Saint Louis, Missouri

Wednesday, August 9, 2023

8:47 a.m.

I smashed the fucking gas, peeling out in my new Honda. Planned on heading north again, putting some space between myself and Saint Louis.

But Vickie Valor, the name in the notebook, stuck in my head. Too much time to think. Round and round, Vickie Valor.

Vickie Valor.

Vickie Valor. Vickie Valor.

Vickie Valor.

Vickie Valor. Vickie Valor. VickieValor.

Decided to find a morning bar for a little bit so I could relax myself with some whiskey from a glass and try to figure out Vickie Valor’s story.

Found one after fishing around on my phone for five minutes. Soon, I saddled up on a barstool. The bartender, cropped up above the ear with a white towel draped over one shoulder, took my whiskey order without saying a word. Just a nod.

‘Keep ‘em comin’. Gonna be here about an hour.’

With a nod, the bartender turned and walked away. I jumped on the burner. Thought I’d open a browser and start the investigation on my own, but I had a better idea. I sent a text to LunaRider to see if he could spend some time on ‘Vickie Valor’. Who, what, when, where, why. All that. Let him know it was the bullshit in the back of the cartel notebook.

He probably laughed. He wrote back, ‘For the amount of Monero you sent I’ll write a research paper on anything you want. I’m on it.’

I replied to say thanks and killed the rest of my whiskey in one gulp, making a circular motion to let the bartender know that by ‘keep ‘em comin’’ I actually meant to keep delivering whiskeys to me so I could drink them. What the fuck, this is a bar, right?

He poured a double and I killed it again. As if celebrating. Capturing the raw, unfiltered essence of the moment. A salute to the morning and the old Honda.

One more round, and that whiskey warmth spread from my throat to my belly to my fingertips. I felt good. Numb to the cartel. Immune from it. A hideaway of sorts.

On the next round, I lit up a Red, hoping the bartender wouldn’t give a fuck. He didn’t.

I finished that one, paid my tab in cash and got back in the Honda. Found some local radio playing 70s shit, just went with that.

Bump of coke and I hit the top of the world. I dialed up Evvy’s phone, hoping that Mexican faggot from the cartel would answer. He did.

‘Listen here you mother fucker, I got my people looking into this Vickie Valor shit. You guys think you are slick? You think you can just fuck with everyone? Well, you can’t. Not anymore.’

‘What do you mee-an, Jay Dawson?’

That stupid accent again. He kept going and going. Like a Mexican wind-up toy.

‘Weee goeeeng to keell Veekee Valor. It’s noteeng you can stop Jay Dawson.’

That shit threw me for a major loop. I swallowed my tongue, realizing I probably shouldn’t have called to taunt the cartel half-in-the-bag and flying high.

‘Oh yeah? Well, we’re going to fuck up Rosa Negra too. You think we don’t know what it is? I don’t think you know how many people I got working on this thing. A whole fucking team. Including the CIA.’

‘You weesh, Jay Dawson. You can talk dat sheet all you want, homee. Wee are going to keel you. Wee are going to fuck you up so bad.’

‘Oh yeah, well you can fuck yourself for all I care. You… can’t even speak English right.’

I killed the call. That was a fuckin’ disaster. It didn’t go the way I had hoped and my taunting was ruined by the guy telling me they were gonna kill Vickie Valor, whoever she is. Took the wind right out of my sails. Squat mother fucker got me that time. Be more careful, Boss.

I took my frustration out on the Honda, flooring that bitch, taking her to the limit.

The stretch of land heading out of Missouri and into Illinois rolled in front of me. Gently rising and falling hills, fields of crops, and open landscapes. I forced myself to forget about the call with the asshole from the cartel. LunaRider would report back before too long anyway. I focused my thoughts on how happy I was to be out of Saint Louis and away from all that nigger shit. I turned the music back up and settled in the cockpit with my Beam and Reds. Burnin’ that gasoline.

Time flew by and I made a pitstop in Champaign, Illinois.

