Project Peapod

(This is a condensed version of a novel and screenplay I’m writing. It includes a couple of politically incorrect racial epithets. A story about racism will do that sometimes).

Miller Stevens didn’t become an Immigration & Customs Enforcement officer to protect the nation from rapists, murderers and drug dealers. He joined ICE because he hated brown people. After several 'over-zealous' arrests for deportation, this became obvious to his superiors, so they fired him. Then, in 2025, they secretly brought him back to play a pivotal role in a clandestine project that, if successful, would result in 73% of all legal Americans with Latin blood to vanish, without a trace or memory of them ever having existed. Miller couldn't believe his luck. For security reasons he was only allowed to share limited details with his mother.

"Mom! Guess what, I'm going to get rid of millions of Latinos all by myself!" He was also allowed to add, "Oh, and mom, you're never going to see me again."

His mother was too proud to care about that. Never in her wildest racist dreams did she ever imagine her son would have the power to do such a great thing.

The focus of the project was on removing Birth-Righter's. These were the ones who, if not for an illegal giving birth in America, would never have been in the country in the first place. Generation after generation, they grew in number. Some bred with Anglos, so their skin lightened, and they had names like Murphy and Polanski. They were impossible to root out and eliminate until - Project Peapod!

Project Peapod was the brainchild of the world's most adolescent billionaire, Nole Skum. Skum was tasked by the nation's leader, a man whose personal skin-hue preference was orange to come up with a way to remove as many Birth-Righter's as possible. Skum built a time machine that looked, as the name suggests, like a mechanical peapod. It's one limitation being, it was a time machine with a time limit. It could only travel as far back as 1952. Miller Stevens would be its first pilot.

Miller would be armed with a retro .38 caliber revolver; the kind used in old movies that never ran out of bullets. The Peapod would send him to the Mexican border in 1952. From there, he would hitchhike to the small fishing village of Puerto la Trajebo. This was the place Latino laborers by the thousands gathered to wait for Americans to bring them across the border illegally. Once in the states they would take jobs, breed and slowly the process of turning the red, white and blue into the red, brown and blue would begin. Miller's mission was to kill all American race traitor smugglers thus nipping the Birth-Righter invasion in the bud.

JULY 2, 1952, MILLER STEVENS ARRIVES AT THE MEXICAN BORDER.

A snazzy white Cadillac convertible hauling a small trailer pulled over. The driver was a jolly ruddy-cheeked portly fellow of about sixty. The passenger, a pretty blonde in her twenties.

“Where you headed?” the blonde asked.

“Puerto la Trabejo,” Miller replied.

“Hop in!” the man said, “We’re going your way!”

Miller took a seat in the back, "Thanks for the lift."

“My name’s Ray Saladmaster,” the man proclaimed as if it were a boast, “I own Saladmaster Farms, the largest radish ranch in San Fernando Valley!”

The blonde giggled, “I'm Cindy Saladmaster! Me and Ray just got married!” Miller’s lazy left eye drifted to the rock on Cindy’s finger. It was a big one.

“My name's Stevens, Miller Stevens."

“You headed to Puerto la Trabejo to smuggle illegals?” Ray asked.

“I was thinking about it.” Miller lied, Cindy grew suspicious.

“Gee Ray, I didn’t know there was such a thing as hitchhiking smugglers.”

“I’m sure Miller knows what he’s doing honey.”

“How about you guys?" Miller inquired, "You looking to sneak in some brownies?”

Cindy giggled, “Brownies? That’s a funny thing to call them.”

“Cindy, how many times do I have to tell you?" Ray scolded, "Never question a man’s choice of dehumanizing ethnic slurs. One man’s beaner is another man’s brownie. It’s the same thing!”

Cindy pouted, “Sorry, Ray.”

“To answer your question Miller, yes. I promised my new bride a couple of housekeepers as a wedding present!”

Cindy giggled, “I’m allergic to furniture wax.”

“I hitched the trailer to pick up a few pickers for the harvest.” Ray added.

