United

So long, so many hours pacing the polished floor of the Hall. A divided people are like sand under the foot of the enemy, again and I again I harangued my compatriots. Stone divided is merely a path on which to tread, but stone untied is a monolith that can obfuscate the mightiest foe. And they were all like, dude, calm down. So I have a good vocabulary and I get carried away sometimes; so what?

We are in trouble, they know as well as I. The very fact that we are having such a lengthy debate about whether or not to band together should be evidence enough that we must. The legions of our foes march ever nearer our borders, and still we squabble among ourselves. Yes, the world is wide, and we could fly far from here, to safety and new lands, but this is our home.

The real problem is that we're a bunch of punks. The feds are bad verging on pure evil, but we aren't the greatest people ourselves. We have our own kind of justice, and if no one gets hurt, no one gets charged. Every man of us carries a judge, jury and executioner on his right hip. Except the lefties.

We live a pretty good life, and we've found a way to get along in this harsh new world, far from the all seeing eye of Big Brother. We don't pay taxes anymore, because somehow when you ride around a herd of cattle twelve hours a day and sleep under the stars wondering when you'll have to get up for your next watch; it's hard to take a tax man with his little briefcase seriously. We just have other things to worry about. Like semicolons.

I took the makeshift podium to make my case one last time. I slowly pulled my pistol from its holster, tipped it upward and slowly pulled back the hammer. These men know the language of the gun.

"Look, it's simple. People are coming to kill you and burn down your homes. Are you going to sit there and argue, or stand up and draw your gun?"