The terminal clock crept past midnight, the line stalled, and Cullen Tyree fulminated. “This is what happens when the libs get in, even for a minute. It’ll take years for real patriots to clean up their mess.” Those around him in the TSA line had little recourse; they couldn’t move away from the angry man with the mutton chops, so they buried their attention in their phones. “Look at that chonky chica up there, pattin’ guys down. Get yerself a good handful, sugar tits! Damn DEI hire.”
The line hadn’t moved in twenty minutes; Cullen had been five feet from the next stanchion, he was still five feet from the next stanchion. It was two more Disneyworld-style turns, north to south to north again, to the metal detector. Then he’d have to take his shoes and belt off, empty his pockets, and, he suspected, submit to an anal probe.
“If they’d let our president finish the wall we’d be strong,” he said aloud though no one met his eyes, “we wouldn’t have so many immigrants clogging our airports.”
He debated digging his plastic flask out of his carry-on bag. No one would care if he took a nip. Then he remembered he’d finished the contents in the cab. That was hours ago, and Cullen was uncomfortably sober. He needed a shot after having flown to Atlanta for an interview only to spot the hiring manager vigorously shaking hands with a fellow Paki. “We’ll be in touch,” the man – Kazimi or Kazmi, it hardly mattered that he remember it now – had told Cullen. Fat chance Mr. Kazmi would pick him over a falafel-loving son of Allah.
“This is all you-know-who’s fault. America’s supposed to be for Americans, but not when the libtards get in. Open borders! Come on in, everybody! Turn us into a great big beautiful rainbow country! Makes me sick! Thank Jesus we came to our senses and elected a guy what knows how to crack down on the rapists and murderers ruining our home.”
“In fact, a rigid governmental structure makes it far simpler for outsiders to infiltrate.”
It took Cullen a moment to realize the traveler next to him had joined him in his one-man conversation. He hadn’t noticed the forty-something gentleman standing there in line. A trim figure in a business suit minus the tie, he was freshly shaven with neatly trimmed blond hair, silvering at the sides. His voice was smooth, no trace of accent from some Caribbean island or urban hellhole.
Cullen, who suddenly felt underdressed in his jeans and Jaguars jersey, struck a friendly tone, “How do you mean, simpler?”
“In a rigid police state, few officers strive to act on their own volition.” The businessman’s words flowed like clear mountain water. Refreshing. “Instead, they follow established procedures in a highly predictable manner, exacerbating faults in any system. There is no self-correction, which only stems from individual thinking. No one wants to be reprimanded for stepping beyond his role. Inevitably, what was presented to the populace as a secure state becomes prone to corruption, negligence, and incompetence. The opportunity arises for outsiders, who need merely present themselves in a pleasing form, to exploit the defensive gaps. In short, this world is ripe.”
Cullen struggled to follow the man’s words. Maybe he’d spent too many hours under fluorescent lighting, or maybe it was the prospect of flying home to Belle’s sour face she learns he didn’t get the job. In any case, the traveler had hit upon the very thing Cullen had been railing about. He liked this man.
“Outsiders. Exactly. There was a time when Americans knew how to work together as one people. We didn’t need to open the floodgates to these –” he gestured at a woman in an orange-green-and-brown gala who held a child sack-of-potatoes style over her shoulder “– third worlders.”
“From a certain perspective, Earth is the third world,” the man said.
“Damn straight. The whole damn world is filling up with folks who just won’t stay where they belong. Pretty soon, everywhere’s gonna look like Downtown Timbuktu.”
“Near the Niger River,” added the well-dressed man.
“You heard me.”
“You speak most clearly, sir.”
The mother in the gala, who had also heard the reference to Timbuktu, issued a triple mhhh-mhhh-mhhh through pursed lips. Cullen responded with a bow and a toothy smile.
He turned back to his new friend. “I like the way you think, mister. Wish there were more like you around.”
“Oh, there are more of us here than you think.”
“I sure hope so. Hey, I’m Cullen, by the way. Cullen Tyree from Jacksonville.”
“Noted.” The traveler tapped the side of his head.
Cullen blinked. “And you are?”
“Here, I go by the name Al.”
