Don’t Tread On Me
Jerry was a car salesman in Cleveland, Tennessee. His wife LouAnn had left him over a year ago. Though she had been fairly conservative when they got married, she didn’t like Donald Trump very much while Jerry had fully hopped aboard the Trump Train. As Jerry fell in love with the MAGA movement, and later the QAnon movement as well, LouAnn didn’t really approve. At first they tried simply not discussing politics with each other, but she started moving toward the center, disgusted at the GOP’s transformation, while Jerry continued to move further right, even agreeing with white supremacists at times. That’s about the time when he got involved with the SaveOurTown group and met Pete, Pettus, and Cecil—Jerry wanted somebody to connect with on politics.
He had certainly stopped connecting with his wife and her family. During Christmas 2019, they got into a screaming match over IQ and race. “I’m not saying people are worse because they’re not white,” he insisted. “But some science says white people are just smarter!” LouAnn yelled across the dining room table, “Those IQ tests were racist to begin with! And they don’t take education or money into account! Schools in the USA don’t get enough money in poorer areas! That’s junk science, Jerry, and you know it!” Her quiet, churchy family was unaccustomed to such heated debates and didn’t get involved, but afterward Jerry saw them staring at him and whispering to themselves. After the incident, Jerry stopped going to meetings as often.
But when the pandemic hit a few months later, however, he couldn’t avoid it—he was furious about the “China Virus” and all the fear-mongering. The survival rate was 98%! Why was everyone so scared? Luckily, this was the type of town that wouldn’t shut things down for no reason, or make anybody wear masks. They valued REAL FREEDOM after all.
The sun was setting on top of the hill by the Holiday Inn where you could look over much of the town and see parts of I-75. Jerry, Pete, Cecil, and Pettus were gathered around a couple of trucks, both of them decorated heavily with conservative bumper stickers. One, Cecil’s Dodge Ram, had a massive “Make America Great Again'' flag mounted in the back, while the other, Pettus’s F-450 Super Duty, had an even larger “Don’t Tread On Me” flag.
They had to make plans for tomorrow. A large group of liberals were coming into town, most of ‘em from Chattanooga, to protest Cleveland City officers who had arrested a Black woman named Kymberlee Jones. She’d been caught with a pound of marijuana, which was still very illegal in Tennessee. However, Kymberlee was an epileptic and she started convulsing as the police car lights surrounded her. The cops thought she was faking it and wouldn’t help her. She almost died, and was still in Skyridge Hospital, recovering, and a few groups from around southeast Tennessee had organized a protest march to take place up and down Ocoee Street. The mayor hadn’t given them a permit, but they were planning on coming anyway.
The way Jerry saw things, however, it was a perfect opportunity for a counter-protest from him and the boys. Cleveland mostly consisted of conservatives, but these libs, he imagined as funded by local Democrat groups or somethin’ like that, had organized a big march. According to their social media spies, up to 400 people could be attending tomorrow. They were coming in buses and everything. He and the boys had to be prepared. The plan was this: show up at the United Daughters of the Confederacy monument with a bunch of guns, a bunch of flags, and a bunch of signs. They’d shout at any protestors walking down the street and show ‘em whose town this was.
These kinds of stupid liberals had ruined LouAnn, who was a nurse. She took that COVID stuff really seriously, and Jerry couldn’t stand it. And Jerry told her so, and they fought over COVID restrictions every single day. He tried to tell her how Q said that it was all just a big conspiracy to shut down the American economy, and how the virus was created in a lab, and that the media was just overblowing the whole damn thing. She didn’t listen, and when she left, he started going to the meetings again.
Jerry was wearing a ballcap, a polo shirt, jeans, a dark brown mustache, and a smug look on his face. He dug the heel of his boot into the dirt while Pete, the youngest of the group, was wearing a Kekistan shirt, jorts, and a camouflage hat. He posted a quick link to their plans on Gab, the alt-right social network where the left-wingers would be unlikely to look for their posts. Cecil grinned, his aviators reflecting the sunset, adjusted the ill-fitting khaki pants around his waist, and tugged on his Vols jersey. “I’ll get Janie to make up the signs and get some Confederate and American flags for everybody. Maybe she’ll bring some ham biscuits too.”
Jerry looked a bit uncomfortable at this, and Cecil said to Jerry, “It’ll be nice to get some home cookin’ again, huh? Yeah, I thought that note LouAnn left you was real mean. We still talk about what a dumb feminist bitch she is. She’s just brainwashed by the mainstream media. So many of them are.”
