In Mexico, the heads of Los Zetas made an announcement that would seize the attention of the whole world: they now issued their own currency, the Villa Dollar, and they issued it directly as credit with just the full faith and credit of the cartel backing it. The Mexican government had a fit, as did the rest of the world’s governments and the world banking system. Press attention diverted away from the nasty county guerrilla war far, far to the north in the United States.
The Syndicate signed off on the move, and both cut the Angels out of the loop. The two groups agreed that their ally had become too weak to maintain any longer and thus became expendable. Not that the Angels’ leadership had the presence of mind to understand the significance of the betrayal, as none of them were savvy as to how the world really works to get that this was not more than just your average attempt by a criminal cartel to transition into a rival government. Instead, obsessed with Ken, they focused mono-manically upon the furiously-fist-firing-fellow from the North Star State.
The Hell’s Angels, as an international organization, declared war upon Ken. Observers agreed that this was one of the dumbest decisions ever made by any organization in human history. Word went out that all available Angels are to ride upon Ken and take him out. Dutifully enough, they did; sure, some failed to go for understandable reasons—imprisoned, injured, slain—and for ones less-than-noble alike. All of the world’s governments, as soon as they got word of the decree, facilitated the Angels present into the meat-grinder.
The top hitters of the Hell’s Angels gang, on the other hand, held back. They weren’t stupid; if Ken and his allies showed themselves quite capable of dealing with the brethren, then these top Angels reckoned—correctly—that they would need the aid of their counterparts in the Syndicate and the Zetas. Instead, they managed the operations of the brethren, knowing full well that they sent these men to their deaths. Some infiltrated the county under the guise of being a journalist, an insurance adjuster, or something similar; these men were the best because of their intelligence- not their brutality.
Ken slept at Reginald and Kathy’s home, sometimes alone and sometimes not. He would also spend time there meditating or practicing and it was in that state where he—contemplating events—broke through and awoke from his state with a start. He started the Berglund’s daughter, Ellie, when he did so, but—quick of mind—saw the child’s distress and soothed her swiftly before rushing off. He needed paper and pencil, and found them in Reginald’s home office.
Ken scribbled without thought, letting it flow before it faded, and soon he had three pages full of notes. Then it faded, and he walked into the kitchen to put on some tea while he tried to make sense of what his own hand put down. Ellie followed, now curious.
“Uncle Ken?” she asked, meekly, “What’s that?”
Ken waived for Ellie to come over, and she did as asked. Ken put the girl on his lap.
“I sat down to meditate.” Ken said, “That’s a thing some grown-ups know how to do. It lets me rest without sleeping, so I can think about things in a way that’s not done at school or everyday life.”
“Does this happen ever time?”
Ken laughed. “No. Most of the time, it’s as quiet coming out as going in. This, Ellie, is a big deal because it doesn’t happen that often.”