Found a convenience store and pounded a Red Bull, then decided I would kill a little time at a bar and check in with LunaRider about Vickie Valor. Probably wouldn’t take too long for him to dig up her identity on the internet. Assuming she’s a real person. No contact, though.

Found a dive.

This bartender, unlike the one a few hours ago in Saint Louis, seemed shifty. He had a bad physiognomy. Dishonest. Deceptive. He looked illiterate and potentially violent. A bad shape to his skull and a low-slung jutted brow. I pretended not to watch as he exchanged a few hushed words with a couple of his friends, ratty-looking scoundrels, their glances flicking in my direction. What the fuck could they be talking about?

This looks to me like a shakedown. I hate shakedowns. Guy in a blue suit and French cuffs. Drinking at nine in the morning. Easy target?

Only a minute or two later, the bartender’s friends — the ones he would certainly pretend not to know — rose from their seats, heading my way. I stiffened for a second. Then forced myself to breathe and relax. These mother fuckers were going to try to relieve me of my belongings — my wallet, my cash, Turnbull’s ID. I could feel it. As they approached, my heart pounded like a war drum, a reminder that the battle for survival is fought on more than one front. I thought of my new friend Turnbull.

With a deliberate motion, I turned and pulled my jacket back to expose my holstered Sig Sauer. Same shit I did with ol’ Eyepatch Granny to cure her of her stubborn intransigence. But this time, there were two men on the receiving end of the pistol flash. Men who could well be armed, themselves. This story might have a different ending. These dudes may not see the light like Ol’ Eyepatch did.

I cleared my throat and spoke slowly, purposefully: ‘Not sure what you boys are after but I only got a few bucks on me and I ain’t lookin’ for no trouble. But I’ll defend myself if you’re gonna roll me for what little cash I have. Ain’t worth your time or effort, my opinion. ‘Cause shit happens, you know.’

I maintained an air of nonchalance, even though my chest pounded away. The men saw my Sig and heard what I said. They took the high road out, kept it movin’. Instead of stopping to fuck with me, they looked at each other, exchanging knowing glances, and continued walking. Back toward the pool tables. No harm, no foul. Fuckin’ cocksuckers.

I rose from my barstool and in one motion grabbed fifty bucks out of my pocket and left it on the bar. That’s more than enough to walk outta here free and clear, a bigger tip than that fuck face deserves. A heartbeat later, I set off toward the bathroom.

Walk, Jay Boss. Walk.

The bartender’s friends pretended to pay me no notice. They grabbed some sticks and were actually going through with a game of billiards. For show, I guessed. Armed or not, they don’t want any part of a shootout. Not today.

I reached the bathroom. With a glance back, I confirmed they weren’t following behind me.

As the door swung shut, I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I took a piss, pure whiskey, keeping an eye peeled toward the door.

A window caught my attention. I took a look outside. Its frame opened onto a back alley. The window felt like it hadn’t been opened in years, maybe not ever. Had to muscle it, but I got it to open and climbed out. The fresh air, even with the heat and humidity and organic stink of Illinois, felt like an old friend.

Triumph. I still had my cash. I hadn’t been rolled, roughed up, beat down. Or worse. Over nothin’. I congratulated myself. For keeping my cool. For having the gun on my belt in the first place, for being aware of my surroundings, all of it.

Boss shit. The new Boss. Prepared as fuck.

Even in a shitty dive bar on an early morning, I stood ready. Half-drunk, too. I considered it a dry run for if and when the cartel caught up to me. I knew it wouldn’t go down that easy, but I tested my nerve and liked how it went.

My hand never shook. My resolve never wavered. If those guys wanted to go, we would have gone. Ready to draw on those men and shoot them dead, if I needed to.

I knew I could win a shootout with the cartel. Or, at least, I had a fighting chance.

A minute later and I’d made it out of the alley and back in the Honda. Fired it up and stomped that gas pedal so hard I was surprised it didn’t come out through the floor. Beam. Red. Bump of coke. Car stereo on blast.

