had its own three-phase generator and there were enough lumens of light in the shop to do brain surgery.
Very laid back about most things, Deacon insisted that the machine shop be kept in a clean and relatively uncluttered state.
There were a couple Master Tool and Die Makers who’d have otherwise been unemployed in the modern world, a few part-time retirees and several apprentices working because they loved machining.
There were far more people than needed, get right down to it and time sometimes weighed heavy on their hands.
Deacon hoped that most folks would just write it off as a form of WPA for kinfolk. In point of fact, Deacon believed that if there was to be any hope of a recovery from the impending collapse, that there would be a crying need for machine tools and men to operate them, welders, electricians, millwrights and other skilled labor.
His machine shop was held in trust against an uncertain future.
Given the circumstances, he almost encouraged his machinists to take on “Government Work”.
Several small businesses in the area managed to stay solvent largely because of parts that Deacon’s machine shop made them for nothing or for a very nominal fee. Word got around and the small town folks thought of Deacon as a good neighbor.
He was filthy rich. He was an eccentric as all Hell and there was a consistent rumor that he and Marshall had been “significant others”—which was complete nonsense. The locals had no way of knowing that though. More noteworthy was their complete unconcern.
The days of Clans had also been the days of good neighbors.
******************** ********************** ***********************
Tyrone had gotten a hold of a reproduction of the 1926 Goodell-Pratt catalog and a few assorted pieces of their small treadle-driven metal lathes.
There were many sets of plans floating around for good treadle-driven wood lathes, but none for metal lathes.
Tyrone wanted a metal lathe to work metal and nothing else would satisfy.
There was nothing magical about the Goodell-Pratt lathes, but they’d been a good solid value at the time and accurate enough for most work.
Tyrone had applied himself for years, to designing an improved version of the old Goodell-Pratt lathe that could be fabricated fairly easily. Along the way he’d made a number of improvements.
He showed the machinists his dozens of carefully dimensioned drawings for his project.
The machinists had notified Deacon because they would have to invest many man-hours in the project and they didn’t want to get into trouble.
“Why Tyrone? You’re more than welcome to use any of the equipment here. If you can’t run something, I’ll get someone to teach you,” Deacon said.
“I don’t want to make things on a big electric lathe and mill. I want to make things on a small man-driven machine,” Tyrone said.
“What are you going to build with the lathe and milling attachment?” Deacon asked.
“I’ll show you when I get my lathe,” Tyrone retorted.
Deacon looked a long time at Tyrone’s treadle lathe when it was completed.
“How many of these can we make and stockpile, if you all work on it when you’re not too busy?” Deacon asked his shop foreman.
“It wouldn’t be near as much trouble now that we have a prototype. A lot of the parts can be batch processed. Some of the screws can be ordered more economically than we can build them—if time, electricity and wear and tear on the machines counts for anything,” the foreman said.
“Don’t make it a chore, but start turning out a few. What say, in batches of two-dozen. When we get too many, I’ll have to decide if I want to build a small warehouse to hold more of them.
“But I’m serious, don’t work too hard okay?”
“What will you do with so many man-powered lathes?” the foreman insisted.
“If things got really bad, being able to give or sell those lathes to folks trying to build a new industrial society might speed the recovery immensely,” Deacon said.
“I always thought that you were some sort of survival nut.”
“Keep it to yourself. Would you do that for me?” Deacon asked.
“Even if I didn’t agree with your analysis, I owe you. All of us do,” the foreman said.
******************** *********************** ***************************
June 2009
This year as Jessie and his family drove into Cousin Deacon’s farm, there was a big church building on the property.
Jessie was very hungry from the trip and he was looking forward to some of Aunt Cookie’s good victuals.
It was a happy-making thing when he ran into his friends grabbing a rather late lunch.
“What’s with the church building?” Jamie asked.
“The bishop took away Elder Henry’s church. They say that Cousin Deacon started building the church house the very next day,” Isis happily gossiped.
“It’s a very big building. The baptismal is the size of an indoor swimming pool. Funny thing is, for a building that big—a tall man can reach up and touch the ceiling.
“Cousin Deacon said that one church he went to when he was a small boy was an old converted corner grocery store and it had a very low ceiling. He said that low ceiling made the place feel homey and comfortable.
“He said that high vaulted ceilings are alright for those who like them, but since God is everywhere, a high ceiling won’t get you any closer to him.
“Bishop gave Elder Henry permission to organize a church. They were meeting in Elder Henry’s garage and no one in the denomination thought that it was worth protesting because no one thought anything would come of it.
“Then Cousin Deacon offers to lease the building to Elder Henry—not to the denomination, but to Elder Henry—for one dollar per year.
“He went and told the bishop that if anyone from the denomination gave Elder Henry any more grief, that he’d pay him a salary to pastor an independent church on Cousin Deacon’s land.
“They say that bishop hates Cousin Deacon, but what can he do?” Isis said.
“Eating with the help?” Gerald Rodgers The Third asked his cousin Jessie as he joined them at the table.
Gerald was a couple years older than Jessie and he dressed and talked as yuppie as possible. He even wore a cravat betimes and he acted as if Cousin Deacon’s farm was an exclusive country club and he was the only full-fledged member.
One of Jessie’s friends had the interesting ability to vomit at will. Like many adolescents, the macabre and the gross sometimes intrigued Jessie. He’d worked very hard at it, but he’d never been able to bring up more than a medium sized mouthful at one time.
That was all he needed to thoroughly discombobulate Gerald as he sprayed vomit into his hair and food tray.
“So sorry,” he told Gerald as he used a paper napkin to rub the vomit deeper in Gerald’s clothes under the guise of helping.
“I must still be a little car-sick from the ride up here,” Jessie apologized.
Jessie left the table with Ronald and Isis tagging along.
“I’m going to wash my mouth out in the restroom,” Jessie said.
“Would one of you get one of those big paper cups and fill it full of vanilla soft-serve ice cream for me?
“Every time I do that it sets my esophagus on fire,” Jessie commented.
“You did that on purpose?” Isis demanded incredulously.
“Righty-right,” Jessie said mocking Gerald’s tone and stiff facial expression.
The three of them had a huge laugh about that.
“Silly twit!” Jessie grumped.
“He’s lucky that I didn’t cold-c*** him.”
“He’s got a couple years and eighty pounds on you and he has a black belt in Tae Kwon Do,” Ronald said.
“Isn’t that special!” Jessie said.
************************* ****************** *********************
“What have you been making all this time with your treadle-driven lathe?” Deacon asked Tyrone.
“I thought that you’d forgotten about me,” Tyrone said.
“Nah, I just been giving you space,” Deacon said.
“Come to my display room,” Tyrone said.
Tyrone handed him a small revolver.
“Is it an old H&R Breaktop?” Deacon asked. “Look closer. I made that gun from scratch. I bought a rifled barrel for it, though I could have rifled my own. I also bought a few ready-made screws, pins and springs for it.
“Its all 4130 and 4330 chrome-moly steel—except the barrel, of course. God knows what they made that out of.
“It’s a five-shot .32 ACP. No one makes a five shot .32, but only a North American Arms Derringer in .22 would be more compact. It’s the same size as an old .32 S&W short, but the .32 ACP is both more powerful and more readily available.
“I engraved it and I nickeled it. The trigger and hammer are gold plated. Those grips are giraffe bone.
“See those topazes set in the frame? I cut them myself—otherwise I couldn’t afford them.
“Did you ever see those high art knives in the knife magazines? I wanted to make guns—revolvers—like that.
“I have some five and six-shooters in .38 Super and .40 S&W. I even have five-shooters in .45 ACP. Each caliber is exactly as big as it needs to be and no bigger.
“Some have gold and silver inlays. Some are niter salt blued. Some are bright chrome.
“I have some grips in stag and horn. I even located a few mussel shells large enough to make mother-in-law-of-pearl grips,” Tyrone said proudly.
“Are they all H&R clones?” Deacon asked.
“Nah, I’ve made some reproductions of the old Forehand and Wadsworth Swamp Angel and some Remington Derringer knock-offs.
“Check these out,” Tyrone said.
Deacon examined a small double-barreled pistol that looked like a miniature Road Warrior Shotgun and another that looked like a miniature sawed-off pump shotgun.
“Those are both in .32 ACP. I make a larger Howdah double barrel in .45-70 or .500 S&W magnum.
“As long as I only make them for my own use, I’m cool with the law. I can even sell or give one away occasionally, as long as there is no pattern of doing it continually or for profit.
“You can have the little .32 H&R copy,” Tyrone said.
“These are so beautiful,” Deacon said.
“I’ll get you some mammoth ivory, fossil walrus ivory and oosic, exotic wood, semi-precious stone—whatever. You don’t deny true artists materials.
“Tyrone, would you mind showing a couple of the young men your techniques?” Deacon asked.
