splat chapter twenty-two

SPLAT CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

She passed a billboard going home down Ponce. It was laid out like the back of a milk carton. A blue-tinted gritty black and white snapshot of a man. Have You Seen Him? The face was obscured by grime and the marks of illness. He seemed like vermin in a shapeless gray ratty coat. At the bottom, in black against yellow, Help Stop The Spread Of Crime And Disease. Call The Homeless Hotline, 1-800-X-Homeless. There was almost nobody out on Boulevard, and it was a warm night. It was creepy.

She slowed down to drive through her neighborhood, having finally noticed that the place was being abandoned. In some ways it was neater this way. The cars were gone off the blocks, and someone was loading the blocks into a pickup. A dumpster had appeared, and was filled with all kinds of junk, which a couple were picking through, loading the good stuff into the back of their van. Another couple was parked with the trunk open, and both back doors, and were loading dug-up fifty-year old azaleas through every opening. Groups of people with shovels were cruising through the yards identifying plants and garden beds.

Some places looked like tornadoes had hit them. Other houses looked like they were brain dead, their souls staring through empty eyes. Here and there were a few people; a few TVs alive in the night. It was spooky.

Suzie could hear hammering as windows and doors were being uninstalled and loaded into the back of a truck. She saw someone bumping down the front steps with a handtruck, removing refrigerators from several houses and wedging them into his pickup.

They were individuals, they waved at each other politely. It wasn't a construction crew or a salvage company. These houses were just going to be bulldozed, any old time now, and all the stuff inside would be lost to the future; so scavengers were salvaging, finding treasures, recycling, being resourceful, making money.

For the first time, Suzie wondered what was happening. Since she and her roommates avoided the landlord, threw the mail away, and didn't talk to their neighbors, they were a little late in noticing the changes.

They knew the neighborhood like the backs of their hands. They'd seen things happening for months. People moving out and nobody coming in; the house just sitting empty. They saw this and ignored it. But there were an awful lot of empty houses not being rented.

Then the houses started to show signs of being picked apart, and they just thought about how enterprising people were.

Being at the end of a boundary street, they mostly ever saw houses on that street - and most of them were still occupied. When houses started turning up empty-eyed where they could see them, they assumed only a limited, infill kind of development was going on. And they ignored it.

Suzie parked the loaner at the curb and grabbed her bag off the floor of the passenger side. 'Hey, guys, three cooks got arrested at the club today,' she began as she came through the door. 'I bet it's on the news.'

Her roommates whistled and looked sorry for the cooks, but they were busy plotting another graffiti expedition, to which of course she was not invited.

There was an abandoned building on Peachtree they wanted to tag. It was downtown downtown, visible from the Connector. Right where the highway crosses Peachtree the first time, with Portman's SunTrust building with the sky handles and the beacon framing it to the south. It used to be a tall building in the middle of the last century, and now it was blown out, awaiting the developer's hand; a gonna-be skyscraper and parking deck.

It was beautiful. Detailed cornices and brickwork. Turn of the Twentieth. Back when people walked through the streets of Atlanta. The windows had been removed, and the boys were spurred by several graffiti names marking the easily reached fire escapes. The building was becoming a wall, a canvas, a contest. Their main tagging rival, the pillow ghost guy, had put up a fresh one just under the roofline, and they were planning how to top that.

They were going to get in up a sort of well-bolted on fire escape, hang upside down out of a whole floor of windows and paint their names on the brick wall halfway up the building. These days they figured it would be safer to be in an actual building while they did their tagging. There was much less danger of someone looking up and seeing them. Nobody came down Peachtree and looked up at two in the morning. They were all cruising for action at ground level.

The guys were becoming very security conscious. Ralphie, a friend of theirs, had been nabbed last week painting the corner of Krog Street and Edgewood, on the side of an old woodshop featuring really high quality artwork. Nobody'd seen or heard from him since. Suzie had gone by it on her way home the other night, and saw a freshly painted crowd of sheep wearing ties, a stringy snake in a panama hat standing tall in their midst, grinning. The cops had interrupted Ralphie lettering General Public over the heads of the sheep.

