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—

“Fascist scum! Eat shit!” A stream of liquid shot onto Jake’s face. His eyes immediately began burning. He shut them tight and collapsed on his knees. “Get back!” the police yelled, off in the distance. Jake felt a hand on his back. “I’m going to get this stuff out, look up.” Something cool poured over his eyes. “Now try to open your eyes so I can wash it out.” Jake opened as best he could, and within a minute the burning subsided enough that he could make out an image of the man standing before him.

“Are you wearing contacts?”

“No,” Jake replied. “But it still stings.”

“It’s going to hurt for a few hours. When you get home, wash your eyes out with some milk.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Franco.” Jake stood up as Franco closed his backpack of medical supplies. He examined Jake’s eyes once more.

“They’re still pretty red. I think they’ve started using some kind of acid instead of regular pepper spray, but if you can see now you should be okay.”

“Man, I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I want to help people on our side.” There was a skirmish off to Franco’s right. A Molotov cocktail was thrown in the middle of a group, lighting a man’s pants on fire.

“Shit, I have to go. Take care!”

“Wait, let me buy you a drink or something.”

“DM me on Twitter. My handle is LenaDunhamRapedMe.” Franco ran off while Jake stumbled to safety.

—

Jake washed his eyes out with milk when he got home. As his vision returned to normal, his anger rose. The speaker who came to Portland that day, Julius Callaghan, wasn’t even that conservative. He supported gay marriage and didn’t much care for the traditional ideas that Jake thought was necessary to end America’s decline. If the left successfully shut down Callaghan, how could improvement ever take place?

He fired up his troll account on Twitter, ShlomoGoldsteinberg and sent a message to LenaDunhamRapedMe. After discovering that they only lived twenty minutes away from each other, they arranged to meet two days later at a local pizzeria.

Jake arrived first. He asked for a table in the back and sat facing the front door. Since being attacked, Jake was more paranoid, checking his rear often to see if anyone was following him. A few minutes later, a man with a slight beard and short black hair wearing an ironic t-shirt of an American bald eagle walked in and approached Jake’s table. He was shorter than Jake remembered, with a darker complexion that looked vaguely Mediterranean.

“How are your eyes?” Franco asked.

“They’re fine now, you really saved me. Pizza is on me tonight.” They looked through the menu and decided on a pepperoni pizza with mushrooms and olives.

“What happened after I left?”

“One guy suffered second-degree burns to his leg. The police finally broke it up after that.”

“Those motherfuckers!”

Franco glanced at the table behind him, as if telling Jake to calm down. “That’s the pattern,” Franco said. “The police lay off for a while hoping that someone on the right does something stupid or violent. When that doesn’t happen, the police shut down Antifa’s violence before it becomes too obvious that they’re the ones causing all the mayhem.”

“The police and mayor set us up. I don’t believe they’re on the side of these losers.”

“Their sponsors demand it. It’s the people with power who are the problem, not Antifa.”

“What are you suggesting?” Jake wondered, sitting up. For the past two years, he had been stewing alone, reading one story after the next about censorship, political violence, and cultural degeneration. The past was not perfect, he knew, but what was happening in the United States was so depraved that he couldn’t stomach it any longer. The trigger that made him want to attend protests was seeing public libraries and schools allow transsexuals dressed in demonic costumes to read gay books to little children.

President Steel seemed to understand what was going on, but he was too much of a boomer to fix anything beyond economic problems. He cared more about meaningless sideshow victories that rallied his base for a successful re-election than solving the root of the malaise. Jake knew that something drastic had to be done to stop what was happening, but he wasn’t sure what.

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Franco replied, lowering his head, “but these speaker events and rallies help them more than it helps us. The left mobilizes too quickly and their institutional allies are too entrenched. They find a way to spin everything in their favor.”

“So why did you go to the rally?”

“Honestly?” Franco paused. “For the action. My life is boring. It’s too easy. I work as a data analyst. There’s no real difficulty. For the past few years I was into PUA, but after a while I got annoyed at the amount of work it takes to be with someone I didn’t really care about. Even money doesn’t interest me. I have what I need.”

“We have no meaning in our lives because we’re connected to a civilization that’s dying,” Jake replied. “We feel all its side effects and tremors. It coughs and we cough along with it. When a civilization is healthy, we feel vigor, strength, pride, and purpose, but when the host body is dying, all of its cells are ready to give up. Philosophies like Stoicism and Taoism were made by men in dying civilizations. Marcus Aurelius wrote Meditations towards the end of the Roman Empire when it was attacked by both barbarians and plague. He tried to help men with no hope, no power.”

“God can help,” Franco said without conviction.

“Not on his own. It still has to happen through us.”

The pizza came. Jake insisted Franco take the first slice. He sensed that Franco had accepted his fate but still held on to a bubbling energy that was begging to be put to use.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Jake asked.

Franco sucked his teeth. “There’s a girl I’m seeing. She’s pretty good, but not the one.”

“Why not?”

“She slept around in order to find herself. She told me she’s been with six guys, so that means she’s been with dozens, probably. All her self-worth is tied into her sexuality. If I fuck her good she’s happy, but when I’m not around, I suspect she gets anxious and goes to social media to get validated by thirsty betas. She has many guy ‘friends’ as well.”

