Texas IS Heaven 001

I looked out the window from the small office on the third floor of the Rossini Meat Company administration building. I hated this place. It smelled bad and had a grimy feel that made me want to shower. I had grown up in this plant, and after 36 years, it still affected me.

You see, my great-great-grandfather started this company long ago when Chicago was the center of the universe for the meat industry. He started with a small shop with living quarters on the second floor. He added a small building out back where he slaughtered cows and then cut them into choice selections. He gained a reputation as a quality butcher.

My G-G-Grandfather had come from Italy to the US. Not because he was looking for a new start. He was running from a dispute with a local boss and was trying to stay alive. His family was a major mover and shaker in the olive oil business and had crossed the other family over a land dispute. With the help of his relatives, he fled to America with enough funds to set himself up in business. He thought he would go into the olive oil business but discovered rapidly that another Italian family had that line of work already sewn up. He didn't need to start another war.

He chose meat. It had been a good choice. All Americans were meat eaters. Only the Italians wanted olive oil. When my g-g- grandfather took over, the civil war was just commencing. The Union Army was about to institute a draft. My father, having no interest in fighting a war in which he had no skin, chopped off two of his toes with a meat cleaver two days before he was to be inducted. The doctor had looked at his foot and sent him home. End of that story.

What my g-g-grandfather understood was that armies have to be fed. He used some connections in the Chicago network to land several lucrative contracts to supply beef to the Union Army. He had a friend, his third cousin in fact, who owned a cannery. They teamed up on the idea and were soon one of the primary purveyors of canned meat to the Union. Those contracts led to the establishment of part of this factory.

My g-grandfather took a lesson from his father's notebook. When the first war rolled around, he made sure he was not eligible for the draft. He didn't lose any toes, but a doctor's statement that his lungs were badly scarred by TB did the trick. The doctor was his mother's brother. With the past history of the firm, it was nothing to land contracts to provide beef and other canned meats to be shipped overseas for the troops. When the first world war ended, Rossini meats were the biggest shippers of canned meats in the US.

My grandfather didn't get drafted for the second world war. He enlisted. The overwhelming pitch of patriotism at that time couldn't be ignored. All in all, in listening to him, I think he saw it as a grand adventure. That concept paled after two years in a German POW camp when his B-17 got shot down over Germany. I'm not saying he came back bitter, but I never saw him set foot in a German restaurant or a store owned by someone of German descent.

My dad missed out on Korea and Vietnam. He was too old for the draft and was happy to continue making scads of money processing and selling meat to the government. When I came along there was a huge celebration to welcome in the next generation of Rossini to enter the meat business. The only problem was, I hated it. When I graduated from high school, it was 4 months until my 18th birthday. My dad put me to work on the kill floor of the meat packing company. The day I turned 18, I went to the recruiting office instead of work, and never looked back.

I joined the Navy. Mostly because the basic training facility for the US Navy is near Chicago. It was convenient. I found it less than a challenge. You see I had been quite the jock in high school. Football, baseball, basketball and track. I lettered in all four for 3 years. In high school I was already close to 6' tall. A helpful coach and trainers helped me learn how to make the most of working out. BY the time I graduated I was 6' tall, lean, and 235 lbs. of muscle.

Navy boot camp taught me some good things. I learned self discipline and how to control what was rapidly becoming a problem temper. Then, when the BUDS recruiter visited boot camp, I guess I stood out. BUDS, Basic Underwater Demolition School, otherwise known as SEALl training. The day after basic graduation, I got a one week pass to visit my family and orders to Coronado Station, California. I was to be there for no longer than six weeks. Probably shorter since the basic washout rate at that time was about 69=0 percent.

Again, I made it through. I didn't just make it through, I ended up becoming a squad leader. After graduation from BUDS, it was on to tactical training school. As a pampered son of the owner of a major manufacturing company, I had never even held a gun until basic training At tactical training, I got my first real experience with a number of different weapons used by SEALS.

