Terrorist Voters Swarm
A Republican governor recently complained about the “aggressive” behavior employed by Trump administration election monitors who had been sent to observe his state’s August 18th primary election. The scene, if we are courageous and truthful, might well have unfolded in a way something like the following history modestly relates.*
“What are you doing here?”
“You talking to me?” asked a woman, a bright red shopping pouch clasped under her arm. As she spoke, she looked around to see if the guard were perhaps addressing someone behind her. But there was no one behind her. She had arrived very early. It was still twilight. The polls hadn’t opened yet, but she had a busy day of shopping ahead of her, hence the large pouch, and wanted to start it off by casting her vote.
“Yeah, you!” the guard growled, obviously not a morning person. In the dim light he loomed menacingly, dressed from head to foot in Antifa garb, that is to say, in black. He wore a mask as Antifa domestic terrorists have been accused of doing. He even had a whistle, maybe to mock that milquetoast movement. But unlike Antifa wimps, he appeared to be hooked up to a radar system — it could have been an Earth-to-sky emergency helicopter rescue apparatus — and was furnished with items Antifa activists would get lifetime prison sentences for brandishing, to wit: an array of offensive and defensive devices attached in highly secure, high-tech ways to his padded, bulletproof uniform. The most fearful of those accoutrements was the semiautomatic shotgun strapped athwart his body conspicuously equipped with a bump stock that everyone but Justice Clarence Thomas knows turns a semiautomatic weapon into a bonafide machine gun.1
“What are you doing here?” The guard advanced on her, clanking with every step.
The woman hesitated, but stood her ground. “Nothing yet.”
“What’s your real motive coming around here this early?” He ranged closer and rather huge, the articulation of his weaponry giving him the contours of a robot made of boxes.
“My real motive in coming here this early is . . . ” Her voice quavered. She peered at the sheet of paper she held in her hands and in a steadier voice continued: “This is the polling place for Longhuey County where I’m registered to vote and I’ve come to vote. Early.”
“It isn’t open yet,” he informed her rudely.
“I know that,” she answered. “I came early on purpose.”
“It’s not open!” he shouted.
“I know that,” she repeated. “I’m prepared to wait —”
“That means you’re trespassing!” he cut her off. “I can haul you out of here so fast!”
No doubt, she thought. And no witnesses. It was just him and her, Frankenstein and Tinker Bell. But, oh ho! What was this? The guard saw it, too.
This Brunhild of a woman carried a toy poodle in a hand basket, although identifying her by means of the poodle was unnecessary as Brunhild was the sole soul to interrupt the confrontation between Frankenstein and Tinker Bell.
“Hey, you over there! Yeah, you with the poodle! Stop right where you are!”
Frankenstein directed his stentorian bellowing to a lady of impressive stature who had appeared on the very walk where the early voter stood abashed but perking up. Indeed this Brunhild of a woman carried a toy poodle in a hand basket, although identifying her by means of the poodle was unnecessary as Brunhild was the sole soul to interrupt the confrontation between Frankenstein and Tinker Bell, that is to say, the showdown between the county terrorist and the defender of national security.
As Brunhild came closer, the guard ordered: “Yes, you! And that poodle! Stop right there! What do you think you’re doing here?”
“May I ask who you are?” Brunhild countered with spunk.
“Don’t you worry who I am!” he snapped. “My job is to worry about who you are and keep everyone else who comes on these premises thinking they’re going to steal the election voting illegally from doing it.”
“And how are you going to do that?” Brunhild inquired.
“To make sure they’re legal. That’s right,” he confirmed his own outsize statement. “And because this poll isn’t open yet, you’re trespassing. Get off the property now! Vamoose!”
Completely unexpectedly, Brunhild smiled at the guard. “I’m a poll worker. I need to get in before it’s open to open it up.”
“Not so fast,” he blocked her path. “Poll worker, you say? You train to be a poll worker?”
“Of course, I trained to be a poll worker,” she replied. “Now if you will let me pass, I have to get in there to —”
“Not so fast, I said!” Frankenstein again blocked her attempt to walk around him. “And not so easy. Prove it! Like what kind of training did you get?”
“The training the state gives us,” she responded coldly.
“And like when did you get that training, huh?”
“Like last month,” she replied, frowning in a most unflattering way at the masked guard.
“How long did this so-called training last?” Frankenstein persisted.
