The Reset Manifesto
Chapter 19

Copyright© 2016 by Lazlo Zalezac

“Peter was a dedicated and loving family man.”

Patricia and Charles looked at each other and rolled their eyes. They were family and knew just how much Peter was dedicated to family. Rebecca and George nodded their heads in agreement.

“Any night when Peter was in town you would see Rebecca walking with him, hand in hand along the river like teenagers in love. They would pause, look at some sight, and then continue on their way. They served as an example that a solid and deep love can be long lasting.”

George patted the hand of his mother. She nodded to him in appreciation.

“Everyone knew of Peter’s passion for fishing. Many a weekend was spent on the river with his wife and son fishing. I think Peter served as a role model as a father with how he always took the time to spend a day engaged in such a fine Father/Son activity.”

Patricia looked over at George who was wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.

Charles muttered, “Fishing?”

“What do you want?”

The speaker was a big brute, chosen for the position of gatekeeper for the reason that he was intimidating. He spoke the words with a bluntness that made you think he was having trouble forming them. More often than not, men like this came across as being as dumb as a post. It was an act. You don’t put someone too stupid to think for himself at the gate to keep people out. Dumb people would keep the right ones out and let the wrong ones in. If you want to survive in a tough environment you get a smart guy to guard the gate.

“Give Max this note.”

“Why the f•©k should I do that?”

“Because he’ll kick your ass if you don’t.”

Two minutes later, Martin was seated at a rickety old table in the main room of the house. It wasn’t a residence, it was the headquarters of Max’s organization (gang if you would prefer). Seated across from him was Max, a whipcord thin man who stared across the table with dead eyes. Just to make sure that there was no question about who was in charge, there was 9mm pistol on the table in front of Max.

Seated to Martin’s right was Jamal, Max’s second in command. There was a 9mm pistol in front of him. His didn’t have the safety on.

“Who the f•©k do you think you are coming here like this?”

“I’m Martin. I was in same business as you.”

“You were? What happened? Some young punk chase you out?”

“No. I cleaned up my neighborhood. I’ve kept everyone out who wants to deal drugs.”

“I’ve never heard of anyone doing any shit like that. What neighborhood are you from?”

“I’m from New York.”

“This is St. Louis, not New York. So get your ass out of here and go back to New York where you belong. Don’t ever tell anyone the name on that piece of paper. I will kill you.”

“She needs your help.”

“If anyone needed my help, I would know.”

“Oh, you know. You just don’t want to admit it.”

“If you don’t start talking sense, I’ll cap your ass.”

Martin looked disgusted. “Drop the ghetto act. I know you went to college for two years on an academic scholarship but had to quit when the money ran out. I’m here to talk to Max, the human being, and not Max, the f•©king gangster.”

“Max never went to college.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No shit?”

“No shit! Now shut up, I want to hear what the man has to say.”

“There was a shooting in your daughter’s neighborhood three weeks ago.”

Max nodded his head.

“An asshole by the name of Victor — even his name says he’s an asshole — is moving into the area where your daughter lives. He’s in the same business as you. Unlike you, he’s getting paid to stir up racial troubles in the neighborhood. This town is about to blow apart and you know it. You can stop it.”

“Why would I want to do that? I went to college. I made better grades than half the White assholes, I had to drop out and they got their degree. I learned my lesson. Whites have it made. Blacks are second class citizens.”

“The reason your scholarship stopped was the man funding it was arrested for murdering his business partner. The only lesson to learn from that is don’t rely on money from a crook.”


“You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I can prove it.”

“Prove it. Right here. Right now. Or get the f•©k out of here.”

“Check your email. There are links to everything you need to know.”

“Jamal. Bring me my laptop.”

A few minutes later, Max was getting ready to log into his email account.

“Not that one. MaxCares2010, password ‘goodFather123.’ The F is capitalized.”

Max reached out for his pistol. Martin stared him in the eyes. Jamal was holding his pistol and had it pointed at Martin.

“Max. I know everything about you. I know everything about what is happening around you. I know that Jamal’s real name is Edgar.”

“Mother F•©ker!”

“Max. I know you. I know you’re an honest man. You might sell drugs, but when you make a promise, you deliver. You need to read what’s in that email. What you will find in it is going to piss you off.”

Max went back to the laptop and opened his email. His eyes widened on reading the subject line on one of the emails, ‘Links to everything you need to know.’

Turning to Jamal, Martin said, “I don’t know why your mother named you that. I mean, Edgar Wilkes? What kind of name is that for Black guy?”

