Samuel Johnson stares out his kitchen window, an old man brooding over a mug of coffee, alone, White, and angry. Beyond the window stands a red barn, well-painted and pampered. Neighbors raised the timbers back in the Twenties, the flush years before the Great Depression.
          This house used to matter to Sam, back when it was their home. Now it’s an empty box and he is alone in it. Four years since his Millie passed, taken by the cancer after all the good times they’d shared, all the hard work sunk into the place. Before Millie took sick, the converted farmhouse was an oasis for two, full of love and light. These days, Sam only uses the kitchen, one bedroom, and the bathroom. The rest of the day he spends in the sealed cocoon of his workshop. It is the one place in the world where Sam belongs, and the only place he matters.
          Forty years ago, he and Millie bought this old land on the promise of his wages as a young millwright. They worked hard to turn the neglected farm into a home. Weekday mornings when Sam went off to the millworks, Millie banged away at fences, pulled weeds, scraped siding, and painted trim. Evenings and weekends, they worked the place side-by-side. Finally, with the farmhouse restored to Millie’s satisfaction, Sam threw himself into renovating the old barn. Over the next few years, he turned it into a workshop worthy of a man who could build anything.
          Now he is an old White man alone with only his far-reaching anger to keep him company. He is angry that his Millie has been taken, that he’s been left behind to live without her. With Millie gone, he feels like a man cast adrift in a rudderless lifeboat. What kind of life is that?
          But there is so much more fuel to stoke the fires of his anger. Two years after he buried his beautiful Millie, the millworks shut down. He found himself retired at sixty-two, bereft of his work, the last thing that gave his life meaning. The greedy sonsofbitches shipped the company overseas and, in the process, stole Sam’s rudderless boat right out from under him, leaving him to flounder.
          Outside the boundaries of his farm, the world seems determined to ride a hand basket into hell. Sam is no stranger to crooked dealings and lying politicians, but over the last ten years, he’s watched his own country tilt into a death spiral. Millie acted as his shield and his salvation, soothing away the anger the way she smoothed the freshly laundered bedsheets. But Millie is four years gone and now there is nothing and no one to dampen his righteous rage.
          This is his country, dammit, the very same nation his family bled and died for. Sam is angry at being discounted just because he’s a White man. That’s an accident of birth, not a crime. And he’s damn tired of carrying the weight of an entire gender around on his shoulders. Being born with a penis is no more of a crime than being born White. It’s not as if he had a choice in the matter.
          But the thing that angers Sam most are the blowhards screaming that their way is the only way, and everyone must believe what they believe. That’s what the Nazis said and look how that turned out. Nobody gets to lord it over anybody else, not the way Sam sees it.
          A message needs to be sent, a loud, clear message, and Samuel Johnson is just the man to send it. Sam is a man who builds things, a man who follows through, a man that gets things done. Once a decision is made, he has no time for doubts. It was two months ago that Sam decided how and what his message would be. He’s been working at it ever since.
          At first, Sam sat in his shop, letting the concept of the thing take shape in his mind. Then he sat down at his drawing table and turned that vision into a plan. Once he had a set of completed drawings, Sam set to work.
          Alone in his shop, Sam crafted the vehicle that will bear his message. He cut and fit pieces of steel, MIG welded aluminum, and the thing grew under the touch of his skilled hands.
          Now the building is nearly done. Sam sits at his workbench, contemplating his work. His mind wanders from the machine in front of him to the many reasons that compelled him to build the thing.
          He knows he is not the only angry White man in the world. He reads the newspapers. Every week there is another news story about an angry man with his guns, cowards who killed children in their classrooms, or gunned down innocent people in a crowded shopping mall. That is not Sam’s way and never will be. He was brought up better than that.
          His grandfather, Robert Johnson, taught young Sam how to handle firearms. Grandpa Johnson drilled three rules into Sam’s head. Every weapon is loaded. Never point a weapon at anything you don’t intend to shoot. Never shoot anything you don’t intend to eat. They were simple rules and they stuck.
          His grandfather, Robert Johnson, was twenty-four when he landed on the Anzio beachhead in ’45, pinned down in that hellhole along with the rest of his comrades. For months, Nazi artillery dropped death onto their heads. The Americans finally pushed the Nazis back and broke out. As a reward for that victory, he ended up in the carnage on the rocky slopes below Monte Cassino.
