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Dale Dale's heart leaped with joy when he saw the package on his doorstep. As quickly as he could, he snatched up the box and brought it inside. His eyes were bright. The smile on his face was wide. Inside his garage, Dale tore through the outer packaging. The package was actually three boxes all wrapped together in plain white paper and plastic to make one big box. Dale cleared away the detritus of the outer layer and surveyed his findings. Each of the three boxes was decorated with an American flag and the maker's emblem: crossed cannons over a pyramid of cannon balls. Dale was giddy. He opened the first two boxes. Each contained most of the parts necessary to build a carbine. All Dale needed to finish these kits off into functioning weapons was the lower half of the receiver. Dale smiled and clapped his hands together. The third box also contained parts kits. These were for pistols, and there were four of those kits. Like the carbine parts kits, Dale just needed a frame to build them out into functional weapons. Dale surveyed his treasures. Impressed with his new treasures, he clapped his hands together a second time. The problem now was where to store the kits. Like many American garages, Dale's had been turned into a storage facility. There was no parking a car in this space. It was filled with dusty cardboard boxes and the kind of plastic storage totes you find at box stores. Some of the boxes and bins had labels like, "Christmas Ornaments," "Old Kids' Clothes" and "Easter." Others had no labels at all. Some of these boxes had not been opened in years and neither Dale nor his wife and children had any idea what was inside them. Scattered amongst all this flotsam and jetsam of modern Americana was all of Dale's gun stuff. A variety of ammo cans were stacked in one corner. In another corner sat an old metal gym locker, repurposed as a rifle cabinet. There were more boxes with the cannon and cannonball logo. They were tucked into various nooks and crannies without any apparent rhyme or reason. Against one wall stood a workbench. Its surface was cluttered with tools, gun pieces, and parts of all descriptions. More of Dale's projects. He'd been planning on cleaning out and reorganizing the garage one day, just as he'd been planning on finishing off these gun projects one day. "One day," Dale said to himself. One day. But that day was not today. The gun safe stood next to the workbench. Its door and sides were covered with stickers from across the firearms industry. Children's bicycles and a plastic Christmas tree box blocked the door to the safe. Dale moved those. Then he spun the dial and swung open the heavy door. The inside of the safe was much like the outside of the safe. It was crammed full of rifles, pistols, and shotguns. Many of those were still parts kits waiting to be assembled. Others were damaged guns. Dale picked those up on the cheap with a promise to himself that he'd fix them later. Others, he'd bought just for the sake of buying them. None were especially high-end. Dale was a man of quantity over quality. Dale surveyed his predicament. He'd have to do some shuffling and reorganizing if he was going to get these latest kits inside the safe. He didn't want to, but he knew he had to. He also knew he needed to get off his ass and finish off some of these gun projects. That, or sell some of this inventory off. He knew he should be taking some of these pieces out of the safe and actually shooting them. Some hadn't been fired in years. Some hadn't been fired ever. As he looked the contents of his safe over, he realized that just taking all the rifles to the range and zeroing them would be a monumental task, even if they were all functional, which they weren't. "Oh well," Dale said aloud to his cluttered garage and his collection of guns and gun parts. He crouched down and began shifting things around inside the safe. George George had the opposite problem. Unlike Dale, George had too few pieces and parts. He couldn't get the right building supplies to move forward on the family house. If it wasn't supply chain issues it was labor issues, with too much work for too few willing to labor. Supposedly the US economy was running at full speed. Every time George opened his phone, he found a new news article in his feed touting the president's accomplishments. They remarked on how quickly the president's policies turned the economy around. They pointed out how the president deeply empathized with common, working-class Americans and how, even though he held the highest office in the land, at heart the president was just another average, ordinary middle-class joe. George had been all over the world. He knew what good economies looked like. He knew what bad economies looked like. And he knew what he was looking at now. The journalists could write all the puff pieces they wanted. Between them and his lying eyes, George knew who to trust. As frustrating as the house was, getting spare parts for his bikes was equally frustrating. His bikes were vintage, and thus not easy to find