“She never told.”

“You must have gone through hell in school. No wonder your school record has you engaged in one fight after another.”

“What can I say? I don’t take shit from nobody.”

“Did you know... ?”

Max quit paying attention to the discussion between Jamal and Martin. He clicked the link titled ‘Max’s College Years.’ Everything was there, even images of the papers he had signed for the scholarship. There were copies of some of the papers he wrote for his classes. There was information about the guy who funded the scholarship. There was even information about some of the other kids on scholarship. One of them had gone on to be a lawyer despite having lost support in his Junior year.

Jamal stopped talking and looked over at Max shocked to see a tear running down his cheek. Max was the toughest guy he’d ever known. He was shocked.

In a soft voice, Martin suggested, “Read the link ‘Racism in St. Louis.’ You’ll understand why I’m here.”

“Jamal, send somebody to get some subs. I want a tuna fish.”

“I’ll take a roast beef. Ask Franklin what he wants.”

“Who’s Franklin?”

“He’s the guy sitting out front with your guys. He’s pissed that I came in here without him.”

“Take his order and send him in here.”

“Sure, Max.”

As soon as Jamal was out of the room, Max gestured to the computer. “This is impossible.”

“The guy who gave that to me has over a million people documented like that. He claims to be able to pull up that same amount of information, about anyone, in fifteen minutes. I believe him.”

“Are you working for this guy?”

“No. I’m working with him. He asked me to do something and told me how I could do it. I liked what he had to say so I joined the team.”

“A team?”

“As far as I can tell, there are about fifty to a hundred of us working on this project.”

“What am I going to find when I read this stuff?”

“You’re going to find that people want to distract us from all of the videos showing them to be criminals. Calling them criminals is the wrong word. They are slavers. They want to turn us into slaves.”

“Slavery? Are you trying to convince me that this is all some kind of make-the-niggers-pick-cotton shit?”

“No. They want everyone to be slaves. Blacks, Whites, Hispanics, and Asians. They might not want to put us in metal chains, but they want to work us to death to make them rich. They want us to live in squalor while they’re living in mansions. Everyone is going to be their nigger.”

“You’ve been using your own product.”

“You’re already their slave. You’re making them rich right now.”


“Max, who do you think is funding the drug business? Each time you sell a dime bag, they’re getting a couple cents. There are a lot of dime bags being sold and they’re getting rich. There are thousands of guys like you giving them money. If you don’t believe me, read about it. It’s all there.”

Max sat back and stared at the table top. “What’s this got to do with my daughter?”

“Her neighborhood is going to be ground zero when the race shit explodes.”

Franklin and Jamal entered the room. They were talking softly with each other.


“What? You need to come here and listen to what this guy has to say.”


“I’m leading a slave revolt.”

Jamal laughed at what he thought was a joke. His laughter died when Franklin said, “He’s not joking.”

Finding a needle in a haystack is a tough thing to accomplish. You have to suspect that there’s a needle in it. You have to methodically go through the haystack looking for the needle. You have to recognize the needle when you see it.

The previous election had shown that someone had planted a lot of needles in a lot of haystacks. This election, there was a concerted effort to find the needles before anyone got stuck by one. They thought they knew what they were looking for. They watched blogs, websites, twitter messages and every other public way of running a campaign.

All they needed was a week’s warning. They could call a world of hurt down on anyone bucking the system. There were so many ways to shut someone up. All it took was an IRS audit, a criminal charge that is later dropped, or even plain old-fashioned intimidation. Rumors of child pornography was a weapon of last resort but it could destroy anyone.

They didn’t think of teenagers sharing videos from one cell phone to another. Who would care about that? Kids send stupid videos to each other all of the time. Check out this video of Walter taking a facial off his skateboard. Isn’t it funny? Ha ha! Except this wasn’t Walter taking a facial off his skateboard. It was Wendy’s mom or dad pleading for people to elect someone with integrity. Even seeing it, it was dismissed.

The day before the election, a text message was sent out to the cell phones of everyone in a voting district. How was that possible? Cell towers know what cell phones are in their coverage area. The messages were sent from the cell towers with reply to addresses of either the Democrat Party Headquarters or the Republican Party Headquarters. Once again, they were blindsided.

The press’s effort to counter this campaign from nowhere focused on the messages being an illegal attempt to circumvent the rightful election of a Democrat or Republican candidate to the contested office. That didn’t go over too well. The candidates they were claiming had the right to run for office had already been exposed as scum.

