ERASED

By Cochise -
Monday, September 7th, 2020 @ 3:46PM

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A Patriot ParableA Fictional Reality

Seattle mob gathers to protest. — Summit News

An alliance between ANTIFA leaders and an ISIS terrorist sleeper cell in Colorado was a match made in Marxist heaven. Both were committed to creating chaos and destroying America, albeit for different reasons. ANTIFA was the established go-to organizer, supplying scores of trained agitators for nationwide protests purportedly triggered by egregious cases of police brutality attributed to ethereal, undefined “systemic racism.”

The ISIS cell brought money, sophisticated communications networks and the cold-hearted psychoses necessary to carry out mass shootings and bombings in high-density urban areas. And ANTIFA had infiltrated Black Lives Matter protests embroiling major cities controlled by sympathetic, progressive mayors and city councils. Those politician-sanctioned protests provided the perfect cover for Marxists to create mayhem. Once-peaceful “social justice” protests metastasized into violent riots, with ANTIFA-led operatives torching commercial and residential buildings, and terrorizing citizens left on their own, abandoned by police officers, who were restrained by their elitist political masters. 

But those protests were about to explode into something far more sinister. What ISIS operators failed to share with their ANTIFA and Marxist-led BLM brothers and sisters would never have been condoned by vote-hungry politicians:  vicious, indiscriminate shootings with staggering body counts.

The first joint ANTIFA-ISIS operation would be a BLM-organized “protest” in an upscale residential suburb of Denver. No longer focused on razing and burning only downtown businesses and corporate headquarters in metropolitan cities, a self-appointed ANTIFA leader, “Gator”, was charged with taking the fight to “whitey’s” suburban homes. Besides, cops were scarce in the ‘burbs. Police chiefs expected BLM’s passionate supporters to congregate and raise Hell in city centers—like they had done in Washington, Portland, Seattle and Atlanta. Wealthy and upper-middle-class “white racists” living in suburban neighborhoods could dial 911 all day and night, but no badged officers were going to show up and defend those unlucky taxpayers. Flag-waving, constitution-loving ‘burb-dwellers were on their own, easy pickings for “The People,” those who had suffered long enough at the hands of white-privileged Americans.

A few calls, text messages and Twitter announcements were sufficient to attract more than a hundred excited, self-defined “woke” 20-30-year-olds to a King Soopers parking lot. With handheld bullhorns, a half-dozen ANTIFA agitators and cold-hearted, well-trained ISIS “warriors” had no trouble whipping the naive “useful idiots” into a frenzy of virtue-signaling. 

“You want social justice? It don’t just happen. You make it happen! Now!” a tall ANTIFA leader roared. Taking control as the ragtag group’s commander, he ordered the gang of self-righteous zealots to march on a nearby residential area and “Take those racists’ shee-it! And make ‘em bleed!” True to form, the small cadre of black-clad, hooded ANTIFA and ISIS agitators was well-protected, embedded in the midst of fired-up protestors surging toward the gated residential community, chanting aggressive catch-phrases.

“Heads-up, Ranger. They’re on the move, coming your way.” The voice in Win Steele’s earpiece came from a sophisticated control room miles away, relayed by a secure-communications package on a Gremlin unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) orbiting slowly 1,000 feet overhead.

“Copy. Ready here,” Steele confirmed. “Is PSNYPER hot?”

“Rog. Locked and loaded. Fire on your command….” 

Sure hope this brain-fart system works, Steele worried. Today’s operation was the first real-world deployment of PSNYPER, an advanced psycho-electronic counterterrorism weapon. If it failed, Win Steele might be forced to “go lethal” or be battered to death by the angry crowd now tearing down a metal gate guarding his middle-class neighborhood. 

Win unshouldered a Daniel Defense MP4 semi-automatic rifle and double-checked that it was in SAFE mode. A Sig Sauer P226 was strapped to his right leg as a backup, should the MP4 jam. Hopefully, he’d never have to resort to either firearm.