The woman was now late and fed up. “For exactly as long as this state and Longhuey County requires: four hours. Along with hands-on machine practice, access to online portals, video walkthroughs, and reference manuals. And before serving on election days, I am required to take a formal oath swearing to uphold the Constitution and protect the security of the election. Which I am going to do whether you try to stop me or not!”2
Again, she attempted to pass him, and again he blocked her, this time with the butt of his rifle with the innocuous Clarence bump stock.
“You’re going to show me a copy of that training guide,” he said.
“I’m not letting you in,” she answered.
“You better believe you are,” he shouted straight into her face, which was nearly on a level with his own. “Because not only am I going to examine your so-called fake training guides, I’m gonna take a good look at all that phony equipment you’re using, examine your vote tabulators, and find out just exactly how you acquired your so-called fake election equipment.”
“You’ll do noting of the sort!”
“You’re hiding something, I see,” Frankenstein snarled.
“We did learn to handle thugs like you based on the Americans with Disabilities Act.”
“DEI in my book! Which is fascist antifascism,” he said, tangling his accusation somewhat but not sure how to correct it.
“Which is what you are all over!” she cried out of temper. “Now get out of my way and let me get to work or no one will vote!”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he taunted. “Letting all your fascist friends pour in to cast their illegal commie votes for their illegal commie candidates! Well, you’ve got another thing coming. What you’re going to do is stand right over there. That’s right, right by those garbage dumpsters, while I finish off this lady with the red pouch.” Nuts. He tangled that up slightly as well. He hadn’t meant to put it exactly that way. It wasn’t even light yet and he was slipping all over the place. And his fingers itched. That was a bad sign.
They assumed the worst: a domestic terrorist was threatening U.S. security and it had something to do with that lady clutching a bright red pouch that most likely contained a pint-size nuclear bomb.
As the guard pivoted toward Tinker Bell to sort of finish her off, Brunhild scooted away with her poodle. Frankenstein never gave the towering poll worker a second thought because, as he turned, he was startled to see quite a number of locals huddled on the walk who had shown up to vote but held back due to the altercation in progress. With Frankenstein now looking at them, they weren’t sure what to do, but assumed the worst: a domestic terrorist was threatening U.S. security right before their eyes and it had something to do with that lady clutching a bright red pouch that most likely contained a pint-size nuclear bomb. It was happening already. Here in Longhuey County. Without a single vote cast. Oh dear.
For his part, the guard realized he was being confronted by a well-organized team of Antifa cell members who would stop at nothing to tear the government, the country, and him apart and, his woes never ending, his district command had assigned only him to Poll Place #1 of Longhuey County. He was a goner. Unless.
“Get out of here,” he screamed at Tinker Bell.
“But the polls have opened now,” she said. “That means I’m not trespassing anymore.”
“You were, and I’m taking you in for that!”
The woman resettled her shopping pouch — empty but for civilian paraphernalia such as wallet and identification — firmly under her arm. “This is public property. A middle school. I am not nor was I ever trespassing. I went to school here myself. Once.”
“Show me your papers!” he demanded.
This the woman was unwilling to do, not because she didn’t have exactly what she needed to vote, but feared this raging lunatic would destroy whatever precious documents she handed to him. In partial compliance, she fished out and held up her passport.
“Hand it over,” he roared.
“I won’t,” she said.
He advanced on her, she retreated. He then momentarily diverted his attention from the red-pouch terrorist to shoo the scraggly collection of menacing locals back.
“You stand over there!” he ordered them, pointing to the garbage dumpsters lined up along the entrance where Brunhild had been told to stand not too long before. Brunhild may have vanished, but the locals formed there obediently, waiting with palpitating hearts, clutching whatever indispensable civilian paraphernalia they had brought with them — like car keys — hoping it wouldn’t be spotted as terrorist paraphernalia when their time came to be examined and interrogated by this enormously well-equipped guard, an ordeal, they realized, that had somehow — most likely magically through the supernatural power of some presidential executive order — become part of their right-to-vote-freedom process.
Their fears were allayed for only a moment as Frankenstein turned away from them to advance on the lone lady with the red pouch on the walk. In the next instant, they gasped as one as they watched the guard stride up to the woman and shove her. Tinker Bell stumbled backward, fell gracelessly onto her side, then immediately scrambled like a crab on slippery rock to rise again. The guard closed in on her as she did, an arm stretched full length pointing something at her. With lightning speed the woman drew out of her pouch the most ingenious of domestic terrorist paraphernalia — an old-fashioned, plastic rain hat that folds up like a fan into a single thick strip when closed. In a flash, she had spread it over her face from forehead to chin just as Frankenstein pepper-sprayed directly at her eyes. Although the flimsy covering mitigated the worst of the effects, the woman collapsed again, coughing, sobbing, and clutching her face, her red pouch abandoned in a heap on the walk. Many in the crowd had brought their whistles, but not one dared use them. Not one dared film the drama they were witnessing with their phones, their fear fully justified as the guard paced ominously toward them.
