This is the border fence

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Floyd Breshears at video shoot of border ‘fence’

NOTICE: Patriots interested in occupying the Texas-Mexican border, call 580-726-1300 and enter 639939# to get further instructions and information


Let me tell you about my border. There were two walls and a muddy mine field running down the center of a DMZ. At least, it was one place I could understand…” – Floyd Breshears

Carrizo Springs, Texas – Riding through the oil fields along muddy clay and sand haul roads, swampy, soupy rutted tracks traversed by giant rigs hauling fracturing pressure pumping equipment, tanks of mud, water, and acid, the closer you get to the border, the more prevalent become the high wire fences designed to keep deer in and people out, and the more frequent the appearance of corporate security gates manned by private guards.

There is no public access to miles upon miles of the rattlesnake and scorpion-infested, wild hog and thorny cactus-choked brush country that slopes down to the bed of the Rio Grande. Looking around in wonder as motor route after motor route of county roads and Farm to Market roads to the river are blocked off by dead ends at multiple security gates that give no right of way in any direction, Floyd Breshears, the interim commander of coalition militias who is walking point in the build-up of citizen soldiers hell bent on guarding the border, says, “Border fence, nothin’. This IS the border fence!”

He gestures at the hostile landscape, gesticulating at the limp remains of two very large rattlesnakes flung into the muddy road by the driver of a spattered four-wheel drive pickup that passed in a hail of light brown droplets of soupy clay and sand.

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The rule is the same today as it was when President Andrew Jackson engineered one of the greatest land grabs on record, the Texas Revolution.

Beginning at the banks of the Sabine River, the western border of the United States is defined by a natural boundary of some of the most bodacious hell country on the planet, an area hundreds of miles in breadth and more than a thousand in length that stretches all the way to the Pacific Ocean.

By design, this factor was intended to keep aggression of armies that would invade America at bay, balking at the lean, mean, predatory nature of the dragon-hide tough underbelly of a bountiful continent. It’s still working. Only the most determined get through the maze, and this area northwest of Laredo is one of the most active in drug cartel smuggling and human trafficking on the 1,600-plus mile border route to California. Just as important, money flows back in the opposite direction – enough cash to lure dozens upon dozens of multinational banking outlets to establish branch offices in countryfied Texas Rio Grande Valley towns from Matamoros to Juarez.

Their function: to launder the proceeds by wire transferring them to Ireland, thence to Liechtenstein, the Caymans, Panama, South Africa, Hong Kong – through a impenetrable maze of shell corporations and subsidiaries, where the billions of dollars generated are stacked away in the tax free havens of nations used as flags of convenience by multinational corporations that behave like the captains of cash-laden tramp steamers laden with human misery, bound for the lucrative market of the Land of the Big PX, America.

If there wasn’t such a market for illicit narcotics here in America, there would be no border problem,” Breshears snorts. He makes reference to Governer Rick Perry’s avowed intention to spend as much as $1.3 million per week in state funds to help the federal government do its constitutional job of protecting American borders.

Give me a million dollars and I would solve your problem. They would be happy to swim back to Mexico,” he laughs. Then he sobers. He insists that the militias’ goal is to protect both the American interest in freedom from fear and the pestilence of drug problems, as well as the hopes for freedom of generations of Mexican youths to come.

We’re not here to run and gun. We’re here to fight for you. I am your soldier,” he says. “I will not run and I will not stand down.” He and his men see it as a human right and a constitutional duty to take a personal interest in protecting the American border from the aggression of money-rich special interests.

Asked why the oil companies would wish to deny border and river access in this sector to Americans, both Breshears and a couple of good old boy company men from Chesapeake Energy who have stopped their four-wheel-drive company pickups to chat by the side of the road respond with bemused skepticism.

One of the men speaks up in the near-universal chuckling and chortling tone of the good old country boy. “Shoot, bubba. It’s not the oil companies. They don’t much care. It’s the land owners.”

We set up by a crossroads to shoot Breshears’  brief video statement of militia objectives. He refers to the owners of the property on the other side of the game fence as “the enemy.”

Though he didn’t elaborate, it’s impossible to miss his meaning. Wealthy land owners became wealthy and bought previously undesirable land at rock bottom prices – and now the boom town atmosphere is suddenly worth its weight in gold – black gold, gold gold, and Acapulco Gold…

Back at his trailer park cabin headquarters, Breshears fields questions from callers who responded to a Call to Arms that advertised a conference call number. Each is told to call an operator at yet another conference line, where they will be directed to a certain hub located on good state highways and interstate routes, a staging area in a rural area of metropolitan San Antonio.

It’s a place to group, leave vehicles, dispatch in teams to border sectors to observe and keep an eye on what goes on in the dead of night and the glare of noon. Surveillance teams will hold their areas, call law enforcement for assistance, and rotate when relieved. In the offing: Coordination with local Sheriff’s departments and state Department of Public Safety officers to learn the best way to cooperate.

Wherever I am, the border is occupied. I am defending it,” says Breshears. He fixes himself another cup of coffee and starts a ramble about his time at a U.S. Army outpost in rural Germany, a place on the Czechoslovakian border.

It was the place where I felt more like myself, more human,” he says, with a grin. “I lived it, breathed it, crawled through it, and loved every minute of it.” 


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