At first it was foreign and a bit nerve wracking. Then I settled in. Once I was taught the basics, shooting became as natural as breathing. When tactical training was done, I was headed to a SEAL team when a Chief Petty Officer stepped in beside me as I walked to the mess hall. In 15 minutes he had sold me going one step further. Two days later I was on my way to SEAL sniper training. It was the most intense and mentally tough 3 months I had ever experienced. I wish I could say I graduated at the top of the class. I got beat out by a smart ass kid from Texas. I couldn't believe this kid had made it through BUDS, much less became the top shot in our class. I guess I shouldn't be surprised to recount that his name was Chris Kyle.

Anyway. I graduated and was soon on a plane to the middle east. I did the same sort of job most of us were given. I played overwatch on our troops, hoping to keep them safe and sound as they did the really nasty dangerous work of subduing a hostile native population. I did my share. There is something satisfying about dropping the hammer of some raghead dick from a half mile away before he can do the same to one of our troops. I was good at my job. Almost as good as Chris Kyle. I just didn't have a press agent.

Then the world changed in an instant. I was on overwatch duty with my second in some nasty backwater town in a country I can't even remember. We were watching an interdiction team that was working toward a known terrorist hideout. The problem was we had been set up. All hell broke loose on the street below and I was busy taking out bad guys with AK's as fast as I could work my rifle. I woke up three days later in a hospital in Germany. Apparently a mortar team spotted us on the rooftop and dropped an HE round between me and my spotter. He took the brunt of the explosion and got scattered over a half block. I was on the other side of a low brick wall. Despite the cover, I had multiple internal injuries, a badly torn up left leg, and a year of surgeries and hospitalizations. The culmination was a medal from the President of the United States, a nice pension, and retirement. Whoopee.

So, I came home. The family welcomed me back with open arms. Hell. I was a Bonafide hero. What were they going to say. Even my dad seemed to be proud. He installed me in an office at the meat packing plant, intent, I think, on grooming me as the next CEO. I still hated that place.

One day we were in a meeting and one of the top brass at the meat company mentioned that they were having problems with one of the big suppliers that we worked with. It was another Italian company that bought a lot of meat from us to turn into quick frozen heat and eat Italian meals. The company was habitually 30 to 90 days late with their payments. Our company had tried talking to them, making arrangements and even threatening legal action. All to no avail. One of the senior execs at the meeting casually mentioned that the problem seemed to be the son of the owner of the company. He was one of the "new" Italian businessmen. He had no fealty or loyalty to the old traditions. His only goal was the bottom line, and apparently, at any cost. There was also a rumor that this ass had brokered a deal to work with some of the organized crime people in the Chicago area, to use the company trucks to haul hijacked and illegal cargos around the country.

The more I listened, the more I didn't like this guy. I began to ask questions. I connected with some of my old military friends who were now working with the FBI and the CIA. What I found out from them turned my stomach. This guy was fronting for the organized crime syndicates and laundering money through the business. They were transporting all kinds of drugs in refrigerated vans. The Feds knew all about it, but couldn't take any direct action due to lack of evidence. After several weeks of doing due diligence and creating my own dossier on this guy, I thought I was ready.

I traveled to Texas. I knew from friends that I could travel a bit and make a few connections. I thought it would be a risky and difficult thing. I went to Ft. Worth, checked into a hotel and began to check the papers. I noticed the ad the second day I was there. There was a gun show about a hundred miles from where I was staying. You may think a hundred miles is a long way. You haven't been to Texas. People will drive a hundred miles one way to go out to eat on a week night in Texas.

I found the place and went. It was an old national guard armory. The place was filled with tables. On those tables were laid out almost every conceivable kind of weapons made. I began walking the aisles, casually looking at what was being offered, and occasionally talking to one of two people. I stopped at a table where I saw what appeared to be a Mk13 sniper rifle. I looked at it again and then bent sideways to get a look at the engraving on the barrel. The older man behind the table leaned forward.

"Pick it up, if you want to son."

I didn't wait for a second opportunity. I picked it up and opened the chamber. There was no magazine and I found the chamber empty, bright and shiny. I hefted that rifle like it was a part of me. It should seem like it. I had humped on of these for almost 10 years of my life. I set it back down on the table. The old man watched me carefully.