“I don’t mind, but what I’d really like to would be a photographer, someone good with computer graphics and a typist. I’d like to make a how-to book,” Tyrone said.
***************** ********************** **********************
“Why are you following me,” Isis demanded.
“I’ve seen you looking at me,” Gerald said.
“If I did, it was only to wonder how you got to be so conceited,” Isis said.
Gerald grabbed her. He ripped off her shirt and then her brassiere.
“Go ahead and shout. No one will hear you out here in the woods. Afterwards, who do you think they’ll believe? Gerald Rodgers The Third or the cook’s bastard whelp?”
Actually, someone had heard Isis scream. Jessie had agreed to meet her in the woods that night—though both of them were highly nervous about their rendezvous—though they meant for it to be innocent.
“Let her go Gerald,” Jessie said.
“I suppose I ought to warn you that I intend to hurt you,” Jessie told his cousin.
Jessie had been taught to go into a fight clowning and acting the fool. Then when the client is distracted, kick him in the yarbles or break his kneecap or something.
Jessie did a comic shuffling of his feet. He held his fists awkwardly and thumbed his nose like a goofball several times. Then he assumed one of the silly stances from some Victorian primer on pugilism.
Somehow though, he seemed to barely avoid all of Gerald’s power-packed punches and kicks.
Gerald might not have even known what ginga was. He certainly didn’t notice when Jessie started to ginga.
Jessie unleashed a flurry of kicks. He made heavy use off the Capoeira style kicks that gained extra momentum from leaning forward and resting one hand on the ground to add extra force to the spinning kicks.
Gerald was flummoxed, particularly since he’d gone into the fight expecting an easy victory.
Finally Jessie used one of his favorite moves—the chapeu de couro. He knocked Gerald half senseless with the kick to the head launched from the ground.
Jessie threw a punch that thoroughly distorted Gerald’s nose.
“Take off your shirt,” Jessie told him.
“What?”
Jessie slapped Gerald hard enough to snap his head to one side.
“Take off your shirt. You’ve torn Isis’ shirt off and I won’t have her go back to the compound half naked,” Jessie said.
The pain and the punches must have addled Gerald’s mind, because it took several slaps to prod him into taking off his shirt.
“Here,” Jessie told Isis.
“I don’t want it. It’s all bloody and dirty,” Isis said.
“Damn, instead of slapping Gerald into a stupor, I could have had a V-8,” Jessie said.
He tore Gerald’s shirt into several pieces just on general principles. Then he doffed and offered his own shirt to Isis.
“I’ll kill you someday,” Gerald said.
“It’s possible. Parasites, leeches and filthy bacteria kill human beings every day. That means that even you have a shot dude,” Jessie said.
“How did you beat him?” Isis asked.
“I have a black belt in Judo. I have some boxing training and I’m first at my roda at Capoeira,” Jessie said.
“Gerald is arrogant and a bit inflexible—physically and mentally. Besides, I’m the nicer guy.”
“Just barely. You slapped him around like a stepchild,” Isis said. .....RVM45
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Post by kaijafon on Jul 22, 2014 15:53:01 GMT -6
Thank you! you hit a button on me with the "clan". my family is all over the place and none of us are close at all.
it's a sad thing.
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Post by papaof2 on Jul 22, 2014 16:28:04 GMT -6
My wife's family has been doing a 'reunion' for a number of years. When you consider the number of 'kin' who don't have the patriarch's last name, I think the family would probably best be called a clan.
Before his death, her grandfather was one of the 'movers and shakers' that got it together, then that role fell to some of her aunts. With one aunt left, the mantle has fallen to one of my wife's male cousins. There were about 30 people there this year. With people scattered all over (Ohio, D.C., Georgia, Tennessee, Alabama), it's hard to find a weekend when everyone can be togeher. The've tried to keep it he same weekend from year-to-year, but the schedule is subject to change depending on facilities being available (the group is too big for anyone's house and there is no longer a farm in the family where people could set up simple shelters (screen tents) for everyone to socialize).
I found one of my wife's younger cousins on Facebook and she hadn't known about the reunion. She plans to be there next year (probably with spouse and perhaps kids/grandkids).
Some of my more distant family had reunions in the 80's, but an 800 mile round trip over a weekend wasn't do-able with two kids under 10. (I did have the opportunity to get back at one of my adult children. The first time I rode in the back seat of her car, I asked "Are we there yet?") Been nice to have had enough vacation to have made the reunion every few years, just to have people to keep in touch with. After I retired, I tried to contact the family of the person who had organized the reunion in days gone by, but got no response (even to paper mail, and didn't get a forwarding address from USPS).
Sent from my IdeaTabA2109A using proboards
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Clan
Jul 23, 2014 17:44:20 GMT -6
Post by ydderf on Jul 23, 2014 17:44:20 GMT -6
Seems to me a group (2+ people) of like minded individuals aiding abetting and helping one another to reach goals(be they similar or dissimilar goals)defines family. The key point is in the helping of each other. Helping because the help is necessary(in reaching a goal)and an integral part of the friendship is important.
As my mother used to say you can choose your friends your family you are stuck with. Therefore a successful friendship is much more important then blood relations. If we have relatives who are also good friends we are very fortunate.
Anyway the reason I started to write was to say thank you, so here it is Thanks for posting.
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Post by rvm45 on Jul 29, 2014 15:20:14 GMT -6
Chapter Four
June 2012
Isis was working part time in the kitchen to make some folding money when Jessie walked up behind her and tapped her gently on the shoulder.
“Do you remember me?” he asked her.
Isis was both overjoyed and astonished.
“Jessie! I haven’t seen you since…how have you…why…” she said.
She was trying to ask too many questions too quickly and as a consequence, her tongue and her thoughts were tripping all over themselves.
“I’ll explain it all to you when you get a break,” he promised.
“I’m on break now,” Isis said.
She hollered at one of the other kitchen workers across the room and made a throat cutting gesture with her thumb, signaling that she was through for the day. Her fellow worker waved her off negligently.
Deacon had never cared for jobs where one must work frantically like a man trying to bail out a leaky rowboat during a typhoon, knowing that every time he missed a stroke that his boat would inevitably sink a little lower in the water.
He hired enough workers so that everyone could have a laid back and easy job and he paid very well too. It might not be an economic way to run a business, but he was running a business only as a front for his survival retreat.
He’d had shortfalls in the short term, and without Marshall’s reserve fund to cover such things, he’d have really had to scramble and perhaps made disadvantageous loans or some such to tide him over. Surprisingly though, given his open-handed brand of stewardship, the farm was solidly into the black over the long term.
And everyone was happy except those annoying and inscrutable folk who “like to stay busy.”
So no one really cared if Isis left early. ********************** ********************** ********************
“I had no idea, but my mother and father hadn’t been getting along. That fight that I had with Gerald brought it all to a head.
My mother had the audacity to tell me that instead of beating Gerald up that I should try to emulate him. So I say:
‘“So you want me to rape, or try to rape young girls?”’
“And she slapped my face and told me that I knew very well what she meant. That’s the only time that she ever slapped me.
“My parents got a divorce. She got custody of me and took me back to Kalifornicationstan—where she was born—with her,” Jessie said.
He had to stop as Isis thought that his name for The People’s Republic was comical and she laughed too hard for him to go on for a few moments.
“What?” Jessie said in puzzlement and a bit of annoyance.
“Anyway, I got to spend summers with my father, but he was court-ordered not to bring me here,” Jessie said.
“Why do you always say: ‘My father’ and ‘My mother’?” Isis asked.
“It sounds rather stiff and formal.”
“Well I always called them ‘Mommy’ and ‘Daddy’ and some folks seemed to find that ridicule worthy, so I call them ‘Father’ and ‘Mother’ when I speak of them in the third person.
“That’s what I was taught to call them when I was a small boy. One day, when I was like ten years old, I heard one of my little friends call his mother ‘Mom’ and I laughed him to scorn.
“What horrible thing could the poor woman have possibly done to merit being demoted from ‘Mommy’ to a mere ‘Mom’.
“My father overheard and he said that my friend was right. He said that a boy my age who still said “Mommy” sounded like a hillbilly.
“That really set me off.
“Hillbillies say, ‘Mammy’ not ‘Mommy’, says I.”
“Same thing,” he says.
“He had a bit of a hearing impediment. I don’t know if they sounded the same to him or if he meant they were equivalent.
“Anyway, I say that he’d never told me that I was supposed to spontaneously demote my mother when I got to a certain age.
“He said that I shouldn’t have to be told everything. He said that I should just pick up some crap implicitly, by cultural osmosis, if you will.
“I told him that was just wrong! Expecting anyone to pick up anything, anywhere or anytime implicitly by cultural osmosis was flat out wrong,” Jessie said.
“Did he use words like ‘osmosis’ and ‘implicitly’ when you were ten years old?” Isis asked.