Demetrius and Jason thought they should go on as usual without regard for getting caught. But Philip was antsy. 'Gang membership is now a felony,' he reminded them.

'Huh? Are we a gang?' Demetrius asked. 'We are not. I don't have a gun.'

'We fit the description.' Philip ticked it off on his fingers. 'We're members of a group, we wear the same color gear, and we go around hitting up graffiti to mark our territory.' They looked at each other's black t-shirts and jeans and dirty tennis shoes, and nodded their heads.

'So, we're terrorists, right?' Alex looked a little dubious.

'Well,' Philip replied, 'writing graffiti is now a terrorist act. So, yes, technically.'

'Wow, that's fucked.'

The news is on. The music comes up and the voiceover announces Atlanta's Most Respected News TeamTM. The camera opens on Whatshername, wearing a lime green suit jacket and a sun-yellow silk shell that matches her hair. The middle-aged white guy is dressed in gray with cartoon characters pinned to his tie.

'Hey guys,' Suzie said over the anchor's opening words. 'I've picked out the bridge I want to do Surrender Dorothy on. I need help figuring out the details.'

'Hush,' Demetrius said. 'It's you again.' They all lit cigarettes. Haze filaments crossed the screen.

The first story comes up. The graphic is a closeup of Suzie's car with Sniper! written in blood red, scrawled like graffiti over the car. 'New developments in the search for Atlanta's sniper today. Police believe the sniper is behind a chain of assassination-style shooting attacks of motorists on area highways.'

Suzie looked puzzled. She hadn't shot at that many cars. There was the guy in the truck who didn't even see her, and that kid right before it rained, and that crazed pervert in the van. Yes, but she was leaving out the splat on the retaining wall that the patrolman noticed, and the time she shot up all the signs from Ponce to Seaboard, and all those people who reported her to 911 while she was on active duty.

'The Georgia Bureau of Investigations has joined in the search for the Atlanta Sniper.' A spokesman for the GBI comes on camera, a substantial athletic black man in a black suit with black glasses. He speaks in a gravelly voice. 'Everything is being done to find this dangerous terrorist before he has the chance to kill again.'

'I haven't killed anyone,' Suzie protested.

Whatshername looks vigilant. 'Police are still searching for a blue 1994 Dodge Doohickey that was seen driving away from the scene of the latest attack.' They replay the clip of Suzie driving past the traffic camera with piled up wrecks steaming in the background.

Alex turned to her and reached for another cigarette. 'Yo, what did you do with your car?'

'I stashed it at my mechanic buddy's,' she replied, careful not to elaborate. They would only make fun of her if they knew she had a boyfriend.

Sniper Of Atlanta comes up in big black letters. 'Police today released this sketch of the Sniper of Atlanta, based on information given by the latest sniping victim, who is still in serious condition at St Joseph Hospital.' The screen shows a drawing of a black man in his early 20s, with sunglasses and short hair.

'That's not you.' The guys turned to Suzie, who was staring at the screen in shock.

'How did they come up with that?' Alex demanded.

'Well sure,' Demetrius snorted. 'If it's bad, a black man did it.'

'Atlanta Police are requesting people with information on the Sniper to call the Atlanta Police Hotline at 1-800-GOT-INFO. Police and GBI officials are investigating several incidents suspected to be the work of this terrorist.'

The graphic changes to red letters on a black background. Report Terrorism. 'In a related development,' she smiles slightly, 'the Atlanta Police tip line has been overwhelmed by callers claiming to be victims of the Sniper. Twenty-one hundred phone calls have been received in the last 24 hours reporting attacks of road rage and threatening behavior on Atlanta's streets.' She grins wryly. 'Descriptions of the assailants and details of the vehicles used in the attacks vary widely, but police are treating all reports as incidents of terroristic threats, and welcome this example of vigilance on the part of Atlanta's citizens.'

The sensible anchor and her distinguished gray-haired co-anchor murmur about how horrible it is for mean people to be loose on Atlanta's roads.

The guys turn to Suzie. 'Hey, they're not going to try and pin all of them on you, are they?'

'Better get a lawyer.'

'Better leave town.'