"You got a good eye for hardware, son."

"You don't see many of those in civilian hands."

The old man chuckled.

"Your right. That one didn't come from the military. I built that one by piecing it together."

"You're an armorer?"

"One of the best. The Navy taught me every thing I know"

"Me too."

His eyes went up.

"SEAL?"

I nodded"

"No wonder you handled that thing like you were married to it."

"I was for a long time."

"What happened."

"It's a long story."

He pulled a chair from behind him and motioned me around the table.

"Tell me."

For the next two hours I sat and talked to Petty Officer John Stanford, retired. I told him my history, my background, and how I ended up a civilian.

He looked at me.

"Feeling a little out of place."

"A lot."

"What the hell are you doing in bumfuck Texas at this rinky dink gun show?"

I looked at him and then decided I had nothing to lose.

"I'm from Chicago. You can't buy a cap pistol there with some left wing fuckhead screaming bloody murder."

"Ok.. I think I get it."

We talked some more before John sidled into the subject.

"What the hell do you want a weapon like that for in Chicago. A good Benelli shotgun would do you more good as a defense weapon."

I looked at the floor and then back at him.

"We have a vermin problem. It needs some extra special attention."

John looked at me and then at the rifle.

"That's some pretty prejudicial attention."

"Yeah."

An hour later, I walked out of the back of the gun show with a nice hard case containing the Mk13, 12 20-round mags, and 300 rounds of government-issued 300-win mag ammunition. No paperwork, no background check. A handful of 100 bills and a handshake was all it took. I laid the rifle in the backseat of my car and headed back to Chicago.

&&&&&

Two months later, I was sitting on top of a hill overlooking a rural residential development. The homes were gorgeous, with two million dollar homes on multi-acreage sites. I was watching one house in particular. I was waiting for an individual to arrive. If he held to his pattern, it would be about 6:30 when he pulled into the garage. About 40 minutes later, he would emerge into the backyard with a drink, a towel, and one of 4 or 5 different younger girls. He would go to the pool and sit in the shallow end, drinking his drink and slowly playing with the tits of the young woman.

I estimated that the girls were between 15 and 18. That made it dicey if they were legal age or not. What he did know from a little bit of detective work is that they were all the daughters of mid management employees of the frozen dinner company, all of which were directly supervised by this asswad, and probably coerced into this situation to help keep daddy's job. I didn't hold much esteem for men who would let their daughters be used like this but my real contempt of the shit for brains at the pool was steadily growing.

Tonight Mr. Shit for Brains came out of the house alone. I waited for a while to see if anyone showed up. Nothing happened and the lowlife in the pool leaned back against the edge of the pool and started to masturbate. I wouldn't get this chance again ever, probably. I settled in behind the rifle and watched this pervert as he stroked his cock and closed his eyes letting his imagination work.

Any shot that puts down a target is considered a good shot in my book. A humane shot is an instant kill. The target doesn't even know he is dead until after it happens. I didn't want the shitwad to get that kind of reward. I aimed a little lower than the side of his head. The sound of the rifle going off surprised even me. That's how it should be. I watched through the scope as Mr. Dickhead heard the shot and then jerked. He lifted his hand from under the water and looked at what was left of his dick in his hand and then screamed. The scream turned to a gurgle and he toppled over into the rapidly staining water as he bled out.

I didn't stay long to gloat. I grabbed the file and my gear and headed back down the far side of the hill and into my little rented coupe. I left it parked at a shopping mall, and switched into my usual SUV and headed home. Once there I sat back and had a beer as I listened to the news. I didn't hear anything about the incident until the morning talk show.

The news later in the day was more interesting. The reporters had found an inside source at the factory who was happy to tell them that most of the employees were not really saddened by the news, Things just kept getting better and better over the next few days. The feds moved in and took over the investigation. Allegations of drug trafficking, human trafficking and weapons trafficking began to float around. In time, the company went into receivership and a group of employees managed to raise enough capital to buy it out of receivership and put it back on its feet. A win- win in my book.

