Mr. Jackson and the Nefarious Neighbor

Mr. Jackson lives in Woodville with his lovely wife, his high school sweetheart, and their two children. After a 10 year career in the United States Marine Corps, he has served for 5 years in the Woodville Police Department.

Woodville is a good town. The people are a God-fearing people, a neighbor-helping people.

On Sundays, folks are either in the Baptist Church, Presbyterian Church, or Anglican Church on Main Street. Shops aren’t even open those days, seeing as the streets are empty due to the full pews, the shop owners riding the wood alongside everyone else. Once the pastors are done preaching the gospel of Jesus Christ (the Baptist is known for preaching especially long, sometimes two hours), congregants mosy along back to their homes for heavy lunches of meat and potatoes and long, meandering conversations on their front porches, talking about God, politics, and tall-tales for the children. Mrs. Adams is known town-wide for her secret-ingredient-including Sunday Arnold Palmers; and Old Man Webb is famous for the best yarns ever told.

During the week, even in the hustle and bustle of life, folks smile and wave as they pass by. Men do honest business, and the women stay busy schooling their kids and keeping their homes in ship shape.

Mr. Jackson walks into the office on a Tuesday and removes the contents of the manila envelope that had been placed upon his desk. No surprise: Ali Banisadr is up to some serious bad business.

For a long time, Banisadr had been taking up too much time for law enforcement officers. He is a resident of Kingston, a city of 2 million residents about 40 miles north of Woodville. To be honest, Kingston is nuts. It makes Baltimore and Detroit look safe. But Banisadr is the worst vermin of the lot. Why is that? He isn’t just evil in his bones; he also has power—which means opportunity for his evil bones to wreak havoc. So far too elusive to be nailed to the wall, cops nationwide know his name, and know that he personally funds not just a gang in Kingston, but also gangs in Marion, Franklin, and Springfield. These gangs are militias without honor, and Banisadr funds them with legitimate business operations, as well as by making money off drug and sex trafficking up and down the East Coast, and by having a monopoly on kills-for-pay. Rumor has it that Banisadr’s family line began when Satan made a bastard child with Jezebel. Outside of 16 year olds driving poorly, and 10 year olds stealing candy from the corner store, Woodville’s main criminal problems can generally be traced to spill over from Banisadr’s nefarious activities. Just last week, the Sander’s boy died from an overdose. Jackson would bet his white picket fence on where that junk came from.

Jackson pauses his reading of the envelope’s contents to look at the photo of his wife and kids propped on the desk. He still gets excited to see that woman smile at him, same as when he first saw her freshman year at WHS. A rage builds in his belly, like fire readying for expulsion from the bowels of a dragon. He has just read that Banisadr intends to take his operations to a level that makes his past behavior look like petulant child’s play. KPD has information that indicates Banisadr intends to acquire an arsenal of bombs. Through informants, KPD is reporting that he intends to use them in residential areas across the country. His aim is to create anarchy, and in the order-vacuum take political control. Mr. Jackson would normally dismiss this as crazy, but he knows better. Banisadr is a psycho, insatiable in his pursuit of tyrannical power. He only has regard for his domination of others. Their lives are cheaper than dirt to him. This is a real threat. His family is on the line. His country is on the line.

KPD is asking for help from police departments in every surrounding municipality. Whatever it takes, Banisadr must not get those bombs.

 

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