October 3, 2026. Today in New York, there is to be a long planning session attended by one hundred and sixty-three of the world’s top globalists. The chairman calls the meeting to order. Just as he begins the opening remarks, out from under a long enclosed desktop, emerges a figure clad all in white, probably asbestos. He looks like an alien invader from a 1950s science fiction movie.

The figure, Hilton Armstrong, is also wearing carbon fiber light body armor, and has a beautiful new portable flame thrower. Ignition is achieved. The flame is easily adjustable.  Hilton begins a circular sweep of the room.

The New World Order oppressors catch fire like little straw scarecrows. Their screams are music, or soon will be to all liberty loving people everywhere, when they view this event via the alternative media. Yesterday Hilton hid four cameras that will be easily retrievable in the smoldering aftermath.

Two guards draw their weapons and shoot Hilton before they go up in flames. Good thing he has the armor. The simultaneous impact knocks him over. Getting out of this venue is more than a little awkward, but Hilton always manages these things like a pro. Hell, he is a pro.

Hilton heads downtown to celebrate with a fine dinner of roast lamb. He knows the revolution has been won at this point. The rest is just a formality. He feels tranquil, delighted at the part he was able to play, and never tells anybody anything. He has, however, maintained a written account of his patriotic activity in a safe deposit box downtown. There are instructions to his attorney for publication after his death, as an inspiration and blueprint for the next generation.

Next he visits Liz at her apartment, and in the morning is badly black and blue from the bullets yesterday. She asks what caused this and he says,

“Oh nothing much, two Negro thugs with pipes tried to rob me yesterday, but I trained them both to curtsy like little ballerinas.”

She laughs and tousles his hair.