Miller seethed with racist rage. A white bimbo with a sugar daddy radish tycoon were about to add hundreds to the Birth-Righter mass that would one day threaten the racial purity of the nation. Though Puerto la Trabejo was still six hours away, he decided these two had to go now!

“Say Ray, can you pull over so I can take a leak?”

“Sure Miller! If y’gotta go, y’gotta go.”

Cindy giggled, “I promise I won’t peek.”

The Caddy pulled onto a dirt road the width of a melon cart and parked behind a mesa where iguanas gathered, “How about that! You get to drain the lizard where the lizards live.” As Saladmaster laughed at the awkward attempt at reptilian humor, Miller pulled out the pistol. "Hey! Careful with that thing!” the radish mogul cried out. Thinking Ray was talking about a different gun; Cindy giggled and broke her promise not to peek. She screamed! Miller fired. BLAM! Ray lunged. BLAM! BLAM!

Figuring if the bullets didn’t kill them the Mexican waters would, Miller dumped the bodies into the first pond he found. Behind the wheel of the classic retro Caddy the killer proceeded toward Puerto la Trabejo. He didn't know it, but the kill successfully removed seven hundred and sixty-seven future Birth-Righters from 21st Century America. As expected, they vanished without any memory of having ever existed.

ROUGHLY TWO HOURS BEHIND MILLER, a 1952 Chevy Coupe Deluxe stirred up dust on the same road. Lifelong friends Mack Frye and Don Berger were also in route to Puerto la Trabejo. They hadn't come to smuggle illegals. They were headed toward a dream of becoming pioneers in the fledging Commercial TV industry. Don could barely contain his excitement.

“Think of it Mack! We're gonna be big-time Hollywood TV producers! Deep Sea Fishing in Mexico will be the first blockbuster series. Advertisers will chomp at the bit to sell their toothpaste and candy bars while we’re sitting around a pool in Beverly Hills with beautiful women lined up to hop on our casting couch!"

Mack didn't share Don's enthusiasm. He wanted to invest their life savings into a new chain of muffler shops. Don's gift of gab, as it always did, got the best of him.

“Dammit Don, we’ve never been to Mexico, never been on a boat and have never gone fishing in our lives! How the hell are we supposed to pull this off?”

“As soon as we get to Puerto la Trabejo, we'll find a Consuelo Especiale."

“A what?”

"That's Mexican for, special consultant."

“Give me a break!"

“You should’ve paid more attention in Spanish class Mack."

“I'm taken a siesta. Wake me when it's over."

MEANWHILE, BACK IN 21ST CENTURY AMERICA...

With no memory of their existence, no one noticed the disappearance of the 767 Birth-Righters. But many noticed something else. They shared their concerns with posts, tweets and memes.

“Ten bucks for a pound of radishes? What's up with that?"

“My roof's leaking!”

“There's no little soaps in my motel room!”

The oval orange leader summoned Nole Skum to his oval office.

“We need to stop Stevens before he reaches Puerto la Trabejo!”

“Stop him? Why?”

“If he kills all those smugglers, one tomato will cost fifty bucks, half the roofs in America will collapse and every hotel with my name on it will go out of business! We must stop him, or we'll lose all our power!"

Skum refitted the Peapod with GPS and Google Maps. USDA meat inspector Joaquin Behindu, the only Latino still on the government payroll was assigned the task of stopping Miller Stevens. Armed with a similar inexhaustible .38 caliber pistol, Joaquin loaded into the upgraded Peapod 2.0 and was transported to the outskirts of 1952 Puerto la Trabejo. His plan was to wait for Miller to arrive.

DARKNESS COVERED THE ROAD LIKE A HEAVY BLANKET.

Don squinted out the windshield, "Don't these people believe in streetlights? Are we still on the road?”

“We are. Look, there's a broken-down blood stained, Caddy convertible up ahead.”

“Let's give the guy a lift.”

Mack's surliness hadn't waned, “Sure. Maybe he can hook us up with a Consuelo.”

Don slowed to a stop, “Hey pal, car trouble?”

“Yeah,” Miller replied.”

“Hop in.”