          His grandfather saw terrible things done and did terrible things in return. When the war ended, Robert Johnson came home and never spoke of what he had witnessed, or what he had done. The price of freedom those men called it, the men who gathered at the VFW. Sam’s grandfather paid his share of the price and more.
          There is no way in hell Sam Johnson is going to sit back and watch this great country, the same country his grandfather fought for, go to the dogs. That was not his grandfather’s way, and it isn’t Sam’s way. A good man gets on with a job, whatever it is. He does what he has to do. Sam has a mission to accomplish. Once the deed is done, the authorities can do what they like with him. Sam is willing to pay the price, just like his grandfather.
          The machine is almost ready. Sam admires the devices tucked into the frame of the vehicle, each piece of hardware designed and built to execute a specific task. A specially designed cowling sits beside the delivery vehicle. Once Sam lowers it into place, it will hide the skeleton and guts of the machine. But it is the guts that Sam loves, and he allows himself to linger a bit. Tomorrow will be soon enough.
          Sam may be old, but the technology he’s working with is not. He prides himself on keeping up with the latest advancements in fabrication techniques, new materials, and new methods. Robotics had captured his attention years ago, luring him to seminars and workshops.
          Years passed and the seminars became competitions with names like Botball and Robofest. Millie teased him about it, but Sam grew accustomed to being the oldest guy at the event. The students seemed like children to him, and the robotics professors like teenagers.
          Age didn’t seem important to the robotics crowd. They were eager to talk, eager to answer questions. The professors discovered Sam was a millwright and that changed things. When students asked how to join this bit to that bob, the professors pointed at Sam. “Go ask Mister Johnson,” they’d say, “He’ll know how to do it.”
          Sam loved the young folks, loved their eager questions, their enthusiasm. They gave him a glimpse of the children he and Millie might have had if their luck had been better.
          Robotics competitions are about overcoming obstacles, which is exactly what Sam’s delivery vehicle must do. The first challenge is the bollards. The decorative posts are set into the stone pavement, meant to stop vehicular traffic but allow pedestrians to pass. The bollards are three feet tall and spaced three feet apart.
          The second challenge is a series of stone steps, eight in all. Climbing stairs is old hat for robots and these stairs are broad, shallow, and made of stone. After the bollards, the stairs would be no problem.
          Sam is a man who favors simple solutions, even if simplicity looks silly at first glance. The vehicle must pass the bollards, either through them, under them, or over them. Construct the vehicle to be taller than the bollards and the problem ceases to exist.
          Tires don’t climb stairs all that well. But as Grandpa Robert used to say, “If a man had him a…” and then proceed to explain the solution to young Sam’s problem. So, if a man had him a treaded rubber belt running over three articulating drive wheels, that device would climb stairs like a scared squirrel.
          If a man took those same treads and mounted them on the end of extendable hydraulic pistons, stilt legs that raised the delivery vehicle forty-two inches off the ground, then a man would have him a vehicle that could float over a line of bollards like they weren’t there.
          And that is exactly what Sam did.
          The old millwright built the delivery vehicle to be elegant and simple, but its only function was to deliver the payload to the intended location. It was the payload that really mattered. The vehicle carried the payload, but the payload carried the message.
Sam Johnson is a millwright, not an artist. Colors and patterns had always been Millie’s forte, but his beautiful wife was gone. To get the job done, Sam was forced to call in some favors.
          Over the years, Sam had crafted many devices for many different sorts of clients. Some of his favorites had been set pieces for theater people. They were creative folks with wild ideas, and Sam brought those wild ideas to life. When it came time to design the payload, he reached out to them for help and the theater folks did not let him down.
Sam is in his shop after one last long day. The device is fully assembled and ready to load on a modified trailer. The cowling is in place, lifted by the overhead chain hoist, and bolted to the delivery vehicle. The payload followed the cowling, settling onto its mounts like fingers into a glove. The electric cables are connected, and the hydraulic lines coupled. Sam runs through the final tests, checking one function after another. Tonight is the night.

* * *

          In the small hours before dawn, an old pickup truck pulls away from a small farm tucked into the Maryland countryside. The truck is pulling a loaded trailer. Samuel Johnson is at the wheel.
