THE MASONIC PURGE
Camp 451, in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, where many captured Masons would live and die, as photographed in 1934
It was early the morning of October 31, 1931, and ORRA Supreme Chief George Patton, the second-in-command of the entire Union, sat in his office in Philadelphia reviewing some files on Project Percival when an orderly burst into the room, an anxious look on his face.
"All hail! Comrade-Patriot Patton, sir," the young officer in blue said, short of breath, "It's the President on the line for you, sir."
Patton saluted back, down low and very cool, as was his habit, and set the folder down. As the orderly left the room and closed the door behind him, Patton picked up his telephone receiver. "All hail! This is Supreme Chief Patton. How may I assist you today, my Atheling?"
"I woke up today and felt stroke of absolute brilliance, Patton, my man," Steele's crisp, kindly voice said on the other end of the line, launching into another "Steele Moment of Brilliance" without so much as a hail back. Patton was used to it. The President of America continued, "I think it is brilliant, at any rate, but feel free to tell me otherwise." Steele was being serious. Patton and Steele had bonded significantly over the years since Patton replaced Dewey as Supreme Chief of ORRA. Many of the social vermin of Philly knew that only Patton had the guts to say no to President Joe. Even more said Patton was the best and only friend that Steele ever had or trusted.
Patton took a sip of coffee from his plain brown mug, and leaned back in his buffalo-hide chair. It was more comfortable than the wheelchair in which he spent most of his days. "Yes, sir. As you are aware, I am quite willing to give my opinion on all things which you wish to hear it on," he said matter-of-fact, unlike anyone else in the Union ever dared. "You are free to take or reject that advice at you leisure. What is this stroke of genius, my leader? You have me quite interested." He sat the mug down and loosened his black tie while propping the phone receiver up on his shoulder
Steele continued to sound in a good mood, but also anxious to spill the beans on this new masterpiece. "Well..." he said in a hushed tone, as if he were about to tell a secret to a schoolyard friend, "I am sure you know my opinion on secret societies outside of Church and Party, correct?"
Patton ran a hand through his slicked-back graying hair. "Yes, my Atheling. The Office of Racial and Religious Affairs whole-heartedly supports you in your long-standing mission to stamp out secrecy within our glorious Union. Last month, we levied increased taxes upon the Masonic Lodges of America, as per your orders."
"That is correct," said Steele. "However, Georgy old boy, when I was doing my morning nude aerobics I arrived at a wonderful solution to the problem of the Secret Societies. We exterminate them. Burn down the lodges or re-purpose them for government or Church use, and destroy their texts. We take all the membership rolls and send them to camps. What do you think?"
Patton laughed heartily, "Well, my Atheling, I wish I had brilliant ideas like that early in the morning. I can scarcely read through the morning mail! I think this is a wonderful idea, sir. We have no need for secrecy in our nation outside of the Church and the State. What is a secret society in this day and age aside from a breeding ground for secular, Loomie drivel and treason? You give the order and my ORRA boys will turn every masonic lodge into a smokehouse."
Steele replied with a happy tone, "Oh good, I am so happy you agree, George. You know I respect you. If you accomplish this goal quickly, I will issue a large amount of funding for your pet project."
Patton sat upright again, his eyes wide. "Project Fountain? Sir, you'd greenlight it?"
"Yes," said Steele, "I would indeed. I want you to walk again as much as you. You are a strong and iron-willed American man of Pinnacle Blood, and you don't deserve to fester your life away in a wheelchair. I will ensure that the Office of Health and Wellness and the Office of Artifacts and Antiquities pool their resources to help you with your dream."
Patton smiled a brilliantly white, toothy smile, his lips pulling back in a grin both evil and joyful. "Mr. President, you let me launch Project Fountain and I will kill every Masonic sumbitch that ever lived, sir."
"Good," said Steele. "Do what must be done. Do not hesitate. All hail! Oh, and how is Grace, George?"
"She is fine. She's fixing a stuffed turkey and all the fixings tonight." George's mouth watered when he thought about his wife's homecooking. They had servants, but she preferred to cook the dishes herself. "How is Milli, sir?"