Dozens of bearded, long-haired young men scrambled over the broken gate, followed by a covey of young girls in stretch tops and tight skinny-jeans. 

Ooookay, Win mused. Where are you, ANTIFA and ISIS?

He finally spotted five or six black-clad, hooded figures picking their way through the gate’s mangled metal, then huddle behind a cluster of young women. These were the core bad guys, the trained Marxist and terrorist agitators urging their riled-up rabble to unleash havoc.

“Not in our neighborhood,” Steele muttered. “Hold it right there!” he yelled. “Just turn around and scoot on outta here, and nobody gets hurt!”

The front rank of protesters slowed, startled by a lone figure standing in the middle of the street. Slightly over six feet, the slim, graying man wore faded Levi’s, a checked shirt with sleeves partially rolled up, and a blue ball cap with U.S. Air Force stitched across its crown. He held an M4 rifle with one hand, muzzle pointed skyward.

“Yo! Like…you better get da hell outta here, Gray Dawg! Or we gonna kill you!” The loudmouth was a big guy sporting a black bandanna around his neck. His hooded comrades goaded and shoved young men and girls into the front ranks, urging them forward—and providing cover for the instigators.

Calm and cool, Steele extended an open palm, the universal signal to HALT! The herd stutter-stepped and milled, none willing to close on the crazy dude with a mean-looking assault weapon! And a pistol!

“Look, I don’t want to hurt any of you so-called ‘peaceful protestors.’ But you will not deface, damage, destroy, pillage or loot a single one of these homes. And you will not harm the good people who live here! Understand?” Not shouting, but loud enough for the increasingly nervous crowd to hear. None of the “wokes” had expected to be confronted, let alone endangered, by an old, gun-wielding white guy!

The metallic voice in Steele’s ear: “Prelim ID on the bad guys, Ranger. Loudmouth is ‘Gator’. Big-time ANITFA organizer; raised Hell in Portland last week. The other ANTIFA creeps go by RedDelta, Snake and Dragon. Two seriously bad-guy ISIS operatives are code-named Condor and StudCat. They’re humpin’ mighty big backpacks. Over…”

Gotta be the high-powered armament, Win mused. Checkmate* intel had briefed him that ISIS would be joining this particular “protest”, toting some heavy-duty firepower. 

Imagery captured by Gremlin’s multispectral sensors was scrutinized by an artificial intelligence system that compared each face, body shape and gait with dozens of massive databases—social media profiles and video clips, police files, driver license photos, medical records, and even college and high school yearbooks. In seconds, the system confirmed the IDs of Gator and his flunkies, automatically passing the information to PSNYPER’s aquisition-and-tracking unit. 

“Pos ID on all of ‘em. Locked-on and actively tracking, Ranger,” the voice added.

“Copy all. Stand by,” Win said, scanning the crowd. Lot of milling about, but nobody was getting closer.  

Gator shoved his way to the front, bullhorn held high. Aggressive, confident and visibly hopped up on drugs, Steele noted. And gawdawful wooly. His long, bushy hair and a matted beard hadn’t seen soap and water for who knows how long. Win noted Gator’s subservient ANTIFA and wicked ISIS minions remained clustered at crowd-center, protected by wound up, animated young men and women who, until a few minutes ago, were anxious to prove their social-justice superiority. Now…maybe not so much. Many were clearly frightened.

“Or what?” Gator sneered. “Like, yo gonna shoot us all?

Win half-smiled. “No, I won’t shoot you-all,” he assured, pausing a long beat. “But I will blow yourmanhood off…Gator. Then I’ll take out your chicken-liver flunkies hiding behind the girls—RedDelta, Snake, Dragon and those two ISIS terrorists, Condor and StudCat.” Corny, yes, but “chicken” reinforced the fact that he, Win Steele, was just an old guy. But by no means harmless.

