“Unfortunately sacrificing the beauty of our oceans and islands is a necessary evil, because with climate change they will be even more affected. We have to give up the land to corporations to use for energy production for the good of us all. Maybe lobster fishing is no longer a viable career, but you could say the same for coal miners, and mill workers. Change will happen in every human's life and adapting is what we all have to do”

"What will they do for work now, and how will they be able to live in the place they grew up?"

"Coal miners still live where they used to, if anything it's gotten cheaper to live in old mining towns"

"And you think this will be the same on the Maine coast with the house prices skyrocketing?"

"Well, if they can't adapt they will just have to move to a more accommodating area and sell to those who can afford it".

"But for many of those coming in this is going to be a 2nd or 3rd house or Airbnb, or even corporations buying up entire islands for energy farms and who knows what else".

"Well I would argue that will add new jobs to the area, wind and solar techs are booming and one can always learn to program and work from home. It sucks that people have to leave but it is what it is"

“Alright thanks for your time doctor”

“No problem”

“That was Dr. Ivan French who is the head of a think tank for Maine out of state investment, and resources. This is M.P.R.”

The doctor got off the phone. He hadn't realized what a public relations nightmare he had signed up for. Because he was a working man instead of a suit they had chosen him to represent them. He needed the money, and he wanted to keep living here. If he didn't do the job somebody else would have.

The problem was that now their plans had been leaked to the public. Legal plans, but unpopular all the same. Now with a cop dying in the confusion at a protest against the Pinkers, things were getting very tense. Dr. French opened a drawer in his fancy wood desk fishing out another Cuban to light up with his small torch. He chopped the end of the cigar with a guillotine cutter and lit the flame by habit. At the last minute he decided against smoking, instead getting up and leaving it on the table. He would temporarily distract his mind in a healthier way, by micromanaging the expansion of his beautiful property.

Allen knelt down, as he finished rigging up another fuse box. He was the area's only dedicated electrician and he hated summer people very much, despite being secretly born out of state. He especially didn't like doctors who called electricians in the early mornings to install hot tubs that they would only use once.

“How's things going?” said Dr. French walking out onto his massive porch over the water to inspect the installation.

Allen looked up temporarily before grunting and getting back to work. He wasn’t paid to make small talk, and he wasn’t doing more than the bare minimum for this rich asshole.

Dr. French looked back out into the choppy harbor now completely empty of lobster boats and buoys with the exception of his own string of five traps along the shore. It was a beautiful day in the fall, and he savored every day he could spend in nature.

“Well if you need anything just let me know” said the doctor walking back inside the dwelling.

His mind fixated back on the unsmoked tobacco, and the fancy scotch he had hidden in another compartment. Before he could get back to his office the doorbell rang. He walked to the massive oak door guarding the entrance. Through the peephole he could make out the old crone standing on the other side . Her signature black Cadillac parked behind her with the driver playing on his phone. Dr. French hastily swung open the door strutting back to his parking lot.

“Ahh Jazzimine so nice to see you” said the doctor.

“Yes, yes you too dear. Oh you look so virile. A very nice suit for a man of such healthy practices if you will” she crooned.

“Thank you so much you look absolutely stunning as well. You've always been a sight rivaling the beauty of nature if I might say” said Dr. French extending a hand for his guest.

“What a gentleman,” she said, meeting his hand with her white fancy glove.

They entered the middle of all the houses, the biggest, and most luxurious of the three connected by a deck. In the entrance, and then past the steaming double sink where the Seal was finishing the cooking of the fresh lobsters.

“Take a seat my dear,” said the doctor, pulling out an antique handmade chair.

She sat down overlooking the harbor, with the screen door open, and the waves were dancing along to the Bossa Nova backing beat. The doctor poured out the last of an already opened bottle.

“Peno Noir aged 11 years,” he said, sitting while he attacked the cork on a new bottle of it.

“Oh” she said, sipping. “Mmmm” she gulped the rest down. “More”.

