"Sorry I had to disturb you boys," said Flintlock.
"Oh, that's okay, sir," said L.A. Police Lieutenant Joe Toady. "We weren't doing anything important. Some woman from a low-income neighborhood called and claimed a man was shooting at her house, but the computer showed she's a food stamp recipient, so it's definitely a low-priority call."
"Yeah," said his partner, Sergeant Bill Carp. "She said it was an emergency. Said they shot her baby." He chuckled.
"That's one less mouth to suckle at the teat of the American taxpayer," said Flintlock. "Did you catch the gunman?"
"Why? So we can give him a medal?"
They all laughed.
Flintlock showed them the vandalization of his office. The officers were aghast.
"Good Lord, sir," said Sgt. Carp. "What is this world coming to when a fine, upstanding conservative businessman such as yourself has to deal with such unholy desecration?"
"Come on, Bill," said Lt. Toady. "We have to be professional. We can't let our personal feelings interfere with our investigation." He picked up a cigarette butt and shuddered. "Those godless sons-of-bitches will pay dearly for this," he muttered, stifling a sob.
Sgt. Carp's radio crackled to life. "Unit 14, report."
Carp responded in a low voice, then listened. Lt. Toady cocked an eyebrow at him questioningly.
Carp shook his head. "Nothing we need to worry about, Joe. Somebody just blew up the Public Library."
"It's about time," said Toady. "That place was a breeding ground for subversion. 'Free exchange of ideas...'" He snorted contemptuously.
"Well, you don't have to worry about it anymore," said Carp. He made an explosion sound with his mouth.
Flintlock grinned. He was in good hands.

The phone rang just before dawn. Flintlock groped for the handset in the dark.
"Hello?"
"Good morning, Mr. Flintlock." The voice was soft and effeminate.
"What do you want?"
"Grabbitall Corporation is one of the worst polluters in the world. You have twenty-four hours to reverse Grabbitall's policies toward endangered species and the environment. If no substantive changes have been made by then, your office will be trashed once more in order to dramatize your company's destruction of Spaceship Earth."
Flintlock's mind raced like a finely-tuned Detroit automobile. "Tell me something, you filthy swine," he said. "Are you, by any chance, a registered Democrat?"
"I suppose there's no harm in telling you. Yes, I'm a Democrat, and proud of it."
Gotcha, thought Flintlock. The phone line of every Democrat in the country had been tapped ever since the President signed Secret Executive Order 347 back in '82. All that remained was to keep the pinko miscreant on the line long enough for the police to get there. He had to stall. "I suppose you're also proud of giving the Commies a free peek beneath America's petticoats?"
"What?"
"You and your pathetic ilk make me want to vomit. Being born in the Greatest Country On Earth isn't enough for you sniveling crybabies. You want your civil rights. Let me tell you something: if God had wanted you people to have rights then He wouldn't have made Ronald Reagan president!"
Flintlock took a deep breath, then continued. "And another thing - you bleeding-heart tree-humpers are always wringing your hands about the environment and so-called 'endangered species.' Well, I'm glad they're endangered! Only a limp-wristed faggot species would let itself get endangered in the first place! A real species would have had lots of babies the way the good Lord intended!"
Flintlock heard whimpering at the other end of the line. "Stop, for the love of God please stop," blubbered the voice. "You're an awful, awful man."
"I'll stop when the last communist heiney-licker like you is in a Montana concentration camp where you belong," said Flintlock.
Suddenly, over the phone, he heard a crash and a struggle. There was a fierce volley of gunfire. Then a terrible silence.
Presently he heard the voice of Lt. Toady. "Mr. Flintlock? We got the queer bastard, sir."
"Is he dead?"
"If not, we'd better call Ripley's. His brains are splattered twelve ways to Sunday. Looks like a spin-art painting in here."
Flintlock gave a sigh of relief. "So the relentless tide of anti-Americanism and free-thinking anarchy has once again been stemmed," he said. Then he stopped. "None of you fine boys in blue were injured, were you?"
"Oh, no sir. The perp was unarmed. Of course the report won't read that way. We'll dig up an assault rifle somewhere and plant it near the body. Standard LAPD Operating Procedure when dealing with liberals and minorities."
"Make it an AK-47."
Toady snickered. "Russian weapon. Nice touch, sir. It's been a real pleasure doing business with you."
"Thank you, Lieutenant Toady. I'll sleep better knowing men like you are guarding the Republic." Flintlock hung up. He walked to the bedroom window and pulled open the curtains.
The sun was coming up. One of his many Haitian servants was sending Old Glory up the courtyard flagpole. Flintlock's manly chest heaved with patriotic emotion. By the simple expedient of hiring illegal immigrants, he thought, I only have to pay seventy-five cents an hour for domestics. God, I love this country.
The flag waved majestically in the dawn's early light. Flintlock put his hand over his heart and saluted.