The Planned Re-Election Of Obama, Revolutionary Style

Even taken with a grain of salt, this story is worth a read.

Not that such a nightmare could happen here in ‘Murika:

Like the flu, a nightmare’s potential is fully
realized only when shared.

In that spirit, Remus has a story to tell you.


It was known to looters as the “miracle mile”, actually three miles of four-lane highway west of the city, jammed with vehicular junk, parallel lines of rust and glitter and human ruins. The horror and stench deterred looting at first, afterwards the difficulty and danger of travel, finally the diminished numbers of able foragers. Rumors of how it came to be were forgotten in successive waves of catastrophes. From time to time wandering refugees came upon it, took all they could carry and moved on. Thousands of vehicles made good pickings even after all this time. Nobody stayed. Even by the standards that had become normal, this place was an unspeakable horror. What really happened was even worse.

When the collapse happened, it happened with astonishing speed. All wealth in digital form disappeared in less than an hour: bonds, checking accounts, investments, credit, debt, savings—everything. The economy immediately contracted to cash-and-carry with a side of barter. There were “addresses to the nation” and summit meetings and announcements, with draconian and contradictory decrees from DC, state capitals, mayors and even sheriffs. Everybody was in charge and nobody was in charge. The permanent government soon revealed itself for the madhouse it had been all along. Federal and state agencies were arresting each other, expanding, disbanding, merging and going rogue. Coup de ‘tats and alliances and insurrections were reported and denounced and denied by turns until the tangled narrative became incomprehensible and, finally, irrelevant. Aside from the hobbyist preachers, the rumor mill took over short wave radio. Travelers from any distance were questioned closely. Only what they had seen with their own eyes was credited.

Distribution went from Just In Time to Pretty Much Never. The last freight train into the city was abandoned where it stood, there were no trucks for its burden. After the markets and warehouses were picked clean, foraging parties ranged into the more rural neighborhoods but they could barely support themselves much less the stay-at-homes. Worse, fewer returned than set out. Soon they didn’t set out at all. Serious marksmanship had been rediscovered, largely because no amount of cash would buy the barest handful of ammunition.

Fuel of all kinds ran out. Even the spindliest ornamental tree became firewood. The weakened populace was dying in large numbers from want and violence and disease. Communities held periodic funeral pyres for the unclaimed dead. Mass starvation was closing in. One afternoon the grid faltered for the last time and failed completely. Mass communications winked out. Municipal water trickled to an end and sewage overwhelmed the system. Medieval times had returned in little more than a fiscal quarter. It was worse in Europe, worse still in Asia.

Mike sat wearily on the sloping ground, the long arc of the ‘miracle mile’ before him. He thought back to that chilly, sunny day of long ago. He’d been there, seen it happen. Early in the crisis something calling itself the Homeland Security Urban Relief Initiative asked those who could to relieve the pressure on the city by resettling. Dozens of small communities were outfitted and supplied to receive them. They offered zero-interest loans, suitable employment and housing in small town America, fully stocked and furnished. 9/11 didn’t get more air time. This was a showpiece operation for the DHS, designed to overcome their reputation as arrogant, incompetent jerks. It was an attractive alternative. Conditions in the cities were scary-bad, worsening measurably and obviously unmanageable. Mike requested resettlement to a distant resort town and was immediately accepted. He had no intention of going there. All he wanted was safe passage out of this place. He’d take it from there.

All four lanes of the interstate west of the beltway were opened to outbound traffic only. Unlike the chaos of the movies and doomer novels, this would be a tightly run, convoy-style evacuation. A list of suggested supplies was provided. Tow trucks and emergency medical teams were prepositioned along the route. Troopers and volunteer auxiliaries would provide security and keep traffic moving. Once away from the city, food, facilities, fuel and assistance of all kinds were available at twenty-five mile intervals. Close-in access ramps were closed. DHS was determined nothing would impede their marquee operation of the decade.

The rules were simple. Current license for the driver, a vehicle in good condition and fuel enough for a hundred miles. No trailers. No commercial trucks. Combat veterans and former law enforcement were put in the rear of each convoy, families with children up front. Everybody else in between. Firearms must be unloaded and stored in a locked case separate from the ammunition. No knife with a blade longer than three inches on your person, no other weapons readily at hand, no flammable liquids in containers. Clearly label your excess baggage and put it on the trucks alongside the marshalling area, two hundred pounds, fifty cubic feet max. It will be delivered to you no more than two days after arrival. Show your receipt to claim it. Keep your radio tuned to the emergency station for updates. No stopping unless unavoidable. Disabled vehicles would be towed. DHS would tolerate no disorder. Everything was federalized. This would be no Katrina.