Suzie shook her head. Planning for her eventual capture and trial as a criminal was a bit more than what she'd bargained for. 'Oh I can't think about this now! I'll go crazy if I do! I'll think about it tomorrow.'

The Homeless Sweep broom graphic comes up. The co-anchor takes it. 'There's been another round of sweeps in Atlanta today,' he says jauntily. 'Police armed with stun guns and hot dogs set up a sting operation at the corner of Ponce de Leon and Linwood , a well known hotbed of homeless activity. Using food as bait, the officers enticed hungry offenders into a makeshift soup-kitchen, where they arrested twenty-three men and charged them with criminal homelessness. The men have been assigned to the Straight Path Center for processing.' He looks a little disturbed as they cut to an ad.

'Maybe he's camera shy.'

Ad

They all got up and did things during the ads, then lit up more cancer sticks as Whatshername comes back. She looks like a member of the Chamber of Commerce: successful, upbeat, speedy.

The graphic is a big American flag. 'Atlanta-based Reinsourcing America is a next-generation temporary employment firm, that has seen huge growth since it began rehabilitating formerly homeless clients of the Straight Path Center,' she beams. 'Under the supervision of the State Department of Corrections , Reinsourcing America has placed 359 inmates in a multitude of jobs all around the state.'

A spokesman for the agency comes onscreen and talks to a reporter. 'We've got more orders than we can fill.' He smiles at the camera. 'We've got our labor supply on back order.' He pauses. 'It's a new twist on an old concept,' he continues. 'People need skills, and America needs workers. We train them to make a real contribution to society by helping out where we need it most. There's nothing better than good honest work. Work for work's sake. We've got a saying at Reinsourcing America,' he says proudly, turning to looking at the camera, 'Everybody Works in The America That Gets Things Done.'

'TM,' Suzie added.

The guys put their fingers in their mouths and made gagging noises. Suzie tilted her head to one side and thought.

Whatshername announces a new development in the special session of the legislature and the graphic dissolves in: Project Ending Homelessness. 'Broad new powers to fight homelessness,' she begins.

'You know,' Suzie said slowly, 'I heard those same exact words at work. Work for work's sake.' The realization struck her. 'That's Jerry's new temp agency he quit his law firm to start.' Like duh. It made sense. She started to explain to the guys about Jerry's diabolical ideas, but they hushed her for Gloria Morales. Cute, perky, long shiny black hair. Suzie was beginning to hate her.

'Gloria, Gloria, Gloria,' they chanted. Tight black pants suit. Fabulous legs. 'Let's do a tribute to her next.'

'I'm here on the steps of the Capitol,' Gloria said momentously. 'Inside, the Legislature has just revived and strengthened a state law that's been on the books for decades but is seldom enforced. It is once again illegal to be unemployed. In addition, the crime of loitering will be punished with jail time and fines. Under the new law, anyone receiving unemployment benefits has thirty days to get a job or enroll in a training program. Police have said they will enforce the law vigorously. They plan to carry out daylight searches of likely areas to catch unregistered loafers.' She smiles grimly at the camera. 'I for one am glad to have a job. This is Gloria Morales, reporting.'

The anchor and co-anchor exchange glances and giggle and declare they love their jobs. Then Whatshername faces the camera and continues with the next item as the graphic comes up.

It's a protest sign behind bars, with an iron bed and a toilet in the background. 'With a stroke of the Governor's pen, a new law is going into effect making it illegal to object to or protest legitimate actions of government authorities. This new crime is punishable by a fine and jail time.'

The camera shows a man in a suit. The anchor continues in voiceover. 'A spokesman for ? announced today that public involvement in official functions is being prohibited to bring us in line with new state terrorism laws.'

The man says, 'Terrorists can use political meansto attack our country, too. They're not restricted to blowing things up. In my opinion, people who come down here yelling and screaming about things that don't concern them are acting suspiciously. At the very least, they've got too much time on their hands. You know what the devil does with idle hands,' he finishes, fiercely stern.

The guys fielded some guesses.

'He chops them off.'

'He washes them.'

'He bites the fingernails.'

'He finds work for,' said Demetrius, whose mom used to take him to church with her.