Jessie looked askance at her. He was trying hard to tell her about the last three years of his life and she kept interrupting his narrative flow with off-the-wall irrelevancies.
“My father wasn’t particularly literary and his vocabulary wasn’t that precise. I certainly used those words when I answered him back though,” he rushed to finish his thought before being interrupted again.
“So anyway, I made it a point of honour to always address her as ‘Mommy” after that—right up until the day she slapped me.”
“What did you call her after that?” Isis asked.
“Nothing, I never spoke to her again,” Jessie said.
“You lived with your mother for three years out in California and you never spoke to her?”
“She slapped me. She said that I should be more like Gerald. She fixed it so I couldn’t come here for summer vacation.
“She divorced my father because she wanted him and me to be more middle-class, more bourgeois. She sent me to some fancy private school in Kalifornicationstan to try to turn me into a preppy or a yuppie or whatever.
“No, I have nothing to say to her, now or ever,” Jessie said.
“How did she react when you refused to speak to her?” Isis asked.
“She sent me to see a psychiatrist. After I refused to speak to him the first three sessions, he threatened to commit me to a mental hospital.
“He said that once there, he could put enough bad write-ups in my file to where it would take me decades to be released—maybe never,” Jessie said.
“What did you do?” Isis asked wide-eyed.
“Nothing. The old bastard committed me and I’m an escaped mental patient even as we speak,” Jessie said.
Then having gotten a huge rise out of Isis, he went on to say:
“Not really. I spoke to him once. I told him that secular humanism is a heathen religion. I told him that he was simply a witch doctor. I told him that being a slave to avoid being locked away isn’t freedom and that if he had the juice to have me committed, then he should have at it,” Jessie said with some satisfaction.
“So what have you done the last three years?” Isis asked.
“I went to yuppie school. I wore their damned tie and their preppy little blazer—and I vow by everything holy that I will never wear a tie or tuck my shirttail in my pants again, even on pain of torture or death.
“I spoke to the teachers when they spoke to me. I paid attention and mastered my lessons diligently. Then on test day, I’d score a perfect zero.
“On a multiple choice test, that takes knowledge. Take it at random, in ignorance, and you’re bound to get a few right by accident.
“They had me take the SAT three times and three times I got a perfect zero,” Jessie said.
“You sound proud,” Isis noted.
“I am. I’m eighteen years old and already I’m completely derailed from the bourgeois train tracks,” Jessie said.
“What will you do now?”
“Hang around the family farm and take advantage of the free room and board. I want to be an Artist and maybe preach the Gospel.
“Maybe Cousin Deacon will hire me part-time I can afford some Art supplies,” Jessie said.
********************** ********************* *********************
“Cousin Deacon says that you can use an Artist,” Jessie said to Tyrone.
“I don’t mind prostituting my talent within reason, but I refuse to do hack work,” Jessie added.
Tyrone rustled beneath a counter and came out with a medium-sized wooden box or case.
“Examine the box,” he said.
The box was finest cocobolo. It had a row of tiny finger joints at each corner. There was a multi-pointed star like one sees on a compass, made of contrasting woods seamlessly inlaid in the lid. There was a long brass piano hinge across the back and bright polished latches on the front.
“Tell me what you think of that box,” Tyrone said.
“That is the most excellent Craft,” Jessie said.
“James Krenov would have been pleased to have created this. Its right up there in that rarified region where Craft—in and of itself—begins to become Art,” Jessie said.
“I made that box myself,” Tyrone said.
“I’m glad that you like it, but as Miyamoto Musashi said, the flower shouldn’t overshadow the fruit. Look inside,” Tyrone continued.
There were two short fat revolvers inside. They reminded Jessie somewhat of the old Royal Irish Constable revolvers.
“Ever see an old H&R Autoejector—the breaktop revolvers?” Tyrone asked.
“They were fairly good guns, but most of them that one comes across are going on a hundred years old. You could really take the design and run with it, with modern coil springs.
“Even if you stick with the old flat springs, you can make much more durable and reliable ones with modern metallurgy.
“I leave out the single action stuff. Few things are more useless than single action capability in a double action revolver and it saves me three or four parts.
“The design is quite amendable to being scaled up. Those are two five-shot topbreaks in .45 ACP.
“Go ahead and take them out to look at. Cycle them if you want to. I have no use for the type ninny that doesn’t want a line scribed around his cylinder,” Tyrone said.
Jessie took one carefully out of the black velvet lined box. The guns had been powder coated. One was a beautiful neon lime green florescent while the other one was a deep violet.
The green revolver had horn grips while the purple one had white bone grips.
Jessie broke open the green gun and extracted five .45 cartridges in their own five round moon clip. He smiled to himself.
All guns are always loaded.
Meanwhile, Tyrone breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been poised to yell and/or step behind the wall, but when Jessie passed the test, he didn’t have to.
“That’s more a presentation peace,” Tyrone said.
“That powder coating is beautiful, but it isn’t the most durable finish around. It’s not bad, but not the toughest. For that you want nickel or chrome.
“I made everything on or in those guns excepting a few screws and pins. Last few years I’ve even been making my own barrels,” Tyrone said.
Jessie handed him his leather portfolio with a few of his drawings.
“Can you do mechanical drawings? Exploded Isometric? How about rendering? How are you with watercolor?
“What I really want is for someone to do the illustrations for a very detailed how-to book about building revolvers. Can you do that?”
********************* ******************** **********************
“Jessie, you are one of those folk who are just never going to get ahead or amount to much in life,” Ronald said.
“Prob Lee,” Jessie replied. “Prob Lee.”
“You know that Isis is in love with you, don’t you?” Ronald asked.
“No. How would I know something like that, even if it were true. Is it true?” he asked Ronald.
Jessie more than half suspected that his long-time friend was playing a joke on him.
“You beat the daylights out of your own cousin for her sake,” Ronald said.
“Well gee, I’d have done the same if he’d been trying to rape you,” Jessie said.
“Are you splayed?” Ronald asked suspiciously.
“Hell no! How does not wanting to see my friends violated make me a pervert?”
“You don’t look at anything the same way a normal person would, do you?”
“Why thank you Ronald. What a nice compliment!” Jessie said.
******************* ******************** ***********************
November 2017
The government had issued a list of things that preachers were not allowed to say from behind the pulpit—lest they be cast into gaol, their church house confiscated and their congregation scattered.
Elder Henry went down the list and made each of the proscribed “Hate Speech” declarations.
“You know saints, I never felt a strong leading to preach against most of these things—at least not very often. I figured that y’all knew these things were wrong without me belaboring the obvious.
“But since the government tries to gag my preaching, I feel a need to defy them.
“They threw Daniel in the lion’s den, but that didn’t keep him from roaring,” the old man preached.
*************** ********************** **********************
“Henry, you’ve preached in that fine church house that I built you almost twenty years.
“I’ve never tried to influence what you preach, but I’m going to try to now.
“Do you know what will happen if you continue to defy the Hate Speech laws? Gentlemen with guns will come to take you to gaol.
“Now I know that the good book says that the weapons of our warfare aren’t carnal…
“But I will take up arms and they will have to kill me to arrest you. I flatter myself that when wurst comes to wurst, that many of the Clan will stand with me.
“On something like this, the neighbors may even weigh in. That Baptist preacher that you like to argue fine points of doctrine with would probably try to aid you.
“You know that you can preach those things to small informal gatherings—as long as it is not in the church house. I’ll provide some empty barn bays or something.
“You’re also allowed to say those things in private conversation.
“If you strongly feel that God is leading you to proclaim these things from your pulpit—well then, you have to follow God rather than man—even your landlord and benefactor.
“But please, pray long and hard about it first and try to warn me ahead of time if you will.
“Marshall and I built this place as an Ark of safety for the Clan and I suspect that we’ll all be needing it soon,” Deacon said.
“It is an Ark for your Clan,” Elder Henry said.
“Yes it is. Do you not realize that everyone of my workers and every member of your congregation is a member of this Clan—our Clan?”
.....RVM45
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Clan
Jul 29, 2014 18:42:17 GMT -6
Post by kaijafon on Jul 29, 2014 18:42:17 GMT -6
Thank you!!
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Clan
Aug 4, 2014 11:14:07 GMT -6
Post by ss1442 on Aug 4, 2014 11:14:07 GMT -6
Thank you, great story. Keep it coming.
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Clan
Aug 4, 2014 16:24:45 GMT -6
Post by crf78112 on Aug 4, 2014 16:24:45 GMT -6
Great premise, great writing.
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Clan
Aug 4, 2014 18:13:18 GMT -6
Post by kaijafon on Aug 4, 2014 18:13:18 GMT -6
Ok, it's August, you can post some MOAR now!!
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Post by rvm45 on Aug 6, 2014 14:37:29 GMT -6
Chapter Five
December 2019
Jessie sat with Cousin Deacon in Deacon’s study. He’d grown up thinking of the older man as kin. Sometimes it jarred Jessie to realize that the man was no relation to him at all—not even an in-law by marriage.
