Brian Newell turned left onto Pan American, the long formal drive to Miami City Hall. At its end, he wheeled around the traffic circle fronting the building. Media outlets from Miami’s rainbow of ethnic rivals ringed the circle. Squat SUVs sprouting antennas and satellite dishes filled its parking spaces. On air personalities in an Easter bouquet colors, wearing suits and ties, dresses and heels, guayaberas and slacks, studied cell phone screens or fanned themselves with folds of paper holding scribbled notes.
Completing the circuit, Brian swung right into an asphalt parking lot. He slowed passing a weathered white van parked in the lot’s first spot. Draped with sun bleached red, white and blue bunting — tires flattened and shredded — it settled down on rusting rims. Beside it, a squad of red, white, and blue TRUMP 2024 inflatable tube men gyrated, flailed and flopped in a manic frenzy. Behind them, six garden gnomes, in desert camo, on one knee, automatic rifles at their shoulders, fanned out in a defensive half circle. A Viet Nam War era sun-frayed US Army tent, draped with woodland netting, filled the space behind the gnomes. Leaking burlap sandbags anchored tent to ground. A Confederate Battle flag left, an American flag right, flanked the tent’s flaps.
Above the entrance, black letters stenciled on a weathered white poster board read, “America for Americans — Miami Division.” A deeply tanned man more than filled a lawn chair between the tent and the van. His eyes followed Brian over the top of a white porcelain coffee mug. Dressed in jungle-camo cargo shorts and a matching sleeveless shirt, he sported a white Santa’s beard. A wisp of braided white ponytail snaked from beneath his bright red cap. Two lawn chairs sat empty beside him.
Brian parked two spaces down from the tent. He grabbed his iPhone from the charging tray, suit jacket and leather portfolio from the seat beside him and climbed from the cool air-conditioned car into Miami’s moist as a damp dishrag morning. He put his portfolio between bent knees, wrestled his arms into his suit coat, and snapped his cuffs out at the wrists. Sweat beaded on his forehead and slid down nose and cheeks. The Trump inflatables snapped and popped, twisting and swiveling in the thick, still air. A gas-powered generator droned behind the green tent.
“Pennsylvania plates…” a voice called behind him.
Brian turned.
The man in the lawn chair, coffee cup between both hands, arms resting on his belly, looked at Brian from under his cap. “You got Pennsylvania license plates… Where?”
“Where?” Brian asked.
“Where in Pennsylvania?”
“Born in Lancaster. But Philadelphia most recent.”
“Prove it.”
“Prove it?”
The man sighed and leaned right, setting his coffee cup on the ground. Pushing his hands into the chair’s arms he rose slowly. Blurry blue tattoos jiggled on his biceps. Flesh toned compression socks encased both calves like boiled sausages thrust into his khaki colored Skechers. Standing, he rocked left to right as if testing his balance. “I’d accept a government issue birth certificate.”
“I don’t carry my birth certificate with me.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“All?”
“All the illegals Soros and Pelosi are sneaking into this country, staining our blood, taking our jobs. Ruining this place for white and colored alike.”
“Did you just say colored?”
“They tell me it’s better than…”
“Yes,” Brian shouted cutting the man off. “It is better, I guess.”
“If you’re a citizen prove it.”
“What? Under whose authority?”
“President, now and forever — DJT.”
“Trump?”
“President Trump, sonny.”
“He authorized you?”
“I joined with him back in 2020, when the election was stolen from him and the American people. For forty-seven dollars and fifty cents – pledged and paid each and every month – I, Roger Carlisle,” he raised his right arm in a salute, “became a duly deputized Defender of American Values — authorized and required to make America great again.”
“Did you get a decoder ring and a badge?”
“We don’t need no badge.”
“We?”
“Think I’m alone?” He pointed at the empty chairs beside him. “Hank’s gone home to feed his dogs and Jerry’s wife had radiation this morning. They’ll be back soon enough.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Why here? In this parking lot? What are you waiting for?”
“We’ve manned this outpost for more than four years, since that lowlife pretender sleepy Joe stole the White House. Now that we’ve got it back, we’re ready to stop any and all shenanigans started by Antifa’s homo-feminist, Marxist, communist, environmentalist, socialist, Nazi, Democrats.”
“Don’t forget the Girl Scouts.”
“Why? What have you heard?”
Brian smiled. “It was a joke.”
“A smart guy, huh? We’ll see how smart you are when DJT rides out of the White House on a winged white horse given to him by Mister Jesus H. Christ himself.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Some things don’t need repeating. Specially to types like you.”
“Types like me…”
“You with Pelosi? Soros? Driving that electric car.”
“It’s a hybrid.”
“Communist.”
“I’m not a communist. I’m the new director at Stobo Park.”
“Hah, the new Pearl.”
“He was my predecessor.”
“Where’s he?”
“You know where he is.”
“You’ll soon follow.”
“You don’t know me.”
He jerked a thumb toward city hall. “Dollars to donuts, you’re going in there to buddy up to those corrupt commissioners. Come see me in two months. We’ll see what I know, and you don’t.”
“I don’t need to wait two months. I’m not corrupt.”
“Don’t make me laugh. Go in there clean, if you really are. You’ll come out stinking of corruption. Everybody’s got their price.”
“Even you?”
“Think you’re funny with those fancy words? We’re done here. Move along. You’re a waste of good oxygen.”
Brian smiled. “Have a nice day.”
Carlisle said, “Don’t tell me what to do.”