“That’s a bad sign,” Jake chimed in, remembering his ex-girlfriend. He caught her cheating on him with one of her supposed friends. He hasn’t been with a woman since.

“But she’s fine for now. And you?”

“I got burned by a girl and then I kept seeing her in other girls I would meet. Maybe I should move to a smaller town.”

“Then you have to deal with the obesity.”

“Actually, the reason I asked if you had a girlfriend is because I’m ready to act in a way that a man who is tied down would find difficult.” Jake paused. “Are you white, by the way?”

“My ancestors were Italian. Why?”

“Do you believe in white genocide?”

“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

“I think so, but I had to ask. You saw my Twitter handle so I take it you know where I stand.”

“I don’t identify too much with being white,” Franco said, “but if whites become a minority in the United States, it won’t be the United States any longer. I thought President Steel was going to put a stop to immigration, but it’s still going on, just at a lower level.”

“It’s because of the echoes.”

“The who?”

“The Jews,” Jake said plainly.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure they should get all the blame. A host would not allow a parasite to infect it when healthy. Even if we kick out all the Jews and the illegals today, the story would repeat itself a couple decades later with some other group.”

“But you have to agree that in 1965, when the immigration act was passed, whites didn’t know what the agenda of the echoes were. If we red pill whites now, and they refuse the pill and cuck themselves into oblivion, I would not be upset and agree that the sun is being set on them while shining bright on the black and brown races, but if we tell the white man he’s infected, I’m confident he will remove the parasite from his body.”

“Are you sure the host is not so weakened that he can still put up strong resistance?” Franco asked.

“Wouldn’t you like to find out?” Jake didn’t wait for Franco’s answer. “Look, this is not a good place to talk. Let’s settle the bill and go in my car.” He waved the waitress over. “Pizza is on me. Thanks again for dousing my eyes out.”

After the bill was paid, Jake led Franco to his car parked outside. “Put your phone in this bag,” he said. Franco did so and Jake added his phone. He put the bag underneath the car. They got in and closed the door.

“What you’re about to tell me is certainly illegal,” Franco said, nervously.

Jake laughed. “I have no specific plan in mind, but I want to develop one.” He turned on his satellite radio to an oldies station that was playing the end of Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen. “How can we fix the problems of this country?”

“That’s a hard question.” Franco crossed his hands on his lap. “There are a lot of moving parts and variables, all interfacing with each other.”

“But what is the biggest problem?”

“The government. They are either the origin of the most severe problems, like with immigration, or the enablers, like with culture. If you could magically transform government, things could be improved.”

“But we can’t just storm on Washington,” Jake said. “Any kind of armed revolt would fail.”

“A large rebel force would be needed to take Washington, but before it got strong enough, the FBI and DEA would infiltrate it thoroughly and clamp down before the decisive action. That sort of idea should be off the table since the government’s counter-intelligence apparatus is too strong. Instead of attacking the government directly, we could go after their source of power.”

“The Jews?”

“No, the people.”

Nothing really matters, anyone can see
Nothing really matters
Nothing really matters to me
Any way the wind blows

“This type of defeatism is bullshit,” Jake said, referring to the song. “It’s no accident they want everyone thinking that nothing matters and there’s no way to make a change. History is filled with men who made a difference and improved their countries.”

“Well, what’s improvement to us would be a catastrophe to a liberal, especially if those liberals are killed during our improvement.” The next song was American Pie by Don McLean.

“You get my point,” Jake conceded, not wanting Franco to get off track. “You were saying about the government’s source of power…”

“It’s from the people. If everyone in the United States said the Federal government was illegitimate, and they stopped paying taxes or following laws, the system would collapse overnight. It will never happen that all citizens remove their consent to be governed, but if 15% do, it’s the beginning of the end, especially if a small minority of that 15% are willing to use violence. The question is therefore not how to overthrow the government, but how to get at least 15% of the population to want to overthrow the government.”

“And you know how to get 15% of the population to want to overthrow the government?”

Franco smirked.

So bye, bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
And them good ole boys were drinking whiskey ‘n rye
Singin’ this’ll be the day that I die

“Well go on.”

“What do citizens want most of all from a government?”

“Safety, security, comfort,” Jake replied.

“Exactly. They give the government consent to rule over them in exchange for protection to live with a feeling of freedom. If that protection is removed, especially suddenly instead of gradually, I think you’ll hit the 15%.”

“So like if a foreign country invades America and starts killing everybody?”

“No, because that would rally people to side of the government to expel the foreign invaders. It would have to be something where the lack of protection comes from government incompetence or apathy. Citizens must start seeing the government as the enemy and then rally to expel it. Think of how terrorist attacks are helpful to the government. Presidential approval ratings always go up after them. Do you remember Hurricane Lateisha?”

“Yeah, it killed like over 1,000 black people.”

“And a lot of blacks around the country were pissed, but they’re only 13% of the population. Now how about if you piss off whites, who are 60% of the population?”

A white couple walked out of the pizzeria, holding hands. Jake asked aloud, “How could I make those two hate the government enough that they would want to overthrow them?”

“They don’t make songs like this anymore,” Franco said. “It’s like ten minutes long.”