“Freeze! That’s right. Stay right where you are. We have a domestic terrorism threat all over the place here and you’re all in it together. I know it. You stay right there and nothing will happen, got that? I’ll let you know when you can move.”
“But we have to get to work,” came a voice from someone tucked safely inside the growing number of citizens gathered at the garbage dumpsters. “We have to vote and go.”
“America comes first,” Frankenstein retorted. He then turned to the woman sprawled on the sidewalk still clutching her face and ordered: “Hand over your phone!”
“I can’t,” she panted.
He crouched down as the crowd gasped again and shouted directly into her face: “Hand over your phone!”
“I can’t!” the woman shrieked. “I don’t have one.”
“Liar! Everyone has one!” The man rose and drew on a clumsy-looking mitt.
Murmurs coursed instantly through the crowd. “The electric-shock glove!” “Total compliance in three seconds.” “ Incapacitates in five.” “Death for people with pacemakers.” “She’s what kind of terrorist . . . ?”
The woman was hauled off in a police van for insubordination. Needless to say, she did not get to vote and did no shopping that day. For the 112 community members kept standing by the garbage dumpsters, tedious hours passed with no signal they could enter the middle school to vote. By the time the first forty-five minutes had passed, a full third had left for work as others arrived to fill the ranks waiting by the garbage. Within another hour, a large batch left due to diuretic meds, vowing to return, while others left because sitting on their walker seats had become unendurable. One resourceful senior citizen spread out his coat on the ground and reclined on it until Frankenstein had him hauled away for loitering with sinister intent. But 112 holdouts remained till the bitter end.
Frankenstein remained true to duty and fiercely alert though girded down with equipment that would have served a small battalion, all to ensure the safety of citizen and country.
Out of an abundance of caution, Longhuey County’s single polling place, that middle school, was kept closed for security reasons until early evening. Throughout those long, arduous hours, Frankenstein remained true to duty and fiercely alert though girded down with equipment that would have served a small battalion, all to ensure the safety of citizen and country. By the time he called the “all clear,” the polls had closed statewide, which meant anyone trying to approach the middle school doors at that point was definitely suspect and taken into custody.
As misfortune would have it, as the crowd of 112 dutifully retreated to the parking lot in preparation for driving off, someone let out a loud crack. It was unmistakably a sharp but puzzling eruptive noise from some part of a body that required fatigued Frankenstein to round them all up for the high and indisputable crime of using explosives. Working past human endurance, he managed to corral them all with his little pepper-spray can. Simultaneously, he picked up one of his communication devices and muttered something into it. Within minutes, an oversize paddy wagon appeared. The holdouts wearily boarded and were conveyed to the police station for interrogation, depositions, confessions, and sentencing.
Some time after the middle school grounds had been cleared of all native community members, the sole poll worker, Brunhild, cautiously ventured out, poodle in hand basket. On seeing Frankenstein leaning exhausted and overheated against a garbage dumpster, she complained: “What’s been going on out here? Not a single person voted.”
Frankenstein pushed himself off the dumpster, which bumped clumsily against the brick wall, straightened himself up to his full height, and said proudly: “Voters deserve absolute confidence that their ballots are secure and their voices are heard without interference. I have worked all day to ensure every lawful vote is protected.”
As Brunhild walked past him toward her car, Frankenstein heard a curious utterance but was too dim-witted at that point to know an unequivocal terroristic pooh-pooh when he heard one.
Weeks later news broke of the fate of the Longhuey One Hundred and Twelve, as the terrorists had become known across the nation. One among them was sentenced to 50 years for cracking something described in the docket as “an explosive.” The feeble excuse of flatulence was dismissed as desperate posturing. The explosive itself was never found and generally presumed to have been eaten by the offender. In any case, with stiff sentences passed for all 112, America could rest assured that no felon in all of America would ever threaten the integrity of the vote unless that felon happened to be Donald J. Trump.
Postscript: As news eked out that no one had voted in Longhuey County, the polling station was promptly shut down as unnecessary, helping protect citizens from wasteful government spending while strengthening national security.
* https://edition.cnn.com/2026/08/28/politics/wyoming-republican-governor-criticism-election-monitors