The note LouAnn had left on the day she was gone just said, “I can’t do this any more. You’re brainwashed by the alt right. You love Donald Trump and your groups more than me. I don’t know who you are any more. I’ll be filing for divorce and staying with my family. Don’t contact me unless a lawyer says you need to get in touch with me.” That had been the last he’d ever heard from her.
“Uh huh,” replied Jerry. “I just… hadn’t seen her since then. Since we had no kids and she didn’t want the house, the divorce was done over Zoom and all ‘cause of the bullshit pandemic. Kinda surreal. I hear she moved near her family or whatever. Don’t miss that COVID-19 propaganda.” He chuckled nervously, and none of the men said anything in response.
Pettus, the quietest of the bunch, stood silently for a minute before speaking. He had the most money of everyone gathered here -- his dad had made a fortune in title loans, and he’d gone into the business himself too -- and helped fund a lot of the right-wing organizations in town. He had a lot of influence. Tall, lanky, and older, with white hair and facial hair, he stroked his beard and finally said, “I’ll bring the guns for us to hold. I texted Sheriff Dan that we’re going to be out there in support of them. They’ll be happy to let us do whatever we want to protect the monument and the city. He said if the protestors get too wily to let him know and they’ll send down folks with pepper spray and rubber bullets to get rid of ‘em.”
More than anything, the four men were sick of liberals trying to ruin their way of life and turn America into some kind of hellhole. They weren’t gonna let these thugs destroy THEIR Confederate monuments like they did in Virginia, or turn their town into a criminal city like they did in Oregon and all those other socialist places. There was nothing here that these dumb DEMONcrats should be protesting, anyway. The police officers were just doing their job, and that woman shouldn’t have been breaking the law in the first place. How could these idiots not see that? They were clearly blinded by their stupid labels and pride, and more interested in being divisive than coming together and supporting America’s finest police force.
All these people were allowed to talk about how proud they were to be gay, to be Black, Hispanic, female, trans, whatever… So why weren’t they allowed to be proud of being white straight men? Why did they have to pretend to be ashamed of who they were? Why did they have to be ashamed to support the police? It wasn’t fair. And they were gonna show ‘em it wasn’t fair.
The four nodded at each other, got into the trucks, and drove off. Tomorrow was gonna be a big day.
The green area surrounding the Confederacy Monument on Ocoee Street was small, but it fit several dozen of the counter-protesters. All of them had guns strapped to their backs or hip holsters, and all of them were carrying flags, signs, or both. Cecil and Janie had brought a cooler of bottled water and snacks, and Pettus and his wife Brenda brought a bunch of outdoor folding chairs and even a tent canopy for everyone to have a place to sit in the shade if they got tired. Janie had indeed brought some biscuits with thick slices of country ham sandwiched in the middle, and was passing them out to the counter-protesters. A few big trucks were parked illegally just outside of the monument’s chain-link barrier directly on the road, which the police allowed.
Across the street were about a hundred, maybe 150 anti-police and Black Lives Matter libs, most of them young. So much for 400 protesters, hah. Guess Soros hadn’t found enough people he could pay off. They’d already done their big march up and down Ocoee, and were now facing the counter-protesters in a standoff. There were tons of tattoos, piercings, and weird hair colors among the protest group. Most of the people were wearing masks, too, even though they were outside, which Cecil called “mask virtue signaling” and sneered at. As far as they could tell, about half the group were people of color—whereas all of the counter-protestors were white.
Jerry didn’t care. There was nothing wrong with being white. And in fact, that’s what he decided to shout across the street at the protestors.
One of the protestors, a young Black woman with blue dreadlocks, responded back simply: “Black lives matter! Fuck 12!”
“What does ‘Fuck 12’ mean?”, whispered Jerry.
Pete, the most internet-savvy member of their homegrown SaveOurTown group, responded, “It’s like ‘fuck the police’ but it refers specifically to the anti-drug police, I think.”
Jerry then shouted back at the protestor, “Oh yeah? Then fuck you, too! ALL lives matter. BLUE lives matter. WHITE lives matter!”, He loudly enunciated that last sentence.
“Kymberlee Jones’ life matters!”, shouted back the protester.
“Kymberlee Jones deserved what she fucking got!”, screamed Jerry, getting heated.
“That’s right!” “Mmm hmm!” “You tell ‘em!” came a chorus of responses from the SaveOurTown group watching the interaction take place. The protester stood stone-faced and didn’t respond, and instead held up a sign that said, “Say their names! No justice, no peace!”
A tattooed guy wearing a hoodie, a face covering, and a riot shield suddenly got in front of the Black protester and shouted out to Jerry. “Oh yeah? Your wife probably deserved what she got when she left you, too, you fucking racist piece of shit!”
