Kasper Aamon #kasperaamonrightfight
The devil broke my jaw yesterday at the Breath of Life Rescue Mission in Aguanga, CA when I asked Brother Brock Stonebreaker how many illegals were living there. Ninety-two, and hardly a white face among them. Ugly, dark people picking the lice off each others’ backs. A fake sermon by a madman with rabies. Stay away! Or…?
Brock sits at one end of a gray-and-blue plaid Salvation Army couch in the mild morning sunlight outside his Breath of Life chapel. He’s got his phone out, trading punches with his enemies. Months ago, he got tired of the Right Fight and other creeps hounding him on his website and Twitter page so he dove right into the sewer with them on Brawn, where he can always find a fight if he’s in the mood.
He’s also got a tablet beside him, with live Mavericks cameras on Surfline.com. Right now the surf is flat, gray, no swell, just windy chop and pelicans diving into a school of anchovies. But FreakZilla—freakishly early for sure—is forming more strongly now, its speed and width growing, but its path still open to interpretation. Brock studies the NOAA Data Center maps: impressive. Surfline is bullish on the swell hitting Half Moon Bay; NOAA cautious. Brock’s gut tells him it’s going to be big, very big. Possible ETA at Half Moon Bay is 120 hours: five days from now. A key reading of the Southeast Papa buoy in Oregon currently has a twenty-six-foot, nineteen-second swell. A swell that big, with a nineteen-second interval, Brock knows, means very large, once-in-a-decade surf—if it stays on course.
Storms upon storms, Brock thinks.
Mahina’s at the other end of the sofa with the current weekend edition of USA Today.
Brock looks at Kasper Aamon’s very swollen face on the Brawn feed. It looks plenty painful but Brock’s heart doesn’t exactly go out to Kasper. Fucking Nazis trying to hurt my people, he thinks: Kristallnacht ’38.
#brockstonebreaker1
Kasper, you say such nice things about me, but you deserve what you got! You were armed, threatening, and trespassing on church property. Stay away is right. And what does “stay away!… Or?” really mean? Going to send more Right Fighters out our way? Hey, dim bulb, there’s a wildfire in Flagstaff, uncontained, evacuations. Why don’t you ice that jaw, join us Go Dogs and HELP! Plenty of white people there who need a hand up!
#timothy.45rightfight
You can tell from Brock Stonebreaker’s YouTubes that he’s an oily fool spoiling for a fight. Look at those greasy dreadlocks! If I see you in Mt. Shasta I’ll break your jaw and tear out those dreads with my teeth, one filthy little bundle at a time. After that, you can crawl over and pick up your balls in the gutter.
#wardblock214
You lice pickers! Do you eat them like monkeys do?
Brock looks at Wardblock214’s picture. He’s a hairy, glaring guy in a plaid flannel, an iron cross pendant peeking out below his beard. Looks something like Kasper. Brock likes the Brawn graphics because they’re big, and he can clearly see the faces of his critics. Sometimes the faces match the message. But sometimes the posters look nothing like what they say.
Such as this sweet-faced blonde behind big, flame-red glasses:
#joanofdark187
Nothing worse than a false savior. The Brock Stonebreakers of the world should be excommunicated and burned at the stake. I’ll pour the gas and light it myself. And shoot him on my smart phone, screaming, his nappy little locs on fire. Motherfucking traitor to his race.
#brockstonebreaker1
Joan! Bring all of your positive energy to Flagstaff! We need you! Bring water, food, clothing, blankets, camping stuff, money! If you don’t have wheels, Go Dogs will pick you up!
#kittybitch
Hang the President. Eat his lips.
Brock considers Kittybitch’s sullen face, her storm of red hair. Doesn’t know what to say back.
He checks Arizona Wildfire, figuring it’s going to take him and Mahina six and a half hours to make Flagstaff. The Go Dog Econoline is packed to the rafters with supplies, and its tank is full. The latest containment numbers are eight hundred acres, zero percent contained.
Brock watches both Kupchiks, checking the tires and changing the oil in his battered, black-and-green Go Dog van.
Closes the laptop and sets a big dark hand on Mahina’s warm shoulder.
He’s got the mission but he hates to leave.
Breath of Life.
Protect and serve.
“I’m going to get some Go Dogs out here while we’re gone,” he says.
“Kasper?” asks Mahina.
“Yeah. Kasper. I need to take better care of our people.”
“It’s why we are,” says Mahina, setting her big paw on his. “But we might miss the Monsters.”
“Flagstaff is more important. I love you,” he says.
“Aloha wau ia ‘oe, Stonebreaker.”
Stan Kupchik, his body curved like a question mark, drops the heavy little hood of the Econoline and waves.
Juana Flores and a passel of children—the new Kupchiks among them—come down the road from the trailers, one of the older ones kicking a soccer ball against three determined, smaller opponents. Some are on bikes or trikes. The compound dogs bound and circle and zigzag along with them, all headed for the reservoir, led by Juana.
34
Three days later, Jen, Casey, Brock, and Mahina huddle around a table in Barbara’s Fish Trap, Half Moon Bay’s most popular restaurant. It’s cold inside, but packed with customers, the waitstaff bustling between the tiny kitchen and the dining room.
Jen’s mother and father—Eve and Don—are there. As are Pastor Mike and Marilyn Stonebreaker, who flew into Half Moon Bay just an hour ago and drove to the Ritz-Carlton.
FreakZilla is arriving tomorrow, as predicted by NOAA, Surfline, the National Weather Service, and other big-wave prophets around the globe. The heart of it, with the biggest surf, is expected for late morning the day after. There’s no doubt the swell is coming. The question is how big and exactly when. NOAA says it’s a thirty-foot swell, which means fifty-foot faces, with clean-up waves possibly bigger. The biggest worry now is not the waves, but the wind.
