Ch 1 of Devil Owns the Fence

Updated: Sep 4, 2020

As a teenager, I told my father I wanted to study abroad. With a look of disappointment and maybe surprise, he shook his head and left the room. While I waited for an answer, not really expecting one, I heard some noise coming from my parents’ bedroom. He came back and handed me a Playboy magazine. “I guess you’re ready. Here’s a whole bunch of broads. This one likes horseback riding and sunsets.” She was the one in the middle. He wasn’t even trying to be funny. Just wanted to make his point.

That’s the last time he saw that magazine.

Being a product of government schools, I’d been taught to look down on his responses to my childish whims as Neanderthal, though I knew enough not to tell him that and not because they’d convinced me he was indeed a Neanderthal. It wasn’t smart to cross my father. So, I took the magazine, said thanks, and nothing more was ever said about me studying abroad. I got the point. To this day, I’ve never even had a passport. Been to Canada a bunch of times, but only before they started wanting me to show a passport. Once the terrorist attacks and the pandemics began, unlike America, Canada eventually tightened its border, to Americans at least. Must have been too afraid of the Chinese in their country, as they should have been. "We’re Canada, we can’t let those crazy Americans with their freewheeling ideas of liberty in here to infect our population. Need those good and obedient Chinese though. They’re the role models.”

Instead of becoming a world traveler drenched in the slimy oozing pieties of the multiculturalists’ drivel, I spent much of my adolescent years learning the battle for my soul by the two value systems was serious business. There was a lot of money in the battle for the souls of children.

On the one hand, the government school spent much of its energy trying to convince me my parents’ values and the ones I was being taught about on Sunday were wrong. On the other hand, my parents didn’t seem to know there even was a competing value system that was secretly working against them. While I grew to understand they actually did know, I’ve never been convinced they had any idea how pernicious that force was. Sure, they’d been through it themselves when they were younger, but by the time it was my turn to be reeducated by the government, the plan was much more entrenched and marinated in decades of evil. The do-as-thou-wilt American youth movement would metaphorically burn the dissenters at the stake. The world became a cliché and turned upside down. Good became evil, and evil became mandatory.

Lucky for everyone, this story isn’t about the ever-increasing uselessness of the American government school system. No one wants to read another book about the obvious. It’s really more of my last will and testament that I hope I can finish before my demise. In constant fear my end is near, I feel my luck is running out, and so is my physical ability to carry on. I am the weak link in this story. I’m such a weak link I wish I could have written myself out of the story and made it a third person story. It wouldn’t make as much sense though without the character that least wanted to be dragged into it.

Paranoia’s only a sin when it’s unnecessary. My real name will remain a secret to protect all those I’ve ever known and loved, but I go by my pen name Jack Spit. Yeah, I know, change one letter and you know what I feel like sometimes. My real name, along with my social security number and identity, was taken from me by the court of law when an illegal alien, who, after stealing my identity, sued me for running up my credit cards – or his credit cards, as the court referred to them at my sentencing.

He was the one that actually ruined my credit, but the judge, not wanting to be accused of racism, awarded my identity to an illegal alien who could barely speak English. Lucky for everyone, the ACLU supplied an interpreter. Nothing like a court of law that will solve an illegal alien’s problem of being “undocumented” by giving him someone else’s documents. The new American way.

“Here’s some documents and here’s an identity. It’s actually his, but he won’t need it where he’s going.”

I wasn’t always able to joke about this. Actually, that’s not even a joke. It’s what happened, and this is the story of what happened after my identity was given to one of the ruling class’s precious little illegal alien invaders.

Again, I wish I could take myself out of the story though. I was thrust into it unwillingly. I am just a witness who was forced to participate against his will.


After looking at the government’s dossier on me, the judge said, “I see you used to be a registered Republican. A radical one at that. The conservative kind.” He continued to look at his computer screen, while a rush of fear brought sweat to my forehead. You can never escape having been registered Republican. It’s almost as bad as getting caught praying in public to Jesus. If you’d ever used social media in any way, the government had all it needed. The social media platforms were just about all funded and created by the Pentagon’s DARPA program. They called it “Life Log.” The day they started the first big social media platform is the day they supposedly pulled the plug on the “Life Log” project. They appointed some little Ivy-League stooge with the right bloodline as the CEO and boom, they have a place that collects all your thoughts, dreams, beliefs and photos, and then they can eventually start to correct your thinking by punishing any of the incorrect patterns of thought. Don’t want to play along? – Too bad. They have it all, along with your photos. If they can’t correct your thinking, they’ll take you out of society and put you where your thinking doesn’t matter.