          It is an hour’s drive to Washington. Sam has calculated two hours, keeping to the smaller backroads, and staying five miles under the posted speed limits. He checks the trailer in the rearview mirror. The device is covered by a fitted tarp designed specifically for the payload. The tarp is a snug fit, with barely a ripple in the slipstream of the pickup.
          When he reaches the Capitol, Sam follows a calculated route until the pickup and trailer are heading north on First Street. He lifts a remote control panel from the passenger seat and lays it across his lap. As he crosses the intersection with East Capitol Street, Sam touches the brakes and slows the truck. He presses a button on the panel. Behind him, under its protective tarp, the device purrs, and circuits blink on. It’s showtime.
          Sam eases the truck to a stop and springs into action, each task practiced and memorized. He sets the parking brake, leaves the truck running and the door open. With the remote control panel in his hand, he walks to the trailer. He wears no mask, no hoody pulled tight over his face. He is not ashamed of what he is about to do.
Four quick-release buckles snap in the quiet air. The tarp slides free of the device. Sam presses a button on the remote and the bed of the trailer begins to tilt. Another button releases the automatic wheel chocks. While the trailer dips to the ground, Sam stuffs the tarp into a plastic tote fastened to the bed of the pickup.
          Another click of the remote control and the device raises itself on spider legs. Rubber track treads actuate, and the delivery vehicle crawls off the trailer and onto the street. Sam initiates a computer program with another button, reverses the trailer tilt, and walks back to the cab of the truck. The door slams and he is driving away.
The truck disappears into the first faint light of a new dawn. Left behind on the empty street, the delivery device is moving on its own. It pivots ninety degrees on its rubber treads, climbs over the low curb onto the sidewalk, and stops. Servos whirr as the device rises above the height of the first barrier. The treads turn and the elevated device moves forward.
          The elapsed time of the deployment is one hundred seconds. Sam had calculated ninety, but one of the tarp snaps had given him trouble. He drives back to the farm to await the new day.

* * *

          Captain Travers is not having a good morning. The captain has seen a lot in his years on the force. Twenty years he’s served with the Capitol Police, starting as a beat cop. Stabbings in Brentwood, shootings in the Washington Highlands, name it and Travers has seen it. Hell, he watched a bunch of crazy White folks try to take over the Capitol Building. But this thing he’s looking at right here, this beats everything for sheer weirdness. His wife was right. He should have put in for vacation time when he had the chance.
          The sun is just rising over the Anacostia River, and the Supreme Court building is throwing a long morning shadow over the oval plaza. That’s not all it is shadowing. Smack dab in the middle of the plaza, flanked by a fountain pool on either side, is a thing that looks like the lunar landing module dressed up for a Mardis Gras parade.
The entire area is cordoned off, the Supreme Court building locked down, and the entire Capitol on alert. The only saving grace is that it’s still early. The business of the people has not yet ground into slow action. Captain Travers is praying he can wrap this up before the day gets up and going.
          A Capitol Police sergeant steps up beside Captain Travers. Travers is staring at the machine that has invaded his turf, staring hard as if he might force it to vanish by willpower. The sergeant clears his throat, well aware of the captain’s hair-trigger temper.
          “Okay, what do we know, Perkins?”
          “Security cameras show it being offloaded about an hour ago. One suspect, looks to be male, mid-sixties, driving an older pickup pulling a trailer. The suspect drops the trailer and that, um, device rolls off. Then the suspect drives away. The Feds are tracking him down.”
          “And the media?”
          “Eyes in the sky, Captain. They’re out of the no-fly zone, but they’ve got cameras on us.”
          Travers pinches the bridge of his nose between a meaty thumb and forefinger, pinches it hard like that might clarify something.
          “Okay, Sergeant Perkins. Are the bomb squad boys ready?”
          “Yessir, the remote is offloaded and standing by.”
          “Well, let’s get cracking. Tell them to send it in, see if we can figure out what this thing is.”
          Sergeant Perkins tilts his head to speak into his radio. A break opens in the police cordon and a six-wheeled robot appears. A hinged mechanical arm protrudes from the top of the robot. The clawed end of the arm juts in front of the robot as it rolls across the empty plaza.