“I only listen to oldies. New music is propaganda. They put a degenerate message in the song, make it catchy as hell, and next thing you know all you want to do is pop pills and fuck random people.”

“Funny, I used to listen to rap songs before going out to meet women. It would get me in the mood.”

And in the streets, the children screamed
The lovers cried and the poets dreamed
But not a word was spoken
The church bells all were broken

“I presume you know exactly how to get white people to revolt,” Jake said, hopefully.

“No, I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

Jake tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, humming to the end of the song. “The other week I was watching a video about the EMP bomb, which is just a nuclear bomb that is detonated high up in the atmosphere. It doesn’t kill anyone, but it knocks out all electronics, electricity, everything. It sends a huge region right back into the stone age, and it could take years to get things back up again, but the most interesting part was that after just a few days of no electricity, the population descends into a panic of looting, theft, and pure chaos. Cannibalism is possible within only a month. Can you imagine what people would do if they had no lighting, internet, or transportation for a couple of weeks, with no hope of it coming back? They would channel all their desperation and anger at the government for not keeping the lights on, a simple thing that even shithole third-world nations like Haiti can manage.” Jake stood up in his seat, his mind buzzing. “And how about if we can pin the loss of electricity on a group of people that whites already know are a problem?”

“Black people,” Franco said.

“No, because then the narrative will revert back to solely being a race issue that the media knows how to expertly control.”

“Definitely not the Muslims,” Franco added. “If it looks like Islamic terrorism, that will just rally whites to the government.”

There was a long silence. “The Mexicans!” Jake said. Whites voted for Steel because they want stronger border control with Mexico. If those immigrants were shown to be the cause of a drastic and sudden decrease in their standard of living, they’d lose their shit.”

“Like in a false flag attack?” Franco asked.

“Yes. We take out the electricity in several white cities and make it seem like Mexican gangs are doing it. The whites will wake up, and then we count the days until the government is finished.” The next song was Dust In The Wind by Kansas.

“How do we take out electricity?”

“We fire on transformers. It can’t be that hard. It’s not like they’re heavily guarded.”

“And how do we frame the Mexicans?”

“That will be harder,” Jake replied, tightening his mouth. “We could pin it on the drug gang MS-13. They’re so mad at Steel’s deportations that they decided to retaliate against white cities.”

“The problem is that even if we leave empty tequila bottles everywhere, the government won’t share the evidence, and the media won’t report on it. You remember what they did in Reno with that mass shooting?”

“Dude, we don’t need the government or media to spread our narrative. We take the pictures ourselves and forward it to journalist e-celebs on Twitter. They’ll publish it in a second, and maybe Truth Report will feature it. We only need to plant the seed that Mexicans and MS-13 hate whites and that the government is allowing it to happen.”

“Technically, MS-13 are El Salvadoran,” Franco corrected.

“Sure, whatever. Fuck, I think this would actually work. Target four Midwestern cities, take out their electricity, feed a MS-13 revenge narrative to the internet, and watch the government respond with incompetence. A huge increase in whites will resent the government for not protecting them. They’ll start to resist.”

“It’s a nice fantasy.” Franco nodded his head.

Jake ducked his head under Franco’s field of vision. “What do you mean, fantasy? We can do it.” Franco’s eyes opened wide.

Same old song, just a drop of water
In an endless sea
All we do crumbles to the ground
Though we refuse to see
Dust in the wind
All we are is dust in the wind

Jake turned off the radio. “First of all,” he started, “I’m not a Fed. Shit, I can give you my social security number if you want, and I can show you what I do for work. Second, if not us, then who? How many times have you seen someone on Twitter posting ‘Make it stop’ to the newest travesty? If there is a God, He doesn’t make it stop directly but gives power to us to do what needs to be done.”

“We might get caught,” Franco countered.

“And what’s the alternative? Watching it get worse year after year, waiting like cowards for someone else to do what we should be doing right now? And so what if we get caught? In a few years, you won’t be free anyway. Already you can’t say what you think. If you ever have children, they won’t remain yours. Either your wife takes them away with authority of the state or you’ll be labeled a child abuser if you don’t let you son wear makeup and be molested by trannies. So you’ll lose your entertainment and your freedom to be a coward… big deal.”

“I don’t know.”

“We won’t get caught. We won’t be like the idiots who do rallies and put a target on our backs.”

“I have a family,” Franco protested.

“Okay, tell me about your family.”

“I have parents and a sister.”

“Let me guess, your parents are concerned about your far-right views, and would be the first to forsake you if you ever get written up in the media, and your sister is lost, riding the cock carousel because she thinks it make her feel empowered, no offense.” Franco looked down.

Jake continued, “I’m estranged from my father. He watches too much news on TV and now they have his mind. My mom thinks I’m some kind of misogynist because I dared to tell her that I won’t marry a whore, and my brother is married to a fat pig that controls his life. I love them because they’re blood, but… I feel like they were taken away from me.”

“How will cutting out the power in these cities help with that?”

“It’ll force their hand. Right now whites are coasting along from the past success of their ancestors, but when the conflict comes, they’ll be forced to see the liberal faggots on one hand, pozzed out to the max with whatever mystery meat they’re jamming into the blue states, and the so-called racist white man on the other, who shows that he actually cares about the future of this country. If our blood chooses poz and disowns us then so be it, but let’s push them towards a decision instead of just allowing them to ride the social justice meme because they think it makes them a good person.”