'Work, gross,' Jason cringed. They lit another round of cigarettes.

The graphic changes to a hill of dirt half-covering a sewer pipe. 'Intrenchment Creek gets a good going-over from some ex homeless people,' she announces.

'This week, clients of the Straight Path Center worked to remove trash and debris from the banks and streambeds of Intrenchment Creek. They cleared out over 60 tons of trash from the creek, including over eight tons of used tires.' She looks impressed, then the camera cuts to a scene with men in International Safety Orange coveralls picking up trash along the creek, standing upright on sixty percent slopes, reaching into the kudzu with sticks and hooks.

She continues in voiceover. 'The Intrenchment Creek Basin drains over seven thousand acres of residential, commercial, forest and open land in the City of Atlanta. During heavy downpours, the water rises over fifteen feet in the creek, and spills over the sides of the drainage culverts.'

The camera shows a scene of destruction, all kinds of debris caught in mud-coated trees and bushes growing alongside kudzu-infested ditches. The guys spotted a condom on the nearest branch.

Ad

The co-anchor holds a toy Magilla Gorilla, which he shares with Whatshername. She looks at it wistfully. Her kids will give her hell for not bringing one home. The camera focuses on the distinguished co-anchor; he's still smiling proudly. The panda graphic is on the screen over his shoulder. He turns serious. 'Condemnation proceedings began today on several buildings in the Grant Park area. The land is currently being used for housing, but officials argue that it is needed for the Grant Park-Zoo Atlanta renovation, currently underway.'

The graphic dissolves to a set of scales 'This controversy was addressed in court today. The City supported local developers, who are using the power of eminent domain to condemn the homes. They argue that the resulting private development will boost tax revenue and improve the local economy.'

The picture shows well-dressed white people with banners and signs saying Developers 1 - Citizens 0. The co-anchor continues. 'Angry residents staged a protest outside the courtroom and were charged with violating the new protest ban. They are being processed at the Straight Path Center.' The co-anchor shakes his head solemnly as the picture shows a handful of disruptive liberals being led off in handcuffs.

Whatshername turns to the camera with a gleam in her eye, and reads the next item, while a graphic of a jail cell door comes up behind her. 'A pastor in Dallas, Georgia, known for his stance against homosexuality, was arrested last night after propositioning a male undercover police officer outside a hotel in Buckhead. The Reverend Joseph Lustbadder, a member of the Southern Christian Association's executive committee, was charged with offering to engage in an act of lewdness in exchange for money, according to an Atlanta Police spokesman. Reverend Lustbadder was released from jail this morning.'

The scene switches to the steps of the Atlanta City Jail, where the reverend is puffed up and preaching at the gathered reporters, 'I was doing my Christian duty, following the dictates of my church, and befriending those lost sheep so they could know peace in Jesus. My arrest was a setup by the police. I was only trying to convince a group of sinners that they could become heterosexual if they accepted Jesus Christ as their personal savior and rejected their sinful, destructive lifestyle.'

The camera comes back to Whatshername. 'Calls to Southern Christian Association offices were not returned.' She has a cheery look on her face. A graphic comes up showing a jet landing on a runway. 'More good news at Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. They're nearing another milestone in the construction of the eagerly awaited Fifth Runway.'

The camera cuts to the scene, Maurice Black standing on red Georgia clay in the sun, his tie clipped to his shirt against the stiff wind that blows red dust all over him. He walks to the edge of the bridge, still under construction, staring down at traffic whizzing by on I-285. He has to yell to be heard over the noise. 'I'm here at the edge of the new Fifth Runway bridge-tunnel which will cross eighteen lanes of traffic.' He looks impressed with the idea of eighteen lanes of rush hour traffic. 'The Fifth Runway bridge is an engineering marvel, maybe the largest bridge project in history. It's definitelythe largest concrete project in history, and will use 450,000 square yards of concrete.'

Maurice turns to a burly white construction guy in jeans with a sweaty t-shirt and a hardhat. 'To build this record-breaking bridge,' he observes, 'you're pouring slabs with the biggest concrete pump in the world.' Like he would know.

