“Just make the city burn, you know how to do that, right? Tell me I’m not wasting my money on you.” Osheroff’s eyes were bulging out of his head. Bill had doubts that a false flag riot. would achieve anything substantive, but Osheroff wasn’t in his usual listening mood. But hey, everyone does it, and he gets paid either way.
“Sir. I can. It’s just that I don’t think,”
“You don’t have to think, you just have to do. Get me a number and how fast you can put it together.”
“We can do it this week. But my contact in the white house.”
“Screw your contact. I want a riot. I want to make the president look weak and useless, and I want the election to be the biggest landslide in history.” Bill saw the futility of explaining himself, so he nodded his head and shuffled out of the room. He scurried down the hall, taking not of all the framed photographs on the walls: every world leader for the last 50 years in a smile for the camera, shake hands, thank you for your donation pose.
He kept walking till he was close enough to the entrance for his phone to get reception. He dialed Frank. Hopefully Frank still had the same number, and answered it. Luckily he did on the first ring.
“Bill. Now here’s a number I didn’t expect to see calling again.”
“In all honesty, I wasn’t sure you were going to answer.”
“Hey. I’ve had three wives in my life. They come and go. But money is forever. I’ll tack on a fuck my wife gratuity and we can call it even. What you got for me?”
“A client wants a fire in LA. I need you and maybe a dozen off duty guys who can keep quiet to run security.”
“Just like ‘92?”
“I don’t think we can afford a ‘92. I’ll send you the details via courier. Shred the photos after you see my people, 100k for a days work, you in?”
“Plus 20 for the wife, remember?” Bill rolled his eyes.
“Fine.”
♦️
“Its a bunch of illegals, Tom! How… how hard can it be to kick them out?” The president caught himself getting louder, and paused briefly to speak more presidential. Tom, the DHS secretary had been on the job for 3 weeks, which gave him seniority over the rest of the cabinet.
“The problem, sir, is public opinion. Once they get stories of nannies getting the boot they get weak and you’ll lose support. There’s nothing we can do, unless you want me to put in a token effort and resign next week, like Barry.” The president turned to the rest of the cabinet.
“Everyone, give us the room.” Every man in that room, from the CIA director to the Agriculture secretary were relieved. The president had been running through senior staff like disposable napkins. They quickly shuffled out. The CIA director looked to his counterpart in the NSA and said,
“What you figure, he gonna start a riot?”
“Of course he will. You know you can’t get anything done in America unless you burn some Tesla's. Come on, lets grab lunch” The two of them laugh as they walk down the hall. Back in the oval office, the President walks up to Tom and places he hand on his shoulder all friendly like. Tom couldn’t help but feel intimidated,
“Look. Here’s my issue. I’ve got some commie asshole, Osheroff. Heard of him?”
“Isn’t that a conspiracy theory?”
“You’re new. When you’re finished getting all your briefings you’ll see. Anyways. He’s been a pain in my ass. He’s funding some NGO’s and they keep bringing illegals in. They are taking my numbers in the south. So I need you to start a riot, burn some cars. No deaths, just property damage, you know? Then the people get irritated, and I get to sweep them all out the country and look a hero. Make it happen, ok?”
Tom saw the futility in any further conversation,
“Yes Mr. President.”
He nodded and left the room. He scurried down the hall, taking note of all the framed paintings on the walls: every president for the last 50 years in a standard portrait post with a half cocked smile for the artist pose. He kept walking till he was out of the secure area so he could turn airplane mode off and make a call. He dialed Gary.
“Tom! How’s the new job treating you. POTUS fired you yet?”
“Heh. Not yet, but the day is young. Hey, I need a favor.”
“Well. I don’t know if we have the budget for favors this year. You know they gutted my budget for that ACAB shit, right?”
“Well. What If I told you that we can get you back to a 2024 budget? And at least a few million in surplus military gear. I have to find a home for it.”
“Well look at you, playing big boy games. OK, what we looking at?”
“Well. We have an immigration issue on our hands,”
“Tell me about it. Some beaner hit my car last week. My premiums just went up.”
“Yeah. So there’s going to be an incident soon. But we don’t want to stop it, not right away. So I need for you guys to just monitor for a while, keep everything from getting out of control. Let some news people take some great shots, burning Tesla’s, you know.”
“The mayor ain’t gonna be to happy about this.”
“I’ll talk to the mayor. You just give her some sob story about underfunding and I’ll come in like the cavalry with a blank cheque. By the time we get through a few meetings it’ll be end of the week and you guys can swoop in and it’ll all be over. Everyone wins.”