Cousin Marshall who’d been Deacon’s partner and the one who’d financed the farm had been his father’s fourth cousin, but they’d been close for all of that.
You couldn’t say that Cousin Deacon had betrayed Marshall’s charter. There were twenty families that were regular guests at the farm who were no more relation to Deacon than Jessie was, but they’d been kin to Marshall.
Deacon and Marshall were second cousins, so another thirty or thirty-five or so families were some sort of kin to Deacon as well as Marshall. There were also cousins of Deacon’s who hadn’t been related to Marshall at all.
Then there was a bewildering array of black people from Deacon’s church. Some of them—like Isis’ mother—had been there from the very beginning and had become institutions on the farm.
The members of Elder Henry’s congregation played a big part in the overall scheme of things.
“What would you like for Christmas Jessie?” Deacon asked him.
“I’d like another top quality commercial grade printer, a couple more tons of archival paper, more ink and art supplies. I’d also like at least two more part-time bookbinders,” Jessie said.
“I think I can get most of that for you, but that’s for your job. I meant what would you like personally?” Deacon said.
“A Ford van—an E 350 and black as midnight. A nice Stetson hat with a Cherokee brim and a new revolver,” Jessie said.
“What kind of revolver?” Deacon asked.
Jessie had to think a moment, since he was improvising on the spur of the moment.
“One of those Smith and Wesson revolvers in .500 S&W Magnum with about a six inch barrel,” Jessie said.
“Is that all?”
“Nah, I want one of those Browning Auto-Fives—make sure that it’s a beater because I wouldn’t want to bollix a nice old gun—and I want it all set up as a legal Whippet,” Jessie said.
“Not that I’m likely to get any of those things,” Jessie said while laughing a little.
*********************** *********************** ************************
The farm was getting to be a bigger and bigger pain in Deacon’s backside.
There were more rules and taxes and regulations for Deacon to deal with almost every month. And society kept failing to do the rapid fade to black thingy that would have allowed Deacon to take off the gloves and run the place as a bare-knuckled survival combine.
Unemployment was ridiculous—whatever the cooked government statistics said—and even the official statistics would have been worrisome. Food prices were very high. Even middle-income families had to make red meat an occasional treat—along with fresh fruits and vegetables.
Few people actually went to bed hungry—at least no more than there had always been. More people than ever were getting by largely on rice, potatoes, beans and pasta—along with some instant milk, salt, pepper, sugar, oats and flour—at least more than at any time since the great depression.
Gasoline was very high. Folks stayed home as much as possible and car-pooled when they couldn’t stay home. Everyone was keeping their vehicles years longer than they ever had before. Furnaces were set at sixty or sixty-five in the winter and folks sat around their homes bundled like ice fishermen.
The hard times hadn’t brought about any return to traditional values. If anything, the privation seemed to spur many on to ever-greater licentiousness and dissolution.
Less than forty percent of the public school system graduates could read at a third grade level in the modern world.
Alarmists had thought that heroin, cocaine, marijuana, crack cocaine, crystal meth, anabolic steroids and ecstasy all had the potential to destroy society…
That didn’t even address killer bees, anti-depressants, assault rifles, pit bulls and teenaged fight clubs—not to mention giant Burmese Pythons in the Everglades.
The modern drugs were different though.
There was a drug called “Droogie”—either the word “drug” deliberately mispronounced or perhaps from the Russian for compañero.
The drug gave inordinate energy and a feeling of irrepressible optimism—in the early days of its use. The drug did something to the muscles and nerves. You didn’t have to use it long to be stronger than world-class strength athletes.
A nineteen or twenty year old who’d been doing the drug regularly for a couple years would be packing more muscle than a Mister Olympia competitor—without ever stepping into a gym. Some of the users looked like sumos while others looked like bodybuilders—depending on how much fat their individual body was predisposed to carry.
Either type was bad news when hand-to-hand reasoned discourse seemed appropriate.
The drug made people progressively crueler, more impatient, paranoid and neurotic. Twenty-somethings who’d survived six or seven years of regular use had totally worn their bodies out and looked like broken down eighty year olds—grotesquely muscled eighty year olds.
“She-Dog” brought ecstasy to females while turning them into insatiable and homicidal nymphomaniacs.
There were half a dozen or more drugs that were reputed to increase one’s psychic powers. You read about folks breaking the bank at some big casino while using one of the drugs about once a month and you read about a less fortunate user going kamikaze with guns or swords or knives about twice or more every month.
It didn’t take extended use of the psi-tweaker drugs to make some users go on a berserker killing-spree. At least the tweakers didn’t seem to be cowards. They were as likely to walk into a police headquarters shooting or to assault the armed security guards at the gated communities as to attack school children or shoppers.
The banzai charges caused all sorts of anti-gun breast-beating in Congress and the state legislatures, but things were so obviously falling apart that the populace fiercely resisted any further encroachments on man’s natural rights.
A long-range sniper—or snipers had assassinated three prominent and outspoken anti-gun politicians—if the FBI could be believed. The profilers thought the assassin was a lone woman. If the FBI was right, she was still running around loose in the world.
If the FBI was wrong, then he—or they—were still free.
Meanwhile, the casinos made no real effort to turn the psi-tweakers away. The psychic attributes weren’t really proven and far more tweakers lost their stake than broke the banks.
The roads got ever rougher. Bridges were closed where that could be done without creating too many traffic jams. Trains derailed and passenger planes fell from the sky with increasing frequency. Brown outs and black outs also become ever more frequent and long lasting.
Health care was increasingly rationed and second rate under the socialized medical system.
Old school general practitioners along with a few surgeons and dentists opened surreptitious black market medical practices—often in deserted and boarded up houses.
Veterinary clinics also became favorite covers for black market medicine.
Often the local laws knew where the clinics were. Sometimes they provided security for the underground clinics. The laws picked up a bit of cash, but a workman is worthy of his hire—even a workman who protects one from street gangs and federal enforcement agents.
The laws also had a weather eye out for when they might have dire need of decent doctors—either themselves or more likely a loved one, or at least a family member.
**************** ********************* ********************
Kesselman had been a law for three years now. He liked the idea of helping people, but that wasn’t a big factor in his choice of career. Fact was, modern day laws hurt the common people by being the enforcers of ridiculous regulations just about as much as they helped them by trying to keep a lid on theft and violent crime and by shooting down the occasional mad-dog-in-the-streets type killers.
Law enforcement was one of the few careers that offered steady work and scope for advancement. Also, Kesselman liked guns—a lot. He didn’t much cotton to the idea that “Some are more equal than others”—but so long as that system reigned; Kesselman would just as soon be one of the “More Equal” than one of the “Less Equal”.
Recently though, Kesselman got an offer to do security work for the local black market medical center. There were drugs there, of course. It was difficult to impossible to run a medical center without drugs.
Many of the drugs were antibiotics or diuretics or other palliative treatments—but there were also painkillers.
Actually, the cocaine and heroin on the streets was so pure in some of the better examples, that the doctors refined it slightly and used it in their medicine.
Cocaine was the first local anesthetic and absent Novocain or Xylocaine it was still usable for pulling teeth or stitching wounds closed. Heroin or morphine could be cut and rolled into pills for pain or made into strong cough-suppressing syrups.
And where did the doctors get the street drugs? Often they bought them wholesale lots from laws who had access to evidence rooms—and who only brought the purest samples to the underground doctors.
Laws had to have teeth pulled or needed stitches occasionally too. It was good to have an alternative to some of the careless butchers or overworked and harried practitioners of socialist medicine. No, it was never a bad idea to have the right sort of friends.
The presence of drugs brought strong-arm robbers—or it would have, if most fair-sized clinics didn’t have a uniformed pair or two of laws standing by to watch things.
This, Kesselman reflected, was doing something that really did help his fellow man.
He got paid double-time rates—all in cash or kind and tax-free. The clinic was maintained at a comfortable seventy-two degrees and Kesselman didn’t even have to stand.
One of the doctors called Kesselman into the back room.
“Look at these steaks,” Doctor Wilson said in wonder. “One of the patients paid in kind. I remember my father grilling big steaks like these when I was a boy. I want you and your partner to have one.”
Kesselman admired the steak, but he really preferred cash. Doctor Wilson sensed his ambivelence.
“It’s a bonus. There is more than enough steak here for everyone to share in the bounty,” Doctor Wilson said.
“You’re a nice guy Doc,” Kesselman said.
********************* ******************** ***********************
Kesselman had no idea why his superiors had set him up with such a prime job. They had their reasons though.
The local laws were more than happy to take some protection money and let the black market clinics flourish. The clinics were one of the few things that actually made their jobs easier—since people who weren’t totally driven to despair were easier to ride herd on.
