PP #42: Goodbye, My Sweet Jessie

Project: Pioneer #42, July 5, 2024 Friday 9am

Photo by Johan Mouchet on Unsplash

My Sweet Jessie,

The writer Hemingway once said that things happen slowly, then all at once. You don’t know of him, and you won’t, of course. Not now, as those works are long gone. When you visited our small paradise this past summer and we went on our beach vacation, it was the best of times. My final image will be your smile during our walks through the woods, and that beautiful picture of me you drew in the sand at the beach. All during those final times together, my sweet grandchild.

I’m writing this old school, pen to paper, and I hope it will someday reach you. I’ll send it out through the underground network. You must be aware that we’ve been taken. Giavana and I had spent so much time preparing, and it bought us time, but it all happened so much more quickly than we or anyone had anticipated. So many were caught unawares, and those frogs slowly boiling to death did doom us. I want you to know about us and how we fared, so you don’t grieve. We are finally at peace, certainly, by the time these words reach you.

It’s ironic how all the attention in those last months was sucked up by the crisis caused by the debate, and took the focus from where it should have been—what was happening out in plain view. They even openly telegraphed the “Second Revolution” and violence to come. In the end, that Biden decision didn’t even matter, the outcome was always going to be the same. The Project’s boldness was certainly a harbinger that the fix was already in, their supreme confidence telegraphing they already had it in the bag.

We thought we had until inauguration day to get out. We had done so much planning, but didn’t anticipate what was to come. When the election went to the House due to neither reaching 270 electoral votes, mostly because of all the disruptive violence keeping the right people away from the polls on election day, their fully owned courts moved swiftly and decisively. They’d spent so many years, so much money putting those corrupt judges in place, and it paid off in spades.

The Project forces came swiftly to our area, after taking DC. Who ever imagined so many in law enforcement and the military were acceptable to this brutal ideology and would turn coat so swiftly! The massive numbers they had already embedded facilitated it all so efficiently, it was staggering to behold, my sweet Jessie. The Flynn brothers set that terror network up so well in the years since Biden won. When the stuff hit the fan, Giavana and I were unable to leave as they’d immediately seized all roads. I tried to call, but the abrupt termination of internet, cellular, and satellite communication did not allow for it. I’m so sorry. Thus, this, my final letter to you, my sweet Jessie.

As we already knew from their gaudy décor, and as you remarked upon your visit, most of our fellow residents in this woodland campground were fans of Trump. And, of course, most had weapons as well. In their giddy excitement and delusion that they were somehow warriors in this fight, they immediately began their own search and destroy missions right here in our paradise home. We had stayed well under their radar, flying our proud American flags, but could never bring ourselves to post any Trump signage, and we knew this would be our mistake. Knowing what was to come, we decided not to hitch up our beautiful White House RV and simply loaded our most essential survival gear into Henrik’s bed, and began to navigate the dirt roads out of the compound, of course along with little Pia, who was scared beyond belief.

By this time, they’d posted one of their celebratory drunken, obese individuals at the campground’s exit gate. We saw him ahead as we navigated the long straight road out, standing there in the middle of the road, bedecked with the stars and stripes of the country he was betraying. His assault rifle was rested on his protruding gut, trigger finger splayed along the side as he’d seen in so many war movies. At this point, I’d slipped my 9mm from the center console. We pulled up and rolled down our window, professing a friendly exit for some groceries and beer. However, he had the fantasy of killing some libs in his head and whether by instinct or just making it to be what he wanted it to be, he became defiant and asked us to step out.

I need to be honest with you, my sweet Jessie. When he reached for his walkie-talkie to radio for help, Ms. Giavana and I both knew we had to decide. “Do it,” she whispered as tempers flared and Pia whimpered in the seat behind us. I must confess to you, and our God, Jessie, we had to save ourselves, so I put one in his forehead. I must also confess that not much else felt better in my life, to my shame, and I hope God understands and forgives, as I’ve already asked for that forgiveness many times.

So, we made our already mapped route up the paths to the top of the mountain, and found the spot we’d picked out in a small clearing, to make our stand. We had some time of peace, and once our perimeter was set up, made ourselves a small picnic, as if it were a peaceful day in the before time. Then, I mounted my assault rifle in the truck bed, and prepared for what was surely to come.

And soon, they did come, those raggedy militia forces with their Trump banners, my sweet Jessie. Giavana and Pia hunkered down in the rear cab of the truck, deploying the assets we’d prepared to confuse, distract, and cause fear in them. They sent gas, but we had our gas masks on. I’m sorry to say, sweet Jessie, in the midst of this chaos Pia became overwhelmed and escaped through the small rear hatch window, and ran. And to be honest, Jessie, so you know what you are up against, those bastards shot our sweet baby. They didn’t need to, but they knew the effect on us would hamper our ability to make good decisions.

I’d like to say I’m happy about how many of them we took out, as they advanced around our perimeter, Giavana was so brave, that Italian city girl emptying one clip after another from our handguns to keep them at bay. When the Project forces arrived to take over for the local militia, the drones came, and we had to lay down our arms and raise our hands. I still cannot understand why they didn’t shoot us on the spot, but they are conniving people, Jessie. They surely have other plans for us.

While locked in the transport vehicle with other patriots, we heard the announcement. As they’d secured the capital as much as they needed to be confident in their control, they then removed Trump and installed Supreme Leader Mike Johnson. It was announced that all civilian firearms should be turned in immediately. Of course, as we progressed in our journey, the militias of Trump cult members were getting word of this, and began attacking our armored Project vehicle. We watched their feeble, ignorant rage through steel-grated windows as the Project forces mowed them down. We could hear the grinding above as the gunner in the turret swiveled and fired, his gleeful war cries audible above the patter of spent 50 caliber shell casings raining down on the vehicle’s roof. “You fools,” was all I could think as I watched them die in agony, due to their ignorance and hatred.

So, here we are, my sweet Jessie. We’re in some kind of camp, not knowing if we’re to be gassed or burned like Hitler’s Jews, tortured, or reprogrammed, or used for some other devious agenda. The camp is split into populations—the LGBTQ+ folks they refer to as “pornographers,” the mixed race couples they refer to as “race betrayers.” All people of color in one area, called, “immigrants” despite living here for generations, look to be shipped out soon to further this Aryan race dream-vision of 1940s America. All Catholics, Protestants, Jews and Muslims or non-evangelical Christians who don’t fit other descriptions, referred to as simply, “sinners,” are mixed in with the rest of us. I think those will be fine, as long as they accept the Project’s One True Faith. As of this writing, we do not know our fate.

As I am not optimistic, I am writing this goodbye to you, dear grandchild. I have had a good life, and I’ve seen the best and the worst of us. I never got to be a famous writer, but even better I got to know you, and I hope someday you can once again openly be yourself, create your beautiful art, and this world somehow survives. You are young, and I am full of hope for that outcome. After all, we did once defeat Hitler, against all odds.

I’m so happy you got away, for now. At least, that’s the last I heard, or maybe what I want to believe. Your daddy is a war hero and your mom is a badass. They’ll keep you safe as long as possible. But you must remember, my sweet Jessie, this is not like the before times. Sadly, you must protect who you are for now. Be private in your love.

Goodbye, my sweet Jessie. Be good, be kind, and we’ll share eternity. Until then, don’t let the bastards get you down.

Love, Papa xoxo

“Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.” ~Yoda

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