parts for most days. But now it was even harder, and George blamed California for that problem. The California legislature was never idle. One of the latest laws they passed prevented anybody from selling any parts to any internal combustion engine powered device, to anybody but the State of California. The law covered everything from lawnmowers and chainsaws to semi-trucks and commercial fishing boats. There were, of course, special carveouts for yachts and private jets. But there was no carveout for motorcycles. If a Californian owned so much as a set of hubcaps for a 1958 Plymouth Fury, their only legal option was to sell it to the state for scrap metal prices. So goes California, so goes the United States, as the saying went. George was finding that to be true for vintage motorcycle parts. Oregon and Washington were quick to join in with California on the law. Colorado soon followed suit. Before too long, a dozen states had joined in on the war against privately owned internal combustion equipment. Calling themselves the coalition of Progressively Oriented Governors (POGs), they sought to save Mother Earth from the evils of two-stroke engines and Saturday afternoon car shows. George had hoped to have a few extra bikes' worth of parts standing by before he began his great cross-continent motorcycle trip. Now he knew he'd have to settle for what he had. Even so, things weren't that bad. The bikes he had ran well enough. The accident with that damned dog had done little damage to the bike, and what damage it had done, George had already fixed. George cracked open a beer and guzzled the first half of it. The cool liquid eased the triple-digit temperature. The end to the scorching summer heat was nowhere in sight. October maybe. Maybe the first week of November even. But not now. George rolled up his pant leg. The wound Lori's dog left him was healing up fine. George rolled his pant leg back down and finished the beer. He decided that if he couldn't get the house built, he might as well go for a ride. Minutes later he was soaring up and down the Texas hills, past the oaks and the elms and the cedars. When he came up to Evans' place, he saw the old man and his nephew outside the workshop. George thought about pulling in and seeing if the boy wanted to do some riding. But just as quickly George decided against it. Best not to intrude, he thought. George hit the throttle and continued his race through the Texas countryside. Kyle The one and only time Kyle saw his uncle panicked came that afternoon. He and Uncle Evans were cleaning out the workshop. The workshop looked clean enough to Kyle. In truth, it looked more than clean enough. Still, Evans insisted on cleaning the already clean workshop. “Something might be hiding somewhere, just waiting for the wrong person to find it,” his uncle said. Evans was putting an attachment on his shop vac when Kyle accidentally knocked the bucket over. It was a five-gallon bucket, metal, and labeled, “transmission fluid.” Kyle hadn’t even seen the bucket. He was looking at something else and shifted his feet and when he did his heel came around and knocked the can of transmission fluid over. The can was empty. It toppled over lightly and landed with a metal “bang” against the concrete slab floor. As soon as that bang rang out, Evans spun. Kyle saw his uncle’s eyes lock on the can, lock on the Transmission Fluid label, white letters on black paper. Every muscle in his uncle’s body tensed, but the man didn’t move. Evans’ eyes tracked the empty bucket as it rolled across the floor as if it might explode at any moment. Then, a moment later the old man seemed to realize the empty bucket was just that, an empty bucket. The tension released out of Evans and released out of the room. “What’s got you so jumpy?” Kyle asked. Evans looked at his nephew, then at the bucket, then back at his nephew again. “I just didn’t want to be cleaning up spilled transmission fluid all afternoon.” “Huh,” Kyle said. What little needed to be cleaned in the workshop, Kyle and Evans cleaned. All the dust and sweepings and the tiniest scraps of anything went into a thick plastic bag. The empty metal bucket and another just like it also went into garbage bags. Kyle and Evans tossed the bags into the back of the pickup truck. “I’m taking this all to dump. Now.” Evans said. ‘Why? Why not just put it out with the trash on Tuesday.” “Too much clutter,” Evans said. Kyle looked over the collected garbage. One bag with only a few handfuls of dust, and the two empty buckets. That didn’t seem like clutter to him. He shrugged. “You think you can whip up lunch by the time I get back?” Evans asked. “Sure can.” “What are you thinking?” “Chicken fried steak. I already have a recipe picked out.” “I’ll be looking forward to it when I get back,” Evans said. The whine of an accelerating motorcycle up on the main road made them both turn. They got a brief glimpse of George racing away on his bike. “It’ll be ready,” Kyle finished. |
Like I told my last wife, I says, Honey, I never drive faster than I can see. Besides that, it’s all in the reflexes.