“This is crazy. My brain is trying to come up with objections, but other than the fear of going to jail, I don’t know what to say.”

“I could tell you wanted to take action. You went to Julius’ event as a medic to make a difference for those who wanted to fight back. You made a difference for me, and probably saved my eyesight. Now together we can do what you did at that event, times ten-thousand. Deep down, you know it’s worth trying. We’ll structure the plan to lower the chances of getting caught, and won’t go through with it unless you’re absolutely sure the risk is at a minimum. And you have less to lose than you think. The wheel of history is turning.” Jake made large circular motions with his right hand, almost hitting Franco in the face. “Either we get crushed by it or steer its direction ourselves. It’s obvious that no one else will do it.”

“And you’re not a Fed?” Franco asked.

“Bro, if I was a Fed, I would organize a ‘free speech’ rally at a liberal university, tell our guys to bring ‘self-defense’ weapons, and make sure the media knows the exact time and place. Though Feds sometimes do snag lone-wolf terrorists. They give them the bomb-making materials and then stop the plot at the last…” Jake paused. “I probably shouldn’t have said that last bit!” He laughed and playfully slapped Franco’s arm.

“I want to see everything. Your birth certificate, your apartment, your resume…”

“Whatever you want. Shit, you can even call my previous employers. I’m just an IT guy, doing freelance work right now. I’ll even show you my most recent credit reports.”

“Do you have guns?”

“I have three rifles and a handgun. And you?”

“I have a rifle, but my aim isn’t so great.”

Jake took a deep breath, humming on the exhale. “We’ve gone over a lot for one night. Meeting you was important. You helped me connect some dots. Let’s meet again in a few days.”

“We can meet at your apartment next time so I can check your details. Even though I’m going forward with this, I have the right to withdraw at any time.”

“Of course. Unless you’re 100% sold on the plan, you don’t have to do it. Oh and one more thing… don’t tell anyone about this, especially your girlfriend. Plans like this can only get foiled if we start telling those close to us.”

They shook hands. Jake then retrieved the bag under the car and handed off Franco’s phone before saying goodbye.

Alone, neither man could conduct an operation of this scale, but together there was a synergy that made what they were about to do seem reasonable. It was clear why the elites were so hellbent on shutting down events that were hardly organized, especially the worldwide meetups of masculinity writer Burt Babak, who almost got killed when trying to set up happy hours for his followers.

Jake went to bed that night wondering if being helped by Franco was destined. Getting maced in the eyes is a small price to pay if it leads to meeting someone who can help you change the world.

—

Things progressed over the next few weeks. Franco was dutiful in checking Jake’s information, confirming that he had no criminal background or affiliations with the government. They began researching electrical substations and discovered that it was trivial to take them offline. All they had to do was shoot through cheap wire fencing at the big transformer blocks and keep shooting until the power of that station went out. They learned that a group had successfully done this several years back, and promisingly, they weren’t caught, because the station didn’t even have surveillance cameras at the time.

While nibbling on the plan here and there, they improved their shooting by rotating among several gun ranges in the Portland exurbs. At a distance of 100 yards, Jake was a far better shot, but Franco improved enough to where he could hit the target at least half of the time. It was clear that Jake would be the primary shooter and Franco would handle the ammo, serve as the lookout, and assist if there was a gun malfunction.

“How much time do you think we’ll have from when we start shooting to when first responders get so close that escape is impossible?” Jake asked one afternoon at the gun range.

“We have to assume the substation has basic surveillance, meaning cameras on the road leading up to the station and also a few around it. To be safe, let’s also assume there are motion-activated alarms, or possibly gunshot sound sensors like they have in the ghettos. Then we have to ask how far the electrical station is from the nearest police station. Most of these electrical stations are quite isolated, so even if there are motion-activated cameras with sound sensors, we should still have plenty of time to shoot out the transformers and leave.”

Jake grimaced. “Just give me a time in minutes.”

“When we see our first camera, let’s start a five-minute timer. When we shoot the first shot, start a three-minute timer. Whichever timer goes off first, we leave, no exceptions.”

“In three minutes I can rain down 300 rounds, assuming the gun doesn’t jam.”

“And I can join in if needed.”

“The bigger problem is transport. We’ll need a car because these stations are in isolated areas. Whichever car we use will definitely get caught on camera. Maybe we can steal some car tags so at least they can’t trace it back to us?”

Franco shook his head. “That’s still too risky. A couple months ago I read a story about how you can find ATM skimmers on the Dark Net. You can buy a kit that includes everything to clone cards. I’m pretty sure they have something to steal cars, too, which are basically big computers. Another option is to buy fake identification on the Dark Net and use that to rent a car in cash, but the risk there is that the rental office will have cameras that record us when we pick up the car. We need a fresh car for every op, and then we burn the car when it’s done.”

“Like in the movie Heat.”

“And also in Point Break,” Franco added. “We need to burn all our hairs or any other evidence that get left behind. And we have to steal the car very soon before the op, preferably late at night when the owner is sleeping so he doesn’t report it stolen. Even if we get pulled over, we have a chance at getting away if we tell the cops we’re borrowing a friend’s car.”

