I blame Jack Carr. Not for everything, but for a few things, if blame is even the right word. I was recently turned on to his novels and have completed two of the Terminal List series. These books are, in a sense, thoroughly modern westerns because they pit their highly trained and well-read gunfighter protagonist—James Reece—up against identifiable and all-too familiar modern evils. But the stories aren’t exactly white hats against black hats, and Reece isn’t exactly the reluctant sword of justice finally talked into taking on the town bandits. Reece is a man of action, and the stories are far more nuanced in their plot, which makes them intelligent, and which reflects the grey world we are living in—and the challenges we face while trying to figure out how best to live in it with dignity, honor, and our freedoms intact. But I think it is reading these books—which track modern headlines with eery relevance, that has finally pushed me over the edge of doubt and into a realm of semi-certainty.
About our Republic, I mean. Prior to the late pandemic I still believed the nation was, while admittedly aging and shaking, on a firm enough foundation to carry on before a complete renovation would be required. If the life-expectancy of empires such as ours is, generally speaking, 250 years or so, I thought we were probably entering speed-wobble territory, but still had time to pull out a decent recovery and avoid the inevitable crash. Post pandemic, and well into the Biden Experiment, I am no longer a believer.
I think we are properly screwed, destined—if not already well into—the realm of an extremely dangerous, thoroughly corrupted, banana republic.
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