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This is also here, https://www.webnovel.com/book/uncle-evans-an-american-dystopia_26373356505909405/the-texas-hill-country.-%C2%A0august-1st._71443630174304184 but not as far along. Bigger print and formatted, may be easier for some to read. Great story, can't wait for the next chapter. |
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Originally Posted By bootleg15: This is also here, https://www.webnovel.com/book/uncle-evans-an-american-dystopia_26373356505909405/the-texas-hill-country.-%C2%A0august-1st._71443630174304184 but not as far along. Bigger print and formatted, may be easier for some to read. Great story, can't wait for the next chapter. I didn't think anybody was reading it on Webnovel. It sure wasn't showing much viewership in the analytics. Working on the next installment now. |
"If you have enough money, you don't have to talk to people about cats in trees."
Sheriff Ed Tom Bell
Sheriff Ed Tom Bell
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Originally Posted By sharkman6: "Nothing really," the moderator said. "Misinformation. Disinformation. A few mean posts here and there on the internet. But his family owns twenty acres. One of our big donors wants us to If this were GD I wouldn't care about the mistake. |
Heller II - Challenging DC's bans on semi-automatic rifles, large-capacity ammunition feeding devices, and its onerous and expensive handgun registration process. http://www.HellerFoundation.org/
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Originally Posted By Bubbles: If this were GD I wouldn't care about the mistake. @Bubbles Thanks. The editing budget is tight. Every little bit helps. I can't imagine what would happen if I posted this in GD. |
"If you have enough money, you don't have to talk to people about cats in trees."
Sheriff Ed Tom Bell
Sheriff Ed Tom Bell
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The Law Students While Kyle was making lunch, the law students were just waking up. One of them got a wake-up call in the form of a loud banging on his hotel room door. “Jamie, wake up. Time to get going. Open the door. C’mon.” Jamie, a law student from New England, groaned and rolled over in bed. He was a member of the Student Champions of Legal Equity (SCLE), a team of law students whose sole mission was to provide legal support to the PVD. The night before had been a long one. He and his cohort had been up late, supporting the PVD as they rampaged through some small Texas town. “Jamie, wake up!” the voice behind the door. Jamie half rose and looked around the hotel room. Empty alcohol bottles and other recreational items lay scattered about. The door received another pounding. Jamie got to his feet, staggered to the door, and opened it. It was Bobby, a law student from Brown University. “What is it?” Jamie asked. “We’ve got to get up and get going. We just got our location for tonight.” “So? It’s barely past noon.” “It is a long drive.” “How long?” Jamie asked. “My phone says it’s almost a five-hour drive.” “What?” Jamie said with disgust. “Five hours? Five? How big does this state need to be?” "C'mon, man. Duty calls," Bobby said. Back in May, the SCLE saw their role as assisting with the legal defense of any PVD members who were arrested. But that role didn’t provide much work. Local law enforcement and local prosecutors all received the same message loud and clear: the PVD were off-limits. Very rarely were protestors arrested. When they were, they were almost always released without bail, and they were never charged. As the situation changed, so did the SCLE’s mission. Now, instead of setting up legal defenses for their allies, the Student Champions focused on prosecuting their enemies. The SCLE accompanied the PVD in their nightly “First Amendment Celebrations.” They observed, and they filmed everything from a white commuter van decked out with the latest recording equipment. The van looked like something out of a spy movie. If Jamie or the others observed anybody interfering with the PVD, they recorded the incident, edited the footage, and then sent the evidence to either a friendly prosecutor or to a legal firm that would take civil action. Already, Jamie and his friends’ work had led to criminal and civil action against dozens of police officers and scores of civilians: mostly homeowners who didn’t want the houses burnt or their families attacked. Those homeowners were going to lose everything one way or another, Jamie reflected. “You can lose it all in the street, or you can lose