“And we have to drive up to the substation in masks. We’ll stop a mile out and put them on before we get in the range of cameras.”

It took only three weeks for Franco to procure two “code grabber” devices that he bought with cryptocurrency. They could unlock and start most modern cars that used remote keyless entry. They tested it on their own cars first. One opened and started Franco’s car while the other worked on Jake’s. It was so incredibly easy that they figured they could rob cars if they were ever short of money. Neither of them have committed crimes in the past, but once the seal was broken and they became determined to commit a huge crime, there wasn’t much resistance to committing the smaller ones.

As they started to accumulate gear and ammo, Franco asked Jake if he could store everything in his apartment to keep it away from his girlfriend. Jake agreed that it was a good idea.

Two more parts of the plan remained: which cities to hit and how to plant the fake evidence that frames MS-13. They decided to hit the whitest cities most reasonably near MS-13’s primary base of Los Angeles so the narrative could be that the gangs drove over to commit their evil mayhem. The target cities would have to be large enough where some chaos or panic was possible, but not so large that there would be any deaths. After all, the plan was to wake up white people, not kill them.

Framing the gang would be easy. They planned to spray-paint “MS13” at the substations and then take a picture of a gloved hand doing their “four in the stink” gang sign. If the government or media tried to conceal the graffiti, and no journalist came by the scene to report on it independently, they would just send photos directly to the e-celebs. Jake considered leaving a note in badly written English, something like, “You make deportations of us so we make fuck with you,” but decided against it. The spray painting should be enough.

They settled on four cities to attack. The first was West Jordan, Utah, a ten-hour drive from Los Angeles (and eleven hours from Portland).  It had a population of 115,000 that was 90% white. Eight hours north of that was Billings, Montana, with a 90% white population of 104,000. Four hours southeast of Billings was Casper, Wyoming, with a 92% white population of 55,000. The last city, Boise, Idaho, was ten hours directly west of Casper. The biggest city on the list, Boise had a 92% white population of 185,000.

Their city order served two functions. First, investigators would connect the first three cities and expect them to go south to Colorado or east to Nebraska or South Dakota. Secondly, the sharp turn west to attack Boise would be the most plausible route for an MS-13 gang based out of Los Angeles that wanted to return home after their last hit (the distance to L.A. from Boise was thirteen hours, a difficult but conceivable drive).

Barely a week after deciding on their hit list, Franco gave Jake a series of stapled papers that contained the names and locations of every single electrical substation near the four cities. “How the fuck did you get this?” Jake asked, flipping through the pages.

“You can get anything on the Dark Net now. There are actually 55,000 substations in the United States, but supposedly if you take out the top 30, you could cripple the entire country. The ones we’re targeting are tiny and should be easy to handle.”

“But aren’t most cities served by more than one station?” Jake asked.

“That’s right, but we only have to take out the two nearest stations of any city. That should cut power for its metro area and make it extremely difficult to turn everything back on. By the time police are responding to a shooting in the first station, we’d already be on our way to the second. We just have to be careful when we move to the second station, because police will be out.”

Like with the other gear, Jake took possession of the blueprints and stored it in his home. He had amassed quite the stockpile in his living room: thousands of rounds of ammo, burner phones, masks, gloves, gasoline containers, code jammers, matches, flashlights, caffeine pills, a crowbar, a bolt cutter (one of the substations was disguised as a residential house and needed to be broken into), and the electrical blueprints. After verifying directions to each substation using Rainbow Maps, the planning was complete.

“Well, three months of hard work has paid off,” Jake told Franco over a round of beers in a local bar. “I’m ready to rock n’ roll. God, I don’t believe we’re doing this.”

“Yeah about that…” Franco frowned. “I need a bit more time before we can leave.”

“What? But we’re ready to go.”

“I can’t get off work for another two weeks. We need a full week to complete the mission, but that’s a lot of time to ask off when you’re a corporate slave.”

Jake was not happy. “Are you sure you can leave then?”

“Yes I’m sure.”

“Alright, we’ll wait. I’m feeling the momentum, but if we have no choice but to wait then so be it.” Jake ordered another round.

“By the way, who’s your cell phone company?” Jake asked.

“It’s Q Mobile.”

“Are you having any problems with them lately?”

“No, why?”

“Because my service keeps going out, even during calls. It’s like my phone can’t stay connected to the tower.”

“I don’t know, maybe it’s your phone.”

“Maybe.”

—

Jake’s mother was on the couch, looking upset. Is my mom crying? His father was sitting at the dining room table, talking to a stocky man. Another man, tall and square-jawed, was moving around in the living room, looking at Jake’s baby pictures. Jake went close to his mother, but she didn’t see him. He then walked into the living room and heard the stocky man ask his father, “Did your son give any signs that he was capable of doing this?”

Jake backed away into the living room. The tall agent grabbed his arm. “You can’t get away from us.” The front door opened. Jake turned his head. It was Franco. Take ‘em out Franco! But Franco didn’t move. He looked directly at Jake and wagged his finger back and forth, scolding him.

