Fellow H invited Professor B and Kandude to join him on a field trip to the Mexican Border in Arizona where supporters planned to conduct joint training missions with the County Sheriff’s office. They flew out of John Wayne Airport to a small airstrip in close to the Mexican Border in Arizona in the Beechcraft King Air 260 that had been donated to Beeritage by longtime patrons, the Beers family and their foundation, Sons of Adolph.
They landed at the modest airfield just as dusk was falling. Kandude anxiously observed that it was filled with scores of decorated pickup trucks just like the ones he encountered at the BoyzenBerry compound on the Upper Peninsula not so long ago. Dozens of men wearing an assortment of military, paramilitary and hunting outfits, along the occasional Hawaiian shirt, were milling about the field.!-- /wp:paragraph --> Most were outfitted with elaborate equipment vests and belts and carried patriotic AR-15s with 30 or 50 round magazines, along with handguns, combat knives, ammo pouches, and bandoliers. Many of the weapons featured elaborate tactical accessories, including what Kandude recognized from his failed BabyBerry enlistment as night vision scopes. The assemblage looked like a blend of army rangers and post-apocalyptic road warriors from a Mad Max movie.
The Beeritage delegation was greeted by Sovereign Sheriff Mac Dickman, whom Fellow Hatetiller congratulated for his excellent auxiliary border control efforts. Sheriff Dickman sported a sheriff’s star patch above his left pocket and another patch with a Colonial era soldier figure on it with the title “Vow Stickers” above his right pocket. He looked a bit skeptically at the rodentlike Hatetiller in his khaki pants, polo shirt and faux BDU jacket shell, but observed that Kandude looked like a fine young White patriot who might make an excellent contribution to border security.
“Our role is critical now that the Pretender Blandanna has completely opened the borders,” he said. “Thieves, rapists, moral degenerates, fentanyl smugglers, and mentally defective alien vagrants are pouring into the country by the millions.!-- /wp:paragraph --> They are literally driving white people out of the farm fields, out of the kitchens, and out of lucrative hotel housekeeping opportunities. We are here to take back our borders. For the moment, we are in an interstitial support role, but soon enough we will be leading the charge to apply higher standards of interdiction here at the border.”
Fellow Hatemiller withdrew to hold council with the political liaison, and Sheriff Dickman turned to Kandude and Professor B saying, “You two will be on night patrol. You can’t understand the magnitude of this problem until you see hordes of brown people scuttling across the border like swarms of cockroaches. Saddle up city slickers.”
Kandude and Professor B climbed up into the back of a colossal-cab, long-bed diesel monster truck with a couple of heavily armed border patriots. These two folded down the retractable American and coiled snake flags, as well as the flying feathery orange headdress superhero figure banner. “Hunting mode,” explained one of the patriots, a boy who looked to be about 16 who was carrying enough firepower to personally assault and defeat Luxembourg. The other man, a rough looking fellow in his thirties, wore a red MAWA ballcap. There were four additional men in the cab, guns sticking out the windows. They roared off to the South on dirt roads, leaving a plume of dust and diesel exhaust billowing in their wake.
At one point, they slowed and crested a slight rise before stopping. All the men in the cab dismounted. They focused their night vision binoculars at something a few hundred yards away. “Water barrel cache left by liberal sympathizers,” said the older man named Bo “no-last-names” who had been in the front passenger seat. “You know what do to, boys.” All six of the men unleashed a mighty barrage on the water barrels, laughing and whooping with patriotic fervor at the prospect of denying water to invaders who certainly deserved to die of thirst.
The team drove a few miles further down the road and then took up a position looking south, with the body of the monster truck largely obscured by a big creosote bush. The team members again deployed their night vision binoculars. It was quiet and dark in the quarter moon. There was a fragrant smell of dirt, creosote resin, and grass, occasionally overpowered by the harsh tang of smoke from the cigarettes the militia men lit with electronic lighters to avoid visible signatures.
About an hour later, one of the patriots hissed and pointed. After taking a look, the teenaged patriot handed Kandude night vision field glasses. Kandude saw was a group of perhaps two dozen people plodding slowly across the desert, about a third of them children. They carried small backpacks and water bottles. One mother was carrying a baby. They appeared to be following a small, vigorous looking man carrying a large rucksack. They did not look like rapists and drug smugglers to Kandude.
Bo jumped up and waved the patriots into the truck. “Remember men, we’re just going to scare them,” he said. “But don’t worry, the day that we can put the vermin down is coming soon. In the name of God, America and President for Life TvP, let’s herd them back to their own shithole country.”