The construction guy looks proud. 'Yessir, the largest boom pump in the world, made by Putzmeister. We brought it in special. Nothing else could handle forty thousand square feet of slab a week.' The camera draws back to show a cement truck on the edge of the runway, with a long boom set up on stilts, the hose stretching hundreds of feet over the open steel beams, vomiting concrete slurry into the waiting forms with not a drop spilled on the busy highway below.

Maurice turns back to the construction guy. 'I understand your work crew has to follow special safety precautions because of their closeness to active runways.' He wags his head in the direction of the terminal, and the camera does a quick cut to an airplane landing on Runway 10-29R, a mile to the north.

'Yeppir, we've got to follow special procedures working here at the airport,' the construction guy responds. 'Like we can't bring in plastic water bottles, because they'd end up blowing around the runway and getting sucked into the engines. And we're not allowed to have any food onsite, so we don't attract birds. Flocks of birds are a big problem at airports.' He made a grinding motion with his hands. 'They get in the way and end up getting sucked into the engines. That kind of incident can have very grave consequences.'

The reporter winds up, 'With airport traffic predicted to be 121 million passengers by 2015, this new runway is confidently predicted to cut flight delays in half. I know I'm looking forward to pulling back from the gate sooner.'

The camera cuts back to the studio, where Whatshername and the co-anchor are chuckling about airport delays. The co-anchor drops the smile and becomes stern as the camera closes in on him and a graphic comes up - Pay-Back Time in big menacing letters. 'Under a bill just passed in the Legislature, some people receiving state benefits will now have to pay them back or face penalties.'

The camera cuts to a spokesman for the legislature who is standing on the steps of the Capitol scowling into the sun and a dozen cameras. 'We're taking a fresh look at how we pay for things,' he explains. 'For too long, taxpayer money has gone to support homeless people, to treat drug addicts, and to house criminals. We've made life easy for millions of people who are perfectly able to work. Frankly, they're nothing but slackers, sucking money out of the mouths of those who really need it. It's an unfair burden that the government is no longer willing to tolerate.'

The co-anchor comments in voiceover, 'Recipients of state support who have been convicted of any crime in the past ten years will now be required to reimburse these funds to the Government, as payback for abusing its trust.'

The guys bounce empties off the screen. 'More and more of our budget is going for homeland security,' he continues. 'We need to make things lean and mean to meet the demands of today's threatening world. We've all got to work together as a unit, Team America.' The guys saluted, none of them correctly.

The spokesman hits his stride. 'This isn't just a state initiative. It's part of a national program to retool our domestic architecture. Make it more resistant to terrorist attack and chaos. Starting at the bottom and working through all segments of American society, weeding out miscreants and potential terrorists. Disorder and anarchy is attacking our whole way of life, and we're bringing our best weapons online against it. Everybody's got to pull their own weight in Today's Modern America.' The guys were sore from laughing.

The co-anchor comes back on the screen. He's not smiling. 'Critics say that this bill targets senior citizens, the sick, and the poor. Qualifying recipients of state benefits have thirty days to make payment arrangements. Call the benefits hotline at 1-800-SCOFFLAW.'

The guys were amused. They didn't get any benefits. 'You thought we'd take care of you when you were old and crippled, and make your last years comfortable,' Demetrius scoffed.

'Well, fuck that.'

'Get a job.'

'How do you like me now?'

A new Suspicious House Fire graphic glows garishly scarlet, a fallen-in house silhouetted in black against the flames. Suzie wondered about the graphic artists at the network. What an interesting job that must be. She was drawn to the patterns she could see in the smoke billows. Why did they keep changing the graphics? Maybe their bosses were bored.

'Another house fire in Atlanta last night,' Whatshername says grimly.

Philip asked the room, 'Hey, got any butts?' Alex threw the pack. They watched the story through billowing smoke.

'It's the thirty-seventh house fire this year.' The screen shows fire engines parked in the middle of the street, cutting off traffic. Cars line up over the next hill. The emergency lights strobe up into the overhanging trees. The anchor continues. 'Thankfully, nobody was hurt in a house on the three hundred block of Moreland Avenue in East Atlanta, when a multi-family structure burned to the ground. Residents reported suspicious activities, but there's little to go on tonight. Police still have no clues who's behind this rash of destruction.'