The doctor was fully screwed into the cork; he ripped it off, before topping off the old crone’s glass, and then his own.

“Ahh so nice” said the doctor, crossing his legs as he sipped on his wine.

“Oh doctor, you do know me so like a patient, and hopefully with the same confidentiality when it comes to our little visits, ” said the crone, laughing before she finished another glass, and then laughed some more.

Dr. French blushed before he quickly refilled both glasses.

It was the dead of winter at a cold rundown airport terminal in Bangor. The baggage of several very important people was being checked in at the private section. In particular was George Felt. He was checking out of this shithole for good. He popped another pill from his doctor to make his escape easier. George had forgotten when he first started taking pills in the 1970’s, but he had never stopped. Life had been good to him; this state had not. Every day he was frozen in this savage territory that was eroding away at his body that depended on daily saunas, messages, hand jobs, and the vitamin drip. These morons here treated their bodies like shit. It hurt his eyes every time he saw them crimpled up from destroying themselves in dangerous jobs.

Soon old Goerge would be in his sports car, a 1977 Chevrolet C3 bright red. They had tried to take his license yet again, but his lawyers had put a stop to that. He imagined parking his car outside Hoover dam with cocaine on the dashboard, and listening to Camel just one last time before he would die. The mob had tried to do him with their bloodlust for the wealthy. George Felt had used his son's now wrecked car to defend his useless heir yet again with the vehicle that looked better after it had been totaled.

The only man who sat at the single row of the private airport chairs took out his noise canceling headset, and turned on his 500GB FLAC player loaded twenty years ago while scowling at anyone who dared venture too close. He saw two lesbians and put up his newspaper to block the view as the private jet he had contracted took its time to arrive.

Unbeknownst to him his granddaughter was walking by with one other. Misty and Tina walked past to the rickety escalator leading to the public flights.

“I'll miss you Misty let's stay in touch” said Tina as they were halfway up.

“We can always play online together,” said Misty laughing as they reached the top.

They hugged before Misty walked into the security line with her carry on. The two women had one more wave before they went their separate ways. There was a white haired, well-built man standing behind the booth stamping passports for the plane headed for Tijuana. She approached and put down her passport.

“Going somewhere good?” asked the man.

“Yes, I'm going to Mexico, but you probably already know that,” she said.

“Of course I do, dear,” he whispered as the stamp came down.

The man held the passport up with his latex glove to the woman with the purple duffle bag slung to her shoulder. She reached out, taking it folded in her back pocket, and walked through security. Shortly she was seated on the small two turbine headed for warmer waters while the private jet with one passenger was cleared to takeoff before all the others.

Next Monday the daylight shined onto the packed cold one lane road that had been plowed from the snow. No cover from the howling winds in the graveyard, as the coffin was held by ropes above its hole. Cops from all across the state were in attendance at the ritual, and so was most of the Loony population.

It was a day of mourning, as the officer was finished being lowered down into his final resting place within a cheap coffin. The German shepherd who once called the deceased his master pulled on the leash whining as the ancient mother barely held onto the dog. Tears wet the woman's blank, and wrinkled face. A cop from out of town was beside her whispering some words of encouragement in her ear as he took away the beast that was burdening her. The priest came up to the old women, the deceased man's mourning mother as the rest of the attendance began to disperse.

"I'm so sorry," the priest said.

"What a disgrace!" she wept.

Behind them down the hill at a wooded parking lot under the old church shadowy figures began to gather around the trucks in order to plot.

The Pinkers private paramilitary had gathered at the diner eating breakfast with reporters. They ate well knowing that they were liked by all of the news media present who were owned by their conglomerate friends who often employed them . Ronnie was fielding a podcast with one very popular presenter in the center. Both men talked into boom microphones while eating bacon and eggs.

