J. Curtis - Calexit - The Anthology

He sat back down in the recliner, nursing his beer and noticed that she was still reading the book by candlelight. “Aren’t you concerned about your eyes, reading in the poor light?”

Myra put the book down and said. “I don’t mind, the book by James Patterson reminds me of better times.”

Michael grimaced slightly at that thought, and he faded out as the Advil kicked in. He dreamt of events several years ago, when the upstart named Donald Trump won the 2016 election, the progressive rage that exploded across California, and the resulting Calexit movement. When people asked him who he voted for, he always commented, “Hillary was the best candidate,” and the people who asked him went away satisfied.

Michael rarely gave his personal opinion to anybody. He wasn’t, by God, going to tell anybody that he voted for Trump. He saw the rhetoric coming out of Sacramento getting more strident, stirring up the mob, more and more. After the reelection of Donald Trump in 2020, the referendum came down and California seceded from the Union in 2022. There was euphoria in the streets, people dancing with joy that they had stuck it to the hated ‘cheeto man’.

Michael had seen the mobs on TV pulling down the American flag where they could find it, burning and defiling the flag in any way possible. He’d ranted at the TV, “You fuckers desecrate the flag that my friends and family are buried under!” He’d thrown his coffee mug at the TV shattering the screen. Myra had jumped up from the couch with surprise; it was rare for him to really lose his temper.

In the following months, the edicts and rulings from Sacramento starting coming fast and furious, with rubberstamping from the legislators. Moonbeam ran Cali with an iron fist, tightening the socialist grip on what was left of the state. Firearms that were already restricted became totally banned, along with ammo. The comment often heard was, “If you want to play with guns, join the Brownshirts, and protect Cali diversity and values from the hated conservatives.”

As soon as the firearm ban was announced, Michael immediately sealed and buried his guns and ammo in the back yard, thankful that none of his neighbors knew he was a shooter. Global warming also became a State of Cali priority, and the taxes started going up to support the new laws coming on.

There was a fairness tax, where if you had a certain amount of money you had to pay extra for the privilege of having more money because you worked for it. Michael also saw the Brownies start assuming the responsibility for the internal security of Cali. The Brownies reminded him of the Stasi from East Germany, but with the dregs of society in charge.

Michael was startled awake by the sound of tires squealing on the street, and a few thumps on the wall as the local youths drove by playing rap and throwing rocks and bricks at the passing houses. Myra whispered, “At least they didn’t break any glass on their drive-by this time.” He looked at the wall and was glad that the house was brick. He dozed a bit, woke up, glanced at the time, and saw that it was after 3 AM. He felt a bit of a chill in the air, glanced at his wife, and saw her asleep in her favorite chair. He gently took the book from her lap, slid her bookmark into place, and draped a blanket from the couch over her.

The next morning he made ersatz coffee, the coffee he got from work going into a Tupperware container to be used for barter, especially for things that they couldn’t seem to get from the local market. He made a small breakfast for himself and Myra.

With three days off, he dressed in older clothes and headed outside, mainly to look at the house, and see if the rocks last night had done any damage. As he surveyed his property, he noticed the dilapidated look of his house, but it matched the others in the neighborhood. There was a pattern in the youth attacks, if you had a neat well-kept house, for some reason it seemed to attract the mob like a magnet and the house got vandalized.

One of his neighbors, Jorge Ramos, walked up to him, asking, “So what did you think of the Turner house? The one that got raided.”

Michael looked at him and inwardly suspected that the guy was a snitch and was trying to trip his neighbors up for extra favors from the Brownies. “Well, it was deserved. The Turners were against the people of Cali, and the enlightened policies of our governor; they deserved whatever they got.”

The neighbor made some small talk and headed to his house. Michael looked at the guy’s receding back and thought, You will get yours, you sanctimonious piece of shit, you were the one that narced on the Turners. Because they had a food plot in their backyard, they had been called ’preppers’ and that was enough to call down the wrath of the Brownie mob on them.

Mr. Turner only told a couple of people that he had a garden in the backyard, and one of the people he mentioned it to was Ramos. He was a trusting person, which was his mistake. Michael finished checking out the exterior and the yard, and went inside to find the power was back on. Turning on the news, he saw the live report of rioting and looting at a PX on one of the military bases in San Diego. He was shocked to see the mob tear apart the commissary, and attack anybody that was in the way.

Michael sat with tears in his eyes as he saw the wanton destruction, and watched some of the dependents being brutalized on TV just for the entertainment of the mob. He knew there were going to be deaths, he’d seen that before. Myra walked in, saw the destruction, and murmured, “Oh, my God,” as she covered her mouth in horror.

Michael glanced up, “We are going to have to leave soon. I know the military, and they aren’t going to stand for the murder of their dependents and soldiers. I saw it in 1989 when the Noriega dignity battalion beat up an Army LT and raped his wife. We went in shortly after that and kicked his ass out.”

Myra nodded sadly, “I’m ready to go when you are; there is nothing here for us anymore, and this house has become a prison. Ryan is far away from here, and I thank God for that.”

He leaned back and thought for a second, “I can try to get you on a flight, but the ticket prices are very expensive, and legally we have to get approval from the local Brownie commissioner to stamp your travel papers, so you can get through security. If we’re lucky, it will only take several months, and I won’t be able to go with you. They want one of us to stay here, kinda like a hostage thing to ensure the other’s return.”

She nodded with tears in her eyes.

After finishing his ‘coffee’, Michael walked down the street to visit the home of the local watch captain, who was also in charge of the local detachment of Brownies. Michael knocked on the door and the assistant flunky answered the door, saw who it was and spat out “What is it you want, gringo?”

Michael looked at the pimply Hispanic kid, “I would like to see Mr. Moore”.

The young man spit next to Michael, “Señor Moore will see you in a few minutes.” And slammed the door. Michael knew that the man wasn’t busy, but he liked to show his power and have people wait fifteen minutes or more before seeing them. After the fifteen minutes had gone by, the door opened and the same Hispanic kid opened the door and spat, “Gringo, Señor Moore will see you now.”

Michael entered and noticed the smell of unwashed bodies. He was escorted to the ‘office’ Moore had set up, and the first thing Michael noticed was the huge picture of Moonbeam in the same motif that was used for President Obama in the 2008 election, except Moonbeam’s had the word ’Equality’ on it. He glanced down and saw the very rotund body of the watch captain, wearing the uniform of a Brownie officer that was at least two sizes too small. He looked at Moore’s face, noticing the sheen of sweat, and the receding hairline of a man that wasn’t aging well.