Mike took his place near the front as Vehicle 2-24. To their credit, DHS had gotten him to the four-lane without incident. He was impressed. He’d head south at the first open interchange, to somewhere in the Carolinas probably. He waited. A young woman in a TSA uniform knocked on the window of his van. He put a finger to his lips, shhh, the kids are sleeping, he lied. She smiled knowingly and spoke in a lowered voice. There were still some supplies available, was there anything he needed? No? Check. Did he have enough gas to reach the first refueling station? Yes? Check. Camping facilities had been set up a few of hours out, would he like a voucher? No? Check. You’re all set. She handed him a marked-up map. He put it on the seat beside him. If he had any questions she’d be close by. Thank you for volunteering. Please drive safely and good luck wherever you’re going. The SUV behind him had kids in it. She joked and clowned with them.

Mike had decent survival supplies, maybe not as much as he’d like, but enough. Tucked away in his sleeping bag were a 12 gauge over and under with a few dozen shells—he wished it were more but ammo was scarce, and a bolt action .22 with a so-so 4×30 scope and two bricks of hollow points. Not ideal, but it’s what he had. His fuel containers were out of sight under his other supplies, thirty gallons, thanks to some fancy trading. When it ran out he’d use his van as a stationary shelter unless things got dicey, then he’d do whatever he had to do. He checked the map. The first interchange marked “open” was seventy miles away. He’d take it. His CB radio told him the highways out that way were lightly used, all but empty in fact. Good to hear. Although he had an outside lane, being trapped in this amateur caravan made him uneasy.

The barrier came down at 9 AM and the first convoy stepped off smartly. Mike’s van was near the front of the second convoy. More convoys were forming up behind. The trucks in the parking lot alongside were filling up with baggage. Precisely at 9:30 his group was motioned forward. Almost simultaneously his cell phone service quit. Not unusual. He switched on his CB radio and got white noise punctuated with a shrill beep-beep-beep. Nothing seemed to work any more. The emergency radio station told him to expect a slowdown about a half hour out, otherwise clear sailing. A comically out of shape trooper urged them on with exaggerated traffic cop gestures. The convoy got up to speed. He was on his way and best wishes to the losers staying behind. He allowed himself to relax as the first few miles clicked past.

This was really going to work.

The man acted like a raving lunatic. Mike silently admitted he deserved it, stopping for a hitchhiker. Some in the passing convoy glared disapprovingly. The guy had looked fit and able, if desperate and disheveled. His name was Ray. He said he’d run a long way through the woods before waving him down. Mike was used to goofball weirdos. Everybody was used to them lately.

Ray choked out a fantastic story, going from tears to rage and back again. Worse, he wouldn’t quite get in, nor would he quite get out. He became incoherent and buried his face in his hands, jaws clenched.

Ray saved his life that day…

Read the rest.

19 responses to “The Planned Re-Election Of Obama, Revolutionary Style

  1. Prairie Fire

    Couldn’t get through the first link, dunno what is to happen with the second.

    Thanks for putting them up. The basic solution is bullets when the other people violate your space in a threatening way. If readers live in places where the county attorney does not support such action, then you all are living in bad places.

    Worst move anybody could make, would be to move to Wyoming, there’s not much room for outside attitudes here.

    Sorta kidding, good folks are welcome, leave previous thoughts on ways of life, behind as you might come towards freedom. Bring means of support for several years of your life with you, as you come.

    • There are a lot of good folks here in Wyoming. Unfortunately, finding rental property is really difficult right now, and while there is still some affordable land here and there, it is tough finding the kind of rural land I prefer. I’m retired and don’t need a job, but land with reliable (if any) water is hard to come by. I haven’t given up yet, but I may end up back in the quieter parts of Montana. If I do, I’ll miss the people here.

    • Links checked and functioning.

      Remus at The Woodpile Report (1st and 3rd links) disavows much internet linky stuff – he likes the feel of an old magazine.

      2nd link here:

  2. Jimmy the Saint

    If it comes to that, remember well Breaker Morant’s last words: “Shoot straight, you bastards! Don’t muck it up!”


    Hopefully communities in the hinterlands will have enough sense to throw up roadblocks and other obstacles to stop the Golden Horde from the cities from invading their space like ravaging locusts. In my neck of the woods, it is going to be hard to convince the large number of clueless Bible-thumping flag-wavers to stop the rising tide. I am hoping the tales of wanton violence, looting and rape will wake my local sheeple up.

    • When I worked for CHP in northern CA up near the Oregon border, I knew some guys at CalTrans who insisted that the bridges and access points along I-5 would be blown (by them) if TSHTF, for that very reason. The terrain is such that it won’t take much to shut down all traffic from the South, and from Oregon, too, if necessary.