The federal laws were another matter altogether. There were whole departments devoted to ferreting out and closing down black market clinics. They had to produce to keep their cushy jobs and if they’d had the slightest reluctance to arrest doctors for helping folks, they wouldn’t have stepped forward and volunteered for such work.
Kesselman’s superiors were about to sacrifice one of their larger and more lucrative clinics to keep the feds off their backs. Since the laws on the scene would be arrested and charged as well, the bosses had selected newer men and men who were not so well liked for scapegoats.
Kesselman was relatively new and being both a loner and someone who flat out refused to take part in some of the extortion schemes, his bosses were quite willing to offer him up.
So just as Doctor Wilson was handing Kesselman a beautiful thick round steak carefully rewrapped in butcher paper, the federal laws came bursting through the entrance.
The federal laws were dressed in black with black Kevlar helmets, ski masks, clear polycarbonate face shields, and hard body armor. Today most of them seemed to be carrying H&K MP5s. On another day they might have had Uzis, M-4s or God alone knew what.
They’d pelted the clinic with flash-bang grenades as well as tear gas canisters but the long narrow entry hallway seemed to have absorbed some of the shock and blast and it seemed to be slowing the spread of the tear gas.
Kesselman opened the door to the clinic and saw the invasion already in progress.
He pushed the kindhearted doctor behind him. His partner came running back toward his partner with his eyes watering from a mild brush with tear gas.
Kesselman carried a custom modified Marlin .30-30 slung muzzle down diagonally across his back. No one cared, but he took a great deal of ribbing for it. His fellow laws thought that it was a rather ludicrous weapon in the modern era.
He demonstrated the power of his unorthodox weapon.
There were five of the black clad laws in the lobby of the clinic, apparently with orders to shoot whatever moved.
No pistol would penetrate the hard body armor. Even a .308 wouldn’t penetrate the thick chest protectors. It was hard to bulletproof a head though—not and leave someone free to move at all well.
Kesselman’s .30-30 wouldn’t penetrate the body armor either and it would have lost most of its velocity penetrating the Kevlar helmets…
But his carbine gave him the accuracy and the power to shoot right through the polycarbonate face shields.
Kesselman fired six deliberately paced shots in about five seconds and four of the five federals dropped. The fifth law seemed to be trying to take his helmet off with both hands when a round from Kesselman’s partner’s shotgun struck the fellow in his left elbow, practically severing the man’s arm.
The partner’s name was “Chow” but he pronounced it “Joe”. He had only been paired with Kesselman for a few weeks. He made good use of his time reloading the short double-barreled shotgun that he carried—just long enough to be legal, though no one cared what NFA weapons that laws chose to carry nowadays.
Kesselman followed suit and reloaded his Marlin with smooth practiced ease.
“What kinda load you using in that shotgun?” he asked Joe.
Kesselman wore his “Hearing Saver” electronic earplugs at all times. They let him hear normally and even had a gain function that he could activate manually, but the cut out loud noises like gunshots. They wouldn’t totally protect him from a flash-bang since some sound came from bone conduction, but they helped.
Joe on the other hand wasn’t wearing plugs and he’d been closer to the flash bang plus he’d just heard six rounds of .30-30 and a double charge of 12 gauge go off in an enclosed space.
“What say?” he said while pointing at his ear.
“What load?” Kesselman shouted.
He didn’t expect Joe to hear, but shouting exaggerated the lip movements. He really didn’t care that much. The question had almost been a nervous reaction to stress.
“Magnum load of buffered plated BB and an extra-full turkey choke insert,” Joe shouted in the bizarre monotone of the deafened.
Kesselman gave his new partner a thumbs-up salute.
They’ll be back in a moment!” Kesselman shouted.
“Remember the Alamo!” He added.
Even Doc Wilson had a gun. It looked like to Kesselman’s tear gas reddened eyes that the doc had an old time nickeled two and a half inch S&W Model 19.
Go Doc!
Doc Wilson stood.
“Come with me,” he shouted while grabbing Kesselman’s arm.
“There’s a hidden exit,” Doc added.
“Yippie-Ki-Ay! Time to didi mau!” Kesselman shouted.
“I’m not Vietnamese,” Joe, whose hearing had come back slightly, said querulously.
“Who said that you were?” Kesselman said puzzled.
“Come on!”
The doctor led them into another room where a nurse who was black was just finishing a rather extensive job of stitching a black teenagers face back together.
“Help me here Thelma,” Doc Wilson said to the nurse.
Together they pushed aside a heavy set of file cabinets to reveal a hole in the concrete floor.
“One of the advantages of being popular is lots of free labor to draw on,” Doc Wilson remarked.
Kesselman locked the door to the examination room and shoved the exam table up against it.
“That won’t hold them long,” Kesselman said.
“It’s a damned shame that we can’t pull the file cabinets back over the hole,” he added.
“Why would you think that a black market clinic would need so many files? We keep our files in our heads,” Doc Wilson said.
“Those files are full of combustibles that should keep anyone out of this room for some time,” Doc Wilson said.
“Everyone into the hole,” he shouted.
Just before he became the last one down the hole, the doctor struck a highway flare and threw it into an opened bottom drawer of one of the filing cabinets.
The tunnel was short. It took them beneath the deserted house next door to the clinic and then surfaced in the house next to it.
Once the odd assemblage climbed the makeshift ladder into the boarded up house they found themselves in the company of a couple more doctors and a pair of nurses—one the nurses was a man named “Dragon” with the build of a serious bodybuilder—or Droogie user—not that a Droogie user could have kept it together enough to be a nurse—or a hamburger chef at McDonalds for that matter.
Nurse Dragon cradled an M-16. God knew what old National Guard or Police armory it had been liberated from. Kesselman spotted a couple pump shotguns, a short double barrel similar in concept to Joe’s and the female nurse who’d been stitching up the teenager snatched up a PPSh 41 with a drum magazine.
The PPSh’s stock and finish were far too nice for it to be military, but it had the short barrel. Thelma slung a sort of bandoleer cross body that had a half a dozen of the seventy-one round drum magazines.
“Good thing that she was well over six foot and stout,” Kesselman thought to himself. “Because that was one Hell of a load.”
“Will that thing rock and roll?” Kesselman demanded of the female nurse.
She looked him right in the eye and nodded defiantly.
“Good. If we need someone to lay down a base of fire, you’re elected,” Kesselman said.
“What about me?” Dragon asked.
“.223 won’t penetrate their hard body armor. I need you to take your time and go for headshots. Can you do that?
“Thema, those 7.62x25 rounds won’t penetrate their aromor either, but their legs aren’t as heavily armored. They couldn’t walk if they were. I want you to concentrate your fire below waist level and don’t hesitate to do bank shots.
“Do you know how to bank shots?” Kesselman asked.
“Sure do,” Thelma said.
There were oversized coveralls to hide the two policemen’s uniforms. The doctors quickly doffed their white smocks. Although it was a bit warm for it, long denim drover coats were the order of the day for folks with long guns to hide.
Doc Wilson led them into the back yard where there was a hidden gate built into the Stockade fence.
They followed an alleyway for the better part of a block until they seized an opportunity to cross the street to yet another boarded up safe house.
“Yeah well,” Kesselman said as they lay around the safe house.
“I suppose that we’re all on the FBI’s “Most Wanted” list. Do y’all have food and water enough for us to stay around here a few days until the heat cools off just a bit?” Kesselman asked.
“Yeah,” Doc Wilson said.
“If we can get out of the country, doctors are in demand in third world countries with few questions asked. If we stick together, we should be able to make out fairly well.
“It goes without saying that there is nowhere we’d be safe in America,” the doctor concluded.
“I don’t know so much about that,” the teenager with a couple hundred stitches in his face said.
“What’s that?” Doc Wilson said.
“My Cousin has been putting together a survival commune for over a generation. He might be able to furnish us with a safe place to stay. I’ll ask him.”
****************** **************** ************************
Deacon weighed the scrambled message that he’d gotten from Scott. Scott was Aunt Cookie’s nephew and he’d grown up spending about as much time at the farm as he did in town with his mother.
Scott’s mother worked hard and tried the best she could. She’d resisted the idea of moving to the farm for a long while, because she was one of those people who are driven to despair by a rural ambience. But she’d often sent her son to stay with her sister who was the head cook.
The boy had grown up calling Deacon “Cousin Deacon” and it never seemed to enter his awareness that Deacon wasn’t truly his cousin.
Now he called asking for asylum for a half dozen medical workers, two compromised laws and himself. His faith in the powers and the goodwill of his “Cousin” was so great that he didn’t seem at all daunted by the immensity of what he asked.
Deacon was torn. He loved the song “I’m Just a Good Ole Rebel” and the idea of defying the federals had him humming it to himself. But as pleasing as the idea of defying The Powers That Be—even surreptitiously—was, he had the fate of many others to consider.