Things rocked along for several months. Then I got a call I never expected. John Stanford, from Texas. We passed a few pleasantries and then he asked me an unexpected question.

"How are your vermin problems?"

"Lot's still around. It's a target rich environment."

"Any one in particular that stands out?"

"A few, but what is a law-abiding citizen to do."

"Seems like I heard about some standup Chicagoan doing a little damage to the vermin population a few weeks ago."

"Yeah. I heard something like that myself."

"The report I read said that someone shot the guys dick off with a.300 win mag. That would be one hell of a shot."

"Not the kind of guy I would want hunting me."

"You should come to Texas. I got a little place down here. We can fish, hunt, chase women, and drink whiskey to our hearts content."

"You know. That doesn't sound like a bad deal. I'm not too sure about hunting. But the rest could be what I need."

"Just come down. Bring that rifle with you. I have a few mods that you will find it needs."

Two days later I was in my Bronco headed to Texas.

&&&&&

A day later I turned into a gate. I was everything you would expect in Texas. Huge limestone pillars supporting an equally massive pair of iron gates. P each side, stretching into the distance was a fence, at least 12 feet talk with razor wire on the top. It was a chain link material. I stopped at the small box on the post and as I rolled up, I heard a familiar voice.

"If you ain't Preston Rossini you can fuck off."

"I don't intend to fuck off."

"Preston! Just a minute. The gate will open. Follow the road to the house."

As promised, the gates slowly swung open. I don't know what I was expecting but this surely wasn't in my wildest imaginations. I drove for nearly a mile, winding my way over rolling hills, some deep gully's and at least one actively running stream. The house was in a small depression that couldn't be seen from the road. I pulled up in front and got out. John came ambling down the steps.

"Well, boy. How was the drive."

"Long. Is this really your place?"

"Yeah. It's all mine. All 1253 acres."

"How the hell does a retired SEAL afford this kind of setup."

John looked at me with a wily grin.

"Get your gear and we will get you settled. Then I'll open a bottle of good Texas whiskey and tell you, my story."

He was a man of his word. I found myself in a huge ranch style house, of course, in a bedroom with a door that opened onto a centrally located pool and hot tub. I tossed my gear on the king-sized bed and went out on the patio. John was mixing drinks. When I say mixing, he had two tall glasses, half full of ice and was pouring straight whiskey into them. He handed me one and pointed to a deck chair by the pool.

I learned over the next couple of hours that John had spent 35 years in the SEALS. He was one of the first few classes. He did Nam, the first Iraq war and bunch of local flare ups in South America and Indonesia in the meantime. When he got out, he figured pretty quickly that he was not a civilian, had no business being a civilian, and no prospects as a civilian. It had been a few rough years. Finally, an old friend contacted him. He got an offer to become what he called a 'contractor'.

He had skills and training, and no prospects so he had figured it was at least a way to make some money fast. He took the job. That one little job led to others and to this ranch and the house and several million dollars squirreled away in various Swiss banks.

"Why the hell are you telling me all this?"

"Boy. I developed a lot of contacts and sources of information in my years at this. When I saw that article in the news, I knew immediately what had happened. Son, you are wasting your self away in that office in Chicago. Why do you stay there?"

"I dunno. Habit. Its home. I got nowhere else to go and nothing else to do."

"What do you do."

I thought about that for a minute and then it just blurted out.

"I sit in that office and look at the plant which I hate."

"Let me make you a proposition. Call back there and tell them you have a chance to get some experience on a Texas beef cattle ranch. Anyone in the meat business would see the opportunity in that. Stay here and let me show you what you could get out of this if you play your cards right."

I was about to respond with some inane, stupid remark when John stood up.

"Speaking of beef. I got two ribeye steaks, and all the trimming waiting to go on the grill. Let's go cook dinner."

&&&&&

I stayed. I got a tour of the ranch. It was a producing working cattle ranch. John had a ranch manager that took care of most of the day-to-day operations. I saw real cowboys, on horses, working cattle. It was like a western movie.