Jake woke up from the dream, his heart pounding. He covered his face with his hands and rocked his body back and forth while muttering “no, no, no…” under his breath. A few minutes later he put on his clothes and grabbed his handgun and the code jammers. He got in his car and drove to the apartment where he dropped Franco off many times before. His mind was racing now, analyzing every little interaction he had with Franco since they met.

Franco had his trust from the very first moment. The frame was always that Jake was the agent, not Franco, and even though Jake came up with the actual plan, it was Franco who began the entire process. It was Franco who supplied all the tools necessary. And it was Franco who insisted that Jake have the orgy of evidence in his possession. Jake had never even been inside his apartment, never seen pictures of his girlfriend. “He can’t be,” Jake whispered to himself as he opened Franco’s car door, but he already knew the truth: Franco was an FBI agent.

There was no girlfriend. The apartment was a short-term rental. To build trust with potential right-wing extremists, Franco went to rallies as a medic. His job was to egg someone on into a devastating plot that could be used a pretext to clamp down on the entire right, to shut down the will of anyone to resist. Jake was going to be arrested for terrorism and locked up in a hole for the rest of his life. He sat in the car, frozen, staring at Franco’s FBI identification card.

Human beings have an analog nervous system. When a threatening stimulus strikes one of their senses, a small, almond-sized command center in their brain issues a red alert, releasing a host of chemicals into the bloodstream that stimulates some organs, like the heart and eyes, while shutting down others, like the stomach and bladder. The brain, even if fatigued, is jolted awake. The most vital hands are called on deck to deal with a potential danger that could harm the organism, and the most incredible feature of this million-year old system is its lighting speed. In less than a second, the entire being can be braced for survival.

Modern humans don’t face threats like their ancestors did. Their bodies are put into emergencies for banal problems that lack a clear enemy, like when a lover doesn’t reply to a text message within a few hours or when a headache persists for more than a day, but the body and mind are capable of handling so much more. It’s able to make advanced mathematical calculations when deciding on a course of action or become as spontaneously creative as one of the greatest artists in history. This only happens when the need arises, when the organism is about to perish, a moment that has come for Jake.

For the first time in his life, he stared into the abyss, with only one advantage to his favor: his double crosser did not yet know that he knows. A little drop of asymmetry has given Jake just enough time to think of a solution. His eyes remained closed as a film reel of possibilities washed over the black screen of his eyelids. The organism didn’t want to die, and all Jake had to do was listen to what it told him.

The sun began to rise. Jake put Franco’s items back in their original place, locked the door, and slipped into the trunk through the folding backseat. He loaded a round into the chamber of his gun. Half an hour later, the door unlocked. Franco got in and closed the door. Jake slowly lowered the seat. “Good morning, Agent Franco Ferri. Put your hands on the wheel.” Franco did as he was told. “Now don’t you fucking move.”

It was Franco’s turn to process a stimulus that threatened his life, but he had far less time than Jake to find a solution. Skin cells on Franco’s face immediately began producing sweat as his hands squeezed the steering wheel tight. His knuckles turned red.

Jake reached his hand into Franco’s right pocket to remove his cell phone. He turned on the screen to find that it was fingerprint activated.

“Slowly put your finger on it and then put your hand back on the wheel.”

Franco did what he was told. Jake then looked through his phone with his right hand while keeping the gun pointed at Franco with the left. He found Franco’s email app, verified that it didn’t need a separate password, and put the phone down. He switched the gun back into his right hand.

“The FBI identification is fake,” Franco said. “I got it on the Dark Net. It’s for the operation in case we’re stopped along the way and need to get out of a jam.”

“The FBI is the Dark Net,” Jake replied, his nostrils flaring.

“Look, I was going to call you today and ask if you wanted one too.”

“You fucking liar. And the key access card in a sleeve with the FBI logo?”

Franco hesitated. He wanted to speak, to give a plausible excuse, but no words came out. Jake pulled the trigger. The first shot ripped through the right side of Franco’s back, puncturing his lung. “Wait!” Franco gasped for air. “I’ll let you go. This is just my job.”

“Fuck you!” Jake pulled the trigger three more times. One bullet burst through Franco’s heart, and he took his last breath while Jake watched.

Jake pulled Franco’s body into the backseat and covered it with his jacket. Then he turned off Franco’s phone and got into the driver’s seat. He felt the warmth of Franco’s blood on his back.

Jake drove an hour to an isolated area near one of the gun ranges where they practiced. After checking that the coast was clear, he grabbed Franco’s sunglasses and dragged his body to the middle of a grassy mound. He propped up Franco’s body to face the sun and fitted it with the sunglasses. Then he slid the keyring holder of one of the code jammers onto Franco’s right index finger.

Using Franco’s phone, Jake made it seem like Franco was taking a selfie of himself in the middle of nowhere with the code jammer visible. Once Jake captured a realistic selfie, he cut off Franco’s right index finger with a pocket knife and wrapped it in a napkin. He left the body in the grass and drove back to Franco’s apartment, got back in his own car, and drove home.