“So, where are you fellas headed?” Miller asked.

“A place called Puerto la Trabejo.”

Miller's hand slowly slid under his jacket and felt for the grip of the thirty-eight.

“Are you thinking of smuggling illegals?”

“We're looking for a Consuelo Especiale!” Don answered.

"A what?" Miller’s lazy left eye bobbled with confusion.

“We need someone who knows about fishing in Mexico.”

"We're gonna be big time Hollywood TV producers," Mack added sarcastically.

Don clarified, “We call our show Deep Sea Fishing in Mexico! But we don’t know anything about Mexico or fishing. That's why we need a Consuelo Especiale."

Miller's anger grew, “You gonna bring this Consuelo into the states to breed?!”

Don laughed, “Are you crazy? If we did that, we’d have to pay union scale! We can get a good Consuelo Especiale down here for corncobs and scorpion tails!”

Miller decided to spare Mack and Don. Not only were they not smugglers, but they also seemed the type likely to breed future voters for the great orange leader.

“I'm going to Puerto la Trabejo too. Mind if I tag along?”

“Not at all. My name's Mack, he's Don.”

“I'm Miller.”

Mack tapped a pack of Chesterfields on the dash, “Care for a smoke?”

“No thanks, those things will kill ya.”

“You kidding? Don laughed, "Don't you read billboards? Nicotine's good for you!”

“I’ll pass.”

“Say Miller, you know anything about Mexico?”

"I've been here a few times."

“Got any advice about the place?"

“Yeah, keep your mouth shut in the shower.”

“You know anything about the fishing down here?”

Miller ceased on the opportunity, “I sure do! I once caught a 700-pound hammerhead great white, blue fin swordfish ten miles out in the Gulf of America.”

Mack began having doubts about Miiler, “Gulf of America?"

“Uh, that’s what they call the Gulf of Mexico down here.”

Don was impressed, “Wow Mack, we didn’t know that! Say Miller, how would you like to be our Consuelo Especiale! Huh? Whattaya say?”

“Okay but I’m not working for corncobs and scorpion tails.”

“We’ll work something out, won’t we Mack?”

“Sure. What's the south of the border rate for TV producer pioneers these days?"

After about ten minutes, they came upon a thing that forced them to stop. Don's eyes widened. “Look at that!” A line of cars and trucks, moving at a snail's pace, stretched as far as the eye could see, “What the hell’s going on?” Mack wondered.

Miller knew what it was. These were the American smugglers on their way to the village to pick up illegals waiting to cross the border to breed and eventually weaken the white race into a meaningless minority. He came up with a lie the orange leader would’ve been proud of, “Looks like you’re not the only ones looking to make a TV show about deep sea fishing in Mexico.”

“Oh my God!" Don gasped, “Look at all the pioneers!”

For his part, Mack seemed relieved, “Come on Don, let’s go back. We can still get in on that muffler franchise.”

Miller pulled out the gun, “Hold it!”

“Mack! He’s got a gun!”

“What are you going to do Miller? Kill us?”

Miller gestured toward the cars, “No, I’m going to kill them!”

“All of them?”

“This gun never runs out of bullets.”

Don nodded, “My neighbor has one of those. He’s a movie cowboy.”

“You can’t murder all those people!" Mack protested.

Miller insisted, “They’re not people, they’re pirates trying to steal your dream!”

“He’s right! Don insisted, "We can't let them take away our casting couch!”

Mack tried another approach, “I got an idea, lets go to Florida and make a show about a guy and a gal getting naked and trying to survive in a swamp for a week?”

Don would have none of it. “We’ve come too far! I say we put it to a vote. All in favor of killing those pirates say aye.” Miller and Don said, 'Aye!' "All in favor of a naked chic and dude in a Florida swamp, say nay!”

Mack got out, “I don’t want anything to do with murder! I’m going back!”

Don waved, “Suit yourself!” The dusty Chevy pressed on toward the traffic jam.

Surrounded by the black Mexican emptiness, Mack wondered if he'd made the right decision. He had no food, little cash and nothing to defend himself against the snakes, tarantulas and bandito's he knew lurked somewhere in the darkness.

