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Authors: Kevin Carrigan
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quickly escorted him back to the SUV. As he climbed into the vehicle, Delgado glanced down at the folder. Across the cover only three letters were written: KKK.
PART 2
Seven months later
Chapter 16
Clay Jackson scanned the room. Never before had he seen so many illiterate, inbred, tobacco-chewing, banjo-playing, country-fucks in one place. It was as if he had stepped down a rung on the evolutionary ladder. Even though the filth of those present made his skin crawl, he was happy to be here. It had taken some time, but he had finally breached the Militia’s inner circle.
The Michigan Militia was a paramilitary organization established years ago by a bunch of paranoid crackpots who feared the Federal Government. Its membership had declined over the years and many people considered the Militia defunct, but splinter groups had emerged. Some of the splinter groups had such close ties to the Ku Klux Klan that the line between Militia and KKK had become severely blurred.
Clay was about to meet Colonel William Seward Lane. He was the leader of the Washtenaw County Chapter of the Michigan Militia, the largest and most renowned militia group in Michigan. His compound was located just outside the city of Ypsilanti on an isolated plot of land on the shores of Ford Lake. It was well guarded and heavily fortified. “Colonel” was a title that Lane had bestowed upon himself, even though he had never served in the military. The colonel was notorious for his hatred of the federal government, and all people who were not white Protestant Americans.
Colonel Lane came into the room and sat across from Clay. “Clayton Jackson,” Lane stated as a gruesome smile revealed his tobacco-stained teeth. “Any relation to Stonewall Jackson?”
“Not sure, but I hope so,” replied Clay. I’ll bet the Colonel would shit himself if I told him I was actually related to Jesse Jackson.
Clay was mixed race, with a black mother and a white-trash father. Sadly for him, he resembled his father, light skin and all. Wade Jackson, a whiskey-drinking son of a bitch who could never hold a job, smacked Clay’s mother around regularly and often when Clay was a child. A pain shot deep through Clay’s heart every time he remembered all the nights of abuse, crying and pleading with his father to stop as he beat the hell out of his mom. Sometimes he would try to pull his father off her, which only got him slapped upside the head. If his dear old dad wasn’t beating her, he was screaming every racial slur he knew directly in her face.
Clay’s mother Miriam was a saint. She was a shy woman, devout, with the face of an angel. She never left the house. She would sing Clay to sleep at night, even after suffering at the hands of her no good husband. Clay never had the chance to ask her why she married his father. He never understood why she didn’t just leave the abusive prick. But the day came when Clay finally realized that he was the reason she stayed. All the suffering she endured by staying was so she could to be there to keep him safe.
“Well, welcome boy!” Lane shouted with a hearty laugh.
Boy? I hope he said Roy. Normally a remark like that would have immediately brought he who said it severe and painful knife wounds, but Clay kept his cool. He would have his chance to strangle the life out of this cretin all in good time.
Chapter 17
Sam Clark had been campaigning all day under the clear blue skies of South Florida. He had been shaking hands and kissing babies all across the greater Miami area. Clark loved being on the campaign trail. He was a politician who was truly at home among the citizens of this great country, unlike so many other politicians who only gave lip service when it came to their connection with constituents.
He was happy to be at the final rally of the day. The crowd was buzzing with energy, but Clark knew that at this particular event the excitement of the crowd wasn’t due to his presence. The
PART 2
Seven months later
Chapter 16
Clay Jackson scanned the room. Never before had he seen so many illiterate, inbred, tobacco-chewing, banjo-playing, country-fucks in one place. It was as if he had stepped down a rung on the evolutionary ladder. Even though the filth of those present made his skin crawl, he was happy to be here. It had taken some time, but he had finally breached the Militia’s inner circle.
The Michigan Militia was a paramilitary organization established years ago by a bunch of paranoid crackpots who feared the Federal Government. Its membership had declined over the years and many people considered the Militia defunct, but splinter groups had emerged. Some of the splinter groups had such close ties to the Ku Klux Klan that the line between Militia and KKK had become severely blurred.
Clay was about to meet Colonel William Seward Lane. He was the leader of the Washtenaw County Chapter of the Michigan Militia, the largest and most renowned militia group in Michigan. His compound was located just outside the city of Ypsilanti on an isolated plot of land on the shores of Ford Lake. It was well guarded and heavily fortified. “Colonel” was a title that Lane had bestowed upon himself, even though he had never served in the military. The colonel was notorious for his hatred of the federal government, and all people who were not white Protestant Americans.
Colonel Lane came into the room and sat across from Clay. “Clayton Jackson,” Lane stated as a gruesome smile revealed his tobacco-stained teeth. “Any relation to Stonewall Jackson?”
“Not sure, but I hope so,” replied Clay. I’ll bet the Colonel would shit himself if I told him I was actually related to Jesse Jackson.
Clay was mixed race, with a black mother and a white-trash father. Sadly for him, he resembled his father, light skin and all. Wade Jackson, a whiskey-drinking son of a bitch who could never hold a job, smacked Clay’s mother around regularly and often when Clay was a child. A pain shot deep through Clay’s heart every time he remembered all the nights of abuse, crying and pleading with his father to stop as he beat the hell out of his mom. Sometimes he would try to pull his father off her, which only got him slapped upside the head. If his dear old dad wasn’t beating her, he was screaming every racial slur he knew directly in her face.
Clay’s mother Miriam was a saint. She was a shy woman, devout, with the face of an angel. She never left the house. She would sing Clay to sleep at night, even after suffering at the hands of her no good husband. Clay never had the chance to ask her why she married his father. He never understood why she didn’t just leave the abusive prick. But the day came when Clay finally realized that he was the reason she stayed. All the suffering she endured by staying was so she could to be there to keep him safe.
“Well, welcome boy!” Lane shouted with a hearty laugh.
Boy? I hope he said Roy. Normally a remark like that would have immediately brought he who said it severe and painful knife wounds, but Clay kept his cool. He would have his chance to strangle the life out of this cretin all in good time.
Chapter 17
Sam Clark had been campaigning all day under the clear blue skies of South Florida. He had been shaking hands and kissing babies all across the greater Miami area. Clark loved being on the campaign trail. He was a politician who was truly at home among the citizens of this great country, unlike so many other politicians who only gave lip service when it came to their connection with constituents.
He was happy to be at the final rally of the day. The crowd was buzzing with energy, but Clark knew that at this particular event the excitement of the crowd wasn’t due to his presence. The
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