The federals could shut him down overnight and all his kinfolk would be left without a place to get out of the Spritz-Storm when it started hailing fecal material in bushel basket quantities.
After several hours of soul-searching, he reached a decision. .....RVM45 . My sister took five days off work. She needed the respite—but it's her computer and it is very hard to get any serious writing done when she's home—hence the caesura.
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Clan
Aug 6, 2014 15:43:04 GMT -6
Post by ss1442 on Aug 6, 2014 15:43:04 GMT -6
Thank you, the plot thickens.
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Post by rvm45 on Aug 8, 2014 22:25:32 GMT -6
Chapter Six
2021
Deacon made room for the three doctors and three nurses along with the two laws from the clinic.
The fire that the doctor had set had burned long and hot. In fact it had spread and the blaze had largely burnt up several largely deserted and boarded over city blocks. Only a favorable wind direction had spared the nearby safe house bolthole.
There was no trace evidence to conclusively link any of the doctors, nurses or laws to the clinic—nor had the feds even searched the ashes diligently enough to find the tunnel. There were more than enough dikes with gaping holes needing plugging. No time or resources to devote to analyzing one shootout—even one that had cost the feds five operatives.
To be sure, if anyone ever brought it to the government’s attention, it might look suspicious that all eight persons vanished immediately after the shooting.
(Scott and the other patients weren’t even tangentially connected to the clinic.)
On the other hand, people disappeared with increasing regularity and the government made people disappear ever more often as well. Since one sub-branch didn’t necessarily know what the other sub-branches of state were up to, it was a fractious practice to inquire too deeply into such things.
The farm already had a doctor, a nurse and a couple veterinarians working out of a barn semi-regularly. Deacon shrugged and turned the barn into a small hospital. The hospital eventually went three stories into the ground and the underground footprint was far larger than the outside of the rather large outbuilding.
It was impossible to keep such large enterprises completely secret.
“Deacon, a blind man could see that you’re up to something on that farm of yours,” Sheriff O’Leary said.
Deacon shrugged. He might be caught, but he wasn’t going to give anything away. He despised folks who snitched or who even merely confessed to things they’d actually done.
“One of my deputies spotted an IR signature. He thought that you were growing pot in an underground greenhouse. You aren’t growing pot, are you?”
“No, but it’s a thought,” Deacon said.
“Here is a copy of the scan. You might want to insulate better.
“I do a lot to keep you off the fed’s radar. Now I want you to return the favor,” the sheriff said.
“How?”
“Things are bad all over. I don’t have the manpower to cope with every conceivable scenario. Some of these small communities have had to deal with what amounts to full-scale invasion and takeover—by gangs, warlords or cult leaders—whatever.
“Can you arm and train a small cadre of men that I can count on in emergencies?”
“For me to be able to do that, I need something from you,” Deacon said.
“As things stand now, if I send enough able bodied men to your assistance, the farm would be undefended.”
“What do you want?” the sheriff asked suspiciously.
Deacon unrolled a map of his property.
“I want permission from the county to build a small trailer park,” Deacon said.
“I’ll be satisfied with thirty-two trailers now with options up to forty-eight or fifty.”
“Folks say that you’ve been preparing for a collapse. Word is that you have all sorts of hard-times barracks and bunkers underground, hidden in barns or waiting as pre-fabs ready to be slapped together at a moment’s notice,” the sheriff said.
“Lets assume that’s true. How much more obvious could I make it to anyone who cared to observe, just exactly what I am up to than to start housing people there now?” Deacon said.
“I have another bone to pick with you,” the sheriff said.
“They say that you’re running a hospital and health clinic. They say that while you never turn anyone away, that you bleed them for everything that you can get out of them. Why are you so damned greedy? Why take advantage of folk’s misfortune?” Sheriff O’Leary asked.
“I run a hospital. To run a hospital I need drugs—painkillers, antibiotics whatever.
“I need chemicals and sterile sutures and IV solutions.
“We make some of our own stuff. We buy some of it as veterinary supplies. We buy some of it on the black market. A lot of it is expensive.
“If you need ten thousand dollars’ worth of medicine to save your life—hey that’s cool. You’re an okay guy; I’ll okay the expenditure to save you.
“What do I do when the next fellow needs antibiotics, but I’ve used all mine on you?
“If I’m out ten thousand, very rarely will I recoup three thousand from fees. Very few folks have that to spare. I have to make that up somehow—and I’m not.
“I go deeper into my reserves all the time. But if black market medicine is worth having, then it’s worth paying black market prices for,” Deacon said.
“I’ve misjudged you,” Sheriff O’Leary said.
“No you haven’t. I’m cantankerous and reprobate and I contribute to the delinquency of everyone who associates with me—and I’m getting damned weary in my old age.
Deacon leaned over and spoke into his intercom.
“Send me Yao and Kesselman,” he told his secretary.
“Here are two fully trained deputies for you—graduates of the Indianapolis Police Academy. We don’t want that getting around—but I hear you’re really having to scrape the bottom of the barrel for men” Deacon said.
*********************** ********************** ********************
“You guys are going to be my liaison with the sheriff. On my word, I don’t intend to stab him in the back, but I don’t care to leave myself vulnerable either. You guys will be a big help to him, but keep your eyes and ears open and report anything that seems even remotely applicable back to me,” Deacon told the two laws when they were alone.
“How do you know that you can trust us?” Kesselman asked.
“He doesn’t,” Joe said.
“Who watches the watchmen?” Deacon said.
“You’re right though Kesselman—trust no one—including me. Trust Jesus and the Bible and be a bit skeptical of everyone and everything else,” Deacon said.
********************** ********************* ************************
Deacon only had two-dozen families in mind, to move into the trailers—seventeen kin and seven church members—brothers in Christ, so also kin.
Deacon had them all assemble in one of the barns.
“Dudes, Friends and family, O my brothers,” Deacon began.
“I like to think that I’m an easy going guy. There isn’t a one of y’all who wouldn’t be homeless right this moment if it weren’t for my timely intervention.
“I don’t expect praise. When God gives a man far more than he needs, he’s giving him stewardship over it to be used to further God’s Kingdom.
“Thing is though, I am going to set a few rules. No one is going to rim-wreck their trailer or keep your neighbors awake all night.
“I will expect a fair amount of labor from each of you if don’t have a job. There is room for a fair sized garden for each trailer and I’ll expect you all to grow a garden and do a decent job of tending it.
“’Yeah but you got a huge farm Cousin Deacon.’ That’s true. I could just feed you all and to Hell with the individual gardens. I want y’all to learn something about self-reliance though.
“If y’all want to send your kids to public school and you can get them there—they’re your kids.
“If your kids aren’t attending school, we have classes Monday, Wednesday and Friday for half a day. We also have Sunday School and Church on Sunday.
“I won’t tell you adults that you have to attend Church—though I heartily recommend it. Children and adults under eighteen will attend Sunday School and morning services.
“Now are there any questions?”
Deacon had coached a woman with the curious name of Queasy. He knew that he could count on her despite her odd appellation.
“We are rather isolated out here and there is a lot of lawlessness and general meanness going on. Are we safe out here?” Queasy asked.
“No one is ever safe in this world,” Deacon said. “But several of us are armed and skilled with weapons.”
“I think that we should have an armed patrol,” Drum said.
“Yeah, you would say that. You know that no one is going to ask you to patrol while you’re sitting in that wheel chair,” Parrot shouted.
Drum had been a First Sergeant in the US Army infantry until an IED had cost him both of his legs from mid-thigh. Deacon thought that if he had to gamble, he’d still put his money on the old non-com in a rough and tumble against most of the men folk there.
But there was no hostility. Drum and Parrot were both acting out the script that Deacon had given them.
“I have enough weapons to arm eighteen of you. I don’t dare turn you loose as sanctioned security guards without making sure that you’re properly trained.
“Drum, since this is your idea—you are nominated to be the head XO and night shift dispatcher. You’re going to be the man in charge of making up all the duty rosters. Do you think that you can handle that?”
Deacon reached inside his jacket and dramatically drew a big .357 Magnum. It was a Smith and Wesson L-Frame—a nickel-plated seven-shooter with a six-inch barrel.
“I’m giving you one of my best guns Drum. You deserve to be armed and if I give you an issue weapon, someone will say that I’m taking a weapon out of the hands of an able-bodied man,” Deacon said dramatically.
Deacon wasn’t in any danger of running out of guns or even Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum revolvers anytime in the foreseeable future, but it made good theatre.
“What about you, Loud-Mouth,” Deacon asked Parrot—who’d been through Army Ranger training and OCS before being reduced in force out of the military—but he rarely talked about it.
Deacon, Drum and Elder Henry were among the few who knew.
“Yeah, I got to keep an eye on you white folk—keep you honest,” Parrot said while playing his role to perfection.
After that there was a forest of hands.