it all in the courtroom, but you are going to lose,” Jamie said to the nameless and faceless victims of the PVD. “You can’t stop progress.” The van and its equipment had all been funded by a private grant. The donor was an institution that claimed to advance the interests of America’s retired persons. In truth, it advanced progressive politics and put on a con man’s veneer through slick publications, celebrity endorsements, and corporate discounts. Similarly, all of the SCLE’s expenses were paid for by corporate donations that got passed and repassed through various bundlers and non-profits before they made their way to Jamie and his friends. Everything was covered, from travel across the country to all the PVD hot spots, to food, to fuel, to the hotel room Jamie was in right now. All the Student Champions had debit cards that were refilled with cash every week. In the event of a big expense, they had a number they could text that would put them in touch with some bundler's bag man. Money was not an issue. The PVD and their support network were well-funded. “How hot is it outside?” Jamie asked next. Bobby rattled off a three-digit number. Jamie cursed. “Will we at least be close to Austin?” Jamie asked. As far as he was concerned, Austin was the only part of Texas worth anything. “We’ll be close for around here. It is still over an hour away.” “An hour?” Jamie whined. “C’mon man, we got the job of taking the van down and we need to get going. So c’mon and get up. do you want to smash the system or not?” What Jamie wanted to do was hook up with one of the other law students in their group, maybe that girl from NYU, the dangerous, street-smart one with dark skin and darker eyes. Then he wanted to get out of Texas, with its triple-digit heat, its weird food, and all its dirty working-class people who wanted to pretend it was still the 1800s. I don’t have to be here, Jamie though. I’m rich and from a good family. I could be back in New England, sailing out the rest of the summer. Or I could be in Europe. Paris, say. Or Amsterdam, living life free and easy until school started. He could be, but he wasn’t. And Jamie knew that this summer of political activism was a necessary step in his career trajectory. It would give him the bona fides he needed to prove he was among a certain class of people: wealthy and connected, but not so much so that they turned their backs on the underprivileged. In another year, Jamie would have his law degree. Then, he’d get snatched up by a big firm. Then it would be in through the revolving door: a stint in the public sector, a stint at some non-profit or maybe academia, then back to the private sector again. He didn’t need to do this, to be sweating his summer away in fly-over country. He had money. His family had connections. He was doing this out of the goodness of his own heart. He was doing this to help the downtrodden. And there was no better way for people like Jamie to help the downtrodden than by attacking the middle class. “Yeah, sure,” Jamie said. “Let’s go smash the system. Just let me get some real coffee first.” Greg Greg got Teddy’s message. He got it loud and clear and now he was planning on how to spend what he hoped would soon be a nice windfall. He was on his computer looking at clothes: Italian suits, French knit ties with matching pocket squares, Tom Ford shirts that would, of course, have to be tailored. You had to look the part. Fashion and style were one of the many things that distinguished men like Greg from ordinary Americans. The money would be nice. The Gun Safety bounties were high, and if there was one thing Texas didn’t lack, it was guns. In that one regard, Greg thought, it was good he wasn’t back home. There weren’t so many guns floating around in his home state, and the people who had them weren’t the kind of people you were allowed to prosecute. “Somebody do something tonight,” Greg wished aloud as he navigated through various websites. He’d need new outfits for both the election night parties in November and the inauguration parties in January. But more than the money, he needed to get his name out in the media. Greg knew how the game worked. Every election or reelection brought sweeping personnel changes in the administration. Cabinet members would come and go. Senior executives would rotate Some people would retire. Others would leave public service to take up the private sector jobs they spent the last four years setting up. Government posts would open. The deck chairs would get shuffled, and Greg could find a path that led out of this