Invasion: New York (Invasion America) by Vaughn Heppner Page A

his chest again. He liked her staring at him and he liked talking about something so close to his heart. He had spent time in the detention center because he had what his dad called moral courage. He dared to speak truth to power. America needed more of that. Sure, it was a fight to the death with the invaders, but freedom only came to those willing to pay the heavy cost.
    “I’ll speak to who I want to speak to and I’ll say what I think about anything,” he said.
    She nodded, with her eyes wide.
    “Do you know that the President has made decrees that are against the law?” Jake asked.
    She shook her head.
    “Oh yeah,” Jake said. “But I figure Sims believes he’s doing right. It’s that other guy.”
    “Who’s that?” she asked.
    Jake made a face. He was so drunk his features felt numb, as if he moved cardboard. “Max Harold, the Director of Homeland Security, he’s a fascist. He doesn’t like letting Americans say what they want to. You know what…”
    “What?” she asked.
    “What’s your name?” Jake asked.
    “Sheila.”
    “Sheila,” Jake said—and suddenly he had to take a piss again. He really needed to go. He’d been drinking beer like a horse for hours upon hours. The need welled up and overpowered him. If he rushed into the restroom, Sheila would go elsewhere. He liked her. She even wanted to meet after work.
    His drunken mind spun fast, and it came to him then in totally clarity what would impress a stripper.
    “Watch this,” Jake said. He pulled out his wallet, fumbled to open it and fumbled even more to draw out his Militia card. It was like a driver’s license, but had two pictures instead of just one. It had his mug shot, and it showed in the opposite corner Director Max Harold of Homeland Security.
    “What are you doing?” she asked. “I thought you said you don’t have any more money.”
    “I’m giving you a visual of my feelings,” Jake said. He tossed the ID card onto the floor and zipped down his fly.
    “Hey, you can’t do that,” she said.
    Jake dug out his shlong and whipped it out. Normally, he couldn’t use a urinal if someone stood beside him using the next one. He needed to piss alone. But the beer poured through his system and his bladder was just plum full. Jake proceeded to urinate onto the Militia ID card, particularly on the director.
    It caused a minor outrage in the strip joint. The square-shaped bouncer hurried near. Sheila backed away and looked at Jake in horror, while a large man with red eyes and a redder nose took out a voice recorder. He spoke into it before marching near.
    “Hey,” Jake said. “Unhand me.”
    The bouncer had a fierce grip, and the man was strong.
    “Let me zip up at least,” Jake said.
    “Just a moment,” the large man with red eyes said. “You’re a Militiaman?” he asked Jake.
    “That’s right. What’s it to you?”
    “I heard some of what you’ve been saying. What did you just think you were doing?”
    “Pissing on the director,” Jake said proudly.
    The man’s red eyes squinted. “The director of what?” he asked.
    The girl stepped near, and maybe she was thinking about warning Jake.
    Jake missed it, and he therefore missed his last chance to stay out of bad trouble. “Are you kidding me, mister?” Jake asked. “I’m an American and I tell it like it is. The director is the dictator’s puppet, and he’s taking away too many of our liberties.”
    “Do you mean Max Harold?” the red-eyed man asked.
    “Yeah, I mean him,” Jake said.
    “Shut up!” Sheila said. “Don’t say anything more.”
    The big red-eyed man glanced at Sheila and then back at Jake. “Would you care to repeat that?” he asked Jake.
    Jake saw the voice recorder. In his blurry mind, it seemed like a TV reporter’s microphone. He leaned near, figuring that finally someone would go on record and say it like it was.
    “Jake,” Sheila said.
    “The Director of Homeland Security is the dictator’s puppet,” Jake said slowly