“So, on this podcast we really try to get to know the in-depth psychology of the interview subject's mind, and today we have a controversial figure, the leader of a private paramilitary organization. Now we have all heard what the news has reported on the organization itself, both the positives and negatives, but what about the mastermind behind it all, what does he think about things? Is he really the one pulling the strings behind everything?” the bald bearded host in the blue tuxedo leaned forward for a quick breath.

“You know those are some good questions really, and actually Pinker’s used to be owned by shareholders for a few years, but for a while now we have been under private ownership, and they have systems laid out exactly specifying our ethical behavior when we are one the job. I want to stress that we are a band of professionals. I myself am former United States special forces member who did many tours of duty, and some of my men who did some of those very missions overseas are right there beside me doing the same kind of freedom creating missions just under a new roof” said Ronnie, his muscles on the table bulging.

“Impressive” said the Host.

“Yeah, you got to remember with all the crime going on right now in this country that the local police force can't handle we can be instantly deployed anywhere in order to squash it. I am their general on these missions” yelled Ronnie slamming the table with his fist.

“What about the claims that you are mercenaries that infringe on people's rights?” asked the Host.

Ronnie looked around the room with wild eyes searching for a threat.

“We are the same as cops just better paid, trained and equipped, plain and simple. We bring law. We bring obedience. We bring very bad people to justice each and every day” he said.

“BOOM!”

A threat that had been missed went off in an inferno on the snow-covered street out front engulfing the restaurant in flames. A Pinker ran out the front as another stumbled behind him caught on fire. The "Mooring Cafe" sign that once marked the entrance to mediocre eating was burnt beyond recognition and floating in the harbor.

“Marco Matters, we need you now” called the radio.

Marco was speeding over a snow covered back road in a neighboring town past a long shuttered mill.

“Roger,” he said drifting through a four way stop without stopping in his all-wheel drive sports car.

Marco tore into fried chicken with his mouth, as the car tore down a hill before skidding around a corner. From what little he had been briefed on he would be putting down just another gang. He figured this one was one of the least bloodthirsty he had ever dealt with. The uprising was on the same island where he had done several takedowns last summer. No doubt it was a community rife with criminal elements.

Meanwhile, Mr. Felt was still on the island of Loony. His car was totaled, and he was stuck dealing with the aftermath of the accident. To make matters worse his father who had been the driver at the time of their escape had snuck off by way of some form of taxi service leaving him all alone at the garage without a ride. Felt inspected his phone holding down the top button until the low battery symbol showed up again. He would again be blamed, and scapegoated by another member of his family for sins he hadn’t committed. This had been a repeating cycle throughout his entire life.

Mr. Felt walked along a back road towards one of his small house properties he sometimes rented out. It would take an hour or so to reach his destination. Hopefully he would remain out of sight of the mob until then. He would have to run for the hills as the terror could just be beginning, and the day was short in the winter. His best option for escaping the island before dark was his speed boat along the shore, but Mr. Felt was not somebody who regularly was out on the water, especially not in winter. Crashing the boat and drowning the cold sea would still at least be dying free. He compared it to getting taken hostage and picked apart by the mob of angry men, deciding that was a better fate as he further increased his walking pace. He took out his second and outdated phone speed dialing the family lawyer.

“Hello this is Yarvon please leave a message” said the machine on the other end.

Felt growled in frustration as he went down the street towards his final destination. The mobile phone rang again to the same result as he forgot to listen for incoming traffic. He stomped past five anger-filled telephone poles before on the sixth the anger began to subside due to the monotony of walking along a dead street along cold snowbanks.

His eyes latched onto a paper stapled on the laminated pole and iced over. It was a picture of a loon with fangs and a foaming mouth text that read: “Death to the outsiders, and corporations who try to force us from our homes”. Felt hadn’t seen this before but he instantly knew he had stumbled onto propaganda distributed by the Loony Arson Crew, or the townspeople, the mob of goblins that supported them. Was it just one wretched rotten town behind everything or did it go even deeper? He was sure that soon there would be martyred a public figure that everyone had apparently decided to sacrifice. L.O.O.G. and Pinkers had been completely useless in almost a maliciously ineffective manner of operation.

