Trailer Park Victory Chapter 27: Trouble

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

Governor Mark Moerlein never liked giving press conferences. It was a duty he performed only because there was no way to avoid speaking to reporters in a public forum, about his stewardship of Ohio. With every planned encounter, his blood pressure would rise, a nervous twitch made his hands tremble, and his mouth would go dry. Ending each one of these sessions brought a sense of relief, and gratitude for the intervention of a higher power.

 

He was secretly glad not to face another political campaign, once this term had expired.

 

But on Monday morning, there was an extra measure of reluctance in effect. Minutes before taking his place in the media room, at the Statehouse in Columbus, he received a warning call from Geauga County. A district near Lake Erie, steeped in support for the 47^th American president, who had just taken office.

 

Sheriff Tom T. Rath spoke in tones that were both diplomatic, and insistent.

 

“Mark, I’ve got a situation brewing up here. My jail cells are full of apprehended illegals. It’s a good grab for us, we want to support the new administration. And it puts a few extra bucks in our coffers. We’re getting hammered in the press, but that’s nothing new. Protesters from the college crowd, in Cleveland, have been here all week. There’s a new wrinkle on this conflict though, and I think you need to give it some thought. I had to arrest one of those militia hounds from our recent past. He’s a small-time instigator, nothing we can’t handle. Somehow though, the guy has made connections with other groups across the Midwest, and elsewhere. Like Patriot Front, the Oath Keepers, the Proud Boys, and even the Asatru Folk Assembly...”

 

The Buckeye chief executive was nonplussed by these references. Especially, the last.

 

“WHAT-SO-WHO? A FOLK ASSEMBLY? DO THEY PLAY BOB DYLAN SONGS, OR MAYBE SOMETHING BY THE KINGSTON TRIO? I THOUGHT THAT WENT OUT OF STYLE!”

 

Rath chortled and spit a mouthful of black coffee.

 

“Look, I need you to be serious about this, okay? They sent a petition to my office...”

 

Carefully and deliberately, he read aloud from a page of text scribbled on notebook paper.

 

“RESOLVED – THE RESIDENT ASSOCIATION OF EVERGREEN ESTATES DEMANDS AN IMMEDIATE RELEASE OF OUR NEIGHBOR, AIMESWORTH HEFTI. HE IS BEING HELD WITHOUT ANY LEGITIMATE CHARGES, FOR A PURPOSE OF INTIMIDATION. WE CONSIDER HIM TO BE A POLITICAL PRISONER. THIS UNLAWFUL CONDUCT WILL NOT BE TOLERATED! THE PEOPLE DEMAND THAT YOU TAKE ACTION ON THIS MATTER, IMMEDIATELY!”

 

Moerlein shook his head and groaned as if in pain.

 

“Where the heck did you get that nonsense, Tom?”

 

His contact in the northeastern sector rustled pages of evidence while frowning.

 

“It’s from a known perpetrator at the trailer community on our border with Ashtabula County. A guy who likes to rile up the faithful at church services and summer events. That patch of filled-in swampland has been a headache for me, ever since I took over this department! I wish it had been bulldozed, years ago!”

 

The Ohio executive had to rub his eyes. He was incredibly tired for being only a few minutes away from holding a press conference. Yet somehow, his affectation of being a sober, civil, caretaker for his principality was still in place.

 

“Sheriff, all I can say is that you need to handle your own business. I do mine, you do yours!”

 

The local lawman did not take this brush-off lightly.

 

“Okay Mark, okay. I’ll remember your flippant response. Thanks for nothing, old friend! Have a great day! I hope you can stay out of the newspaper headlines, and off those evening newscasts! Do your best! Good luck!”

 

The phone line clicked loudly in his ear. It was an irritating noise, but offered a quick end to their debate. He was already behind schedule for the morning press conference. Good fortune gave him easy access, however, to a corridor that linked his suite of rooms with the spot where microphones and cameras were waiting.

 

He arrived in a rumpled, brown suit, still tugging his necktie into place. A gaggle of reporters were present, already checking their watches and cell phones for the current time.

 

“I apologize for being tardy, everyone. My work in our capital is never done. There is no opening statement today, I think you all know that our former president has now resumed his service in a non-concurrent term. This will affect every state, and particularly, ours, because we had so many voters here who chose him as their candidate.”

 

Shouts and jeers echoed around the confined space. Then, a representative from the press corps stood up, donned his eyeglasses, and gestured with an ink pen. He was bald, overweight, and dressed in a tweed jacket.

 

“Governor, my name is C. Jalen Poke, from the Dayton Daily News. I’d like to ask about a story that just hit the wire services today. Do you have any information about the Asatru Folk Assembly making an incursion into Ohio? Is it true they have partnered with some residents of a mobile-home park, living in a rural part of a northern county?”

 

Moerlein chewed his tongue. There was little time to compose himself for a coherent response. He attempted to dodge the query, convincingly.

 

“A-Whatru? Who? Who is that? I’ve never heard of them before! Next question!”

 

Mr. Poke refused to be turned aside.

 

“I’d like to read this statement from one of their videos, posted in 2020, if I may...”

 

He flipped open a ring binder, and thumbed through pages of printed material.

 

“Being a Confederate is no longer about where you live or even on which side your ancestors fought. You can be from Ohio or Pennsylvania or New York because what is now happening in New Orleans and elsewhere in the South, is your battle too. The same interests that are demanding an ISIS-like erasure of history when it comes to the statues of Confederate heroes are the same forces tightening the leftist and globalist stranglehold on y’all up in the North, and those of you out West, and those of you from coast to coast and around the world... These people are not just after Southerners, they’re after you too!”

 

Upon vocalizing this radical missive, the professional scribe explained his reasoning for pointing out the group’s existence, and entry into their stream of consciousness.

 

“A secretary at our publication found this online. The SPLC, the Southern Poverty Law Center, used it in a listing. They have apparently connected with some residents in our state, individuals who have been known to hold views outside of the mainstream. That has me thinking that bigger things could be happening, very soon. So, I ask you, has your office been made aware of what allegedly happened? And if so, what steps will you take to protect our citizens from harm?”

 

The Buckeye leader felt sick at his stomach. But before he could reply, another reporter interrupted. She was younger, slender, and visibly contrarian. Her tattoos and piercings stood out in the gathering of primped and proper members of the press.

 

“Sir, my name is Libby K. Raal, presently a writer-at-large. Though my past history has been with the Cleveland Plain Dealer. With regard to the previous inquiry, are you aware that a prisoner being held near Chardon is someone with ties to the aforementioned clan of militia activists? A man said to be unrepentant for aggressive encounters with members of the media, including myself?”

 

Governor Moerlein had started to swoon. He was flushed and overheated. Finally, an aide appeared, looking boyish, nerdy, and unprepared for his improvised service.

 

“THANK YOU, THANK YOU! THAT’S ALL WE HAVE TIME FOR TODAY! THERE IS A CONFERENCE CALL IN FIFTEEN MINUTES, I REGRET THAT THIS SESSION HAS TO CONCLUDE, SO ABRUPTLY. HAVE A GOOD DAY EVERYONE! THANK YOU VERY MUCH!”