A startled look flashed across the mouthy leader’s features. The crowd instinctively shrank back, melting around Gator’s black-hooded cadre.

Didn’t expect that, did ya?

Gator pivoted, glaring at his horde of frightened minions. Pointing at his black-clad, dedicated acolytes, he roared, “That racist sumbitch goin’ down! Now!” His muscle-squad shuffled forward and flanked Gator, who wheeled about and marched confidently toward Win.

Steele raised the M4 rifle, holding it horizontally above his head. 

“Control, hit the black hoodies. Take ‘em out!” he ordered, barely audible.

From the Gremlin orbiting overhead, beams of invisible, quantum-entangled pulses fired by a sophisticated PSNYPER system sliced into the craniums of Gator and his toadies. The beams’ tailored-waveform energy interacted with gray-matter memory repositories, instantly deleting their contents.  

Gator and his stooges staggered a few steps, stumbled, then face-planted on the pavement. Arms and legs flailed, as if the beings were trying to crawl, but were stuck in place, going nowhere. One bootlicker started blubbering, joined quickly by his howling brethren. Gator managed to roll onto his back, wailing and waving his arms and legs, emulating a baby throwing a tantrum.

The throng of youthful protestors gaped, simultaneously awed and terrified. They involuntarily retreated en mass, as Steele slowly approached Gator and his squirming, black-clad crybabies.  Again holding the rifle one-handed, muzzle up, Win raised his voice to be heard over the bawling ANTIFA thugs.

“Listen up and you won’t join ol’ Gator and his boys,” Win shouted. “You say you’re protesting against police brutality and so-called ‘systemic racism.’ I get that. My eldest son was shot to death by a worthless killer-cop. But you’re also being used to undermine America, the nation that gave you the freedom to protest.” Win pointed to the sniveling bodies flopping on the asphalt. “These cretins don’t share your sympathies and commitment to justice. Their only commitment is to violence and destruction. If they were successful in reducing America to rubble, they’d turn on you. Two of these monsters are ISIS terrorists, who planned to massacre every one of you. Today! Here!

He paused, letting that truth sink in.

“What da hell’d you do da dem?” a tattooed, husky woman blurted, voice trembling. A chrome stud through the lower lip and a swarm of bangles and rings adorning her nose, cheeks and ears suggested that she had tripped and fallen face-first into a fishing tackle box.

“Nothing,” Win said. He waited, until the protestors’ muttering ceased. “Gator and his lieutenants were struck down by a higher power,” Win continued, pointing skyward. “None of them are physically harmed. However, their memories have been erased. Or mostly erased. They can no longer walk, talk or feed themselves. They’ll be wearing diapers again—at least until they’re potty trained. Or, in their case, house-broken.”

A stunned hush fell over the frozen protestors. Frightened glances were exchanged. A few of the more astute craned their necks, searching the sky. 

Slowly orbiting overhead, Checkmate’s Gremlin UAV was virtually invisible, its hull coated with a metamaterial that bent light around its flying-wing planform. 

The voice:  “Ranger, Control. PSNYPER’s recycled and hot. Need another burst?”

“Doubt it. Standby,” Steele muttered. “Is Stinker airborne?”

“Rog. At your three o’clock, just above the trees, about a hundred feet from your position. Good for about another twenty minutes of flight.”

Win raised his voice and yelled, “You, you and you!” he pointed. “Yeah, you big dudes. Get over here and pick up Gator and his boys.” 

Nobody moved. Win waited, calmly holding the M4 across his chest. No threat.

“Well… If you don’t want ‘em, I’ll take real good care of these goons. Gator’s wanted for rioting, destruction of property and inciting violence in Oregon. Cops will be happy to cuff him and haul his tail downtown.”