fly-over hellhole and back to somewhere civilized, like Boston, Baltimore, New York, or maybe even Washington D.C. Getting one of those posts meant being known as a loyal and productive soldier. Greg had been loyal and productive, but his name didn’t have the recognition needed to break out to the next level. That could change though. All he needed was the right kind of prosecution. The media loved a good courtroom drama, especially if the defendant was the right kind of bad guy. The PVD were going to be active in his area tonight. Maybe one of these fossils could pull a gun on them, like that couple in Missouri or wherever it was. It would be even better if somebody killed a member of the PVD. Nothing like a good old-fashioned murder trial to elevate a prosecutor’s career trajectory. The shooter would have to meet certain criteria though. First off, it would have to be a man. A woman defendant wouldn’t do. Race wasn’t that important. Some races were more preferable than others, of course. But race could be massaged in a way that sex could not. A Hispanic could be rebranded as a “White-Hispanic.” A black man could be sold as, “The black face of white supremacy.” Race, like so many other things, could be molded and shaped as the narrative required. The thing that was far more important than race was veteran status. In the world of domestic terrorism, military veterans were still the hot thing. Vigilante-Veteran was a buzzword tailor-made for media soundbites. A male veteran who murdered peaceful PVD protestors would play in the media. That would mean national coverage. In a situation like that, a courtroom win would be a slam dunk, even here in Texas. After the guilty verdict, Greg would be on his way to bigger and better things; a federal posting in D.C., a deal for a book he wouldn’t even have to write, maybe even a side gig as a paid legal commentator on one of the networks. All it would take was one yokel with a gun and the right confrontation with the PVD. Time was a factor though, Greg knew. The election was the first week in November. Right now, it was the first week of August. That didn't leave much time. If something was going to happen, it needed to happen soon. Greg also recognized that the above scenario would mean one or more people dying and at least one going to prison for the rest of their life. But that was life. Some people mattered and some people didn't. Some people ran the country. Everybody else just lived in it. Greg knew what type he was. Greg clicked on the search bar and typed in “French Blue, three-button suit, men’s.” Then he leaned back in his chair and waited for the search results to come up. |
"If you have enough money, you don't have to talk to people about cats in trees."
Sheriff Ed Tom Bell
Sheriff Ed Tom Bell
| Old "warhorse" comes to mind. Loud boom !!! Ambling along,, head suddenly jerks up,,, nostrils flare,, sniffing for cordite in the air, copper smell of blood,,, the load is heavy,,, but the old gelding knows it has got to get there,,, the men need the firepower he will provide. Go EVAN !!! |
To the everlasting glory of the Infantry!
Joined:
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Posts:
8437
EE: 100% (1)
USA
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Originally Posted By Currently: I am riveted, great story. Tried logging into Patreon, they want $5/mo. I don’t mind paying for anything and this is worth it. However I don’t do subscriptions. Point me to a direction where I can make a donation. From what I read, it is worth it. I hear what you are saying about subscriptions. I do. From where I'm sitting as the writer, the subscription thing is a good deal. I'll make more off Patreon in 2-3 months than I'll make from Amazon all year just because of the way Amazon structures the royalties. I'm playing around with something called Draft2Digital to make this a real Ebook when it is done. I don't really want to sell that on Amazon though for reasons I listed above. If riots restart 5/25/2024, and I expect that they will, then I might change my mind just to get the story out to more people. We'll see. For subscriptions, I know I've got to keep fresh content going to make it worth people's money. I've got four stories in the works for when this is done. These will be more mainstream and less politically charged. I'm going to keep working on the first chapters of these and then post them once Uncle Evans is done and see which one you all are the most interested in. |
"If you have enough money, you don't have to talk to people about cats in trees."
