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his father’s passing, but there was much work still to be done before people of influence could ever bring themselves to go public with their support.
    “The time is right,” Garrison said. “The good people of the USA are tired of these foreigners coming in here from all over Central and South America, and these camel drivers from the Middle East taking jobs away from our people. Our citizens are fed up with the federal government’s failure to close our borders. They’re ready to see somebody take charge and change things. That’s where we come in. I’ve got a few congressmen on a leash, and with some quality people on our front lines, we can start to garner some positive attention from the media, and make some of those changes.”
    “Yes, sir,” Hopkins agreed.
    “But Richard, you have to make this clear on our website, in our brochures and in all of our promotional materials. You’ve got to present TARPA as the attractive and practical solution that it is; the place for people to turn who are tired of seeing their hard-earned tax dollars spent to feed and care for all these illegals. It’s all in the wording, Richard. Use your marketing degree, son. Reel them in.”
    “I understand, Carl. This is an overwhelming responsibility we have.”
    “Absolutely, and you’re the front man. It’s your job to make sure they know we’re here for them, and that they see us as a viable option for dealing with this crisis. They must understand it is indeed a crisis, and they must believe we are worthy of their endorsement, and more especially their financial support.”
    Garrison looked across his expansive office to see his two deacons at the doorway. He smiled, motioned for them to come in and then looked at his wristwatch. He waved his open hand toward the burgundy leather sofa and chairs.
    “With the growing volume of these aliens pouring into Middle Tennessee,” Garrison said, “if we don’t act fast, we’ll all be speaking Spanish, or even worse, Arabic by the end of the year.”
    The deacons chuckled quietly, not sure who Garrison was talking with.
    “Now get those promotional materials edited and the website prototype finished, so we can get them in front of our prospective members. Are you with me?”
    “I’m with you,” Hopkins assured him.
    “Good. Send the new copy for my approval the moment you have it ready.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Talk with you soon.”
    Garrison hung up the phone.
    “Gentlemen.” He spread wide his arms, smiling. “Welcome.”
    The men stood as Garrison approached. He shook hands with them like he hadn’t seen them in months; it had been only a week.
    Howard Hall, rotund senior deacon and close ultra-conservative friend of Garrison’s for over twenty years said, “Buenas dias, amigo.” Hall maintained a sober gaze.
    Rod Justin stared at Garrison who was solemn at first, then he burst out laughing along with his old friend, allowing the younger Justin the comfort to follow.
    “That was Richard Hopkins, our young public relations guru,” Garrison said as the deacons removed their suit coats and took their seats at the conference table. “He’s having some trouble executing our plan to present TARPA as the solution for a confused and racially misdirected society.”
    “Is he back on track?” Hall asked.
    “He’d better be. I don’t have the time or the inclination to babysit his young ass while we construct this societal washing machine. We cannot afford to have the people of America continuing to perceive us as another Klan. They’ve got to see clearly, and be able to embrace the positive differences between us and that old gang. I’ve talked with a number of people about this during my recruiting efforts. They still see the Klan as a bunch of hardcore, right wingers living in the past. We must be recognized as the people’s champion; the preferred new alternative for today’s ethnically conscious Americans.”
    “Absolutely,” Justin said. We could