Steele laughed heartily and told Patton, "Well, don't expect an Arkham woman to cook her own meals, George, not since Plymouth. But our personal cooks are preparing a four-course meal. I think I'll have to loosen my belt after I gorge myself tonight."
"I know the feeling," Patton said with a small chortle. "After dinner, I'm gonna take my jackboots off, kick the old dogs up, and listen to the ball game on the talkiebox with my boy. Who do you think is gonna win tonight, sir?"
Steele sounded as if he were pondering it over for a moment. Then he said, "I think we're gonna see the Yankees go all the way tonight. New Antioch has a hell of a team this season, and Hank Collins is a great pitcher. Almost untouchable. And they say it's a pitcher's game. But I think Moe Williams is gonna bash some cowskins out of the park for the Yanks. But you know me, ever a Yankees fan, so I might be a tad biased."
"You know, sir," Patton began slyly, his voice low, "I could have Collins break a leg in an unfortunate dugout water-cooler accident if you really want to see the Yanks kick some ass."
Steele scoffed and chuckled, "No, that's all right. May the most Pinnacle Blooded team win! Happy Thanksgiving, George. Give my respects to the battleaxe and enjoy that turkey."
"Happy Thanksgiving to you as well, my Atheling! All hail!"
"All hail!"
***
That night, October 31, 1931...
A jet-black military train passed through Union Junction, New Canaan, not far from Metropolis. It's whistled shrieked through the night and steam rose up to to join the full moon overhead. The headlights on the train made it look like an angler fish speeding through the dark, for it was pitch black all around aside from the moonbeams piercing through the pine trees along the track. Branches could be heard scraping the top of the cars like bony fingers as it the mighty armored transport sped toward its destination. Andrew Carpenter, an ORRA officer of some twenty-three years of age, found himself nervously clutching his Colonel Pierce M-1925 Trenchsweeper as he sat on one of the train's many wooden benches. It was cramped and not a little claustrophobic. A corporal, Peterson or some other, sat on his right checking his sidearm, while Private Colby Hodge to Carpenter's left, also carrying a Trenchsweeper, eyed the window anxiously.
"There's nothing to see out there, Hodge," Carpenter said with a sigh. "It's too damn dark. Just be calm."
Colby Hodge turned to look at him, cockeyed, his pinch-crown hat bowed at the front from pressing against the train car's glass. "I can see just fine. Sometimes darkness can be, uh, meditative and stuff, Carp. Mind ya own bee's wax, buster." Hodge's heavy New York accent stuck out like a sore thumb down here in the old Mexican country. While the Mexican race was long gone, erased from existence before Carpenter and Hodge were even born, it was still a bit odd to hear a New Yorker down here in New Canaan. Most people talked with what they called the "cowboy sound." Carpenter did, and he was known to have yeed a few haws in his lifetime. Regardless of his compatriot's odd accent, he was glad they were bunkmates. Hodge was good people.
Carpenter checked the ejection port on his gun for the thirtieth time as he shook his head at Hodge's own increasing discomfort and worry. "You never been to a purge, have ya, pardner?"
Hodge turned to him again, leering away from his beloved window once more. "You... you have been purging before, Carp?" he asked, mouth agape.
With a shrug, Carpenter replied, "Well... I mean I have been to the Patriot-Saints Day Eve Nighstalker events. Always dressed up as Cromwell. Beat a few Infees in the ghettos, at least what is left of them, but I mean I never killed no one, I don't rightly think. I ain't afly of killin'. Still, I don't think it'd be too hard. When you know the jimmy-joe you're beatin' is a no-good Un-American barrel boarder, I think you just let Jesus take the wheel."
"Jesus? You mean you're possessed by spirits when you purge?" Hodge asked, raising an eyebrow.
Carpenter chuckled and said, "Well, I don't rightly know about that. Let's just say when Uncle Sam tells you it's a-okay to beat the hell outta a sumbitch or put him down, you stop worryin' about the specifics. If Uncle Sam tells me some secret society boys need to be a taught the definition of a free and open society, then I reckon I'll oblige like a good Oh-Double-R-A boy is trained to do. Jus' let yer trainin' take over, Hodge."