Deacon selected the seventeen men that he had already discussed with Drum and Parrot. He handed each of them a Ruger Super Blackhawk—a single action .44 Magnum. They all had the standard seven-and-a-half inch barrels and after market nickel finishes.
Too many people had watched too many “shoot-‘em-up” movies and given a semi-automatic pistol it would have been very hard to wean the untrained men from spraying.
Single action was easier to master—though a bit slower. Double action revolvers could be shot single action, but it was a serious breach of protocol to shoot one that way. Single actions were both cheaper and a bit more durable.
Deacon intended on arming his men with semi-wadcutter loads only a little warmer than .44 Special—but since most of them would believe that they were firing the mighty .44 Magnum, they’d be far more likely to settle down and take the time to put their shots on target.
He also handed each man a double barrel 12 gauge with eighteen inch barrels, screw-in chokes and youth stocks that pulled eleven inches even with the modest pad.
“Alright, those black plastic grips that these revolvers come with are crap. I’ve got five sets of stag, three of horn and a couple bone. I’ve got walnut, maple and holly—checkered or smooth.
“I’m going to try hard to get everyone some grips that you will like. If too many of you want the same grips, I’ll have to order some,” Deacon said.
“What if I like these black plastic grips or want some black rubber pachmayers?” Ernie asked.
“Well then, I suggest that you buy you a revolver and stick them on it,” Deacon said.
“Because you are not going to walk around in front of God and everyone else carrying the revolver that I supplied you with some POS synthetic grips,” Deacon ground out angrily.
Drum and Parrot looked at him in surprise. That wasn’t scripted, but one other thing was still on their agenda.
“This isn’t fair,” Queasy protested. “I was the one who brought this to your attention.
“I want to be part of the new security force too.”
“Drum, can you use an assistant? You’re going to need some more dispatchers,” Deacon played along.
“Do any other ladies want to volunteer as dispatchers and assistants?”
Deacon had been planning on adding three women, but he ended up with five enthusiastic volunteers.
He couldn’t very well give them their weapons right then. That would have revealed that he’d been planning on some women soldiers all along.
********************* ********************* *****************
“Are these the troops that you intend too send to the sheriff if things get tense?” Kessselman asked Deacon as he watched his troopers go through their paces.
“Only in direst necessity,” Deacon said.
“Shotguns are less than ideal for that sort of thing. In three or four months I plan to break it to them that they haven’t been shooting full-powered .44 Magnums.
“Eighteen good shots with the seven-and-a-half inch Super Blackhawks with full-powered .44 Magnum loads wouldn’t exactly be negligible in some sort of barricaded street battle.
“I also have the Marlin Carbines in .44 Magnum. I’ll hand them out when they’ve worked with the six-shot revolvers enough to really appreciate the nine shot lever actions.
“I still think that the sheriff needs a larger reserve and they should be armed with full-powered rifle cartridges. If brigands come to take over the town, they’re going to be driving improvised tanks and breaching vehicles. It’ll look like something out of ‘Roadwarrior’,” Deacon said.
“So lets not get caught short. You do have an answer?”
“Yeah, I have an answer. I don’t like it because it involves sending more of my kin into harm’s way,” Deacon said.
“This whole thing sucks,” Deacon said.
“Why do it?” Kesselman asked.
“I’m just about the last of my kind,” Deacon said.
“I’m a Laird. You wouldn’t understand about Lairds—not with a name like ‘Kesselman’. Your friend Joe—Chow Yau—he might understand partially. The Chinese have the rudiments of the Clan system, but only in Scotland and Ireland did the system come to full fruition.
“The Laird—he’s like the Dude what dood. He’s the patriarch and the steward over his whole family.
“Abraham was a Laird,” Deacon said.
“Abraham Lincoln?” Kesselman asked in bewilderment.
“No, not the bloody-handed tyrant! I meant the Abraham in the Bible. Just leave it be. German folk can’t grasp Clans,” Deacon told him.
“’Kesselman’ is my first name. A professor my father admired. My last name is ‘O’Grady’. Now how could you not know that?”
“Once I agreed to accept you into our family, your name didn’t really matter. I’d never thought of it much,” Deacon admitted.
“You accepted me into your family?”
“Of course, you don’t think that we’d put the whole farm at risk for anyone less than family did you?” .....RVM45
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Post by biggkidd on Aug 9, 2014 7:17:32 GMT -6
Good going if more worked together the world would be a better place.
Larry
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Post by rvm45 on Sept 1, 2014 17:26:55 GMT -6
Chapter Seven
2025
“I am extraordinarily tired of this. I’ve lived longer than I ever thought that I would. I want you to start training to take my place when it’s time for me to step down,” Deacon said.
“Why me?” Jessie asked in amazement. “We’re not even related.”
“The Clan is about more than simple kinship. It is about kinship of a far more significant kind. So far as that goes, you have blood ties to a fair portion of the Clan’s families and you and Isis’ children also have blood ties to four-fifths of the church-affiliated Clan members.
“If the Clan persists, it will be one of the Laird and the elder’s jobs to continually reweave the kinship ties, bring valuable outsiders into the Clan and work distant outliers back into the thick of things,” Deacon said.
“What about my library?” Jessie asked.
Jessie tirelessly scanned old books, new books, “E” books, collections of magazines—in short, most any sort of book—into his computer. Then he printed the text and illustrations onto archival quality paper with archival quality ink.
If a how-to book lacked the right illustrations or if a diagram could be profitably colorized Jessie added his own color pencil drawings or watercolor illustrations. He and others also added self-contained annotations.
Jessie illustrated some of the fictional books as well.
Then the books were carefully and skillfully bound in leather covers. The edges of the pages were gold leafed—it added elegance, but it also helped prevent wear and tear on the edges of the pages.
Cheap and obscure paperback novels ready to crumble if not handled carefully were downloaded and printed with the same care and fervor as best sellers.
All the books were a bit on the large side. Big books were more robust and harder to steal. When the day finally came that the print was faded it would be easier to decipher large print.
Technically Jessie was pirating copyrights in some of his editions. So long as he limited himself to a few copies and secreted them in his ever-growing library it was unlikely to be much of an issue.
Generally Jessie felt that anything worth copying at all was worth making at least seven copies of. That meant three to put on the shelves—should the book prove popular—two or three as spares and a back-up copy or two.
A few books that Jessie thought would be very helpful and in demand after a wide-scale collapse got fifty or one hundred copies printed and cached. The library wouldn’t actually be sharing its content with the public until there was a general breakdown in society.
Jessie had a staff of seven full-time assistants as well as a few part-time helpers and unpaid volunteers. He always felt harried and rushed. There were so many books that he wanted to preserve and he could only do so many at a time.
He stored books in a variety of electronic archives. He had enough paper and ink and other essential printing supplies cached that he had hopes of continuing to add titles for a few years after a collapse.
Someday though, the farm would be out of archival paper and ink. Some day the computers, scanners and printers would give out. No electronic system of storage had the proven staying power of books. Hard drives as well as disks broke down and became corrupted eventually.
Some day dedicated scribes might preserve the book’s priceless data by copying them by hand if the dark ages persisted that long.
Jessie’s work was a labor of love performed with a growing sense of urgency. He hated to see any book left behind. Over eighty percent of his output was ruthlessly triaged.
Interestingly enough, almost twenty percent of the content of his output was selected precisely because it had little merit. Social scientists and students of literature might find the library’s catalog of bad romance, pulp detective and lame SF along with crack-brained schemes, philosophies and conspiracy theories to be a wonderful window into a largely forgotten people’s mindset and aesthetic at some distant time.
One couldn’t surmise which trash would prove useful someday—but it stood to reason that it would be something held in low esteem back when—or it wouldn’t be golden trash. In that case, it would just be golden.
“You worried how Tyrone would get his guns built when I suggested the library to you. He’s trained up five full-time journeymen and has a dozen part-time apprentices.
“God willing, you won’t have to step into my shoes for awhile yet. I’ll allocate funds for a couple or three more fulltime bookmakers and some more hardware.
“You can keep a hand in the library even when you’re Laird—but you need to start learning to delegate,” Deacon said.
“I agree in principle, but I’ll need to discuss this with Isis and pray over it,” Jessie said.
“O and Jessie, keep up your illustration work as much as you can, even when you’re Laird. Your art is a form of immortality—for someone as gifted as you are,” Deacon said.
Deacon stood to shake Jessie’s hand as he left the office. Jessie surprised even himself when he embraced Deacon in a hug.
“I love you,” he said.
Neither was embarrassed. Family should love one another and often they never got around to telling one another until it was too late.
********************** ************************** ***************************
2027
“Deacon contracted to train a militia force for me,” the sheriff complained.
“Haven’t we followed through? You have three fifty-four man infantry platoons plus around fifteen extras,” Jessie said.
“They’re all armed with those damned Mosin-Nagants,” the sheriff said.
