Fuck.

The gas station was closed, yellow tape around all of the pumps. It looked like it had been closed for years. Why didn’t they take that sign down on the highway exit? He didn’t know if he could make it to the next gas station – wherever that was – with what was left in the tank.

There was a convenience market attached to the gas station and the lights were off inside, but the door opened and two men came out. They were somewhere in their fifties, or maybe earlier sixties, and they were dressed alike in thick plaid shirts, denim jeans and brown boots. They waved to Clay and approached his car with friendly smiles. Clay rolled down his window.

“Hey there. What can we do you for?” Was there a nervous cast to their smiles?

“I just pulled off I-270 for gas, but it looks like I’m out of luck here. Do you know where I can find the closest station?”

The two men began responding at the same time but then one deferred to the other.

“Yes, sir. You want to just turn right back around the way you came and if you continue west on the 270 you’ll see an exit for, uh…Williams Village Road just a few miles down and they’ve got a couple of stations there. Good luck to you, now.”

They just stared at him awkwardly and Clay thanked them and pulled out of the gas station back towards the highway, praying he could make it to Williams Village Road. The needle was right on E.

He didn’t remember the drive from the highway exit to that little village being so far but he could not even see the interstate from where he was. He also didn’t pass through any other towns or villages when he turned off onto Snaretown Road but now he saw one up ahead. Just a little three-block main street surrounded by some homes.

When he arrived there he saw the same vacant gas station with the yellow tape around the pumps. The place he just drove away from less than five minutes earlier. He tapped the brakes, and when he saw the two men standing there in their plaid shirts he pulled in again and rolled down his window. The nervous smiles were gone. Now they just looked nervous, their faces somewhat ashen. The one who had provided the directions to Williams Village Road spoke up.

“Hey there, partner. Did you get turned around or something?” He looked around.

Clay had a very strange feeling in his gut. Not a good feeling.

“I don’t think so. I headed right back down this road towards the highway. I don’t know how it could have possibly happened.”

The two men looked at each other briefly.

“Well, there’s a sneaky turn-off down there that basically loops you back around to here. I’m sure that’s what probably happened. You wouldn’t be the first. Tell you what. Why don’t you just make a right turn out of here and stay straight on this road until you reach the 270 and then you just hop on the westbound ramp. You’ll be down there at Williams Village Road in no time.”

After a moment he nervously added, “Go on, now. Good luck.” He looked around and Clay thanked him and followed the directions, which were entirely uncomplicated.

Once again, he followed the road back to the interstate and once again he drove for a few minutes and arrived back in that same small town with the defunct old gas station. The two men in plaid shirts were still standing there by the pumps, staring in his direction.

Clay tapped the brakes and pulled in. This time he killed the engine and stepped out.

“Guys, what’s going on here?”

They stared at each other with grave expressions for a moment and the one who had done all the talking so far continued to do so. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at the pavement.

“Well, fella. I’m afraid we have some bad news for you. And you’re not going to believe it when I tell it to you now, but eventually I’m afraid you will know that it’s all true.”

He paused and took a deep breath. Clay’s heart started beating harder. The man pointed up to some low wooded hills just beyond the patchwork of homes that made up the little village.

“So…for as long as anyone around here can remember, there has been an old house up there in them woods that was home to an old woman and an old man. They came here from somewhere just outside of Mexico City many years ago. They lived way down in Chiapas before that. Old as they were, they lived on as other folks born well after them lived long lives and passed away. The old woman and the old man just kept carrying on. They didn’t come down to the village here often, but when they did come down they always looked a little older, but somehow they were still carrying on.”

He paused and looked at his partner in plaid.

“Charlie, you want to take over here? You can probably tell it better than I can.”

The other man cleared his throat.

“Yeah sure. So, as Marty was just saying, the old woman and the old man who lived in that old ramshackle house up there in the hills didn’t come down here to the village too often. They didn’t have to. Now, here’s where you’re gonna stop believing any of this. But it’s true.

“They didn’t have to come down here to the village because if they needed anything they had a pair of twin gray wolves and they would just send them down. Those two would get whatever they needed. They would just walk into a store, pull the items that were needed off the shelves and then growl viciously at someone in the store – they didn’t care who – until they packed up all those items and followed those wolves back to the old house up there in the hills.”

Charlie paused to gauge Clay’s reaction to this. Normally Clay would dismiss this sort of fairy tale stuff instantly but his head was still spinning from what had just happened when he tried to drive back to the interstate, so he continued to listen, wondering where this was all going.

“Well, sometimes the old woman and the old man did come down to the village. When the weather was nice, and when the 4th of July fireworks were in flight, they were sometimes seen walking slowly together, hand in hand. The locals who lived here for a while all called them The Bruha (her) and The Bruho (him). I don’t know how that started. It’s just what people called them. Maybe they introduced themselves that way at some time.