“Al. I don’t want to argue, but I don’t think there are enough folks in Atlanta like you and me. I just blew a job interview because my skin’s a few shades too light. The human race is goin’ mongrel. Know what I mean?”
The man did not answer exactly but instead said, “From a certain perspective, all humans appear alike.”
“That’s what I mean. People keep mixing. Hey, I’m not one to judge; I’ve tasted some black cherry, ya know?” Cullen couldn’t hold back a sniggering that made his shoulders shake. “But I always wear protection. Don’t need to be makin’ overcooked Cullen Juniors.”
“This is true. Breeding must be controlled,” his friend Al said.
“Damn, you and I are on the same page about everything.”
The line surged forward and began moving at last.
The traveler adjusted his mirrored sunglasses. Cullen wished he too had sunglasses under the insufferably garish terminal lights which were now causing his head and even the capillaries in his eyes to pulse in red agony. Another flash of Belle’s glowering disappointment gnawed at his insides, prompting him to act on impulse.
“You wouldn’t by any chance know where a guy might find a job in a warehouse, would you, Al? I learned in the army. I served twenty years – well, almost. Long story. Shot a rag-head in the wrong zone in Afghanistan and I was out.” He stabbed the air with his thumb like a ref had thrown him out of a football game for an illegal play. “Anyways, I know how to organize.”
Without pause, the traveler responded, “I may know of a position that fits you… as one who appreciates his innate superiority over his fellow humans. The task involves relocating large indigenous populations into new living space.”
“Warehouses.”
With a smile, the other added, “Highly efficient warehouses.”
“Sure. I can do that. Is that what brings you to Atlanta?”
“It’s all part of a larger operation. Hush hush, you understand.”
“Of course,” Cullen agreed.
“I’m seeing to some final details. It’s all very exciting.”
“And what line of work was that?”
With the merest hint of pride, Al said, “I’m in procurement.”
“Okay, and that involves warehouses?” He hoped he’d said it right. There was probably some politically correct way of referring to housing projects. Damn! Don’t blow this. This could change everything.
“During the transition, yes, of course. But that period will be brief.”
“Transition. That’s what America needs. We need things to change.”
Al looked at him through his mirrored lenses. “I assure you, things are going to change.”
Cullen hastily dug a business card out of his wallet and handed it to the well-dressed traveler, who graciously took it and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
He actually regretted that a uniformed (and obese) TSA agent was waving him over to the final line leading to the body scanner. Al smiled and stepped over to a separate line.
“I can’t wait to hear from you, Al.” Don’t sound so desperate. They can smell it on you.
“Oh, no need to worry. You will.”
As Cullen fumbled to get his shoes and belt off and loaded into a plastic bin while trying not to lose track of his carry-on bag, he glanced over to where Al now was. He had no bag. He didn’t bother to take off his shoes or glasses. Must be a VIP line. He’s got money, all rightee. Cullen couldn’t help but notice that several other businessmen joined Al in line. Each dressed in a nice suit without a tie, and each wore mirrored sunglasses. All appeared to be in their forties, and all had closely-cropped blond hair. Even the TSA agents working that line looked that way. They were clearly from the same organization and might easily have passed for brothers.
Cullen sighed. “Someday soon, I’m gonna be working for them!”
*
As the 757 climbed high above Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, Cullen looked out the window. He’d seen a million take-offs and didn’t particularly care about watching the Earth drop away below him. It was, however, preferable to making eye contact with the two bearded men seated next to him wearing dark hats with curls hanging down. He could practically smell the matzah.
Several planes were close enough to make out some detail. He chanced to look over at a silver jet, but could find no airline logo painted anywhere on it. What he could see were the faces in each of its windows. It was Al’s flight – had to be. All of the faces belonged to men with blond hair, wearing mirrored sunglasses.
“Hurry back, gentlemen! I can’t wait to see what changes you have in store for us all.”
As if in answer, the travelers in the silver jet – all of them, simultaneously – removed their sunglasses.
Cullen blinked several times to be sure he was seeing what he was seeing. In each of the windows along the fuselage a tiny pair of red suns stared back at him. Angels! He was debating whether to ask the Jews to look over when the silvery jet neatly tucked in its wings like some remorseless bird of prey, but instead of diving, it nosed straight up and darted out of sight.
###
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