Kandude was shoved into an office, where he was greeted by a blast of delicious air conditioning and the sight of a withered, great-grandfatherly looking man sitting behind a metal desk. He was wearing a sheriff’s uniform with a large silver badge, numerous medals, and other elaborate insignia that included rows of at least six stars on his collar. The hoary Sheriff motioned Kandude to sit. Two deputies stayed in the room and stood behind him.
“So, you’re the infamous Coyote Blanco!” said the hoary Sheriff. “I am Sheriff Emeritus JoBob Crappaggio. You can call me Sheriff JoBob.” He spoke with supreme confidence and authority as he looked Kandude over with rheumy eyes. “What I want you to know,” he said, “is that we have no love for race traitors and criminal sympathizers around here. What I want me to know is who you are, why you are smuggling criminals across the border, and what genocidal White Replacement organizations you belong to.”
Kandude was paralyzed by this sudden quandary. He couldn’t very well tell the story of his involvement with the militia border patrol, as that could lead to the discovery of his interference with their operation, the demise of his beloved professor, and the probable death of one or more Vow Stickers who were clearly allies of Sheriff JoBob. Kandude had been caught with a band of illegal immigrants crossing the desert. He had no money or credentials of any kind. He had nobody to call. He said nothing.
“Let me tell you a few things, traitor coyote boy,” said Sheriff JoBob, squinting his beady eyes. “This camp is merely a prototype for the larger and more efficient detention and deportation camps that we will be setting up soon to handle the migrant hordes. The generosity of our border control patron Paulson Melonbonker has enabled us to put the foundations in place. Since immicriminals and their sympathizers and abettors actually have no civil rights, soon we will be able to deal with them more efficiently.”
“My fellow Constitutional Sheriffs, who are actually the supreme law officers of the land, will take over border enforcement and interdiction leadership responsibilities. We control virtually all of the counties along the border and have counterparts throughout this once great land. Most of the illegals simply aren’t going to make it across the wall and through the Severe Interdiction Zone. The survivors we round up are going to be examples, word of whom will spread south across the border and discourage more would-be invaders.”
“This,” he said, making a sweeping motion with his hand, “is a place of punishment and restoration. Camp Maytag is a place to wash our country clean. Immicriminal work details will expand and repair the wall. They will dig punji pits and plant mines in 120-degree temperatures in the SIZ. They will build out and maintain the camps and the network of roads.”
“Then, assuming no construction, bad weather, falls down the stairs, or gang-related mishap befalls them, they will be sent back across the border in trucks, trains and chain gangs, with modest sample delegations dropped on San Francisco, Portland, New York and Chicago as emissaries of discouragement and the virtues of self-deportation. For you see, while the border influx is a portal of new viruses, the real disease is the vast brown hordes already within. Fortunately,” Sheriff JoBob chuckled, “they are easy to identify.”
The Sheriff rhapsodized on. “The beauty of this program is that it is scalable. Once we have the infrastructure, we can hoover up the brown hordes by the millions, send them to the camps, and put them in the disposal pipeline. Many will choose to go back to their shithole countries on their own, and not soon enough. As for you, traitor coyote boy, it’s back to the huts and onto the next work detail for you, and not in those suburban duds. It’s a pink onesie for you. Soon enough you will be anxious to tell me what I want to know.”
Sheriff JoBob tipped a chin at the guards who roughly stood up Kandude. But at that moment, the outside guard popped open the door and said urgently, “Hey Sheriff, check this out.”
Sheriff JoBob rose stiffly from his chair and trundled over to the door. Speeding up to the camp gates were three black Lincoln Navigators with smoked glass windows. They came to a stop in front of the gates, the lead vehicle flanked and slightly trailed by the other two. From the lead vehicle stepped a stately women in high heels and an expensive navy-blue suit. Though elderly, she was still quite beautiful, and in her younger years might have been a model or movie star. She took a few steps forward. Two men in expensive black suits American flag and AR-15 pins in their lapels got out of the car and flanked her a step behind. They wore overly long, wide red ties, sunglasses and earpieces.
The Navigators hummed quietly in the background. Saying nothing, the elegant woman looked at Sheriff JoBob and held her hand palm up toward the gate. After a moment’s hesitation, the Sheriff signaled the camp guards to open the gate. The dignified Old Woman strode forward with a slight limp, her escorts maintaining position, heads on swivels.
“Sheriff Crappaggio,” she said in a low, melodious voice. It wasn’t a question. “Greetings from the highest legitimate authority, and congratulations on your apprehension of that man, who is an enemy of the people,” she said, tipping her head slightly toward Kandude, who had been brought out onto the office steps. “Let there be no doubt that in just a few short months there will be commendations and special funding for this model operation, which is being watched closely at the highest levels.”
Sheriff JoBob, took a few tentative steps toward the woman. “You are from…?” his voice trailed off. The woman gave an almost imperceptible nod. “We are here to take custody of this man,” she said, again indicating Kandude, “as special interest has been taken. Of course, there will be no documentation and no need to speak of this matter until the passage of impending events.”
Sheriff JoBob hesitated briefly, but then, grinning, seemed to make up his mind, perhaps pleased to be the subject of notice at the highest levels and the potential recipient of honors and greater power. “Of course, Ma’am,” he said, “and rest assured that we stand ready to implement forthcoming border plans with the greatest enthusiasm and efficiency. Please convey our respectful regards.”
The camp guards pushed Kandude forward roughly through the gate. Without touching him, the Old Woman’s agents escorted Kandude to the lead vehicle, opened the back door, and motioned him to climb into the Escalade. The black vehicles circled around in formation and drove off into the setting sun.
Kandude was thrilled to be out of the immicriminal camp, but apprehensive about this new turn of events. He thanked the Old Woman and began to ask questions. She simply said, “take courage and come with me.”