Jerry seethed with anger. The dipshit had no way of knowing, so this insult from some stupid-looking little anarchist with hideous tattoos hit home.
He tossed his “We Support The Police” sign down onto the ground. He was so angry he couldn’t speak. Pettus came up behind him and started shouting back at the protesters. More protesters with riot shields began moving toward the front of the line. The police, standing on the side of the protesters, reached their hands toward the pepper spray cans on their waist. Pettus sneered toward the tattooed protester with the riot shield and the Black woman with dreadlocks, and shouted a racial slur toward the two of them.
When the tattooed protester heard the racial expletive, he reached down on the ground and tossed something toward the counter-protesters—a small rock, and it hit Pettus squarely in the head. The police reacted immediately and took the protester down, forced his head on the ground, cuffed him, and dragged him quickly into a police car, but Pettus and Jerry were still enraged.
“FUCK these shitllibs!”, said Pettus while the police were preoccupied with their arrest. “I’m going to teach these motherfuckers a lesson they won’t forget!”, He ran toward his Ford that was parked right next to the monument, pacing defiantly with his hands balled up into fists at his hips. Brenda threw down her American flag and ran toward him, begging someone to stop him, but he got in the car faster than anyone could get to him. He started the car.
The other counter-protesters began to panic and tried to move away from the truck except Jerry, who, consumed by his anger, began to also shout racial and sexual expletives toward the protesters across the street.
Pettus revved his truck engine as he drove toward the protesters at a high speed. Hatred was burning in his eyes. Suddenly, one of the protesters threw a large vanilla milkshake and hit his windshield. The fast food cup exploded, and the white, viscous substance splattered all over the glass. He suddenly couldn’t see, and accidentally swerved his truck back toward the counter-protesters. The massive tires crashed through the simple chain barrier and took Jerry down instantly, and the wheels ran over him. The truck crashed into the monument and Pettus’s face smashed into the airbag as it deployed. The moment the truck made impact with the monument, the “Don’t Tread On Me” flag flew backwards, draping itself over Jerry’s disfigured, bloody, lifeless body as it landed.
(Header photo by the Associated Press)
Cook with the author: ham biscuits!
Biscuits:
3 teaspoons baking powder
2 teaspoons kosher salt
½ teaspoon baking soda
3½ cups all-purpose flour, plus more for surface
2 sticks unsalted butter, cut up in ½-inch pieces and placed in freezer for at least 15 minutes
Additional melted butter for brushing
1 cup of shaken, very cold buttermilk
Country ham:
½ lb. of country ham, thinly sliced and trimmed into 12 biscuit-sized pieces (if you cannot find any country ham, ask for ham sliced ¼ - ½-inch thick at the deli counter)
Olive or coconut oil
Preheat oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.
Mix together the baking soda and the buttermilk. Return to fridge to keep cool. The buttermilk will expand, so it’s best to do this in a 2-cup measuring cup if you have one.
In a food processor, combine the baking powder, salt, and flour. Pulse to combine.
With the food processor running, drop the frozen pieces of butter into the mix through the chute, several pieces at a time. When the largest pieces are about the size of peas, turn off the food processor and move the mix into a bowl.
Pour the buttermilk mixture all over the flour mixture, and then use your hands to knead it together. A shaggy dough will form and it will look a little dry -- that’s okay.
Turn dough onto a clean surface and pat together into a square.
Using a long sharp knife or a bench scraper, cut dough straight down into four equal pieces. Stack the pieces on top of each other. If there are any pieces of dry dough mixture, try to sandwich it between the biscuit dough layers.
With a rolling pin pressing downward (rather than a rolling motion) flatten dough into a rectangle that’s about one inch thick.
With the knife or bench scraper, cut dough into 12 pieces and try to avoid wiggling or twisting while you do. Press straight down. Yup, we’re doing square biscuits!
Transfer these to a baking sheet lined with parchment paper or a silicone mat -- and then place in freezer for 10 minutes.
Remove from freezer and brush biscuits with melted butter.
Bake in a hot oven for 25 minutes, or until the tops are golden brown.
While the biscuits are baking, fry the country ham. Set a skillet, preferably cast-iron, over medium heat. Add in about a tablespoon or so of oil. Cook about four pieces at a time, 2-3 minutes on each side. Transfer to a paper towel-lined plate and let cool.
When the biscuits come out of the oven, let cool for about 30 minutes.
Slice biscuits in half with a serrated knife. Place a piece of country ham in each biscuit. Serve -- and don’t be racist!
