LAIR OF THE WULF- a Barbarian in Chicago- part 2
CHAPTER SIX

Black Lives Matter!

Just around dawn the very next day, as Major Lee Anthony was groggily waking in the small cabin he shared with Jafiro and a couple of other braves of the Ojibwe, there was another invasion preparing to attack the Reservation. This was a far motlier collection of vehicles and occupants, all of whom in the cars were black. BLM had finally made it up to the far north woods wilderness, and they did not like what they saw.

For one thing, passing through all of the small towns and small rural communities of Wisconsin, they were angered by seeing so few African Americans like themselves. Strangely, this was enough to enrage them, although no one had ever forbidden black Americans to move anywhere they’d like- they had just chosen themselves, over many, many years, to live concentrated in squalid ghettos amongst others of their kind, where they were supported by the government. But somehow, to their savage minds, this was somehow all the white people’s fault!

Stopping briefly to gas up their cars, which were mainly large, luxury sedans paid for by the anarchist financier backers of BLM, they completely filled the area around a gas station in a small town in southwestern Wisconsin. They had chosen a much less traveled highway than the interstate followed by the army and the police, and planned to swing around to the reservation from the west.

At this gas station was working a young man who had never left his home state, and was saving up to attend the University of Wisconsin to study business and better himself. His family were dairy farmers, specializing in Guernsey cows, raising only pasture raised, grass fed animals. His name was Eric Tostrud, and with his white-blonde hair, covered with a John Deere cap, he was the essence of wholesome, southwest Wisconsin.

Up to this station in twilight of the very early morning/late night hours, came this large band of black men. Eric had been thinking of how he could leave in less than an hour when his replacement came in, get home and milk the cows before dawn. He really wanted to get to bed after that, and get up by noon or so to see his grandpa, who was coming to visit the family from La Crosse. He loved that old white haired, bearded grandfather, Grandpa Ragnar, and both relished the time they got to spend together.

Looking up at the roar of many engines, Eric looked out at a scene of madness and chaos. Expensive, late model cars with Illinois plates were engulfing his small gas station, headlights blazing off at all angles as they all jockeyed to get close to the few pumps. Black men, large and angry looking, poured out of the cars, and started filling their gas tanks. More doors flew open, and more black men jumped out, stretching and complaining. Most started heading towards the little station where Eric watched, utterly amazed. He took his sawed off shotgun from under the counter, and leaned it upright and handy.

“Hey cracker!” shouted the first black who entered. Every line on his face spoke of contempt and hostility, although for what Eric had no idea- he had never seen black person in person until this moment! More blacks boiled through the door, slamming it back until it sagged on the jamb.

“We need food, we need yo’ sad ass hick coffee- so get a move on!”

“The coffee dispenser is just to your right,” said the youngster, “and the snack aisles are as well. Help yourself. But please, tell your, uh, companions outside that they will just have to wait their turns for the gas pumps, since we only have four…”

Although Eric had spoken in a reasonable, polite tone, it was as if he had been hurling epithets at the black man who had spoken, so visibly angry did he become as a result. The others that had burst into the small station were pouring coffee carelessly, spilling much of it on the spotless floor, and other blacks were tearing open bags of snacks and sandwiches, throwing the wrappings on the floor as they neglected to pay for them beforehand. Eric noticed this at once.

“You men will have to pay for your food before-,” but at this point he was cut off, as the leader who had first entered lifted a large automatic pistol from his jacket.

“You mother-f-n honkey!” he screamed in a sudden outburst of violent rage. And with no more provocation or warning than that, he fired at the white youth. The bullet screamed across the counter, but was stopped by the cash register behind which Eric had ducked at the last moment. As he ducked, he touched a button behind the counter that alerted the local small town cops. It had never been needed before!

But Eric stood suddenly, holding the shot gun, which being sawed off into a short barrel would completely cover the whole inside of the small station. His heart was beating loudly in his ears, but except for the loud “r-click” as he ratcheted back the slide of the gun, the inside of the station was incredibly quiet all of a sudden. Even as all of the black men reached almost simultaneously for their own guns, they froze- the sound of a shotgun being racked is a terrifying one, especially for those who have made a career of criminality, and know that that sound is often the precursor to one of their criminal occupation being suddenly, and violently, not only being stopped in his tracks, but more likely cut in half!

And so, the tableau held: one young man, still in high school, holding at bay a dozen large black men, all armed, dangerous, and violent. So still in the station, and so loud outside, as the other men filled their car’s gas tanks, laughed and shouted, unaware of what was happening inside.

A siren sounded, far off, but rapidly coming closer. Inside the station, the situation became even more tense, but outside, by the pumps, consternation was visible and loud. The men knew that trouble was coming, and readied their weapons. Unfortunately for the police, they had more advanced weapons than most other criminals- their billionaire, activist and anarchistic “investors” had seen to that. Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ ꜰindNʘvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

RADICAL ISLAMIC TERRORISTS

The airplane was careening towards its destination, in the Northern wilderness of the Ojibwe nation. Inside were dozens of Islamic jihadists, intent on showing their love for Allah by killing all of those not of their own faith. And their “faith” was that of warfare itself, the elimination of any that believed differently from themselves. They were all young men in their twenties, dusky skinned and wearing their native garb of flowing robes of gray and white, and armed with automatic weapons and explosives. They had thrown off any attempt at disguise, now that they had hijacked a large plane, and were headed north to wreak vengeance on the hated “Barbarian Wulf”.