“Anyway, one long summer day many years ago, no one can say just how many, they came down into the village. They were walking slowly down this sidewalk right here when some drunk driver came off the interstate in a big old SUV, looking for gas and more beer, and he swerved just enough to run The Bruha down. She was killed instantly and The Bruho screamed in fury as the man exited his vehicle. Mere moments later the twin wolves were there and they had him surrounded, snarling with rage and snapping their teeth at him. The Bruho pointed down at the old woman and without saying a word the driver lifted her body and followed the old man back up to the old ramshackle house in the hills, the two wolves trailing behind.”

He paused there and raised his eyebrows, giving Clay a chance to ask any questions or express his disbelief. Clay just stared back at him, waiting to hear the rest of the tale. Charlie continued.

“Well, that’s when things changed around here for good. For starters, all of the usual deliveries that we received every week – food, gas, prescription drugs, retail products like clothing and shoes and such – just all stopped coming one day. That was the day that we woke up and found that drunk driver crucified by the side of the road just down there. He had a sign hung around his neck that read ‘Do Not Touch Me’ and no one was brave enough to defy that warning. He stayed up there for almost a year, the crows picking the flesh off his bones, and then one day there was a storm and the crucifix was blown down. You can still see the remains of his bones in the tall grass over there.

“Anyway, after that, no one could leave. There were 188 people living here at that time. Anytime that any one of us attempted to drive down towards the interstate and away from Snaretown Road we ended up right back here, just like you did. Outsiders like you have turned up here over the years and most of the time they were able to leave, but some, like you, found themselves unable to leave. No one knows why but I assure you, it is real. You’re with us now. I’m sure you seriously doubt all of this but someday you will be buried here.”

Marty nodded and Charlie paused again and this time Clay was done listening to the story. He walked back to the car door.

“Look, I don’t know what kind of scam or joke you are trying to pull here, but I think I’ve heard enough. I’m leaving now.”

“See ya soon,” Marty said quietly and waved goodbye. He did not smile.

About five minutes later Clay pulled into the gas station again from the opposite direction. Marty and Charlie were still standing right where they were when he left. He put the car in park and rested his forehead on the steering wheel for a short time. Then he exited the vehicle.

“All right, what the hell is going on here?”

“Charlie just told you.”

Clay lifted his chin.

“Okay, well if there are no supplies coming into town, how do you all survive? What do you eat?”

Charlie said, “Come with me,” and walked back into the convenience market. It was mostly empty with the exception of a few chairs and a fold-out table with a deck of cards on top. There was also a cold case, which was almost completely empty, and one of those large freezer chests that most people keep in their basement or garage. Charlie lifted the lid. It was empty.

“Every morning me and Marty come down here at eight o’clock and we check the case. Sometimes there’s enough food for everyone. Sometimes there’s only half that. On some days there’s just nothing at all. It’s almost always frozen dinners and canned goods but sometimes we find a bag of apples or oranges. And when someone here in town is sick we will occasionally find a bag of prescription medications. Not always.

“One day there was a chainsaw and that afternoon we got hit by a nasty tornado that knocked trees down all around. Knocked down some power lines too but the power stayed on anyway. We lost our phone lines, cellular signal and internet connections when it all started, but for some reason the lights have stayed on and the plumbing still works. We just can’t reach the outside world. No one knows why and no one is willing to speak with The Bruho about it. He almost never comes down to the village anymore. When he does he is always flanked by those two gray wolves.”

Clay tried to process all of it. The initial instinct of his rational mind was to call bullshit on the whole thing, but he also knew what had just happened each time he attempted to leave the village. He needed air. He stepped outside and leaned against the fender of his car, parked by the dead gas pumps.

Charlie and Marty stayed inside and spoke to one another for a little while and then they walked out and rejoined Clay.

“I’m sorry, partner. I didn’t catch your name.”

Clay introduced himself.

“Well, Clay. We have lost many of our older neighbors over the years and not too many new ones have arrived to replace them. The last one before you was Jimmy Gillis, from Kansas City, and that was over four years ago. As a result, we have quite a few unoccupied houses where we can set you up.”

Charlie looked at Marty and said, “I’m thinking Benny McCabe’s place would do nicely. It’s small but he and his brother did a lot of remodeling work before it all started and it’s still in very good shape.”

Marty nodded. “Sure.”

“Come on, Clay. It’s just down the block here. You can leave your car there for now. It will be fine, not that you’ll ever need it again.” Neither of the older men chuckled at this. It was not intended to be a joke.

Clay was just trying to make sense of it all as he followed them down the block to the house. He definitely hadn’t given up hope of leaving here as soon as possible, but he didn’t have a plan. He needed time to think. The house would give him some time to do this on his own.