Corporal Peterson, or whatever his name was, shot a glassy-eyed glare at Hodge and snarled, "Why don't you just follow your damn orders and leave the thinkin' for the ones with actual brains, Private Hodge." He raised the service pistol up to his own head and tapped the side of his navy blue kepi hat.
"Sir, yes sir," said Hodge glumly as he went back to his window. A dim light could be seen on the horizon.
A voiced boomed from another seat up at the front of the car. "There she is, boys! Metropolis! Shining gem of New Canaan. Ain't she a sight?"
"YEEEE-HOOO!" came a cackling chorus of roots and toots from the 2nd New Canaan ORRA regiment.
As Carpenter, Hodge, and that stuck-up corporal joined in with the cries, the rear door slid open to their car and a colonel poked his head in. His blue peaked visor cap adorned with the ORRA Eagle paired nicely with his handlebar mustache and the scarf thrown around his neck. "All right, boys! Ten minutes to showtime! Whose ready to kill some fuckin' Loomie sumbitches for President Steele?!"
"YEEEEE-YEEEE!" cheered the men, smacking the butts of their rifles against the wood floor of the car.
"
Ohhhhhhhhh... Susanna, don't you cry for me!" the Colonel ripped out in verse.
"I COME TO NEW CANAAN TO CLAIM MY DESTINY!" the men sang along as the Colonel walked down the aisle toward the front of the car, continuing to smack their rifles to the beat of the song.
"Well it rained all night the day I left, the weather it was dry!"
"THE SUN SO HOT I FROZE TO DEATH! SUSANNA DON'T YOU CRY!"
Even Hodge was now singing along with the best of them, wrapping an arm around Carpenter as they raised their fists and bellowed out the tune. Following the Colonel were two men in armored plate and chainmail, with massive tubes on their back. Liberty Torches. The mere sight of an ORRA torchboy was enough to make the bravest man think twice. Their goggles were perched atop their coal-scuttle helmets and the chain mail and fire retardant material that normally hung over their nose and mouth was loose to the side, revealing their wide grins. Their metal-soled boots clunked on the floor, joining the cacophony of rifle butts.
"I had a dream the other night, innit the Prophet said to me!" the Colonel raised his gloved hand in the air in a victory fist as the torchboys joined in.
"MY BOY YOU GO NEW CANAAN WAY! MANIFEST DESTINY! OH SUSANNA, DON'T YOU CRY FOR ME, I COME TO NEW CANAAN TO CLAIM MY DESTINY!"
The bustling city was coming ever closer into view, finally illuminating the outside world as the dense foliage and trees gave way to open dry sandy earth, streets, and lamplights. As the Colonel opened the door at the front of the train car Carpenter and the boys were in, he turned and saluted them, raising his hand in a fascist salute, as he finished the song. "Oh I will soon be in Metropolis, the city of tomorrow!"
"I'LL BE SO RICH THAT I WILL NEVER HAVE TO BEG OR BORROW! I'LL BUY YOU UP A DIAMOND RING, SUSANNA DON'T YOU CRY! YEEEEEEEEE-HAW!" the men screamed with almost mindless fervor, standing up and returning the salute.
"ALL HAIL!" they cried in unison.
When the train pulled into the station, the men were still on their feet, weapons in hand. It was late in the evening, past dark of course, but there were still many civilians and personnel mingling around Cumberland Station, the main stop in Metropolis and where the armored ORRA train was pulling in. When the side-doors of the train cars flew open, dozens of yodeling and braying ORRA boys jumped down, scaring the daylights out of bystanders. Within seconds they were neatly lining up along the platform. Non-commissioned officers, like Private Peterson, used batons to quickly cajole their men into formation.
With a bullhorn taken from under his trenchcoat, the Colonel yelled his commands. "All right, men! You had your turkey and said your prayers of thanksgiving earlier today. Now it's time for a pack of traitors to pray to the Almighty for forgiveness! Death always to traitors! The 12th Street Masonic Lodge is to be ransacked, its records retrieved, and then set alight, in that order! We move fast and quick, in and out. Let's go! Everyone, behind me! March!"