“Hello FBI” yelled Felt into his second phone.

“Yes this is Alice” said the voice.

“I'm trapped out in this shithole please get me a rescue vehicle back to prison. In addition I also happen to have evidence right at my fingertips proving my innocence” he said, ripping off the propaganda and folding it into his jacket pocket.

“Hmm all our agents are very busy at the moment” she said typing something.

“Are you kidding me with how much of my taxes you people take, and all you've done to destroy my life you owe me this one lady” screamed the man on the other end.

“Where did you say you were located again?” she asked.

“Loony island. Oh no I smell smoke!” cried the man as he could be heard starting to jog while he breathed heavily.

“We don’t have any spare agents to give you a ride Mr. Felt. Why don't you try calling somebody else? Don't you have friends or family to transport you back to prison?” asked Alice.

“None that care about me” Mr. Felt stammered slowing down while increasing his heavy breathing.

“Well that’s too bad” said Alice before she hung up.

Mr. Felt could feel the walls closing in. He was all by himself on a hostile island, and even if he got off he would be right back in court. He had taken the entire weekend off prison. This night and tomorrow was supposed to be a vacation, but the smoke was signaling a descent into hell.

He looked down the side of the road where below a white field ran down to the shore. The road leading down was plowed, and the sign read “Jyne”. He remembered now it was the old Crow’s nest. After last year's events it was now the island's oldest mansion, and one of the jewels in her crown. The knotted spruce trees grown along the point had blocked off sight to the residence, but smoke was seeping through them.

Felt was headed fast shuffling across a section of ice on the road. He was stumbling and fumbling by the end, but still on his feet up and running again. He was down to last resort as he grabbed at his phone again. He struggled to scroll all the way down to recent calls all the way to the bottom where he found "boy".

“Hello” said Roger Felt, picking up.

“I need you to get down here all the way into Loony and save me, I am stranded and the mob is out looking for blood of anyone who worked hard for their wealth or even inherited it which means you son could very well be a target we need to guard each others backs do you understand me, and stay away from poor people from now on that includes your hippies it's too dangerous now!” yelled Mr. Felt into the phone while running.

A cloud of smoke was blowing into the road behind him. The Mob could not be far off, and if one of them spotted him he was done. The wind was picking up blowing snow on his face and on his phone that only had one bar of service.

“Yeah, ok dad I'll get down there in a sec” said Roger Felt the son.

“NO! Not in one of your seconds, this is life or death. Do you understand me? The houses are burning up all over again!” cried Mr. Felt.

“Ok drama queen il get down there soon. They are just rioting. I've been to plenty of those that haven’t hurt anyone. I'll be down there in a bit. I see your phone's GPS. I'll find you ok bye, bye” said Roger, before hanging up.

“You moron we are on trial related to all this URGG” Mr. Felt put away his phone and kept running.

A car could be heard slowly driving somewhere behind. Mr. Felt’s face was scratched up as he had fallen into a ditch coming down on top of a little spruce filled with salt and snow. He cradled the tender flesh of his once handsome features as he heard something driving out the Crow’s nest and past him in the direction of where his residence was located. It sounded like two vehicles, he waited till they were almost gone looking up from his hiding spot at the last second to see snowmobiles driving down the snow covered street ahead. He heard more, and ducked down just before they went flying past.

Every instinct in his body confirmed what had to be reality around him. Mr. Felt had seen the culprits who burned his neighbors, and now were on the move to the next tinderbox they had picked to ignite. Nothing could be done except play the role of a helpless observer looking on while avoiding being seen and becoming a direct victim . Why has the town's population turned so rabid over the past year? None of it made any sense. Would they resort to murder?