Everyone has heard of reverse psychology. It’s where you tell someone not to do something, knowing full well they’ll do it because you told them not to do it. Without meaning it, the press had just engaged in the largest exercise of reverse psychology in history.

In St. Louis, two crowds of protesters faced each other in the street. One side carried signs with slogans like “Kill Whitey.” The other side carried signs with slogans like “Kill Blackie.” The police, rather than standing between the two crowds, were standing off to the side watching the protest develop. The press was out in full force. This was going to be big news.

The tension really ratcheted up when a couple of guys stepped out from each group and advanced towards each other in the center of the street. The news cameras were aimed at the scene. There were interruptions of the standard broadcasts for special news bulletins about the race riots in St. Louis.

According to some versions of the King Arthur Legends, King Arthur and Mordred met in the middle of a battlefield to discuss a truce. Neither side trusted the other. Each leader told the knights with him that if anyone draws a sword that they are to attack. A knight who was part of the negotiating party disturbed a bush. A snake came out from under the bush and bit him. The knight, intending to kill the snake, drew his sword. The truce failed and a battle began with Mordred killed while Arthur lay dying of a mortal wound.

In St. Louis on the night before an election, two leaders, one Black and one White, were meeting in the middle of the street. Their armies were behind them with protest signs waving violently in the air. All it would take is a little nudge and the riot would begin.

A gunshot was fired from the side.

From the press there were excited shouts into the microphone, “Shots have been fired!”

Everyone in the two armies dropped their signs. As one, they all turned to look at where the shot originated with looks of disgust on their faces. The police were busy wrestling the guy to the ground. The groups turned back to face each other.

As if nothing had happened, the leaders turned back to face each other, they chatted for a couple seconds, and shook hands. Their second in commands walked away. The crowd dispersed. The National Guard was left sitting in their trucks a mile away expecting to be activated any minute. The press had just covered the worst race riot in the history of St. Louis.

The two leaders walked over to the press.

“It’s over.”

“Go home.”

“There’s nothing here for you to see.”

People who had been watching the news were reminded of what was written in Ann Randal’s book, An Anger Directed. The outcome of the “riot” was exactly what she had described. People picked up her book to reread it wondering if they had missed something the first time.

At the national level, the outcome of the elections was exactly what was expected. Democrats and Republicans held elected offices. The correct presidential candidate had been elected. Once everyone was confirmed in office the national party leaders would meet to decide what to do about the state parties. For now, it was time to consolidate power, make contacts with the supporters, and start raising money for the next election. Running the country was a full time business and the first rule of business was to stay in business.

All of that independent nonsense was only happening at a local level. Some very bright political minds studied the outcome of the elections. Three ‘battleground’ states had chosen a side and it wasn’t Democrat or Republican. It was Independent. In two of the states, the Independents outnumbered the combined Democrat and Republican presence. That was a problem and they were sure that it was going to be a major hurdle in the next election.

They had no idea what their real problem was.

While the attention of the political pundits was focused at the state level, no one realized that the power structure at the national level was disintegrating. A Democrat or Republican might be holding a seat in the House or Senate, but it wasn’t the right Democrat or Republican. The seat wasn’t all that important; it was the committee where everything of any significance happened.

Unfortunately for the people who had specific agendas, the committees had been ripped apart by scandals. The powerful men and women who had held those committee positions had been prosecuted for their crimes. Who would dare bring charges against such powerful people and pursue them through to convictions? For that matter, what judge would allow the case to come to trial? The answer was simple: prosecutors and judges who were being blackmailed for terribly dark secrets. It took threats unimaginable to force them into actually doing their jobs. Each conviction had sent shock waves through those who thought they were running things.

Putting someone on a powerful committee might seem a simple matter. Pick someone and put them there. The problem is when the pool of candidates is of unproven individuals. Even after two or three terms in office, the person didn’t have the kind of political contacts that permitted him or her to truly wield power. It was a matter of knowing whose phone call to answer on the first ring versus the second ring. It was that subtle little difference that distinguished the truly powerful from the apprentice. Unfortunately, they were left with apprentices in the senior positions and rank amateurs filling the remaining seats.

Things weren’t going well.

Protesters: It seemed like they were everywhere.

Crowds in front of the capitol building carried signs protesting everything Congress was doing. It reached a peak during the debates about a controversial trade law – one which would provide financial supports for companies to import products that they had outsourced for manufacture in foreign countries. Congressman arriving and departing from their offices were treated to chants of, “Don’t pass the trade law.”

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