At noon, Franco’s supervisor was wondering why he didn’t check in with his usual morning brief. His phone was off. It wasn’t until late in the night that a car was sent to Franco’s home to check on him. When Franco’s colleague found his blood-soaked car, Jake was more than halfway to Boise at a rest stop diner. He turned on Franco’s phone, unlocked it in a bathroom stall with Franco’s severed finger, and spent an hour typing out an email. He proofread it no less than six times until he felt it was the best he could get it. He then sent it off to Truth Report and five other e-celebs before throwing the phone in the garbage.

Jake had to move fast. By the time he approached Boise, FBI agents were crawling through his Portland apartment. All FBI field offices were put on notice, but they did not contact local authorities, even in the cities that Jake and Franco planned to hit, because it could reveal that the FBI carried some responsibility for any attack. If the FBI said that “sources” told them about the plan, who were the sources? Where did the intelligence come from? The FBI created the mess and were determined to get themselves out of it, but they were too late. Jake made it to Boise. The recipients of the email were in shock, sure it was some kind of hoax, wondering if they should release it or not.

In Boise, Jake went to a Walmart parking lot to find a car to steal. He settled on a SUV and opened it with one of the code jammers. He drove it to his car parked at the end of the lot and transferred over his duffel bags of gear.

The operation was rehearsed so many times in his mind that carrying it out was effortless. He put on a mask at the boundary of the first substation, drove the SUV to within range of the central transformers, and then laid heavy fire for two minutes until the substation’s lights went out. The electricity in Boise flickered for a moment but remained on.

The city was eerily calm on the drive to the second substation. He saw no police. He repeated the same procedure, and after nearly three minutes of firing, the entire Boise metro area went dark. It took fourteen minutes for the news to hit the wires, and when it did, the first e-celeb published the email that he received, along with the photo attachments. Jake drove the SUV eastward into the early morning until he arrived to Jackson, Wyoming. He parked the car and fell asleep.

—

By noon, his email became the most viral piece of content in the internet’s history. The government did its best to hide the letter, forcing its social media partners to ban anyone who published it, but that made it spread even faster. Foreign governments hostile to the United States got into the act, reading the email on breaking news segments and rooting for patriots to defeat their “evil” government.

Jake woke up late in the afternoon. Too scared to turn on one of his burner phones, he proceeded as if his email didn’t get published. He imagined how the media was broadcasting endless segments of him as a “far right lone wolf terrorist.”

Keeping his head down, he went to an outdoorsman store and bought camping supplies and then to a supermarket to buy dried and canned food. There were hardly any customers. He got into the SUV and drove as deep as he could into the nearby Bridger-Teton National Forest. He found an isolated area and set up a campsite.

Calling upon childhood camping experiences with his father, Jake had an easy time in the forest. He filtered water from a nearby stream, went for long meandering walks, and experimented with traps to catch small game. He made small fires only at night. With no one to talk to, he started talking to himself, just to hear the sound of his voice.

“The big trees, the sound of the stream… How can there be anger when living here?… Maybe this was the solution all along, to unplug from the city and live with nature… How did I decide that attacking cities was the best course of action?… Maybe I really was MK ULTRA’ed… Did Franco drug me?… No, I knew what I was doing… I’m only thinking the forest is good because I have no other choice… I need to be around people!… A stupid man’s last camping trip… Technically, in this moment, there is no problem… You’ll be okay… FUCK!… Just enjoy the forest talking to you… You made the best decision at the time you made it, but it was the wrong decision…. No one cares about what happens to you… You live, you act, you die… Maybe I can go back to a normal life somehow?… God doesn’t care about me… At least I tried something… I hope no one died in Boise… Maybe the email worked?… I don’t believe I killed a man… Could he really have let me go?… He was just doing his job.”

After five weeks, Jake ran out of food and ate what the forest provided—wild onions, morel mushrooms, and thimbleberries. He was running a significant calorie deficit, and considered using a rifle to shoot game at risk of exposing his location. When he started feeling dizzy seven weeks in, he felt that he had no choice but to go hunting. He dispatched a beaver and feasted heartily.

The next day was so windy that it tossed Jake around, almost toppling him over. Upon returning to his campsite after a midday search for food, he saw that a group of seven men with large backpacks and duffel bags were approaching him. Thinking they were the authorities, he resigned himself to his fate, but as they got closer, he noticed they were wearing blue jeans, fleece jackets, and plaid button-downs. One man was even wearing basketball shorts over a pair of tight-fitting bicycle pants. He slowly walked up to the men, not sure of what to expect.

“What are you doing out here?” one of the men asked.

“I’m just camping, sir.”

“Looks like you’ve been here a while.”

“I think it’s been eight weeks, but I’m not sure.”

A pair of the men whispered something between themselves. Then another shouted, “Holy shit! I think that’s Jake Ultra!” The squad of men moved closer.

“What’s your name?” the leader asked.

“My name is Jake Walker.”

“It is Jake Ultra!”

“Why are you calling me Jake Ultra?” Jake asked.

“Because you’re that poor fucker the FBI programmed.”

Jake knew his email had been released. “I have been here since Boise. Who are you?”

“He doesn’t know anything.”

The squad leader walked up to Jake. “After Boise, cells of family and neighbor activated. We first kicked out the FBI in Salt Lake City and Denver. Then we cleared out the IRS, the DEA, ATF, Forest Service, Bureau Land Management, the TSA from airports, and then finally the US Marshalls. Most citizens in our area renounced the Federal government and joined our side.”

