I awoke on Tuesday morning, September 9th 2014 to a howling windstorm. It was wonderful, snuggling under warm blankets, watching the clouds pass by the pine trees and over the hills through our bedroom window as the sun peeked over the Eastern horizon, slipping its orange light beneath the layers of clouds to illuminate the mountainside.
I should have stayed in bed.
But I dutifully arose and stumbled downstairs to fire up my trading platform, make some coffee, and to see how badly metals were hit overnight. While I was waiting, I clicked on the local news, just because, and saw the story of flooding in Phoenix Arizona.
Phoenix Arizona is in the Arid Zone. That’s the f-ing desert for you tenderfeet out there. It barely rains in the desert and it certainly does not flood. I grew up there. I oughtta know. I was immediately suspicious of the veracity of this hasty report. But photographs never lie and there indeed was the flood.
The illogicity of the incongruent situation caused my Aristotilian wheels to turn with greater acceleration than from my usual caffeine jolt. As I pondered this development, I recalled the stories of a large UFO that overflew Phoenix one night in 1997. I quickly put two and two and three together (that makes seven) and saw the obvious connection!
The newsgirl said this flood was attributable to the leftovers of a hurricane. Sheesh! Hurricane my arse! Phoenix does not get hurricanes, Miami, Galveston and Bangkok do. Phoenix gets haboobs (no, not the kind of boobs you may be envisioning right now), and haboobs certainly do not bring moisture. That indisputable fact dispelled all my doubts. Something big is up. I quickly put on my foil-lined critical thinking cap and came to the only logical conclusion. It has to be HAARP! I never believed they were shutting down the program and neither do the honorable, mutated residents of Fukushima believe it. So I ran back upstairs and tried to wake up my wife.
“Not now honey, I’m tired.”
“No, not that,” I said, “It’s here, this is it, the big one.” She rolled over and looked at me through sleepy eyes.
I continued, “The collapse! It has finally happened and they’re covering it up with a hurricane caused by a harp, and UFOs too. We gotta go to Walmart and stock up with hot pockets before the free shit army strips the place bare.
“Camping again? You take care of things,” she said, “I need more sleep.”
So I leaped into action, got dressed with my prepper vest and special hat, and fished around under the mattress for our stash of fiat. I ran outside and hooked up our trailer. Then I opened the septic lid and pulled out my bucket. After cleaning it, and myself, with the hose, I headed to town and went directly to the LCS to GSR my metal. They were still closed.
Next stop was Walmart. They were open. It took a while, but as I rolled my thirteenth cart through checkout, the incredulous cashier said, “What are you doing? Feeding an army?”
“I hope not” I replied. I handed her my credit card, again, with a sly smirk knowing I’d never have to pay that thing off after the EMPs went off. Card accepted! Bingo! I was home free. Diligence to the news pays off!
As I rolled up on front of the LCS with my trailer load of food, the proprietor called his son to the window where he stood to admire my emergency prepping. I saw him say something to his son. I carried my bucket inside and announced, “I’m buggin out. Need to convert to gold.”
“What’s goin on,” he asked?
I winked as I said the words slowly… “Haven’t you seen the news? There was a hurricane in Phoenix. Yeah! Uh huh, not hard to put the pieces together for guys like us.”
He nodded back, slowly at first, but then with that look of understanding in his eyes. Meanwhile his son was updating the exchange rates on the blackboard. He gave his dad the OK signal. His dad winked back and turned to me with his price: “I can give you under spot for the silver and our premium on generic gold rounds is 0.”
I didn’t have time for a protracted negotiation like last time when I got him to lower the premium to 0 and give me a dollar more for the silver (yes, I can negotiate well when I must). I quickly agreed and left the store with my metal safely tucked away in an Altoids can stuffed in the secret front pocket in my tighty whities.
Next thing we needed was organic, grass fed, venison! After arriving back at home, I went into the forest behind the house and set out a salt block, a bucket of water, and flung Oreo cookies all around to chum them into firing range. Deer love those things. I put on my camo, climbed the tree with my trusty friend and its unlimited round clip. It didn’t take long. I saw some movement, shot and missed. Then I aimed through the scope and noticed it was the neighbor’s golden retriever sniffing around. I held my fire.