A snowmobile had come back and Felt was hiding again. Footsteps were getting closer to the ditch as they crunched on the snow. He was climbing up the snowbank on the other side of the ditch as the man in the ski mask came across him. The snow gave way under Felts feet and he drifted back down sinking into the ditch as the masked man drew close with his plastic zip ties.

“Get the van back over here on Tar paper Avenue” said the arsonist into his radio as he descended into the ditch in order to fish out Felt.

Marco Matters stood outside walking back to his parked car on the foot of the bridge. Smoke from an explosion was coming up from behind him. The old bridge he was standing on was the only road that led to the town of Loony, and it had been sabotaged. He had run up to the massive hole opened up in the middle while an entire section of the bridge had fallen into the water. It was definitely the work of explosives Marco had seen a bridge demolished exactly like this in Afghanistan. On the other side of the ocean, burning wood words had been ignited in warning: “Outsiders get out” they commanded.

Marco chuckled to himself as he got back into his car, and activated his line to headquarters.

“I’m going to need a chopper with a big gun at the Loony bridge. It's been blown away” he said.

“Yes, Sr. one will be right there in a jiffy” was the response.

Marco popped the trunk of his car. As he got back out, he could hear waves lapping the shoreline, and an owl hooting in the early dusk. Snow was falling in big flakes as he reached open the trunk to inspect the hidden stash. He typed a four digit passcode triggering panels to peel back revealing three hand guns, and three rifles. Marco locked and loaded two 44 magnum revolvers, holstering them in their homes on each of his hips. He took out a wood grain 30-06 automatic rifle with a banana clip. It had state of the art recoil control mechanisms housed inside, and large enough stopping power to punch through any body armor straight into the target's flesh. He was back into the driver's seat to finish the video call, briefly with headquarters for orders.

The lights had gone dark at the doctor's residence. He had been leaning in for another kiss on the Crone’s cheek when they had become startled, by loud crashing as glass broke outside. The Seal was on alert.

“Where’s your gun doctor we are sitting ducks out here” she crooned.

The Seal was already well ahead of her with his handgun out in the kitchen ducking under the island for cover. Dr. French also had a gun, but it was too dark for him to find it right now.

“The Seal will protect us” he whispered in Jazimine's ear as they both took cover under the table.

“Oh no I don’t like this one bit” she cried.

The doctor looked over in the faint moonlight where he hid under his arms to see his guest reaching into her purse to take out a small handgun before she racked the slide.

“I've got my shotgun somewhere,'' he said, running out into the open so as not to be caught with his pants down because he had no weapon.

As Dr. French ran across the room at precisely the moment the door was kicked open from the kitchen. A small piece of metal was thrown in.

“Flashbang!” yelled the Seal as he tackled Dr. French.

Into the next room they fell with the blinding white light, and the deafening pop of their eardrums coming from behind. Fast footsteps were approaching in the other room.

“Give up the gun” could be heard faintly commanded through the walls.

The doctor and his Seal were running back toward the other end of the property along the deck. To where the ramp led down to the water where his lobster boat would get them out. Dr. French ran down the ramp to the floating dock and jumped over the railing of his boat. His foot caught at the last moment a piece that was protruding, sending his body tumbling over, turning into a sprawling limp onto the fiberglass hull. His Seal stepped into the fishing vessel behind him.

“Get us out of here!” croaked the Doctor from the floor.

The Seal started the boat, turning the key, but he did not untie it from the dock. They were idling almost five minutes before the unfortunate man onboard knew that something was up

“What's going on, why aren't we leaving?” he said, struggling to get back up from where he had fallen.

The Seal said nothing in a silent admission of betrayal. The Doctor still did not have a gun, while the other had the upper hand in the affair. He saw the plastic zip ties coming down and took up two fists in defense, punching the Seal away momentarily, and dropping the gun overboard.

“On guard!” said Dr. French.

“ZAAAAaaaP!” said the taser.

Zapping the doctor's stomach, he was quivering, convulsing and spasming on the rubber mat floor.