          The bomb disposal robot gets within thirty feet of the mystery device and then the hushed stillness is shattered by a booming voice.
          PROXIMITY ALERT, PROXIMITY ALERT. DEVICE ACTIVATED. MOVE BACK. MOVE BACK.
          Travers is on his own radio in an instant, shouting into the mic.
          “Get it back, move it back right now!”
          The wheeled robot reverses course and scuttles backward towards the perimeter. That is when the mystery vehicle begins to unfold itself.
          Something that looks like a flowing sculpture rises from the base of the offending vehicle. The sculpture is eight feet tall and appears to be partially veiled in some sort of multicolored mane. There is an audible click as the sculpture locks upright. Then the colored mane rises above it like a crown, becoming a red, white, and blue triangle. The curled tuft locks into place above the sculpture, ruffling in the light morning breeze.
          The morning sun pushes past the court building’s marble façade. Sunlight pours into the oval plaza and illuminates the mobile sculpture for everyone to see.
          In the center of the plaza, standing tall and proud, is a giant vulva. It is fully eight feet tall and gleams in the sunlight. The patriotic red, white, and blue mons pubis adds another four feet to the statue’s impressive height.
          The majestic vulva is two-sided, with mirrored images facing both east and west. The vulva staring up at the court building is framed in a lovely shade of chocolate, accenting the purple and violet tones of the labia majora and labia minora. Its sister vulva faces west, resplendent in shades of pink, rose, and peach.
          A ripple courses through the police ranks. Officers grimace, trying to hide laughter. Some succeed, some fail. Everyone avoids looking toward the command post.
Captain Travers watches the scene with stony eyes. Sergeant Perkins starts to speak, and Travers raises one huge palm. The comment dies on Perkins’ lips. At that moment, a voice blares from the loudspeakers hidden beneath the twin vulvae.
          The sampled voice is rich and sonorous, filling the plaza and echoing off marble walls. The loop drops to a layered sampling of saxophone over muffled vocals. Then it’s full-on hip hop beats with Chuck D throwing down a challenge, telling it like it is, preaching the need to fight.
          Captain Travers drops his forehead into his right hand, his fingers rubbing at his temples.
          “What the hell is this shit?”
          Sergeant Perkins is quick to respond.
          “Public Enemy, Captain.”
          Travers raises his head and glares at his second.
          “Perkins, I am a Black man in Washington, D.C. You think I don’t know Public Enemy?”
          “Sorry, Captain.”
          A cell phone emits a muffled chirp from inside Travers’ tactical vest, barely audible above the booming music. The captain fishes the phone from his pocket, his mouth set in a hard line.
          “Travers here…”
          Sergeant Perkins looks away and fiddles with his radio. The tiny voice at the other end of the line sounds very angry. Captain Travers nods his head, answers the angry little voice in staccato agreement.
          “Yes, Chief. The media. I understand, Chief. Got it. Right.”
          Travers thumbs the call dead and stuffs the phone back into his vest.
          “I hope like hell the Feds take this annoying bastard alive.”
          “Why is that, Captain?”
          “Because I want to shoot the sonofabitch my own damn self. Never wanted anything so bad in my life.”
          He sees Perkins’ look and manages a thin smile.
          “Forget it, I’m just blowing off steam. Chief wants this stopped right now. Tell the bomb squad to push the mobile blast shields into place. Then get the robot in there and claw those loudspeakers to bits. You got that?”
          “Roger that, Captain. But we’re still looking for a bomb, right?”
          Travers shakes his head.
          “The Chief doesn’t believe the big vagina is a bomb. He thinks it’s a stunt. I’m betting pigshit to donuts he’s right. Push the blast shields in, just in case, then stop that damn music.”
          Sergeant Perkins barks into his radio and the cordon springs into action. Captain Travers stares at the colorful vulva, listening to Public Enemy and trying very hard to hide his smile under a scowl.

* * *

          Sam Johnson watches the three black Suburbans turn off the county road and drive through the gate. Sam is sitting outside his shop enjoying the afternoon sunshine. He’s glad he remembered to leave the gate open. Easier for everyone concerned.
          The big rigs climb the narrow farm lane and park in a cluster between the house and the shop. Sam stands and waves, keeping his hands in plain sight.