The next graphic is a scroll sitting on one pan of the scales of justice. The anchor looks more serious. 'The governor signed a bill today making blasphemy against the Christian religion illegal. Starting Monday, all blasphemies, irreverences, or impieties against God or the Christian church will be violations of Georgia law.'

The camera cuts to an explanation by some famous protestant TV preacher with a huge megachurch somewhere around Atlanta, a man with soft jowls, squinty eyes, and high blood pressure. 'Blasphemy,' he expounds, 'means all contemptuous or profane acts, utterances, or writings concerning God or His Christian Church.' He ticks the sins off on his fingers. 'Such as denying He exists, denying the Trinity, denying Jesus, denying the Christian religion is true, denying the Holy Scriptures are divine revelation.' He lowers his hand impatiently. 'Blasphemy is disrespect or profane scoffing at the Holy Scriptures, or exposing any part of it to contempt or ridicule. It's punishable by death in the Bible.' He shakes his head. 'And eternal damnation.'

The anchor is back on, solemn-faced; you might say deadpan. Maybe she's part Jewish. Is she stifling a smile, or a grimace? 'Blasphemy is punishable by fines and imprisonment in Georgia. This law specifically protects only the Christian religion.'

She continues. 'A spontaneous demonstration of hundreds of protestors in front of the Governor's Mansion severely disrupted traffic along Paces Ferry Road after the announcement, but it was quickly stemmed. The protestors were taken off without incident, and are being charged with committing terroristic threats against the government.'

Suzie wondered when they'd get to the arrest of the cooks at the Club, but the discovery and arrest of a food theft ring at the White Magnolia Club was not going to make the news. It was newsworthy, because it happened at an established Atlanta Social Club and all its members were important movers and shakers. But it would have been embarrassing.

Instead of going to the ad with a teaser like, 'Too many cooks spoil the soup at one of Atlanta's most exclusive country clubs,' Whatshername announced gamely, 'Another street named Peachtree, when we return.'

The co-anchor looked intrigued. 'What's it up to now?'

She shook her head, amused. 'Sixty three.' She smiles at the camera. 'We'll be back after this.'

The scene opens on a smiling woman, sitting at her kitchen table. The kids come running through the house, yelling and screaming and chasing each other. The dog tracks mud across her clean kitchen floor, barking madly. Her husband comes in looking angry. There's a close up of her face; she's still smiling contentedly. The voiceover says, 'Oblivia: You'd kill them without it.'

'Side effects include dry mouth, urine retention, blurred vision, constipation, weight gain, headache, nausea, cramps, diarrhea, narcolepsy, sleep disruption, loss of libido, inability to achieve an erection, inability to achieve orgasm in men and women, agitation, and anxiety. Usually these side effects were not severe enough to discourage subjects from continuing to use Oblivia. Ask your doctor if Oblivia is right for you.' The screen goes to black. White letters: ObliviaTM.

Suzie's plan to discuss her plan to tag the bridge went undiscussed. They guys weren't interested, and first changed the subject to their own narrow escapes and impossible dramas, and then switched on Adult Swim and ignored her.

Unseen by them all, in the trash, was another glossy brochure touting the planned development of the neighborhood. Pre-selling now. It announced that the final zoning hurdles had been passed, and that expected construction of the Emerald City was to begin in September. There was an architect's rendering illustrating the coming changes, all long legged white women with shopping bags and ponytails, SUVs parked at the curb. There was a plan, color coded, showing their block of apartments turned into highrise, high-density condos and parking decks.

Also in the trash was a second-round eviction notice, which the guys actually saw, but which they discarded because they were over two months late on the rent; didn't have it, and weren't going to; and they just figured they'd wait for the sheriff and his men to toss their stuff on the sidewalks before they would think about going somewhere else.

* * *

Suzie got a glass of water and went to her room to wind down and print some more bumper stickers.

Bumper stickers

The guys had been on her computer while she was at work. It had all sorts of popups and spyware warnings all of a sudden, and the browser's history was full of porn sites. She closed a dozen popups of naked women and then downloaded Spybot to clean her hard drive.