I broke the silence of the courtroom, “I’m no longer a registered…”

“Quiet,” he shut me up. Silence ruled the court again, other than a bit of whispering at the plaintiff’s table. There was a devious smile on the face of Jose, or whatever his name was before he took my identity. The judge knew what he was doing, but the whole Republican thing put him on a tantrum. “You sir are a disgrace,” he told me, as he held up my papers, the ones I had supplied willingly. I gave him my birth certificate, my social security card, my license and a couple of other bits of identity in my wallet, the things the court required. It didn’t matter. “I find for the plaintiff. Please give him back his papers.”

The rest is hazy. I was witnessing what should be the unthinkable in the America I had once known. While I’d heard stories of this sort, I never thought it could happen to me. Let me repeat that. I never thought it could happen to me. I didn’t even think they were real, just stories to spread fear. I’d had identity-theft protection for years, but when it’s the court of law facilitating the theft of your identity, so much for protection. The judge awarded Jose my identity and sentenced me to some time in the hole and to paying back my debts with interest.

I stopped listening as I watched my life pass before my eyes and started feeling like a movie cliché. This is where the camera gets somewhat blurry, and the action-shot flashbacks become disjointed to simulate the spiral into madness.

I was being separated from my wife and my daughter by the corrupt government I helped to fund. I was being forced off the grid by the court of law that was supposed to protect me and my ability to make a living so that I could pay the taxes that allow the court to get funded in the first place. That was the deal between the people and the government, set forth in the Constitution. The people work and produce, the government protects our ability to do so. Instead, the government was destroying its own lifeblood and taking a transfusion of foreign-born blood that refused to bleed red, white and blue. It was all about the globalism. Destroy America and destroy the last obstacle to the rebuilding of Babylon.

A big guy with a brown buzz cut and a tight uniform cuffed me and led me out of the courtroom. As I was being escorted out, the greasy-haired Mexican version of me was laughing, smiling, sneering and nodding all at once. A multi-tasker. Good for America. The way he was beating his chest like the proud owner of the last living bird at the Cinco de Mayo Cockfight Battle Royal, you’d think the court was serving up hookers and cocaine. He was sporting all sorts of gang tats on his hands, arms, face and neck, while I was in a respectful suit, but the court was making him the hero of the day. Victory for the oppressed. Get thee to a prison cell oppressor.

I wanted to kill him. I didn’t like having that desire, but I couldn’t control it. I wanted to kill him. It was the first time I had ever had a desire to kill someone so sincere I actually think I would have – had I been given the chance.

Instead, though, I was ushered into a holding cell, where I found myself with several street thugs, a tattooed biker, a dehydrated street whore with bad teeth and drippy soars, and a guy with a puke-covered tie and a headache that glowed red. He probably came in with the prostitute, but I think their friendship had expired. He was on his own now. She had government-funded advocates that made sure she was able to get back to work quickly. The working poor has advocates. Hopefully, he wasn’t counting on his wife to bail him out.

There was an overflowing toilet protruding from a muddy puddle that looked like something Dali would paint on a bad acid trip. I stood against the wall on the right. The seats were already taken. Aware that the others were studying me, I felt a little overdressed with my suit and tie, even in the presence of the puke-stained tie on the headache you can see. My suit didn’t matter. I was naked without an identity. Without being able to prove who I was, nothing else mattered here. These were now my peers. I’d been equalized. What would I say if they asked me my name?

Even though I looked nothing like that gringo-hating border hopper who’d just stolen my identity, the judge gave him my photo id. He put me in charge of paying back the debts this guy created in my name. Like I said, the world had been turning upside down, but this?

What was happening? The system was sucking me in against my will, the same system I’d spent many years trying to avoid by keeping my head down and my mouth shut – at least as far as anyone knew. It was swallowing me into a belly where I was already feeling the digestive juices burning my skin and devouring my soul. I wanted to lose it and scream and bang on the bars and yell, “Let me out, there’s been a mistake, I’m not supposed to be here,” or any other number of the things innocent people do in the movies when they’re thrown in jail. But I didn’t. This wasn’t a movie. I needed to pretend I still had my dignity.