The monster truck fired up and roared after the walkers like a wild beast. The travelers scattered and ran screaming, lit up by crazily veering headlights, LED spotlights, and lightbars as the truck careened across mounds and through bushes after the hapless invaders. At the edge of the kinetic field of dazzling light, Kandude saw the leader of the fleeing group bolt off into the darkness.
As the truck momentarily stabilized on a flat stretch, Kandude saw the MAWA hat man rise up and take aim at a knot of scattering runaways as he clicked a knob on his AR. Kandude, without a thought, rotated at the hips and delivered a straight right to the man’s cheekbone, using excellent technique from his boxing summer camp days. With his AR firing fully automatic through a flaming arc into the sky, MAWA hat man flew over the opposite rail of the truck bed and into the dark. The driver, distracted by the burst of gunfire from behind, plowed into a hummock and the truck heaved and rolled over in a violent crash.
Kandude was thrown from the truck, lighting upon a bushy mound of sand. Suddenly it was silent, except for the rotation of upturned tires and a steaming sound from the truck’s engine.!-- /wp:paragraph --> Dazed, Kandude sat up and saw Professor B’s legs protruding from beneath the still brightly lit wreck. A couple of men were groaning and crawling out of the inverted cab. Staggering to his feet, Kandude saw a little girl, wide eyed and lost, staring at the destruction. He ran over, picked up the little girl and headed out into the night.
After trudging around for an hour, he happened upon a knot of the runners huddled in an arroyo. One of the women leaped up and rushed over to take the little girl from Kandude, crying with joy and relief. She hugged her child and Kandude. The others gathered around to greet Kandude and find out what had happened at the wreck and whether he thought the militia men were still after them. They shared water and trail mix with Kandude as others straggled in to rejoin the group, except for the leader, whom the runners called “El Coyote.”
At dawn, the group decided to try to continue on without El Coyote, a couple of the men having made the trip before. However, before they had trudged along for many miles, a small plane was seen circling overhead.!-- /wp:paragraph --> Within the hour, a phalanx of official-looking pickup trucks and Chevy Suburbans bore down on them. Armed men, this time in legitimate uniforms and carrying much less tactical firepower than the Vow Stickers, rounded up the entire group and drove them off to a large camp surrounded with barbed wire.!-- /wp:paragraph --> There, they were logged in and separated by gender, then randomly assigned to rustic quarters, except that children under six were sometimes allowed to stay with their mothers. The name on the main gate was Camp Maytag. The officers looked at Kandude with contempt. Some, under their breath, called him a traitor to his race. They were less than gentle with him as they herded the men into their huts
Kandude was shocked by the conditions in the camp, which consisted of shabby, crowded barracks and tents, pit toilets, terrible food, and no fans or air conditioning despite the sweltering heat. At first, his attempts to talk to the other prisoners were met with suspicion and stony silence. But soon, the word about his role in the desert attack got around. The men told him that many of them had been captured in the desert, but that others were rounded up in workplace raids, sweeps through Latino neighborhoods, and Driving while Brown. They indicated that Latinos were increasingly being stopped, challenged, insulted, and often detained regardless of their citizenship status. Sheriff’s deputies often refused to acknowledge any documentation as legitimate.
Kandude found that his fellow prisoners, rather than being murderers and gang members, were overwhelmingly kind, scared, deeply concerned about the women and children in the camp, and desperate to rejoin and work hard to support their families in the US, Mexico, and other Latin American countries.
After several days in the camp, Kandude happened upon a Mexican-American journalist, Manny Mendoza, who had been arrested while investigating conditions on the border and in camps. He said that Camp Maytag was run by the County Sheriff, with the assistance of a deputized Immigration Posse that included, from time-to-time, celebrities from professional wrestling, country music, right-wing pseudo-journalism such as Faux News and Newsmux, and network reality shows.
The whole operation was essentially independent of efforts by the U.S. Border Patrol and the Immigration and Customs Enforcement because those agencies coddled illegals and wasted too much time worrying about keeping family units intact. The Libureaucrats also offered unlimited opportunities for false asylum applications. They were bogged down in administrative processes that failed to comprehend the inherent criminality of illegal invaders and people who looked and talked like them.
As Kandude and Manny were talking, three large deputies pushed their way through the crowded barracks, grabbed Kandude by the arms and frog marched him out into the yard and across to a portable office.