“My God….” Jake stared at the ground. “How has President Steel reacted?”

The squad leader clasped his hands. “President Steel is dead. They killed him two days after Boise when he moved to purge the leadership of the FBI. Vice President McDonnell is now in charge. He’s preparing a massive counterattack on us from the Northeast and California. Our intel says we have a month to prepare.”

“And how about the people of Boise? How many of them did I kill?”

“Kill? No one died in Boise.”

“But I took out the power to the whole city.”

“Boise is not New York City. If the power goes out there, dozens die within an hour. The people in Boise quickly came together to help each other. They probably have the most gasoline generators per capita out of anywhere in the world.”

Jake exhaled deeply. “But why aren’t you wearing uniforms?”

“No soldier, no target,” a solider said.

“And why don’t you have guns out?”

“Their drones have AI programmed to auto-kill someone holding a gun.”

“The Feds say you killed that FBI agent,” another soldier said.

Jake looked away, revealing his guilt. “Do people hate me?”

“A lot of people see you as a patsy, a poor fool…”

“The fool who woke us up,” said a soldier with red hair.

Jake’s legs felt wobbly.

The red-haired soldier walked up to Jake and removed a piece of paper from one of his pockets. “This is the email that started the war. Have you seen it?” Jake took the paper and read it to himself.

My name is Franco Ferri and I’m a FBI Agent based in Portland, Oregon. Starting last year, I was tasked to attend right-wing protests and build trust among its adherents by posing as a medic who would assist patriots and other far-right extremists with minor injuries. This is how I was able to befriend Jake Walker. He was maced in the face by a leftist agitator and I was the first to help him under the guise of being right-wing like him.

Over the course of several weeks, I channeled his anger at the current state of the United States into taking illegal action. Specifically, I convinced Jake that he could save America by attacking it. The plan was to take out the electrical power in predominately white cities and then frame the MS-13 gang as the party responsible. By doing this, Jake was convinced that whites in America would become aware of their marginalization and begin fighting against globalist agendas that predominately feature immigration as a way to dilute and destroy the fabric of the country along with white America’s ability to resist.

My supervisors at the FBI told me that before the attacks were to begin, we would arrest Jake and use him as an example of the terroristic danger of the American right wing. I was fine with this plan, since no one would get hurt and we would remove a dangerous man from the streets, but at the last minute, the FBI instructed me to allow him to hit one of the four cities. Then they would arrest him and expose the plot without identifying their role in creating it. Their reasoning for allowing Jake to hit one city is that it would be easier for their political allies in Washington D.C. to pass further surveillance legislation that would treat all white men as terrorists, no different than Islamic terrorists. This plan would ensure that whites could never pose a threat to state power.

Every man has a limit, and at that point, my limit was reached. Anyone knows that removing electricity from a city will put those who require medical devices, especially the sick and elderly, at risk. People could die. When I questioned the plan to my supervisors, they insisted I follow orders and allow Jake to attack the first city: Boise, Idaho.

As I type this letter, Jake is on his way to Boise to launch an attack on its electrical power grid. I have no doubt that he will be successful because of the advanced training that I was able to provide him thanks to resources backed by the FBI. Within a day, you will be able to note the cleanliness of his operation, and how there will be no evidence left behind at the crime scene beyond shell casings. You will not find images of Jake’s face on any surveillance camera. The FBI is planning to arrest him after the Boise operation and present to the public his car code jammers and electrical blueprints, all provided to Jake by myself. The FBI will then parade themselves as heroes who stopped even greater destruction from a lone wolf domestic terrorist, when they themselves are the terrorists.

Go to any gun range in Portland and they will have video footage of me, an FBI agent, shooting rifles with Jake. He would not have been able to carry out this operation without the agency’s instigation, training, and equipment.

While Jake is not an innocent man, the FBI has twisted his love of country through the use of MK ULTRA tactics that have been perfected over the past several decades, all to fulfill the objectives of the true owners of the United States of America. I signed up for this job to put criminals in jail, but I now realize that my job was to create false pretexts for disgruntled Americans to hurt other Americans. I’m a pawn, just like Jake is. Because of that, our lives are forfeit. The FBI will kill me today.

To prove my identity, I have attached a photo of me holding the same FBI-produced code jammer that Jake is in possession of and also a photo of my FBI identification card.

God bless America,

Franco Ferri.

Jake handed the letter back, barely able to recognize the words of his own hand. The killing of Franco, the Boise operation, the escape into the forest—he felt that it was so beyond him that it couldn’t have possibly been him.

“I know a guy who has the letter framed on his wall,” the red-haired soldier said. “I read it every day myself.” Jake examined the men one by one. Half of them stared at him warmly while the other half seemed puzzled, expecting an angry robotic killer instead of a lanky man going through the early stages of starvation. “God, I can’t believe I’m meeting the man who started the Second American Civil War. Hey sarge, can I turn on my phone to get a quick selfie with him? I’ll leave it on airplane mode.”

Before the squad leader could answer, Jake collapsed onto his hands and knees and began crying. The red-haired soldier kneeled beside him and put a hand on Jake Ultra’s shoulder.

END
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