The American Race War

Chapter Three

The meeting took place in a remote cabin deep in the Appalachian Mountains, far away from prying eyes. The air outside was crisp, with a faint mist clinging to the trees. Inside, the mood was tense but electric. Men of various ages and backgrounds sat around a large wooden table, their faces illuminated by a dim, flickering overhead light. The room smelled of tobacco, gun oil, and sweat—an undercurrent of hostility in the air.

At the head of the table sat Clint Mason, a former Marine turned militia leader who had long preached the gospel of racial purity and white nationalism. His scruffy beard, flanked by scars from a life of violence, gave him an air of hardened authority. He surveyed the room, his steel-blue eyes moving over the group of men who had come from different corners of the country for this meeting.

On his left sat Johnny Ray, a hulking figure who ran a notorious white supremacist biker gang in the South. Tattoos covered his thick arms, and his scowl suggested he was not a man to cross. Beside him was Daniel "Doc" Hargrave, a former police officer who had lost his badge after a scandal involving brutality against Black protesters. He still had the same intensity in his gaze, only now it was unrestrained by any badge or uniform.

Others around the table were similarly hardened. Farmers, ex-cops, veterans, and business owners—men who had long believed that their country was being "stolen" from them. But tonight, for the first time in years, they felt empowered. Richard Blake’s election had given them more than just a victory. It had given them a cause, and they were ready to act on it.

Mason cleared his throat and began speaking.

"Brothers," he said, his voice low and gravelly, "you all know why we're here. The country’s gone to hell over the last few decades, but now we’ve got a man in the White House who speaks our language. Blake’s not afraid to call it like it is. He’s not afraid to fight for our way of life."

There were nods of agreement around the table, and Johnny Ray let out a grunt of approval.

"Damn right," Johnny Ray said, pounding his fist on the table. "Blake's talking about takin' this country back from the freeloaders, the illegals, the minorities who’ve been dragging it down. But talk’s only gonna get us so far. We all know that."

Mason nodded, leaning forward.

"Exactly," he said. "Blake’s got the right ideas, but he can’t fight this war alone. He’s gonna face resistance from the left, from the media, from the so-called 'justice system.' Hell, they’re already out there protesting and whining. But when push comes to shove, Blake’s gonna need boots on the ground to enforce what needs to be done."

There was a murmur of agreement. Doc Hargrave, who had been silent until now, leaned in, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous intensity.

"I’ve seen it firsthand," Hargrave said. "Law enforcement’s scared. They’re scared to do what needs to be done because they’re afraid of backlash, afraid of the media. They won’t admit it, but they’ve been neutered. If Blake’s policies are gonna stick, we need to be ready to act. We need to make sure that when the time comes, we’re not just sitting on our asses. We’re taking action."

"You're damn right we are," Mason said. "Blake’s got the travel ban in place. He’s gonna build that wall. He’s clamping down on illegal immigrants and cracking down on the cities. But mark my words: the liberals, the socialists, the minorities—they’re not gonna go down without a fight. There’s gonna be riots, there’s gonna be unrest. And when that happens, it’s up to us to restore order."

"Restoring order," Johnny Ray said with a wicked grin, "means takin' care of business by any means necessary."

The room erupted in laughter, though it was a cold, joyless sound. Everyone there knew what "business" meant. These men weren’t shy about violence. They had been waiting for this opportunity, waiting for someone to give them a reason to act. Now, with Blake in power, they felt the time was right.

One of the younger men, a farm owner named Travis who had joined the group more recently, raised his hand tentatively. His voice was unsure, but his eyes were filled with conviction.

"How far are we willing to go?" Travis asked. "I mean, we’re talking about using force. But are we talking about intimidation or… more?"

Mason looked at him for a long moment, assessing him, before speaking.

"Let me ask you something, Travis," Mason said. "When you look around at the state of this country—at the crime, the corruption, the way our people are treated—how far are you willing to go to protect what’s yours?"

Travis swallowed, then nodded slowly.

"As far as it takes," he said.

Mason leaned back in his chair, satisfied.

"That’s the right answer," he said. "And make no mistake, brothers: the time will come when we need to go all the way. When the system collapses—because it will—the police won’t protect us. The military will be too busy dealing with their own mess. We’re gonna have to take matters into our own hands. That means stepping up when Blake’s policies get challenged. That means putting fear into the hearts of those who would destroy this country. We’ll act as Blake’s enforcers if we have to."

Doc Hargrave nodded solemnly.

"We’ve got the numbers," he said. "We’ve got the firepower. And we’ve got the training. Half the men in this room are ex-military, ex-law enforcement. We know how to take control of a situation. And when the time comes, we will."

Johnny Ray grinned again, tapping the handle of the gun strapped to his belt.

"And if that means some heads gotta roll," Johnny Ray said, "then so be it. Ain’t no one gonna miss a few Antifa punks or some illegals."

Laughter filled the room once more, but the atmosphere was charged with anticipation. They weren’t just talking about hate—they were planning for war.

Mason raised a hand to quiet the room again.

"Here’s what we need to do," he said, his voice serious. "First, we keep a low profile for now. No need to draw attention before we’re ready. But we build our forces, we gather supplies, we train. And when the moment comes—when the protests turn into riots, when the leftists try to overthrow what Blake’s building—we move. We show them that this country still belongs to us."

There was a chorus of agreement. The men around the table were ready to fight for their version of America, and they were convinced that Richard Blake was the man who would lead them into a new era of racial purity and dominance.

As the meeting wound down, Clint Mason stood from his chair, signaling the end.

“Stay alert,” he said. “Stay ready. And remember—this is our country. And we’re not gonna let anyone take it from us.”

The men began to disperse, but the fire in their eyes remained. They had their orders, and they had a leader in Blake who had given them permission—at least, in their minds—to do what they had always wanted to do.

As they filed out into the cold night, they carried with them a sense of purpose. The country was on the brink of chaos, and they were eager to push it over the edge. If Blake’s administration faltered, they would be there to enforce his vision. And if the resistance grew too loud, they would be the ones to silence it.