Sheriff Ed Tom Bell
Sheriff Ed Tom Bell
|
Originally Posted By sharkman6: I hear what you are saying about subscriptions. I do. From where I'm sitting as the writer, the subscription thing is a good deal. I'll make more off Patreon in 2-3 months than I'll make from Amazon all year just because of the way Amazon structures the royalties. I'm playing around with something called Draft2Digital to make this a real Ebook when it is done. I don't really want to sell that on Amazon though for reasons I listed above. If riots restart 5/25/2024, and I expect that they will, then I might change my mind just to get the story out to more people. We'll see. For subscriptions, I know I've got to keep fresh content going to make it worth people's money. I've got four stories in the works for when this is done. These will be more mainstream and less politically charged. I'm going to keep working on the first chapters of these and then post them once Uncle Evans is done and see which one you all are the most interested in. Originally Posted By sharkman6: Originally Posted By Currently: I am riveted, great story. Tried logging into Patreon, they want $5/mo. I don’t mind paying for anything and this is worth it. However I don’t do subscriptions. Point me to a direction where I can make a donation. From what I read, it is worth it. I hear what you are saying about subscriptions. I do. From where I'm sitting as the writer, the subscription thing is a good deal. I'll make more off Patreon in 2-3 months than I'll make from Amazon all year just because of the way Amazon structures the royalties. I'm playing around with something called Draft2Digital to make this a real Ebook when it is done. I don't really want to sell that on Amazon though for reasons I listed above. If riots restart 5/25/2024, and I expect that they will, then I might change my mind just to get the story out to more people. We'll see. For subscriptions, I know I've got to keep fresh content going to make it worth people's money. I've got four stories in the works for when this is done. These will be more mainstream and less politically charged. I'm going to keep working on the first chapters of these and then post them once Uncle Evans is done and see which one you all are the most interested in. Been a fan since “The Spartan”, purchased from Amazon when it came out. May make an exception if that other venture doesn’t work out. |
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Originally Posted By sharkman6: I'm playing around with something called Draft2Digital to make this a real Ebook when it is done. |
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Originally Posted By Currently: I am riveted, great story. Tried logging into Patreon, they want $5/mo. I don’t mind paying for anything and this is worth it. However I don’t do subscriptions. Point me to a direction where I can make a donation. From what I read, it is worth it. Agreed. Have been following on another site and wouldn't mind some kind of donation but I just don't do the subscription. Outstanding work! For sure. |
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Originally Posted By sharkman6: I need you two to get any squirters… that's anybody who tries to run out of the zill zone. |
Heller II - Challenging DC's bans on semi-automatic rifles, large-capacity ammunition feeding devices, and its onerous and expensive handgun registration process. http://www.HellerFoundation.org/
To the everlasting glory of the Infantry!
Joined:
Sep 2005
Posts:
8444
EE: 100% (1)
USA
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@Currently @00BuckH I think you can make a donation through my Substack page. You don't have to set up a paid account/subscription there. https://seanbastle.substack.com/p/uncle-evans |
"If you have enough money, you don't have to talk to people about cats in trees."
Sheriff Ed Tom Bell
Sheriff Ed Tom Bell
|
Originally Posted By BLG: Uncle Evan just gave the PVD leadership a "pause moment" I think. 1 that I caught " Its action hammered back at forth " "an" ? Gracias. |
"If you have enough money, you don't have to talk to people about cats in trees."
Sheriff Ed Tom Bell
Sheriff Ed Tom Bell
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Originally Posted By sharkman6: @Currently @00BuckH I think you can make a donation through my Substack page. You don't have to set up a paid account/subscription there. https://seanbastle.substack.com/p/uncle-evans I got on Patreon … see how that goes |
To the everlasting glory of the Infantry!
Joined:
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Posts:
8454
EE: 100% (1)
USA