“The mayor will probably put my head on a spike for dragging my feet.”
“Well. If it gets to that, I’m sure there’s a director job at DHS that we’ve been looking to fill. I’m sure the hero of LA would be a shoe in.”
“Just like 92, eh?” Gary sounded hesitant.
“Not quite. We are staying out of Korea town. We want things smooth.”
“Fine. Meet me for lunch we will sort out details.”
♦️
Harry was hooked to his laptop. The footage from the riots were the most interesting thing to happen to him in years. His boss had taken the day off, saying something about '92 and how he wasn't going through it again.
Harry was given the extra responsibility of locking up the cell phones and barricading the windows. No extra pay though. He had his oversized blue polo shirt with branding on the chest and his khaki colored chinos that were so wrinkled it was like he pulled them out of his wallet. No one wanted a cell phone while Tesla's were on fire. He was a fan of Sam Hyde, his hot takes were more entertaining than the dry witless banter of the news,
“They are burning everything to the ground. The president is weak. If it were me, I would have my second amendment up these illegals asses!” Harry was making a fist and nodding in approval,
“Yeah, you tell em, Sam. Fuck those illegals. If they came after me you best believe I’m going full Frank Castle.”
Harry felt certain that he would. Of course the riots were blocks away, no chance of them coming here. And of course he wasn’t allowed to own a gun, not after that bitch ex of his accused him of emotional abuse. God he wished he actually did all the stuff she accused him of doing. A bang sounded off in the distance. He looked up and saw some smoke a block away.
The rioters were coming his way. Harry fumbled about, looking for the keys to the barricade. The boss told him the procedure before he left, but Harry wasn’t really listening, which he was starting to regret.
♦️
Sanchez hated Tesla's. Elon had made them extra hard to break. He was beating on the back window for what felt like an hour, until finally, a hole big enough to shove that burning rag into the hole. He pointed to Juan and the rest of his crew and said,
“OK. Make it look good fellas. Start hitting the windows across the street. No fires on the buildings, only cars. Once we make it look like we are looting, then the opportunists will do all the hard work for us.” Juan relayed everything in Spanish, and the crew started screaming gibberish and using hammers to break the glass in the neighborhood. Juan and Sanchez walked towards the end of the block. Juan noticed a fire, half a block ahead of them and asked,
“Did you set that up? I thought you said no buildings?” Sanchez looked confused,
“I did. That wasn’t us. Maybe the looters?”
“We haven’t even broken many windows yet. No way are they that early.”
“Here, stay with the guys I’m gonna go check it out.” Sanchez jogged to the next block. He saw a group of Hispanic men holding Molotov cocktails and wearing handkerchiefs over their faces. They were dressed in poor mans revolutionary gear. Anarchy patches on their arms. One of the guys turned and spotted Sanchez. Sanchez put his hand out as the guy approached menacingly,
“Hey, amigo. Tranquillo. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but I ain’t a cop.” The man approached. Sanchez reached his hand unto his belt for his Jimenez 9mil. He wished he didn’t have to keep cover, he hated these cheap zinc alloy pieces. The guy stopped about ten feet away, the two of them had a moment of tension, then the man pulled down his facemask and started to laugh,
“Sanchez!” Sanchez looked surprised, then relaxed,
“Daniel? What the hell are you doing here!?” They walked up and shook hands.
“I was going to ask you the same thing. I’m working, what are you doing in LA?”
“I’m working. Wait. I don’t have your name on my list. Are you not here with homeland?”
“No! I’m with some NGO. Rich Jewish dude wanted some trouble. What are you doing here?”
“DHS wanted to kick out some illegals so they need us to scare people into cheering for it.”
“Well. I’m getting paid either way, you got security? We have some off duties around the block.”
“Yeah. I’m told the force has a heads up about us. Here, looters will be here in about 15 minutes. Lets torch some stuff and get out of here.”
♦️
Sanchez and Daniel were finished riling up the crowds. This time they both noticed the looters were more aggressive than they should have been. Clearly someone else had fertilized the public sentiment beforehand. The opportunists started looting the block, then spread out for more. Daniel and Sanchez radioed their teams and made way to Alameda street to get clear before any crackdown, but looters had already shown up. One looked at Sanchez and charged at him,
“Whoa oi, amigo, chill!” Before he knew it, the short, portly Hispanic dude had body checked him into a window of a cell phone store. Sanchez felt his shoulder dislocate as he tripped over the window sill and into a glass display case. His Jimenez skidded across the room. Harry ran out of the back room to see the chaos: two Mexicans laying on the floor, broken glass everywhere, and about a dozen more outside. At his feet was a pistol.