HE WAS RELIEVED TO SEE A PEASANT RIDING TOWARD HIM ON A BURRO.

Mack had seen many movies with Mexican peasants on burros. Always, they were the peaceful and pleasant sort. This one was no exception, “Buenas noches, senor!" Not knowing the language, Mack could only shrug. The peasant smiled, “My name is Joaquin Behindu. This is my burro J.D." Joaquin pointed to a purple stamp on the burro's flank, "He has the USDA Grade A seal of approval."

“My name's Mack! Look Joaquin, we need to call the police!”

“La policia? Why?”

“A guy in that car is going to kill all those people in all those other cars?”

“Oh my! Why would he do such a thing?”

Mack went on a rant, “They want to make a TV show and go fishing and be pioneers and have casting couches…”

“Calmate' senor Mack. I will stop them.”

“How?”

Joaquin pulled out his pistol, “This gun never runs out of bullets.”

“Neither does his!”

“I know.”

“You know? How could you know?”

“Because I am from the future too!" Joaquin slapped J.D with a stick, "Ya J.D! Apurate!” The burro boldly reared up on its hind legs,"Yeee-haaaw!"

With Joaquin Behindu bouncing on his back, J.D. scampered heroically toward the traffic jam. Mack had no doubt the beast would make it, but would it be in time to save the others? What about Don? Would he get caught in a crossfire? As he stood on a ledge looking down upon the impending battleground, Mack had a thought, ‘Hmm, a time traveler with a burro? That's a pretty good idea for a TV show.’

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Shots rang out. Looking down from the hill, Mack saw muzzle flashes. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Women screamed. Men cried out! He heard Don yell, “Take that you filthy pirates!” BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Sounds of bullets ricocheting off steel followed by a painful burro's bray! J.D. was hit! Macks nostrils singed with the scent of burnt powder. A sense of terror thick enough to cut with a machete fell over the moonless Mexican night. The distant sound of sirens and sight of flashing blue and red rights approached from the village of Puerto la Trabejo. Then came - the silence. Mack looked down upon the carnage and worried. What had become of his friend?

A set of taillights blinked. A car was turning around. The '52 Chevy Coupe Deluxe, with one headlight shot out, headed his way and was moving fast. The passenger door flung open. Don was at the wheel, “Jump in! Let's get the hell out of here!”

Mack's heart leapt at the sight of his friend. Hop in, he did, “What happened?”

“It was the weirdest thing. I’m sitting in traffic when all of a sudden, this Mexican peasant on a burro shows up and starts shooting!"

"What? I thought all Mexican peasants on burros were nice guys!"

"This one was nuts! He kept firing and yelling, 'the orange man sent me!'

Mack folded his arms and shook his head, "Well, I hope this has changed your mind about becoming Hollywood TV producers."

“I'll say it has!" Don then became curious, “Say Mack, why did you leave the car?”

Mack couldn't remember. “I dunno, maybe I had to take a leak?"

FATE OFTEN PULLS THE CRUELEST OF TRICKS ON THE CRUEL.

Miller managed to kill only one smuggler. Sadly (for him) it happened to be the one who would've smuggled his own great grandfather into the country. Miller Stevens didn't know it, but he was a Birth-Righter too! The instant the bullet struck Miller (POP!) vanished. He had voided his own existence. Any memory of his ever being went with him. Including those held by Mack and Don.

As the perforated one-eyed 1952 Chevy Coupe Deluxe headed north, Don shared a new idea, “Hey Mack, how about we get into the fast-food hamburger business?"

"We don't know how to cook!"

"So, it'll be junk food."

"Good idea! We'll give every kid a toy with their meal. Ha! Ha!"

"And shakes, we gotta have shakes! Ha! Ha! Ha!:"

"We’ll call it Donald 'n Mack’s Frye's & Bergers."

“Hmm, how about Mack 'n Donald’s Bergers & Frye's?”

“Ha! Ha! We'll work it out pal."

The two friends laughed, both happy to be debating over the simple things again.