My sights were set on my final destination.

Indiana. Home of Larry fuckin’ Bird.

 

INTERLUDE, ESCAPE

Escape. Liberation. The unknown. Uncharted horizons. Endless possibilities. Flight from the familiar. The open road. New beginnings. A new narrative, a total rewrite. Escape, the wild notion that one can elude the relentless pursuit of an aggressive predator and find refuge in some little secret corner of the world. Running like a wildebeest. A jackrabbit. Exhilaration. Outrun the jaws of fate. In this case, the cartel. A defiance of routine. A plunge. Freedom from all belongings, except the shit I stashed in Grandma Eyepatch’s Honda Civic. Visual alchemy. Symphony. Tires. Footsteps. Breaching boundaries. Outrunning the hunter, eluding him. Looking over your shoulder, always. Freedom from conflict, as long as you were never found. Beam. Reds. Coke. Piles of coke.

 

COUNTERPOINT, FIGHT

Self-advocacy. Standing up for yourself. Hurting your enemies. Killing them. Self-respect. Honoring boundaries. Our land is ours. Not the cartels’. Not for Mexicans. Protecting and preserving space for our children. Not theirs. Refusing to be silenced, bullied, subjugated. Affirmation of value. Acknowledgment of strength. Unafraid to reclaim our land and defend it to the death. Mastery of fear. Pursuit of good. Primal Energy. Blood. Rejecting the herd mentality. Diversity is not our strength, it is why ‘we’ collapsed. Everyone in the US is deathly afraid of the cartels or partnered with them. The government is in on it. If they weren’t, they would stop the cartels. Destroy them. It’s simple. Everyone lets them do whatever the fuck they want. Chaos. Suffering. Death Courage. Draw blood, like they do. Retaliate. Reclaim. Shape your destiny. Untamed. Bold. The lion. The tiger. The panther. The wolf. A future for our children and our way of life.

 

 

Champaign, Illinois

Wednesday, August 9, 2023

11:21 a.m.

Those hours on the fuckin’ road finally got to me. I could feel them in my bones. Still, I was determined to keep going. As if something magical about the soil in Indiana would protect me from the pursuit of the cartel.

But before I could get out of Champaign and back on the highway, a dive tattoo parlor forced a stop. Its neon sign caught my attention even in broad daylight. After that little run in with the crew, I had enough of bars. For the afternoon at least. Figured I’d try my luck at getting some new ink.

I didn’t even bother leaving the Beam in the car, even though I knew it broke the rules. I poked in, chuckling a bit when I remembered I was armed with Beam and Reds and coke and a Sig. Overkill, Boss. Overkill.

The interior was dimly lit, art all over the walls, random shit for sale in the front display case. A haven for misfits and fuck-ups. And hot ass goth girls, apparently. Holy Fuck!

I tried to pick my jaw up off the floor. Get your shit together, Boss. Ain’t never got a girl by drooling on her.

‘I’m Boss. You got time to do something for me?’

‘All I got is time.’

‘And your name?’

‘Jimma.’

‘Jimma?’ I held back a surprised laugh. ‘I never heard that one.’

‘Gina Matos. People call me Jimma. Sue me, bitch.’

She snarled, but I could tell she was joking.

‘Ahh, I get it.’

The stunning goth girl — I would have guessed Slavic if she didn’t tell me her name — with dark ink, a skull, a bird, a flower that I could see and a belly button piercing showing under her crop top met me at the counter. Maybe 25. Heavy eye shadow, light makeup besides.

A dime. My dream girl, actually. What the hell is she doing here?

Platinum blonde. Bleached, of course. In no time, she sat back at her desk with her pencil dancing over the tracing paper.

I waited on my cigarette, wanted to ask her first. The polite thing to do. But I didn’t wait on the Beam, swigged some, ignoring any and all rules. Late stage. It doesn’t matter anymore, this regime is on the way out. What are they going to do, fine me?