He knew what he had to do. Harry picked it up and started screaming,
“You fucked with the wrong American, motherfuckers!”
Before Sanchez could calm him down he felt a jerk in his hip. He tried to stand but his body quickly went into shock. He looked over and the Mexican guy who assaulted him was laying motionless on the floor, blood pooling out. Harry stepped over the two of them and started firing into the crowd. He hit another Mexican in the leg, they scattered. Across the street was Frank, dressed in his casual clothes. He saw Daniel running and yelled,
“What’s going on?”
“Some gringo with a gun, Frank. He’s shooting dudes.” Frank turned around, cussing as he ran to the action. He spotted Harry, screaming platitudes about America and firing into the crowd. He pulled out his pistol and aimed at center mass, shouting orders,
“LAPD. Drop the gun, lay on the ground!” Frank hadn’t had to pull his gun out in his 20 year career. His adrenaline was high. Harry felt his vigilante confidence drain from his body as he saw Frank, a white grizzled man dressed like an off duty cop pointing a pistol at him. He raised his hands and said,
“Whoa whoa! No trouble! They tried to kill me. I’m defending myself.”
“Drop the gun and on the ground!” Frank's voice cracked a little.
Harry panicked and tossed the gun in front of him. It landed on the hammer, the corroded zinc alloy locking mechanism snapped. The hammer slammed down and it discharged. Frank thought that he was being shot at and fired a round, center mass. Harry dropped like a rock while Frank fired 4 more rounds, as was the policy at the time. Sirens started blaring. A squad car peeled into the street, screeching to a halt. The door opened and Frank spotted a standard issue pistol pointed at him, a familiar voice yelling out,
“Hands in the air, drop the gun!” Frank relaxed.
“Gary? Is that you?”
“Frank?” Gary relaxed, pointed his gun at the ground as he walked over. “We got a riot, aren’t you supposed to have the day off today?”
“Paid work today.”
“Just like 92?”
“Not quite. It was supposed to be a little cleaner. Some vigilante started shooting beaners, fired a shot at me.”
“Well don’t shoot any of the rioters. I’m told they are working undercover. Some kind of illegal immigration flag.”
“What? I thought they were supposed to be doing some Antifa shit?” The two realized that their clients coincidentally double booked the carnage. They both laughed.
“Man. It’s like they only know how to do one thing, don’t they.”
“We should probably get that kid you shot an ambulance.”
“Yeah. I’m on it. Here, take off, I’ll handle it from here.”
♦️
Sandy, a middle aged woman of indeterminate age and stretched skin was watching the Television. The riots were all the way downtown, but she was afraid they would find their way to Bel air. The dry, witless banter of the CNN correspondent made her feel safe, unlike those exciting outrage brokers,
“While this is a peaceful protest, we are told the president is unable to manage peace among the undocumented immigrants who have made their way to America for a better life. Pronounced dead on the scene, one Harry Winterson opened fire on protestors. Reports say he has ties to the KKK, the LA chapter of the Neo Nazis, and was a fan of certain red pilled influencers like Andrew Tate. Could this be the start of a race war in LA?" Sandy gasped. She had no idea how bad things had gotten. The anchor continued,
“Some are calling for impeachment hearings. The speaker is planning on starting the proceedings in the morning. Back to you, Lorne.”
Sandy looked to her husband, who was staring at the screen through his eyebrows.
“John. I feel so sorry for those poor Mexicans. They fled the cartels and just wanted a better life. I can’t believe the president is such a tyrant. These right wing extremists are going to turn this into Nazi Germany. We have to do something!” John grumbled,
“That’s the problem. They send all the gang members up here. I can’t blame them for plinking Mexicans. Poor bastard probably lost his job to one of them. That’s what happens, you take away a mans chance for a better life, and sooner or later, people have one option left. War.”
Sandy leaned in, John kissed her on the cheek. She sauntered to the fridge to pour herself a white wine. She returned and brought a beer for John. He cracked it while they both moved to the sofa and continued to watch the Tesla's burn well into the night.
♦️
A week later, an ammo depot in Russia gets attacked by Ukrainian drone strikes. The president gets on the phone to the director of the CIA,
“Hey. I need your help. I need a few points, midterms are coming up. What are my options?”