      They have no intention of letting the hordes from the Bay Area and Sacramento come up into Siskiyou County to ruin the ranching and farming country there. Plenty of livestock, lots of alfalfa and orchard grass grown in Scotts Valley, folks will do well there and will likely pull together. The State of Jefferson just might form after all.

    • My like-minded neighbor and I have already discussed our roadblock positions. We both know folks with heavy equipment, beginning with my 45 hp tractor with front-end loader/forks and backhoe attachment,; working on up to major track-hoes, dozers, and the like. We have about four roadblocks to lay down, we’re selecting main and alternative choke points (ambushes) to block/set up. We’re looking for the ideal terrain features that would allow us to funnel them down into a kill zone, like Agincourt.

      The unpredictable is who will attempt to come this way first and when. Will they attempt to loot the expensive and not so far away homes first, probably.

  4. oughtsix

    Anyone who thinks this is fiction just hasn’t lived long enough… yet.

  5. urnitemare

    Shit,we will do u clowns 1st

    • Bring it, stooge.

      Word to your family.

    • Grenadier1

      I’m your huckleberry.

    • oughtsix

      We, who, dweeble? You?

      You and all your gun fearing, entitled, nannied, gubmint skooled, ‘gamer,’ lame assed, pussified, doped up… but I repeat myself.

      It’s your kind that will be “first.” And we won’t even have to do it. You’ll never make it out of the cities… the poor downtrodden entitled hoodies will eat you.

    • You know, I’ve been reading FreeFor blogs and the like for quite awhile now, and I’d have to say that trolls such as UNM here are a pretty recent development. Any one here recall seeing much of this before O ascended?

      I really like WSRA, and I believe it’s very popular (deservedly so) among FreeFor types. But it’s not Freerepublic or Drudge. How do these trolls end up here? Not from clicking on a link at HuffPo or DU. Hmmm…ah… wait… I feel a logical assumption coming on..

      Wasn’t there a news item some time ago regarding TPTB and FreeFor sites, stating that the sites were being monitored?

      What sort of person gets a job – a gubmint job – where their duties include (but are not limited to) monitoring FreeFor blogs? Yes, I know – they could use software, blah blah. Even with the most sophisticated setup (which I rather doubt has been implemented – yet) there would still be a need for a warm body to review the hits, and pass on whatever material meets the specified criteria. And here’s where our civil servant comes in. Who is this person? A conservative veteran who hunts every fall? A libertarian who collects swords and other edged weapons? Or.. a prototypical member of the FSA. Someone who is offended by what they see here and elsewhere, and just can’t resist taking a swing at us.

      UNM, I can’t say that I’m pleased to make your acquaintance – but I sincerely hope to get to know you better. Pete, I suggest you spend some time reviewing your logs and passing on info. The IP will probably just point to an agency. That’s cool – gotta start somewhere. You see, UNM, it’s one thing to crash a party – it’s quite another to start heckling the band. Their fans might not like it.

    • Cassandra (of Troy)


      Understand that if you/yours fail to accomplish whatever you/they intend to do, it’s my turn, & that eventuality is something you/they absolutely do not want to occur. But should you/yours dismiss this as mere keyboard bravado, be assured that my intimate acquaintance w/ various aspects of my heritage guarantees that we’ll have a great deal of fun disproving that assumption.

      And it’ll take days.

      Depending on your/their physiology & psychological stamina, that is.

      Cassandra (of Troy)

  6. Like the story, want to see more. I guess because it looks too real. I ain’t buggin’ out on no damn highway, nohow. I always wondered why people believe that no one’s so depraved as to do those things. Guess they just don’t wanna know.

  7. some guy

    Let me redo that,all want 2 b killers need not try out.we r full up.thxs anyway.

  8. CA,

    This may have been previously covered in WRSA, but if you could, please steer any of the curious to a decent source for the construction and assemblage of road blocks, as mentioned earlier by JM Johnson?

    Thank you.


      Mr. Architect: A good place to start is any army FM about combat engineers and/or ambushes. If you have any general contractors and/or operating engineers in your A/O who have access to heavy equipment, that is another asset. And, if you have to think the unthinkable, someone with an explosives license should come in handy if you actually have to blow a bridge or collapse a road to keep the Golden Horde from your door.

  9. Cassandra (of Troy)

    JM JOHNSON, RegT, Pat Hines,

    In your planning for uninvited guests, don’t forget to factor in the instantly educational effect of fire. A pumper truck full of road oil/kerosene mix, some appropriately nozzled irrigation piping, a road flare or 10, & VOILA, school’s in session!

    And that terrible lesson will be remembered, & retold.

    Cassandra (of Troy)