The whole thing was perfect. Champaign, Illinois. Dive parlor. No foot traffic. No cartel shit. I relaxed completely. When the girl was ready, I peeled off my suit and shirt for the first time in God only knows how long.

For a second, I panicked over my B.O., but then told myself ‘fuck it.’ It’s just a natural musk. Jimma can soak it in. Revel in it. I chilled out, letting the smokeshow draw the designs.

Last time I got any real female attention I was in Waco. So this would be a nice change of pace from Oklahoma and Missouri.

Drag. Swig. Bump. Jimma worked away and I enjoyed the tranquility. My imagination went wild, and I convinced myself that Jimma and I had a bond. Settle down, Boss. She’s just doing her job.

‘So, what’s the story behind this design?’

‘A drone changed my life. It’s part of my story now. I thought I’d get one.’

‘And the words?’

‘I just needed more of those things in my life. I know it’s cliché but I am coming from a pretty dark place. Shitty government job working for a country I hate. No meaning in it. Nothing to live for. Lotsa whiskey. No direction, no focus. Bunch of other stuff wrong too, women, whatever. Shit’s been wild.’

‘Life’s a crazy ride,’ she said, with a slight smile. But it didn’t sound like she was fluffing me off. She was dialed in, paying attention, making eye contact, and the response felt authentic as a result. She wasn’t wrong.

‘Yeah, you’re telling me. By the way, do you mind if I light up?’

‘Normally, it’s a no-go, but you should be okay. I think I’m the only one in here all day. Nobody to rat me out to the owner. Go for it, man.’

She worked away. Next thirty minutes went by without much conversation. I swigged some Beam and chained six or seven Reds.

‘So, tell me, what else you got up your sleeve? Your story sounds crazy. Like good crazy, wild. You stickin’ around in Champaign for a while?’

‘Nah, I’m going to Indiana.’

‘Why Indiana?’

‘Oh fuck, I don’t know. My dad was a big Larry Bird fan back in the day. Before I was born and all that. Somehow Bird just popped into my head when I had to get outta Texas. So I started heading north, toward Indiana. Just seemed like a solid plan. Heartland and all. Steak. Corn. I’m runnin’ from the cartel.’

‘Like… the drug cartel?’

I just nodded.

‘Whad’ja do to them?’

‘I have some of their shit, to be honest. Haven’t had a shower in a couple days, maybe you noticed. Or food. Been gettin’ by on Beam and smokes, mostly.’

She did a double-take. But I could tell she believed me. Shit was true, after all. As she continued to work the needle the conversation ebbed and flowed from there. Not only about the cartel and the road, but interests, hobbies, hopes, fears, dreams. I could feel a bond forming with her. I could tell she liked me. Just like the other girls.

Jimma… the goth girl… alluring… porcelain skin… moon Goddess… darkness… glowing… platinum locks… dark curtains around her eyes… an enigma… secretive… graceful… a spectre… an illusion… her body…

‘So what about you? You look like a city girl, but you’re in Champaign?’

‘You know, sometimes I wonder why I never left this place. Champaign, the land of cornfields and dreams. It’s not exactly on everyone’s bucket list, is it?’

Jimma paused, as if reflecting on the absurdity.

‘But here’s the thing, Boss. Life has this funny way of ropin’ you in. I thought I’d be jet-settin’ off to exotic places, like, become a big instagirl or somethin’. But I have like a thousand followers and most of them are total dipshits. Like, really fucked up. These dudes don’t have a pot to piss in, how’s that gonna make me a star?’

She let out a giggle.

‘So here I am. Maybe it’s fear of what’s out there. Who knows? But sometimes, I look out the window and think about leavin’. Not gonna lie. But I kinda like it here too. I don’t know.’

Jimma wrapped up the tattoo. I thought about finding a spot in the back of the tattoo parlor to let her have it. Or doing it right there. I know she would have been down, she gave me all the signals.

But something held me back this time.

Instead, I handed her my card. Then I took it back, grabbed a pen and scratched out the number and wrote in my burner’s number. Jimma looked at me funny.