Suzie searched the Internet for news of Joseph, Javel, and Maurice. She found nothing. If she looked tomorrow she'd find them on the Georgia Department of Corrections website, charged with theft and assigned to the Straight Path.

Almost ready for bed, she picked up the interoffice envelope she brought home from work awhile back and took out another folder. This time it appeared to be modern. Stuff printed from web pages, articles from news sites. All of it unbelievably hostile and inflammatory and scary and just not true. She read one:

Onward Christian Soldiers - Invasion Of Georgia Begun. Throngs of Christian Conservatives, members of Save American For God, an Evangelical neo-Confederate organization, are quietly moving into Georgia in order fill the legislature with Christian activists. The plan, spokesman Rev. Buck McCoy said, is to flood the state with like-minded voters who would work to replace the U.S. Constitution with the Ten Commandments. Under proposed new laws, abortion would be illegal, same-sex and racially mixed marriages would be banned, schools would not be allowed to teach evolution, children would pray to Jesus in public schools and the Ten Commandments would be posted publicly. In addition, steps would be taken to separate the races, and deport all non-whites, or 'mud races,' as they call them, from Georgia soil.

McCoy hopes to move 2,500 Christians into the northern part of the state by next year and to persuade tens of thousands to relocate by 2015. So far, five families and two individuals have relocated to Georgia, McCoy said.

Suzie laughed at the overwhelming numbers of people flocking to the state.

When asked about his decision to take over a state's government, McCoy said they picked Georgia partly for its conservative politics and a Christian majority that were favorable to their message, and because the state had access to the sea. 'If we do have to secede from the Union,' he said, 'it would be essential to have a port city. Savannah is practically perfect. We're thinking ahead.'

Suzie was appalled, but kept reading, fascinated. Looking to laugh at the kind of people who would say this stuff, believe this stuff. But it was getting harder to laugh, because apparently there were people all around her who lived and breathed these ideas, and were trying to act on them.

The next was an article in some sort of newspaper, photocopied and circled. What's Good for White Race is Good for World, the title said, and in the middle of the paragraph, underlined:

America didn't have these problems when we were a white, God-fearing, Christian nation. It is time for white people to forcibly re-assert OUR values upon OUR society. Anyone who doesn't like it can get the hell out.

Then was an ad for a new book. What The Greats Said About The Jews. Suzie did a double take and continued.

Throughout history, the giants of civilization have come out in condemnation of the Jews. Are these greats merely ignorant racists? Or are they men of insight with sincere and honest observations about the collective behavior of an entire race of people? Let's examine this question.

She skimmed the ad. Each paragraph started with a name: Jesus Christ, the Apostle Paul, Mohammed, Napoleon, Ulysses S. Grant, Mark Twain, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Charles Lindbergh, Martin Luther King. It was all variations on a theme: The Jews are to blame for everything; the Jews make more money and have more influence than other people; and thte Jews are out to exterminate Christians.

She felt a little numb. But the next article shocked her.

Holocaust Was A Hoax. Scientific evidence proves that there were no gas chambers in the concentration camps. Zyklon B was only used for lice. The original photographs were doctored to show smokestacks. The whole holocaust story is a lie perpetrated by sinister, evil Jews to make White Men feel guilty and take moral and financial advantage of them.

Fucking hell, she thought, letting the page go as if it were poison ivy. And I'll bet we never landed on the moon, either. And global warming is a hoax. She read the next one not knowing what to think.

New York Jews Threaten Martial Law Against Christians. Spokesman for City Hall confirms detention camps are waiting to house Christians before trial and execution for crimes against humanity. New Jewish-backed legislation criminalizes Western Civilization. Senator reveals Jewish leaflet promising payback for 2,000 years of persecution.

Wow, this is sick, she thought, starting to feel queasy. People living in fear of an uprising of Jewish people? Uprising for what? This is ridiculous.