Charlie and Marty showed Clay around the single story two-bedroom home – it was nice enough – and afterwards they walked around the little village for a while and introduced him to some of his new neighbors. Everyone was nice, but everyone was also just “off” in one way or another. They all seemed a bit haunted. A bit broken. And that was right there on the surface. You couldn’t miss it.

Afterwards, Clay pulled his car down the block and parked it in front of his temporary new residence. He pulled his suitcase from the trunk and brought it inside. Marty came by with a frozen pizza and two cans of soda for his dinner.

That night, lying in bed, Clay never even came close to finding sleep. He stared up into the darkness and contemplated his situation. His reality. The more he thought about it, the less he believed it. He was educated and not given to belief in the supernatural. This had to be some kind of trick or illusion. He couldn’t understand the purpose, but he didn’t want to find out too late that he had been trapped into some weird sacrificial cult or something like that.

As the hours went by, he became more and more sure of his conviction that this was not real. He thought about the half-mad people he had met while walking the neighborhood with Charlie and Marty that evening. He had no desire to remain here another second. There had to be a way out. And this story about The Bruha and The Bruho? It was all just too much to accept. This was crazy. He had to be at his father’s funeral. He had to get there somehow.

He decided to leave. He got up and packed his things back into the suitcase and walked out to the front door. When he opened it, a pair of very large twin gray wolves sat there on the porch, perfectly still except for their yellow eyes.

He recoiled instinctively and took a step back. The wolves let out a low growl simultaneously but remained still.

Clay slowly shut the front door to his new home and went back to bed.

He would not be at his father’s funeral. He knew that now. He wasn’t going anywhere.

THE END

The Fate of Islanders

Looks like Cogito has gone down the same anti-imperialist path I did. Last time they surprised us with a super comprehensive video on the cult of Falun Gong. Now, this:

His reporting is less polite than the already fiery Bianca Graulau, who recently did a piece on how US investors are illegally developing on the island.

Puerto Rico is a textbook case of how the rule of law and particularly any semblance of human rights really doesn’t matter under the US. For everyone who hand wrings about how China suffocates the free people of Hong Kong with its totalitarian death grip, one must confront how the US similarly treats its own island dependent— with outright massacre of nationalist protests, clandestine eugenics programs, mass surveillance and torture camps, let alone the more mundane parasitic practices that Cogito highlighted later in his video. For anyone reaching for that rarified copium, “ah but they have free speech,” I must still point out just how far that speech got the Puerto Ricans. Is it really any solace when boricua can speak out and the US government just chooses not to care? The reality is that speech is not power or sovereignty, and what the people of Puerto Rico need is precisely that.

The American insistence that Puerto Ricans want to become a state is utterly laughable. No, they actually want more independence but with at least some special relationship with the US; only in polls where this middle ground option (Free Association) is removed do the people reluctantly vote for statehood. After all, most people know that if Puerto Rico were to become independent, the US would likely treat it with great hostility a la Cuba or Haiti, and that would only devastate the island even further. As much as people want to reach for the Cuban Missile Crisis as a possible thread of sovereignty, not even China has meaningful force projection out to the Caribbean, making the Gulf of America uniquely the playground of the USA. This state of affairs is something I know of from my Puerto Rican friends, because US media propagandizes the state of affairs so much that the truth won’t be verified independently by the vast majority of Americans.

The people of Taiwan should take notes on what has transpired. This is the fate of Taiwanese should they continue their sleepwalk into US association. It won’t just stop with divestment of TSMC; there are a great many parasites ready to devour everything worth selling in Taiwan. For whatever good feelings a Taiwanese person might have about the US and vice versa, do not forget that Taiwan will not be dealing with the good Americans who are powerless to even fix the situation with Puerto Rico. The ones in power have always been the worst of us, and the evidence repeats itself not just in Puerto Rico, but also Hawai’i, Guam, American Samoa— everywhere that is a geopolitical pawn.

If one must fixate on the example of Hong Kong, let me ask simply: Do Taiwanese want Taiwan to become Hong Kong or Puerto Rico? Those are the only two realistic options as it seems that Taiwanese politics and leadership is too inept to realize any sort of skilled neutrality while the Taiwanese people overwhelmingly do not want to put in the effort to realize sovereignty through warfare. The DPP have successfully destroyed any possibility of status quo. That, ultimately, was the choice of Taiwanese, and the Taiwanese must contend with the consequences. (I for one preferred status quo, but today I really do not see how it is viable anymore.)

And for the hopefuls of Taiwan who insist that there is a good path with US alignment, let me ask this simple question: How will you empower Americans like me who stare at the situation with Puerto Rico and despair, knowing that we have no power to stop the vultures of America? If you cannot answer this (unlike the Zionists in America), you have no plan to obtain such a happy ending! Be prepared to see this written in blood:

It is as simple as that!