I focused on my breathing, of which I wasn’t doing enough. I took a few deep breaths and tried to halt the shaking of my hands and the sweating on my forehead. I bent over so I could steady my hands on my thighs, but I found it harder to keep an eye on those who were probing my fear. Feeling as though I looked a little too nervous as I saw them watching me from across the cell, I let my back slide down the cinderblock wall, trying to look like I didn’t care. Once my butt rested on the cold cement floor, I fixed my shirt, which didn’t really slide down the wall well. I had to pull it down and tuck it back in my pants. My hands rested on my knees as I sat in an upright fetal position. I had to pee, but I sat there for hours.

My past had caught up with me. I grew up in the country where a distrust of government and liberal city folk had led me to the conservative side of the political spectrum. But that was before the “liberal” side had taken power of the country and criminalized the conservative side with hate-crime laws that turned into thought-crime laws that eventually outlawed conservatism. I was born a white Christian heterosexual male. I was born guilty. They called it privilege.

The left, who had taken over the country by unifying victims’ groups into an unstoppable political mob looking for revenge, redefined the white Christian heterosexual males as racist bigot homophobes. Since the left controlled the language, the education system, the media, the government, and pretty much everything that mattered, their definitions reigned supreme. I was a racist bigot homophobe simply because I was born a white Christian heterosexual male. I was the scum of the earth.

So, I kept my mouth shut and my head down, other than my anonymous web log posts under a fake name. I even used the fake name on the social media networks. It didn’t matter. When a subpoena came requesting my presence in the court of law, avoiding the wrath of the system became near impossible. Running was an option, but that would be the same as voluntarily giving up my identity and admitting guilt. So, I went in, thinking it would be no big deal and that I’d easily be able to prove my identity.

Just as I was forcing myself to move towards the acceptance phase by learning to breathe again, I remembered my biggest fear of prison. I’m not that big a guy, and I can’t run. I’m five foot seven with a paralyzed ankle and foot. While I sat there with my knees bent, my right foot was uncomfortably resting against my left foot. My right ankle had been frozen at ninety degrees by muscle atrophy after it was paralyzed in a car accident when I was a kid.

That’s how I got into this mess. Over the many years, I had thousands of recurring dreams about being able to run again. Great dreams, but then I’d wake up and realize that life is a lot worse than my dream world. Life becomes the nightmare.

Finally, they developed neurotechnology or neurotech. They were attaching computers to the brain that would then help move paralyzed appendages. The ultimate goal was to actually bypass a severed spinal cord to make a paraplegic walk again. Amazing stuff.

They put the “neurotech” in my head and were going to make my leg better, but they never got around to putting the hardware in my leg. They kept putting me off with their lies and cries of underfunding. History is littered with fantastic scientific discoveries that go awry once the geniuses gets coopted by the moneymen. All the sudden, the awesome innovation that was going to change the world for the better gets weaponized, and the original mission is lost in the footnotes on a hefty Annual Report with ginormous numbers on the bottom line.

There’s not enough money in fixing my leg, so they didn’t fix my leg, even though they probably actually had the ability to do it. Instead, they started messing with the neurotransmitter distribution system in my brain in order to control my emotions, moods and desires. Maybe they thought there was more money in convincing me my leg didn’t need to be fixed. Being a bit more aware than your average guinea pig, I eventually realized what they were doing. I went rogue, fried the “neurotech” in my head and quickly became the enemy of “progress,” as they liked to call it.

That in mind, there I sat in a holding cell though, stripped and entrapped, waiting to be shipped off to one of the many supposedly secret detention centers that had popped up in the last decade to control the population and beat down uprisings. At least some people quietly claimed these secret detention centers were real, but, of course, that was not the official government line, which was that they’re just a myth in the heads of the conspiratorial racist bigot homophobes that had the audacity to be born the wrong color. Or they were just the FEMA quarantine centers used to protect the people from the latest strain of Chinese-Virus, which of course, always popped up at the perfect time when the government wanted to keep the people from seeing what it was doing. I wanted to cry. I might never see my daughter and wife again.

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