“Mosins are relatively cheap. Years ago we might have gone with Mausers or Enfields. Either is almost certainly a better all around battle rifle than the Mosins but you can’t find them cheap any longer.
“ Our armorers have put a good wood stock with a pistol grip—to get rid of those ghastly straight stocks—on each Mosin and tuned the trigger pull and the actions.
“You are going to need the penetration of a full-power rifle cartridges in some of the dust-up scenarios we envisioned,” Jessie said.
“Why not ARs or AKs?” the sheriff demanded.
“They’re more expensive and more inclined to jam. Mainly though, it is very hard to break people from wanting to ‘Spray-and-Pray’ when the chips are down and they have a large magazine semi-automatic or automatic weapons on hand. It can and has been done, but it takes more practice and ammo expenditure than we’re able to devote to the militias,” Jessie said.
“Only one platoon of militia comes from your farm,” the sheriff continued his complaint.
“Your town is what, ten or twelve minutes’ drive? You may not have twelve minutes. We may not be driving. We may have to march by then.
“You have a whole platoon of your militia right in town with you and another platoon lives in the surrounding countryside.
“Hey, for all you know the farm may be surrounded and under siege when you need us most,” Jessie explained.
“Why don’t they have pistols or shotguns?”
“We told each group as they trained—we heartily recommend that each militia member buy himself a pistol. A pistol is less than ideal without training and practice.
“We couldn’t justify the expense, training time or the ammo expenditure to present each militia man with a pistol and train him in its use.
“We’ll be more than happy to mentor any militiaman—or anyone else—in the combat use of the pistol. That is if they supply both pistol and ammo.
“As far as shotguns—your militia isn’t going to march anywhere. If I were a militiaman and I envisioned guard or sentry work at night—I’d like to have a short barreled double barrel on hand. Some may want to go with a pump or even a Cruiser.
“Once again, we can’t afford to supply shotguns. It should be enough that we supplied the reconditioned Mosins and the marksmanship and small-unit tactics training.”
“You keep saying that you can’t afford it—but you know damned well that you can,” the sheriff said.
“Yes, in an absolute sense we could—but it would mean less to spend on other things. We have to triage with increasing ruthlessness.
“How many of your constituents have lost their farms lately? The government seems to be deliberately working to put small farmers out of business. You wouldn’t believe some of the regulations that we have to abide by.
“They can’t help but know what we’re up to and they’d love an excuse to shut us down,” Jessie said.
“You know that they can always find or fabricate a reason to shut you down,” the sheriff said. “Why haven’t they moved on you already?”
“They’re weighing whether it is worth the casualty count, cause when they storm the farm there will be sad singing and flower bringing,” Jessie said.
“Maybe you’re right,” the sheriff said and turned to leave.
“One more thing that you can do to protect your town a little better…” Jessie began.
“I’m listening.”
“Do you have some good shots who were perhaps too old to join the militia, or someone who can’t get around well?
“Old deer hunters or marksmen would be ideal—or that guy who shoots metallic silhouettes from a wheelchair,” Jessie said.
Actually the young man in question shot silhouettes from the ground—but he was a paraplegic. The sheriff wasn’t prone to quibble though.
“Snipping and observation towers,” Jessie said. “You don’t want to be too obvious, but you have several churches that wouldn’t look too outré with a big extra tall bell tower.
“One of our people is an architect. He drew up these plans for you. If anyone watches you build them, it will be rather obvious. However once they settle in and weather a bit…”
“How can we afford to build something like this?” the sheriff demanded.
“Times are hard. I think that some of the local contractors would supply you with blocks, bricks, concrete and rebar at cost. We can add in some farm grown food for barter for a portion of the price.
“Round up some of your constituents to donate time. Ostensibly it will be unpaid labor—but the farm will contribute commodities quid pro quo.
“We can also furnish some skilled labor.
“In the meantime, start rounding up your snipers and send them here for some detailed sniping training and training to be good forward observers,” Jessie said.
A new idea started to form in the sheriff’s mind.
“Those ungodly tall grain silos…” he began to say.
“Another thing sheriff. We don’t want to be surrounded by huge corporate owned land. When someone’s in danger of losing his farm—send him to us.
“We can help in all sorts of ways—‘Threshing Party’ labor, food, small under-the-table loans or outright gifts. If all else fails, we can at least buy the land for more than a foreclosure auction would net the family,” Jessie said.
******************** ************************ ****************************
The deputy Joe—or Chow—drove a half-length yellow school bus out to the farm every morning. It was Summer time and the bus wasn’t otherwise employed. The bus used diesel and the farm had a small bio-diesel producing operation so the fuel wasn’t a huge consideration.
The sheriff had some folks learning to be good long-range marksmen. Since the bus had extra seats and the sheriff didn’t like anything to go to waste, he was also sending along thirteen extras to go through militia training. That would give him an extra squad of infantry come what may.
The bus wasn’t handicap accessible though. Myron had his own lift equipped van that also had arm operated controls—but it was gasoline-powered and he found driving down the country roads rather fatiguing so he’d stay for a week or two at a time.
The room that the Clan gave him wasn’t quite as ideal for his use as his home in town, so he brought along his fifteen year old cousin Daniel to serve as an aide.
Daniel wasn’t quite old enough to go through the militia training—at least the liability wary Clan said not. He wasn’t an advanced enough marksman to benefit a great deal from the sniper class—though he sat in on a few classes of both the snipers and the militia just watching the men and women train.
Most of the day though, Daniel was on his own.
That wasn’t a real hardship on the farm though. There was a swimming pool, horseback riding, pellet and archery ranges and craft and woodcraft classes.
The food that they served in the cafeteria was far better quality than he ate at home. Daniel’s mother wasn’t a bad cook, but things were tight and she didn’t have the money for the meat, vegetables and fruits that the Clan grew and largely fed its people with.
That and cheese, cottage cheese, yogurt, ice cream, milk and buttermilk from the dairy as well as plenty of hen eggs as well as both sparrow and pigeon eggs upon occasion.
There were also a fair number of teenagers around.
********************** *********************** *****************
“Did we give you permission to sit at our table?” a big teenager asked Daniel as he sat at the table Daniel had chosen. He had another, slightly smaller partner who also sat across from him.
Daniel was of two minds. If they were joking—all was well and good. If they meant to pick a quarrel though, Daniel wasn’t going to run from two-to-one odds. He wouldn’t have run from five-to-one or one hundred-to-one odds either.
Daniel picked up his fork. If they were trying to humiliate him, after he drove the fork into someone’s eye, they’d simply be trying to kill him and the fellow with one eye would always remember him.
“Its all fun and games until someone loses an eye,” as the old saying goes.
Daniel would sooner lose his life than lose face. When it’s not “fun and games” then it is only about the less important issue of life and death.
“Don’t pay any attention to these trailer-trash white guys,” a young black woman said as she sat down beside Daniel.
“There goes the neighborhood,” the original speaker said.
All three of them laughed uproariously.
The girl took Daniel’s hand.
“For eating, not fighting,” she said.
Somehow she managed to guide Daniels hand to both spear a cherry tomato and then scoop some cottage cheese behind it. Then she moved it within a hand’s breadth of Daniel’s face.
“See? Now eat,” she said as she released Daniel’s hand.
Daniel took the bite while watching to insure that no one tried to knock the fork down his throat when he put it into his mouth.
“My name is S’Aaron. Imagine that you had to read the name ‘Sharon’ and you had a neurotic phobia of all ‘Hs’,” she said.
“Or you could just call her ‘Sharon’,” the smaller teen said.
“If he wants to get both of your faces slapped,” S’Aaron snapped.
“You’re the crippled dude’s cousin aren’t you,” the big teen asked. “By the way, my name is Roderick.”
Seeing the look on Daniel’s face, S’Aaron chimed in.
“We dislike political correctness here. If we mean ‘Crippled’ we say ‘Crippled’. We honor your cousin though. He will contribute more to your town’s defenses in his tower as five or six riflemen on the ground,” S’Aaron said.
“Trailer trash?” Daniel asked.
“Its an old word based on the idea that living in a trailer makes one inferior. Obviously that doesn’t hold here. Everyone living on this farm is kin.
“Roderick and Colin are my cousins,” she said.
Seeing that Daniel looked confused once more, she added:
“I’m Jessie’s daughter. I get my skin color from my mother though,” she said.
So from then on Daniel had three constant companions while he was on the farm—much as Isis and her brother Ronald had accompanied Jessie whenever he visited the farm a generation earlier. .....RVM45
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Clan
Sept 1, 2014 21:01:12 GMT -6
Post by ss1442 on Sept 1, 2014 21:01:12 GMT -6
Thanks, loving this story and the saber too. Speaking of which where can I get me one of those swords that makes me smarter and stronger?
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Clan
Sept 2, 2014 8:17:23 GMT -6
Post by ydderf on Sept 2, 2014 8:17:23 GMT -6
Thanks
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