Desperation Reef

Storms upon storms, Brock thinks.

Mahina’s at the other end of the sofa with the current weekend edition of USA Today.

Brock looks at Kasper Aamon’s very swollen face on the Brawn feed. It looks plenty painful but Brock’s heart doesn’t exactly go out to Kasper. Fucking Nazis trying to hurt my people, he thinks: Kristallnacht ’38.

#brockstonebreaker1

Kasper, you say such nice things about me, but you deserve what you got! You were armed, threatening, and trespassing on church property. Stay away is right. And what does “stay away!.. Or?” really mean? Going to send more Right Fighters out our way? Hey, dim bulb, there’s a wildfire in Flagstaff, uncontained, evacuations. Why don’t you ice that jaw, join us Go Dogs and HELP! Plenty of white people there who need a hand up!

#timothy.45rightfight

You can tell from Brock Stonebreaker’s YouTubes that he’s an oily fool spoiling for a fight. Look at those greasy dreadlocks! If I see you in Mt. Shasta I’ll break your jaw and tear out those dreads with my teeth, one filthy little bundle at a time. After that, you can crawl over and pick up your balls in the gutter.

#wardblock214

You lice pickers! Do you eat them like monkeys do?

Brock looks at Wardblock214’s picture. He’s a hairy, glaring guy in a plaid flannel, an iron cross pendant peeking out below his beard. Looks something like Kasper. Brock likes the Brawn graphics because they’re big, and he can clearly see the faces of his critics. Sometimes the faces match the message. But sometimes the posters look nothing like what they say.

Such as this sweet-faced blonde behind big, flame-red glasses:

#joanofdark187

Nothing worse than a false savior. The Brock Stonebreakers of the world should be excommunicated and burned at the stake. I’ll pour the gas and light it myself. And shoot him on my smart phone, screaming, his nappy little locs on fire. Motherfucking traitor to his race.

#brockstonebreaker1

Joan! Bring all of your positive energy to Flagstaff! We need you! Bring water, food, clothing, blankets, camping stuff, money! If you don’t have wheels, Go Dogs will pick you up!

#kittybitch

Hang the President. Eat his lips.

Brock considers Kittybitch’s sullen face, her storm of red hair. Doesn’t know what to say back.

He checks Arizona Wildfire, figuring it’s going to take him and Mahina six and a half hours to make Flagstaff. The Go Dog Econoline is packed to the rafters with supplies, and its tank is full. The latest containment numbers are eight hundred acres, zero percent contained.

Brock watches both Kupchiks, checking the tires and changing the oil in his battered, black-and-green Go Dog van.

Closes the laptop and sets a big dark hand on Mahina’s warm shoulder.

He’s got the mission but he hates to leave.

Breath of Life.

Protect and serve.

“I’m going to get some Go Dogs out here while we’re gone,” he says.

“Kasper?” asks Mahina.

“Yeah. Kasper. I need to take better care of our people.”

“It’s why we are,” says Mahina, setting her big paw on his. “But we might miss the Monsters.”

“Flagstaff is more important. I love you,” he says.

“Aloha wau ia ‘oe, Stonebreaker.”

Stan Kupchik, his body curved like a question mark, drops the heavy little hood of the Econoline and waves.

Juana Flores and a passel of children — the new Kupchiks among them — come down the road from the trailers, one of the older ones kicking a soccer ball against three determined, smaller opponents. Some are on bikes or trikes. The compound dogs bound and circle and zigzag along with them, all headed for the reservoir, led by Juana.

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