It was rather alarming to most onlookers to see heavily armed ORRA troops tramping and marching down their streets at 9 o'clock at night on Thanksgiving Day, of all times. Most people were just listening to the National Rounders Championship game on their talkiebox and loosening their belts from the earlier feasts when platoons of deadly soldiers scurried past their doorsteps. It wasn't long before RUMP squadcars began to pull up alongside the ORRA platoons and demanded to know what was going on. "Official business under orders of the President" was the only reply they were given, incensing them but leaving them with little choice but to stand back and let them carry on. Little children especially watched the troops fly past. Carpenter noticed two little boys and their baby sister watching them from their bedroom window. It didn't take him long to see they were focusing on the torchboys, who now were sporting their full face-masks and carried their Liberty Torches in hand, plugged into their backpack tanks. They were probably terrifying to the kids. "Oh well," said Carpenter to himself, "They should be afraid. Without fear, the law is toothless." While he muttered that phrase without too much consciousness, it was part of the ORRA Manual he was required to memorize to join up. He had memorized all twenty pages when he enlisted at age 18. His dad had been an ORRA man, and so had his dad, one of the originals during Little Mac's Immolation of Mexico.
What played out that night in Metropolis also was occurring around the Republican Union. The 12th Street Lodge was broken into, its doors ripped off its hinges. All paintings and interesting pieces of decor were thrown in unmarked trucks from the Office of Antiquities and Artifacts. Bundles of papers and shelves full of documents were hastily thrown into sacks and marched back to Cumberland Station, thrown over the shoulders of young ORRA troops. Carpenter was one of the men who stormed the treasury room, where a clerk was busy counting money raised during the Thanksgiving charity ball that had just gone on a few hours earlier. Carpenter opened fire with his Trenchsweeper, blowing the man away and sending the bespectacled middle-aged man crashing to the floor, his blood pooling on a royal blue carpet bearing the insignia of the All-Seeing Eye of the Grand Architect of the Universe. Carpenter had his first kill. He kicked the dead man in the ribs a few times as he shrieked, "Die you Loomie Narkie bastard!"
"LONG LIVE STEELE!" came Hodge's voice from the next room over. A burst of grinder bullets resounded shortly after. Two more Masons had been cowering in the vault. Hodge spotted them first and let the emotional high of the night carry him to mindless, almost drooling fervor. He continued to spray the small vault's interior with rounds until Corporal Peterson finally snapped him out of it. Coming back to their senses, the three men and the rest of the platoon began to fill sacks full of coin rolls and bundles of cash.
"They say they help the poor!" Peterson mocked as he grabbed a stack of five dollar bills. There must have been a hundred of them, Willard Crawford's face smiling on each one. "They were stocking up for a damn uprising they were!"
"Death always to traitors!" Carpenter cried gleefully as he continued to fill up his sack with piles of cold hard cash.
The men raced outside and dumped the bags of money into the back of another unmarked truck, before climbing in the back, guns ready. Onlookers watched in horror as the massacre and armed robbery unfolded. Then came the torchboys. The two armored troopers adjusted the nozzles on their guns before taking aim. With a burst of flame that lit up the night, the 12th Street Masonic Lodge was alight. While the looting occurred, two platoons had been busy dumping kerosene all over the place. In the hedges, in the stairwells, everywhere. The red-brick and wood structure went up like kindling.
As their truck started to drive toward Cumberland Station to unload their ill-gotten gains, Hodge turned to tell Carpenter, "Man, I never felt more alive in my life. You sure this is Thanksgiving, Carp? Feels more like Fourth of July!"
Carpenter nodded and screamed with a menacing tone, "BACK UP OR I WILL SHOOT YOU IN YOUR G**-DAMNED FACE, PARDNER!" as he pointed his Trenchsweeper at a civilian who he thought was too close to the truck.
"Sure does, Hodge..." 