An hour later, a small herd cautiously moseyed forward, taking the bait. I took careful aim at a hefty trophy buck and this time I didn’t miss. I put at least ten rounds in him as leapt away. Good thing “Ole Bessie” converts to automatic with the flip of a switch!
After dragging the large doe back to the house—about 50 yards—I went inside to get my butcher’s tools. But the doorbell rang. I peeked outside through the blinds and found myself eye to eye with a policeman. “Play it cool,” I whispered to nobody in particular.
I hollered out through the door, “Just a minute, I just got out of the shower.” I ran out back, set the medium sized doe in a chair at the patio table, flung a blanket over her bloody body, put my wife’s gardening cap on her head and set a coffee cup on the table with an open bible. I ran back in, dunked my head under the kitchen faucet, put my bathrobe over my bloody camos and opened the door. (I was hoping that they didn’t notice my boots).
“How may I help you?” I said in my best Verizon call center voice.
“Sir, we have a report of some shots fired just a while ago. Did you hear anything?
“You know officer, I did hear a few shots out in the forest. I think it was the neighbor’s kid, four doors down, practicing with his new rifle again! My wife heard it too while she was out back at the patio reading her bible.”
The second officer peeked over our side gate for a glimpse of the patio area with my clever decoy.
He looked back at his partner, shrugged and nodded. “Can you give us an address?”
“Sure thing officer. Glad to do my civic duty.” I kept cool as he wrote down the address.
After they left, I quickly put the little deer in a trash bag and flung her into the back of my trailer with the Wal-Mart goods and bug-out gear. My wife came downstairs, dressed, and I said with a wink, “Let’s go camping!” Our teenagers were still asleep, so I carried down both sleepy kids and loaded them in our van, handed them a slice of cold pizza and switched on their gameboys.
As we drove away, I saw those gullible officers knocking on another neighbor’s door.
I explained all the morning’s events to my wife as we headed north on the highway. She was dumbfounded! So was I, to tell the truth. It was all so surreal. The kids were immersed in important video games and probably didn’t realize they were even in the car.
A few hours later, we pulled in to my pre-selected camping spot near Colorado City—just below the Utah border in Arizona. The law never comes up here. They steer clear of this polygamy-sanctioned haven in the outback. My wife says this town gives her the creeps.
After we set up the tent, hung up the deer (well, she was more of a fawn to be honest), and set up our camp bathroom tent, we went into McDonalds in town to use their bathrooms (don’t want to waste water, and we could use some extra paper). We logged into their wireless internet with our “burner iPad” to check the news. First I went to Trader Dan’s site so I could gloat at everyone trapped in the cities while I ate cheeseburgers. After an hour of that, and getting banned from the site, I clicked over to T-ville expecting to find Turd’s final goodbye post and a few bug-out proclamation comments.
That’s when I started to wonder if I had made a mistake
Everyone was still there in T-ville, arguing about the Ukraine, running off trolls, posting news stories, and ranting about the latest smackdown, and complaining about the latest Bo Polololney call for 5K gold.
What? I am so confused!
These folks at T-ville don’t take just any bait. I gotta investigate! Things seemed normal. I read all the comments for the past 24 hours and no mention of the flooding, harps, aliens, EMPs, or the imminent need for bugging out. It was then I realized that the internet was still working. No! It cannot be!
But there was no mistake.
I had been fooled! It was all clear to me now. I remembered Pining's magic: Photoshop!
“What is it?” my wife asked in between bites. I slammed my fist on the table in disgust.
“Those SOBs ran a false story with fake pictures to panic us into premature action.” I declared. A very large family, all wearing denim jumpers and overalls, looked our way curiously, so I lowered my voice to a whisper.
“You simply cannot trust the media these days. Clearly the story of a hurricane in Phoenix Arizona was false and had been a carefully planned, with faked pics and everything—a devious propaganda effort designed to ferret out those who know the truth.”
My wife nodded, knowingly and said, “Riiiight. We won’t be so easily fooled next time, will we?”
I was sure thankful to have a wife who understood me and recognized the central challenge facing our family.
She continued, “While we’re up here, let’s go check out some garage sales, then enjoy a couple of sunsets.”
“Might as well,” I replied with a sigh.
“Did you remember to pick up your brass below your tree stand?” she asked.