“Yeah, you do dat, ol’ white-priv’leged geezer!” Tackle Box yelled. “But we be back! You and yo’ racist neighbors gonna burn!” She raised a fist and started chanting, “Burn ‘em! Kill ‘em! Burn ‘em! Kill ‘em!” Others picked up the chant, albeit half-heartedly.

“Well, damn,” Win muttered. “Thought they’d gotten the message.”

The voice: “‘Protestor’ arrogance and ignorance know no bounds, Ranger. Told ya…”

“Yeah, you did.”  Win surveyed the increasingly agitated crowd, shook his head in disgust and reluctantly made the call. “Alright, Control. Stinker’s cleared in hot. Two passes. My three-to-nine. Reverse course, nine-to-three, then bug out. Do not fly that critter over me! Confirm?”

The voice chuckled. “Confirm, Ranger. Wind’s fairly calm, but you’d better put some distance between you and Stinker’s targets.”

Steele backed away from the sea of protestors, rifle pointed to the side. He heard the small, quad-rotor drone, before he saw it swooping down from his right, aimed at the crowd. “Stinker” released a barely visible mist, as the drone flew over the closest ranks of protestors. It climbed, banked steeply and reversed direction, leveled off and again released a broad mist a few feet above the now-retreating, screaming mob. In a steep climb, it cleared the tree tops and vanished.

Howls and screams emanated from the gaggle of protestors. A dozen or so took off, frantically scrambling and stumbling over the mangled steel gate. Panicked, the remainder broke and ran, gagging, swearing and wailing. An unmistakable, intolerable stench of concentrated skunk spray settled onto the fleeing demonstrators, now in high-velocity retreat.

The voice: “Well, whadaya know. ANTIFA’s useful fools don’t much care for Skunk Water, do they?”

Win glanced over his shoulder to avoid tripping over Gator and his writhing henchmen. “Roger that! Stinker magically transforms the brave and brash into sniveling skunks! …Alright, Control, call the county sheriff. The Gator Gang’s all his.”

A few hours later, Gator and a trio of hoodie hangers-on were arrested and jailed. The other two were turned over to the FBI for prosecution as ISIS terrorists.

Within days, Gator and his ANTIFA “soldiers” were dumped in front of a federal building in Portland, Oregon, where yet another crowd of protestors was gathering. All four of the black-clad, bedraggled and malodorous ANTIFA toughs remained sprawled on the concrete, staring blankly, waving their arms and babbling incoherently.

Word traveled swiftly among the Marxist leaders of Black Lives Matter and a bevy of anarchist operatives, complete with cell phone video of Gator and his mind-blanked brethren. Those video clips, accompanied by several of a brief confrontation with a solitary, gun-toting white guy in a middle-class Colorado neighborhood, went viral across social media channels, wracking up millions of views. Their impact was immediate and profound. Marxists, die-hard social justice warriors, and progressives of all stripes saw their throngs of useful idiots in cities and on college campuses simply disappear. 

No amount of haranguing or indignant, bizarre YouTube videos created by Far Left politicos could counter the shocked, petrifying accounts from those who had witnessed “a higher power” erase the memories of six violent revolutionaries. As one BLM protestor admitted to a CNN talking head, “That mind-erasing s***’s worse than death.”

The PSNYPER team and its psycho-cyber Gremlin were quickly redeployed to the Washington, D.C., region. Checkmate’s operatives are now on “hot standby” for short-notice, pop-up missions. During an in-briefing, their commander, retired U.S. Marine Corps Major General Gray Manor, said, “Washington is a target-rich environment, a veritable quagmire of anti-American news and entertainment media, corrupt politicians and heartless, dangerous bureaucrats. With a critical election only months away, there’s very little time to neutralize the enemies of liberty and freedom. You are the Minutemen of 2020. Stand fast, stand ready.”

* Checkmate is a covert, black-ops counterterrorism team charged with quietly taking out sleeper cells in the U.S. The unit was first introduced in The Permit, a thriller based on actual events. (With permission of North Slope Publications.)


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