‘Call me if you ever want to leave Champaign. I’m being serious. I’ll come get you.’

Some more small talk. I put my blue shirt and suit back on and paid cash for her work, plus a $200 tip. Cartel cash. Gave Jimma a cheesy hug goodbye, hoping I would hear from her. Hoping I got to see that goth girl again.

 

Champaign, Illinois

Wednesday, August 9, 2023

6:07 p.m.

Time to get the fuck out of dodge, again. Less than 5 minutes later I was back in Granny Eyepatch’s Honda Civic, flooring that gold bitch, heading north, swilling Beam and ripping heater after heater. Black Sabbath on the box. Smoke, asphalt, gasoline and uneven dreams in the air.

30 minutes into the ride, the burner rang and buzzed with a call from LunaRider.

‘Vickie Valor… you ready for this one Boss? She was fuckin’ killed in a car wreck early this morning. And, get this part, the other driver was a fucking illegal. From Mexico. I had to get that part from alt media of course, but I saw it with my own eyes, right on the report.’

‘Fuck me,’ I managed. I hit the Beam. ‘I’m gettin’ really sick of the cartel.’

‘And I dug a little more, man. You know how most of Congress is scum-sucking filth? Corrupt, greedy, rat-faced old fuckers—’

‘Yeah? And?’

‘This bitch actually didn’t seem like a bad person. I’m not joking. She seemed like she was trying to do some good. Pretty naïve shit on her part, to be honest. Still believed this shit-hole could be turned around. I read a bunch of stuff about her. In 2014, she was involved in legislation to try to curtail child trafficking.’ LunaRider said. He rattled off the names of a couple bills, ‘9. H.R.5081 Strengthening Child Welfare Response to Trafficking Act of 2014. 10. H.R.4980. Preventing Sex Trafficking and Strengthening Families Act.’

‘Yeah, but usually they just name the bills shit that sounds good. Inside they’re totally fucked up, like the opposite of what they say. Mostly just giving money to their partners and putting in sneaky shit to fuck with normal people.’

‘I know. It just didn’t seem like these were like that. They didn’t seem like the usual cynical bullshit. I couldn’t see how she was funding her friends like all the other bills. So, maybe she wasn’t. Crazy… I know. Also, I read that she was addressing fentanyl as well. I haven’t read the details on that, though.’

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘Yeah, Boss. I don’t think the cartel would like this woman.’

‘So… a hit?’

‘Why else would the fuckin’ Mexicans have her name and a dollar amount in the notebook? It’s the simplest answer.’

‘Yeah. I don’t know. How old was the Mexican that killed her?’

‘I’ll have to look again, bro.’

‘I mean, you think about it, you never know. They tell some shit-bag they’ll take care of his family… maybe the guy’s a drunk, maybe he’s sick, I don’t know. Maybe he’s just tired. Or fuckin’ retarded. I don’t know. He goes out and smashes into this lady. Figures if he lives he’ll just get shuffled in and out of the system like any other beaner. There’s some downside for him but not in comparison to a huge payment for his family. More than he can ever make. That’s the way he might see it, anyway.’

‘It’s not far-fetched. Not at all.’

I hung up with LunaRider and Googled her name, scrolling with my right thumb so I could read the article. It was on the website for some Indiana-based legacy newspaper. More of the same:

Republican U.S. Rep. Vickie Valor was killed Wednesday in a car crash in her northwestern Indiana district along with a member of her congressional staff and another person, police said. The crash happened about 8:30 a.m. when a car crossed the center line on a state highway and collided head-on with Valor’s sedan, the County Sheriff’s Office said. Two people in the sedan, including Valor, 42, were killed. The man driving the other car also died at the scene, authorities said.

Suddenly, I had a crushing headache. And the tattoo on my shoulder stung like a bitch.

Cocaine. I took two consecutive bumps and within five minutes started to feel better. Headache was gone, and I was sharp, focused. Too sharp, maybe. I took a pull of Beam to even myself out.

