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Fiction: "Opportunities"
by J.J. Archer
13 November 2004
Our man just happened to be hunting along the Pennsylvania Turnpike. He happened to look up, and saw a sleek BMW in a rest area. The window was down, the driver was talking on his cell.
Just for kicks our man checked him out through the scope: a semitic face -- and by the animation, the facial contortions, the flapping hands, saw he was a jew.
Now, this is in central Pennsylvania, little there but trees. Mountains running like a washboard. The Turnpike was a quick way to Pittsburgh and the Ohio Valley. Real busy, "a major corridor" as the lemming-controllers say. Tractor trailers roaring and screaming, constant-whoosh of cars. Noisy, real noisy. And dense trees. And nothing around but dirt roads, miles deep in the Alleghany Forest. Here it was, a high-speed ribbon cut through the vastness by ZOG, tunnels blasted through ridges. No one saw anything in this green "wasteland" -- except men like our man.
Knowing the score, the yins and yangs, (and being in addition a refugee from a Kwa area), he shifted for a better look at the east coast player on the cell. From a few meters further on he could discern the front registration plate: New York. Now, this fellow wasn't an Upstater, he was a Kwa jew, probably from the cesspool and heart of the lesion infecting the West: Manhattan or the first three blast rings....
Then our man, knowing his duty and seeing the opportunity, set up. He steadied against a tree, lay the crosshairs on the kike's head...And squeezed. The report from the .22 Magnum round dissipated in the heavy foliage. The blast from a .22 Mag is surprising -- it will thump your ears, flap your jacket, slap your face. But the roar of the Pennsylvania Turnpike ate the bit of report that slipped out of the canopy.
The jew leaned a little bit outboard. His hand dropped, the cell fell to the ground. Our man, watching through the scope, saw his aim was skilled, saw the neat hole just a half-inch behind his point of aim (the temple). A red trickle down the side of the face -- very neat, like a bit of orange juice down a glass. The kike looked like he had fallen asleep. Our man wondered what the other side of his skull looked like. A hollow point does some damage.
Satisfied, our man left. He took a dim path back -- a deer path, really -- in no hurry. The military had trained him to keep his head, stay cool. This was his land. He had disciplined himself for years, back in the Kwa, in order to build up the money to escape. He appreciated it, to say the least, far more than the natives. They didn't know what they had, and worse, what was down there beyond the ridges, on the coasts...
He had tried to tell them politely, and only when they -- one or other of them -- brought up the subject of his previous life. But they didn't get it. They didn't know the danger or the force behind it. They knew only what the television god told them.
As our man made his way back to his truck he tried to imagine how hard ZOG would hunt the killer of the chosenite. The deed would be assessed a political one -- every jew is a political fetus -- and there were no missing valuables. For a moment our man hesitated. Maybe he should go back and take the kike's wallet and jewelry. But he quickly dismissed the idea.
Twenty minutes later a Pennsylvania State Police car, a Crown Victoria, crawled up behind the BMW, stopping a tactical three meters away with its corner edged out for cover. The radio was crackling. The season was late summer. Sunset was a ways off yet, about 45 minutes, but mountains cut that time in half. So darkness had touched them when the trooper finally finished running the tag.
The NCIC came back with some very interesting information, new to this trooper, who was used to brutish criminals, drunks, speeders, truckers in violation and the like. The report was vague, but the trooper, who had been around, understood that the dead man in the BMW was in a circle hot to touch. The term given, a new term, "person of research," meant that the dead man was a target of the Federals.
Now, like most cops -- especially rural cops -- our trooper didn't like Feds. They read too much political shit, were self-important with their advanced degrees and their D.C. addresses, their training schools, name-dropping, expensive suits, and the rest of the Fed persona.
Our trooper was from a small town northwest of Carlisle, the son of a small farmer and trout guide. Growing up, his father's den, and the calm deliberation of the man as he studied and tied his flies, influenced our trooper powerfully. The operational effect was this: he thought and he acted. They needed each other. He did not believe that a man in this world could stay free unless he could move -- intelligently. But how many men read anymore? He knew the man in the BMW was dead within seconds after he had pulled up.
Well, time to get to it. He said something into the mike and got out. With his hand on the butt of his pistol he approached the driver's door. A hole in the kike's skull the size of a golf ball. Exit, kike left. The blood here had run down in a thick pencil stream, straight down, was still popping on the asphalt. No suicide, he saw instantly. He looked in the back, in the front passenger areas. Briefcase, coffee mug in the ladder. The GPS screen, glowing green in the darkness. Cell phone laying near the front tire -- must have bounced.
A second patrol car arrived, then a third. A few minutes later the EMT van. They all waited for the homicide team, coming from miles away in State College. They all stood around, their cherries whirling in the night, quite a show. All around were the black walls. Here was this island in the blackness which passing vehicles slowed to see better.
Our trooper quickly realized that his comrades didn't think of the event as he did. They did not read any more into this event, as he was doing. It was a homicide. Already he had put some things together, already knew the D.C. feds would come in. Again he thought, as he had several times recently, that he should resign from the troopers. But he had nearly twenty years in. He had a teenaged daughter. He was going nowhere. He would continue playing the game......
The homicide team arived almost an hour later. They asked a few questions of our trooper, and dismissed him. He was glad to get away. He didn't like the smell of this thing, none of it -- disliked the dead man, the attitudes of his brother troopers and the EMT men, the huffiness of the homicide team from State College whom he'd never seen nor heard of before. The night seemed especially cold, the mountains mysterious, as he gunned the Crown Vic towards the barracks. His shift was over.
Our man was halfway through his meatloaf dinner at the Rotz Family Diner when our trooper walked in. Our man was sitting at the counter. His wife and kids had gone to Harrisburg to visit her mother. He was batchin' it.
"Hello, Eddie," our trooper said, clapping our man on the back.
"Hey, Bill. How goes it?"
Trooper Bill was in civilian clothes. He sighed as he sat next to Eddie. "Unusual case a while ago," he said in a low voice. "Fellow shot through the head on the pike near Burnt Cabins. Sitting beside the road."
"Know him?" Eddie asked, holding the cup out for the waitress to refill it.
"No," trooper Bill answered. "But New York plates."
"Really?" said Eddie.
J.J. ARCHER
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