They had hijacked the airplane in Los Angeles, killing the flight attendants and copilot before the passengers had even begun to load. Ordering the pilot to get them airborne, Abdul Jawaad pointed his pistol meaningfully at the man. He complied, getting the plane in the sky, and then heading to the northern part of Wisconsin as ordered. The poor man had no illusions about his ultimate fate at the hands of these cowardly “warriors”, but he tried to explain to them that since this was a flight intended for Texas, it had not enough fuel to get to northern Wisconsin.

Abdul Jawaad, perhaps not understanding the infidel’s language sufficiently, responded with a whack on the face of the pilot from his pistol. With a groan, the man kept the plane on course.

In the very early morning hours, this plane was nearing its destination, but was still just over southwest Wisconsin. The pilot kept looking at his fuel gauge, and knew they would never make it. And sure enough, just as he thought of that fact for the hundredth time, the engines sputtered and failed. Abdul looked at the pilot angrily, pointing his gun, but the pilot was focused only on bringing the plane down safely. Even Abdul could see that! Cries of “Allah Akbar!” came from the interior of the airplane as it plunged downwards, since those radical terrorist Muslims could tell that they were very close to getting to their “heaven” of Jannah and their 40 virgins.

The pilot aimed his airplane in desperation at a large farm field he saw below, and the bright lights of a gas station that stood just before it. There appeared to be plenty of room…

The tension within that small gas station was electric. One young man, in a stalemate with a dozen large armed black men, could hear the police siren getting closer and closer. Eric could feel the vicious, unwarranted hate emanating from the men he trained his shotgun on, and wondered where this hatred even came from. He decided, correctly, that it was strictly racial, since other than that there was nothing that he could have done to offend these men. But he knew that, if one of them moved, he would strafe them all rather than go down without a fight- he was descended from the Vikings of old, his grandfather had often told him the tales, and the Vikings were the most warlike and valiant warriors of all- and he was of their lineage!

One solitary police car from the nearby small community drove up. It was as if Andy and Barney from Mayberry had dropped into the heart of the Chicago ghetto - there were scores of heavily armed black men before them, and just the two of them. Andy stepped out, and raised his hands calmly towards the men before him. Barney emerged as well, looking considerably shakier.

And the black men opened fire. Andy jerked about in a circle, cut down with automatic fire from a dozen pistols, and then fell. Barney panicked, and ran to the left, where he was cut down as well. Neither had even pulled his service revolver, and Barney probably still had his one bullet in his pocket…

Just at that moment, a bright light swooped down on the station, and a huge object hurtled onto the paved lot where the black men were still shooting. Most were instantly crushed by the onslaught of a gigantic airplane smashing into them, barely under control. It was as if, as they were shooting with vindictive rage at two small town cops who had never done them any harm, a gigantic, metal avenging angel had swooped down upon them and smashed them into red ruins that only faintly resembled men.

As the plane hit, the lead black who had already fired at Eric decided that something had just happened, maybe the cops had arrived, or even military- the sound was so loud- and now was the time to get this little honky! He raised his auto pistol, and-

Eric the Viking fired. In the close confines of the station the roar of the shotgun drowned out even the huge noise of the 747 airplane crash-landing just outside into a large body of black men and gas pumps. The shooter fell first, literally cut in half by the blast. Of the eleven left, only four were left standing; most were dead or near to it, and those four were raising their weapons.

Grandpa Ragnar was happy- this would be fun! He was going to surprise his grandson Eric with a visit to the gas station where he worked. He had an antique Ford pickup that he was driving, an old one from the 1960’s- he had restored it lovingly, and planned to give it to his grandson as a present. It was to be a surprise, and a birthday present for the lad, who was about to turn 18.

Ragnar also had a shotgun in a rack above his head, he planned to gift this to Eric as well. He had wanted to surprise him completely, so he was driving here in the early morning hours, just before Eric’s shift was up, to all of a sudden dazzle him with a vintage package present from Ragnar’s own youth- a four-on-the-floor pickup truck from America’s halcyon days, and a shotgun to defend it with. He imagined the presentation speech he would give: ‘A modern Viking ship for you, grandson, with a modern broadsword to arm it!’ He smiled to himself- the metaphor was apt.

He rounded the last turn in the curvy road, and madness and chaos was before him. Where he had expected the bucolic scene of a rural gas station not much different from those of his own beloved 1960’s, he beheld instead- a mass of wreckage, strewn body parts, scores of cars crushed and whole, and an airplane just coming to rest in the farm field beyond, with broken wheels and undercarriage, still screaming with the wrenching and grinding sounds of broken metal.

Ragnar leapt from the pickup seat, not bothering to turn off the engine. He grabbed the shotgun in the rack above him, and sprinted towards the station office- because he had seen his grandson’s John Deere cap, just above a gun barrel that he was holding upraised, and four men standing with pointed gun arms, all aimed at Eric!

As the black men raised their weapons, Eric reached to reload his shotgun. He knew he wouldn’t have the time to reload, cock and fire again, but he would die trying to defend himself against these black dogs! Their fingers were tightening on their triggers; soon vengeance would be theirs they knew- and then, from behind them, came a blast of another shotgun.

Grandpa Ragnar stood there, smoke still rising from his pump action shotgun barrel, as the black men crumpled into pools of ever-widening blood. The bright lights of the station reflected off of his white hair and beard, and he stood as an avenging angel above the jackals he had slain. Eric looked out at his grandfather, and thought that HE looked like a true Viking! He had slain, righteously, and he had no remorse- he looked as a wolf would look after killing its prey. Not sad, not guilty- just satisfied.

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