I cruised for half an hour, just enjoying the tunes. Smoking, drinking. Watching the hills roll by.

Evvy’s cell phone called me a couple times while I was rolling through northern Illinois, but I ignored it. Time to get rid of that phone, Boss. The fucking cartel keeps pinging that thing. Pinning you down. Just chuck that bitch out the window and be done with it.

Around 7:30 LunaRider called me back on the burner and I forgot all about ditching my old cell phone. I’d been on the move for over two days and still hadn’t managed to destroy it, or just toss it out the fucking window.

It took us half an hour to work through everything. I filled him in on the entire story, all the parts he didn’t know, the rest of the stuff in the cargo container. All of it. I even told him how I took down Ashley and Taylor on my way out of Texas. Told him about Jimma, how I wanted to get her out of Champaign.

He laughed, but I could tell he was shaking his head on the other end of the line.

‘I don’t know what to make of it,’ he said at last. ‘The truth is, we don’t have enough information to be sure about Black Rose. I wish there was some fuckin’ clue.’

‘We don’t know for sure that there’s nothin’ on the Ledger. Remember? I sent you the Monero but we couldn’t decide how to look for text.’

‘I think that’s a dead end. This is the fuckin’ cartel. They are not nerds figuring out how to put data files on Ledgers. If I don’t know how to do that, they don’t either. It’s not really a thing.’

We were stumped.

‘The Black Rose…’

‘The Black Rose,’ he repeated. ‘It’s like pulp fiction, for sure. But we got a knowledge base when it comes to Vickie Valor. Her track record jumped out in two areas. Child trafficking and trying to crack down on drugs, specifically fentanyl, which is killing a fuck-load of Americans. It’s also the shit that China is pushing into the US through the cartel’s distribution foothold in the states.’

‘Child trafficking and fentanyl. These are some nasty shitbirds. The Mexicans, but also the Chinks in the background, laughing their little Chinese asses off while they poison us. They make all the fent and pump it in through Mexico. We’re dumb enough to use that shit. It’s fuckin’ wild.’

‘Yeah. Those things are a huge focus for them. That’s why they killed Vickie Valor. I mean, we have to assume that. Right? It’s the simplest explanation. Otherwise, why pick some random lady in Indiana? It just doesn’t add up any other way. I’m fuckin’ sure of it.’

I marveled at the coincidence. When I left Laredo, I was ready to rip west. San Diego, or even LA. The Golden State. Beautiful beaches and California blondes. Last minute, the whole Larry Bird thing happened and I headed toward fuckin’ Indiana of all places… where Vickie Valor turned out to be a congresswoman. What are the odds?

‘It’s so wack, dude. So… what does that mean?’

‘I say we assume that is what we’re trying to track down. Child trafficking. Black Rose. I mean, with fentanyl, there’s nothing real covert there. Everyone knows they are pumping drugs into the US. It’s just mixed in with the others. Finding the trafficking op, that’s a stretch. They’ll have it broken down into cells, shit like that. They make it so we could find some shit but it will be hard to chop off the head. Maybe impossible.’

I liked how LunaRider thought big. Here I was running my ass off trying to get away from the cartel, to live another day in some shabby dive bar and run-down motel, and he’s talking about taking the fight to them.

Another Turnbull, I guess.

‘I get it. Since our government basically supports the cartels, even head-chopping won’t really do shit, right. They’ll just grow a new one.’

‘That’s where the reaction gets hard. If it’s just to save a few kids, fine. That can be done. If it’s just to fuck up some cartel guys here and there, that too. Both are possible. But dismantling these mother fuckers? Really taking them down? It’s a tall order. You know how much money these fuckers make? Sounds more like an army thing, and our army doesn’t fight the bad guys.’

‘Yeah, I don’t know. Gonna have to think about it some more. I’m gettin’ off on my exit, bro.’

‘Just call me back later, man.’

I killed the line and pulled off the highway into Crown Point, Indiana. On the southwest side, looking for a place to get a Red Bull and some gas.

Larry Fuckin’ Bird.