She looked at another. White Nationalist Organizations On The Rise. A paragraph was circled:

Nationalists told how they have battled against gangsters, attackers, rioters and killers, in schools, in the streets and at public ceremonies. Among their proudest moments have been when they withstood Mexicans in Simi Valley, homosexuals in Dubuque, Negroes in Atlanta and Communists in Morristown.

Unbelievable, she thought. Proud to be a thug. She glanced at another article.

Savage Beast Shoots White Man 6 Times. An angry ape-like man shouted obscenities as bus riders cowered. When a white man stood up to defend his girlfriend from abuse, the savage shot him. This is why any white man traveling in any major city must carry a concealed weapon. It is imperative that you take steps to defend yourself from the roving hordes of black and Mexican savages roaming our streets. If forced to kill a non-white, don't wait for police, you should just walk away, confident that you've done your duty, nothing more.

After that, she just scanned the rest of the contents, tossing pages in the air as she skimmed the headlines, her tosses getting faster and harder. You wouldn't want to be cut by one of those pages.

Let Them Die - Advice To Border Patrol After Rescuing 40 Illegal Aliens From Sudden Desert Heat

Innocent Woman Killed By Stray Bullet Fired By Savage Spic Gang Bangers

Father Of 12 Admits He's A Fag, Proves Mental Illness Of Gays

60 Years Ago US Bombed Japan. We Were Right To Do It, And We'd Do It Again

Once again, she slung the folder against the wall, where it hit with a satisfying crack and exploded over the far corner of her room. Then she got up and gathered it, and tore it into pieces and dumped it in her trash can, followed by the envelope, which had unread folders After that, she found it difficult to get to sleep, her mind kept fueling her anger and intolerance toward those belligerent, bigoted people.

Thoughts and dreams of dying of thirst in the Mexican desert disturbed her sleep. Being laughed at and driven further into the desert by fat, cruel men in chef hats. Panting, she woke up with the covers at her feet, the back of her neck wet with sweat. She got up and drained her water glass. It was after One. She didn't go back to sleep.

Suzie thought about her intention to tag Nelson's shop with an homage to the Three Js. She felt like doing something with her wakefulness, and drove down to the shop with a spraycan on the seat of the loaner, to start her tribute to the boys. It was a very warm night in the city; the pavements reeked of tar fumes and unspent fuel. She drove with her windows down. The air was balmy, refreshing, not a trace of chill. Like bath water. Suzie loved driving around at night in the summer. It reminded her of driving with her dad.

Someone had left the lights on inside the shop, but she didn't see anyone, or hear anything. So she got out her black spray paint, fitted on a thin cap, and got to work doing three heads on the back side of the building, as close as she could come to the features of Nelson, Nathan, and Nubby. The three J's. The wall was still hot from the sun, even though it was the middle of the night. Like bricks in an oven. She finished quickly because she was beginning to feel scorched, and stood back to regard her work in the glare of the sodium light on the corner.

There was Nelson's massive Viking head, there was Nubby's toothless grin and ratty braid, there was Nathan's kick-me grin, all of them exuding affable redneck charm. It had taken her under seven minutes. She was proud of herself. Now for the legend. She'd thought about it. Not bubble lettering; not too jagged, either. Nothing too complicated. She had decided to do an italicized block script cutting in and out of itself so nobody could read it. She pulled out a fat tip and a can of blue paint.

Then she heard a noise inside the shop. The lights went out. Shit. Someone was inside. Maybe it was Cindy. Maybe it was Nelson, doing some work on the side. She thought about knocking on the window to say hello.

She heard Nelson's voice, and another guy's answering with a spanish accent. They were coming out. She ducked around to the north side and wedged herself next to the bay door. Nelson was locking up and they were arranging to meet again that time next night, figuring out how many hours the guy was going to be on the road. Then two car doors slammed. Two cars started up. Nelson's Trooper came careening around the corner, making for the exit, followed by a guy in some customer's Windstar van she'd seen brought in.

Suzie started shaking. Being almost caught witnessing whatever that was would have been awkward. She didn't react well to the stress of possible discovery. Her teeth started chattering. How was she ever going to get the courage to do a Surrender Dorothy over the Connector? She left her half-finished piece and went back home to bed.

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next, the summer's just too fucking hot in atlanta