The Incident (Original)

A lone gunman

This is an experiment. I am attempting to get the essence of a story without the extraneous. Trust the reader to fill in the blanks. This is the original at almost 1,500 words. The final draft is less than 600 (you can read it and comment here.) 

James called the FBI tip line 3 months and 18 days before the terrorist attack.

He left his name, phone number, address – they even asked for his Social Security Number. He was calmed by the assurance he had done his part. He had never liked Aahil, but seeing how he had been huddling in whispered tones with Farhan and some other sand-nigger from the accounting office, he was sure they were planning something.

Whenever he approached, they stopped talking and just looked at him. He could feel them hating him. He knew when they laughed, they were laughing at him.

So he reported them.

It had been tough for a few years, but James was strong. Nothing could beat him, he just needed a fair shake. His wife was a shrew who just kept him under her thumb. He would never hit a woman who didn’t deserve it, and she did. She twisted it all in the court and she got the kids.

She was the mental one, not him.

That got him fired from his job. He had to miss work to make the court dates. He got arrested for “violating a restraining order” when all he was doing was picking up his kids. It was only overnight in jail, but his boss told him he just couldn’t carry him any more.

James went home that day and broke his hand against the wall.

America had been great, but it wasn’t great now. When a guy like him – honest, hardworking, patriotic – can’t get a job because of the crappy economy, when all the jobs are being given to immigrants to entice them to come here, when good, white men are prejudiced against in the courts, when even your kids can be taken from you, America was in trouble.

James still believed in the American Dream. He knew if someone just gave him the chance, he would make it. His kids would respect him – even love him. Cheryl would see she was wrong about him.

America was in danger. He couldn’t believe how few people saw it. Our Criminal in Chief – a secret Muslim himself – was actively trying to bring 200,000 new Muslims into the US. Babies are being aborted and sold like spare Ford parts.

But he had done his part. He had reported the radical terrorists plotting god-knows-what at his work.

As he ran the printing press, James imagined how the national news would interview him once they were arrested. His kids would see his heroism, realize how wrong the things their mother had been telling them are, realized he was a noble, honorable, admirable man.

They would finally see the real him and be proud.

But as the days faded into a week, and the week stretched into weeks, James’ thoughts began to slide.

Why is Aahil still coming to work each day? Why hasn’t he been picked up? What does he still give an insincere smile to James’ when he passes him in the hall?

Maybe the FBI were staking him out. Following his every move. Bugging his phones. That’s probably it.

But weeks turned into a month. James’s thoughts grew more urgent, more invasive.

What if today is the day? What if they planted a pipe bomb in the break room? Or, God forbid, they planted one at his kids’ school? Had he mentioned where his kids went to school? Maybe they had followed him, followed them. Maybe their hatred for him caused them to pick his children as targets.

He called the tip line again after a full two months had passed. Can you give me an update on the progress on my tip? You can’t comment? Well, damnit, what is a man supposed to think? These towel heads are running around free, every day, without a care in the world!

He began to wonder if even the FBI were blind to the real threat.

He began taking a gun to work. He bought a lunch box and kept his Ruger hidden. After a couple days it occurred to him if these Allah lovers started something, it would take him a few minutes to get to his locker and get his gun. They might shoot dozens before he could stop them.

While the press ran he took a roll of duct tape and fashioned a holster beneath the press. He looked around to make sure no one could see him, then removed the 9mm from his waistband and slid it in. He pulled it out again just to make sure it wouldn’t catch. He left it all day.

It made him feel powerful. It made him feel like the American hero he was. I’m The Protector, he smiled to himself.

Before he left for the day, he secreted it away again in his belt.

One thing James had was time. Time to think. Every day the monotonous ca-thunk of the press was his white noise. Every night a six pack and time alone. The thoughts became louder each passing day.

What would wake America up? What would it take for people to see the threats looming and even already realized?

When the terrorists struck Paris, lots of talk, no action. How simple, he thought, for someone to do the same here. 150 dead.

And still Aahil and Farhan still spoke in whispered tones in the break room. What if they’re on to me?

He began sleeping with his Ruger beneath his pillow and his AR-15, fully auto after he got the the conversion kit, leaning next to his bed. He started wearing his flak jacket beneath his nondescript sweatshirts to work.

Then a lone gunman stormed into a Planned Parenthood. Killed a couple people. A white guy. Christian. Defending the unborn against the grotesque butchers who chopped up babies for profit.

He was clearly crazy, thought James, but he made the news and his point. People noticed. It had an impact and scared the liberals who were ruining this country.

December 2 saw another attack, but this time in California. James seethed and cried tears for his country, for his children. In the next week the news said they had been planning this attack or even worse for years. Dozens of pipe bombs.

And no one knew, no one suspected. They were “good” Muslims. They went to work every day. They even had “friends.” And because no one suspected, people died.

How to protect America from this tide of Islam? The only proper answer was swift, decisive action. Round up Muslims and make sure they have no ability to harm others. It’s simple enough.

James knew he was smart. Late into the nights he mapped out a plan. A reasonable plan. He wrote it in the notebook he kept on his nightstand. Next to his AR-15.

He was a reasonable man. He didn’t want every Muslim locked up. That would be un-American. What he proposed was much simpler and really didn’t hurt anyone while restraining the bad guys.

Simply put the Muslims or suspected Muslims in camps. Nice camps. Maybe the government could buy trailers like they did for the niggers after Katrina. They could leave each morning, through metal detectors, and go about their jobs. Return in the evening, through the metal detectors again.

When The Bitch had him locked up for 72 hours last year, they told him it was to evaluate whether he was “a danger to himself or others.” The Radicals could be locked up until it was determined they weren’t a danger either. All legal.

They could go to their “churches” as well. Their priests – or whatever they call them – would have to be vetted, but certainly some would pass. Keep an eye on them.

They could have nice playgrounds for the kids. Some common areas. Heck, it would be better than his time in the Army.

It was a good plan. Compassionate. Allowing the good Muslims to go about their lives with slight inconvenience while hog-tying the bad guys.

It could save America. It could get America on the road to being great again. He could turn America around.

He thought about how he could get his plan out. The media was a corrupt bunch of liberals who secretly wanted the Muslims to succeed. Academics? You gotta be kidding me. Even the FBI ignored him.

For the next week, while his fear for his children grew, he pondered as he ran the printer. Ca-thunk. Ca-thunk. Ca-thunk.

Jefferson said “The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.” James had no access to the tyrants, but he could be a patriot. He was a Patriot. He was The Protector. He would be remembered as The Protector.

He added a final page to his 30 pages of notes on The Plan. It was to his sons and to those who would find it after his death.


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