The Man from Nebraska (p181-p184)

(Setting:  The Head Honcho is assaulted by a gun-toking farmer from Nebraska, who has come to Washington to get 35 years of taxes repaid.)

Suddenly, a gun barrel protruded menacingly from a stealth shadow that was no longer there. Within the unexplainable darkness lurked the Man from Nebraska. The Honcho’s secret service agents thought it was the Man from Detroit because of the gun, so they edged back toward safety, since they were acutely afraid of gun-toting Detroiters.

This left the Head Honcho dangerously exposed to the double-barreled shotgun pointed at his stomach by a stranger lurking under invisible trees in a stealth shadow that was oblivious to the Safari Golfer’s reality-bending proclamation. Unfortunately, the Man from Nebraska had never heard of the Honcho, the Golfer, nor the thousands of acronym-laden agencies that ran the country from fog-bound Washington. He had faith in none of these alien institutions. He had faith in nothing at all, other than his ability to transform sunlight, water, and seed into amber waves of grain, which fed his family and many others.

Freeman mustered enough courage to interrogate the armed man. "What do you want?" he asked timidly.

"I want my money back", was the unhesitating answer from the shadow that didn’t exist.

"I don't have any money", said Freeman, who had just been relieved of it. "But he has plenty", he offered, pointing at the Honcho. "He's a U. S. Senator."

The Honcho shot Freeman a murderous glance, as the sound of a double-barreled shotgun being cocked echoed against his prodigious abdomen. "Perfect", declared the voice from the shadow. "Then you're the one I came to see. I want my gol'darned money back. Now!"

"I don't have your money", lied the Honcho, who, as chairman of the Appropriations Committee, had everyone's money.

"The hell you don't!" pounced the Man from Nebraska. "I been paying taxes for 35 long years. I did it patriotic like, even though they took more’n more every year. I did it, even though I felt like a plow horse with a saddle on my back. I did it, even though my son never came back from fightin' in Asia, and even though the Missus ain’t been the same since losin' her youngun. I did it, even though my neighbor got paid more’n me to grow nothin'. I did it even when I learnt our leaders were busy breakin’ laws, when they weren't busy fornicatin'. But I ain't doin’ it any more!" He jammed his gun deeper into the Honcho’s flabby belly.

The Honcho gulped. "Why not?"

"'Cuz my eyes have been opened."

"By whom?" asked the Honcho nervously.

"By a man who calls hisself the Insurrectionist. Us folks in Nebraska have taken a likin' to him."

These were ominous words to the Honcho. A gun jabbed in his belly was one thing, but hearing that his nemesis was still corrupting Americans caused nervous sweat to sprout on his forehead. "What did the Insurrectionist tell you?"

"First off, he said we wasn’t born with saddles on our backs, so a favored few with boots and spurs could ride us. He tol' us that to have more self respect than a plow horse, we had to buck the booted and spurred sons-of-bitches off."

"What else did he tell you?"

"He tol’ us that only lies need the support of gov’ment. Truth doesn’t need force to enter our minds, so we don't need a gov’ment to know the truth. We should just open our eyes and judge for ourselves, or else become slaves to those who claim they know truths the rest of us can’t see. That's why I'm standing in this shadow that really does exist, despite you folks pretendin’ it don’t."

This perplexed the Honcho, who believed that truth was whatever Ismism declared it to be. He took a mental note to ask the Golfer about this. "What else did the Insurrectionist say?"

"He tol’ us whether Man's nature is good or bad doesn’t change how much gov’ment we need. If Man's nature is good, then a powerful gov’ment ain’t ne’ssary. If Man's nature is bad, then a powerful gov’ment should be avoided at all costs.'"

Blood vacated the Honcho’s face and sank to his toes. The Insurrectionist’s poisonous words threatened to crumble the foundations of his world. "What else did he say?" he croaked through pallid lips.

"The sheep are happier of themselves than under the care of wolves."

"Who are the wolves?" interjected Freeman.

The Man from Nebraska scowled. "The wolves pay my neighbor to let fertile ground sit idle while I work my ass off growing crops 12 hours a day, earning calluses, back aches, and not much else. The wolves pay my other neighbor welfare money, so they can eat the food that the first neighbor gets paid not to grow. The wolves plucked my only boy from behind the plow, shaved his head, and then stuck him in front of some angry Asians who shot him dead for no reason the wolves could ever explain. On top of all that, the wolves tell me I gotta keep payin’ more taxes. The wolves tell me it’s for the common good, and that I must have faith in things I can’t see or unnerstand. I'm tired of wolves that care for me like this. I want my money back, or I'll shoot your ass off!" He angrily jabbed the shotgun into the Honcho's belly.

"Easy, big fella", said the Honcho. "You’ll be in deep shit if that thing goes off."

"I'll be in less shit than you. What’ve I got to lose? My son? He's already dead. My farm? I can't pay the taxes I owe on it anyway. My wife? She went crazy when she got the death notice from the Marines. My neighbors? I can't tell if they're friend or foe anymore--we've all been set one against the other by our gov’ment. My faith? Faith is what got me into this mess. My self respect? That's what I'm here to salvage. Hand me back my money. All 35 years of it." The shotgun plowed deeper into the Honcho's abdomen.

Fortunately, the Honcho had an inherited Machiavellian survival instinct that had been genetically reinforced through millennia of such confrontations. He motioned for the Man from Nebraska to move closer. The man hesitatingly stepped out of his concealing shadow. The sunlight revealed a tall, lanky farmer with an honest, weathered face, a plaid shirt, denim overalls, cowhide boots, and a rumpled straw hat. His callused hands gripped his shotgun resolutely. His jaw was square, solid, and clenched. The Honcho whispered something to him. The Man from Nebraska listened with increasing interest, nodding several times. When the Honcho finished, the lanky man said, "Much obliged", and headed off at a brisk pace toward Capitol Hill with his shotgun leading the way.

"What did you tell him?" Freeman asked breathlessly.

"I told him I agreed with everything he said, and that I had voted for or against everything that he was for or against. Then I told him that Senator Smetzenbaum from Oklahoma was really responsible for all of this, and that he deserves to get his ass shot off after he refunds the 35 years of taxes."