IWW Olympia Branch
Train Riding subCommittee
Wall Reportback pt. 2
My Wob, what a time to be alive! As the civil war’s storm clouds gather on the horizon and the lure of panic and despair yawns in the widening gap in our souls, why don’t we take five minutes to relax and get another dose of the self-destructive revolutionary adventures of everyone’s favorite loser, Olmypia’s own Gonzo Wobbly! Or maybe you’re too busy, in which case, go do your thing.
To recap: the cat-headed commander of the revolution, General Strike, had deployed our committee to the borderline, the hip happening hell world of the nightmare that is America’s headlines, on a mutual aide mission to assist the Tribe in their work to stop Trump’s wall.
Volunteering for watch, I had just been informed that the machine guns in the distance were from “ANTIFA”
That’s right fellow worker, beyond the official non-violent prayer camp of the Carrizo/Comecrudo tribe, there are wild and mysterious militias, armed to the teeth and ready to declare war on the federal government at a moment’s notice. As much as we above-ground leftists do for our cause, we have vast armies of underground allies, which prowl invisibly though the margins of these reports.
The organization of this camp was high. Every night someone was on watch, with walkie-talkies and headlamps provided by the camp’s inventoried supply tent.
I patrolled the cemetery that made up the northern half of camp which led me past tombstones until I ran straight into the Levee, that steep slope up to the Border Patrol’s rampart, the road upon which they would build their racist wall of death.
I was reading the names of those comrades who died fighting fascists in world war two. Their graves were now in the path of Trump’s destructive wrath; everything within 300 yards either side of the Levee was scheduled for annihilation.
As fascists roared darkly past on the Levee above I offered telepathic red cards to the ghosts of these fallen soldiers. They faced the doom of their time and were overcome by it. Soon we all may be too.
Suddenly my walkie talkie crackled to life, a seductive voice spoke:
“Oh officer! I love the way you look in that uniform!”
It was T. the Texan Tankie, taunting the government creeps assigned to listen to our coms.
“Goddamn it comrade, this is the security channel, make your jokes on 13.”
“Oh handcuff me please!”
Morale was high.
The next day I helped T. set up a tent the size of a small movie theater and he showed me his Venezuelan and Cuban flags while we listened to Democracy Now on his phone. I’ll fight in the trenches with a Tankie any day, I believe it’s mostly social media that keeps us at each other's throats. That being said I wont skip an opportunity to dunk on some bullshit.
Another constant provider of positive morale and delicious food was D, our breakfast and dinner chef. D was a professional from the world of fine dining and he retired to cook full time for the revolution.
After days of chopping wood and carrying water. T. invited us all to go for a dip in that lazy river, the Rio Grande. Fully aware that surveillance was ubiquitous and such a vacation would call down the wrath of “La Migra,” we loaded a comrade’s van with crusty waterprotector, commie, anarcho-freak, train riding partisans and we made our way across the field to bathe in the water that divides the world.
There we were in no-man’s land. They say you can’t jump in the same river twice, but I don’t know what they’re talking about because I jumped in that river plenty of times. The bottom is full of garbage and mystery and clothes, shoes, backpacks and bodies. Luckily we avoided finding any of the last one.
After splashing around and swimming and taunting the camera embedded in the bluff on the river’s edge we clambered back into the van and were immediately surrounded by the green and white SUVs of Border Patrol.
“How’s it going?” The federal agent asked T. through the window, fish hook of threat dangling in his tone.
“It’s going GREAT! Just went for a swim in the river, y’all had a chance to do that yet?”
“No..”
“You HAVEN’T? You’re missing out!” T. being an 8 foot tall cigarette smoking canon ball hopped up caffeine pills and energy drinks, was amazing at talking to goons.
“No, well, it’s dirty in that river you know.”
“So are we!” the van replied in unison.
This volley might have disarmed a molecule of aggression, but the machine men still had to probe our lives more thoroughly.
None of us had ID’s, which they desperately wanted to get their greasy fingers on. While they asked each of us in escalating disbelief about our lack of ID’s I got my first chance to look into the eyes of one of these particular brand of fascist.
Fellow worker, evil does something to the face. In addition to the obvious strain on the small muscles around the eyes, the skin begins to rot from the inside out, giving off a putrid putty matte.
His shit eating grin of course was to let us know that he would just as soon murder us as let us go, there was no mistaking the pure menace of someone whose wife collects little porcelain dolls and keeps them in a glass case, for fucks sake where are they breeding these monsters?
After personally asking each of us the unrealistic question: “How are you doing?” and giving particular attention to our Mexican-American comrade, the beast lets us go.
I shudder on the drive back to camp, remembering the face of that micro-Trump, a soft turd that sat too long in the toilet without being flushed. The eyes of a boy with a magnifying glass on top of an ant hill. Pure giddy menace.
We drove back to camp and continued with the day-to-day of digging the proverbial trenches for what we can only hope will be that epic struggle for survival and dignity. Because as I’m sure you’re aware, fellow worker, the insects are all dying. Not to mention the fact that the whole border system is designed to kill and children are dying and being sexually abused in government custody.
Seeing these Border Patrol agents with their 21st century robocop armor, with their vehicles and weapons and surveillance technology made one thing perfectly clear: they are intent on realizing their goal. They are willing to kill as many people as it takes to make sure the earth becomes a smoldering trash heap ruled by nazis.
From the west coast to our eastern outpost in San Juan, revolutionaries are setting up opposition to the Wall and working in a variety of solidarity projects to help those most affected by this crisis engineered by this fucking oligarchy.
Side note of Gonzo Wobbly strategic contemplation:
On the tactic of occupying the areas outside ICE offices across the country-- it’s admirable and it’s important to do something-- but so far it seems pretty ineffective.
What ever happened to airports? Every time airports are the sites of protests the government has been forced to give concessions. During the Muslim travel ban, and the government shutdown, airports being occupied was what turned things around.
Does it have to be symbolically related to airports? What are we trying to do? Have thematic consistency to help the writers of the made-for-VR movie they make about our times in 2065? It doesn’t have to have anything to do with airports! Airports are where they freak out and offer concessions to get us to stop causing trouble. That’s all that should matter.
Coming up next, the conclusion of this trip to the borderlands, with more rivers, goons, anti-fascist super soldiering, and sweaty chainsawing under the surveillance and sun.
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