          The Feds spill out of their black rigs, men and women both, most of them wearing tactical vests emblazoned with bold yellow letters spelling out FBI or Federal Marshall.
Two of the agents separate from the scrum and approach Sam. One is a gaunt white man wearing a dark suit and carrying a sheaf of papers. The other is a tall lean black woman. Sam nods to both of them.
          “Good afternoon.”
          It’s the gaunt Fed that answers.
          “Good afternoon. I’m Agent Porter of the FBI. This is Agent Robinson. Are you Samuel Johnson?”
          “Yes, I am.”
          “Mister Johnson, I have here a search warrant for this property, both the house and the barn.”
          He holds the papers out to Sam, but the old millwright ignores them.
          “That’s all right, Agent Porter. I trust your paperwork is in order. You go on and do what you need to do.”
          “Very well. Before we enter the premises, do you have any firearms or explosives on the property?”
          “I do. There’s a twelve-gauge shotgun in the kitchen pantry. It’s unloaded and the trigger is locked. The key is on a nail above the pantry door on the inside.”
          Agent Porter purses his lips and nods his bony skull.
          “Good safety practices, Mister Johnson.”
          Sam responds with a nod. Agent Porter turns, waves a hand, and the scrum of Feds splits into two scrums, one heading for the farmhouse, the other for the shop. While they’re scurrying around, Sam is busy studying Robinson, the quiet one.
          He likes the way she carries herself, aloof but aware, like a bird of prey. Her eyes don’t look away from his, even after Porter starts back in.
          “Sir, we’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind. It might make it easier for everyone concerned. You are not required to answer these questions if you do not wish to.”
          Sam shrugs and smiles.
          “Ask away, Agent Porter. I’m happy to cooperate.”
          “Glad to hear it, sir. Can you tell us where you were at approximately five AM this morning?”
          “Sure can. I was driving to DC in that old pickup you see over there.”
          “Thank you for being so forthright. Can you tell us why you were driving to Washington?”
          “Had to make a delivery.”
          “And what were you delivering?”
          Sam tilts his head a bit and smiles.
          “You play poker, Agent Porter?”
          Porter gives Sam a look meant to be blank and fails.
          “No, sir, I don’t.”
          “Probably a good thing. I’m reasonably certain you know exactly what I was delivering to Washington. I’ll wager good money you’ve got security video of my truck, that you’ve already watched the video, and that’s why you’re here.”
          “Mister Johnson, did you leave a robotic device on the grounds of the United States Supreme Court?”
          Sam smiles and nods his head. He looks at Robinson. Her expression is unchanged. A bird of prey is exactly right, but more like a falcon than an eagle.
          “Yes, Agent Porter, I built a large robotic statue of a giant vulva, drove it to the Supreme Court, dropped it off, and turned it loose.”
          “I see. Sir, you understand we have reason to arrest you based on your answers?”
          “You need to do your job. I understand that.”
          “Right. I need to make some calls. Agent Robinson will stay with you.”
          Porter turns on his heel and stalks to one of the parked Suburbans. Sam watches him climb into the passenger seat, a cell phone pressed to his ear. Sam turns to the tall black woman.
          “How am I doing, Agent Robinson?”
          Sam sees the barest flicker of a smile appear on the woman’s face. In the same instant, it’s gone.
          “You’re doing fine, Mister Johnson.”
          “You mind if I ask you another question?”
          “Go right ahead.”
          “Do you think I did anything wrong?”
          “That’s not for me to say.”
          “How about if I pressed you for an opinion?”
          “You wouldn’t get one. But let me throw the same question at you. Do you think you did anything wrong?”
          Sam laughs out loud.
          “Sure, I’m guilty of littering at the very least.”
          There’s that ghost of a smile again, and the sight of it tickles Sam. He looks toward the Suburban, sees Porter climbing out of it.
          “Well, here we go. Tell me, how do you think I should play this?”
          He watches Robinson glance at her approaching partner, then her eyes lock on Sam’s.
          “You keep playing it straight, just like you’re doing, and you’ll be fine.”
          “Thank you for that, Agent Robinson. I guess I don’t know how to play it any other way.”
          Robinson smiles at Sam and the smile lingers this time. Sam matches it with one of his own. Time slows then. A tall black woman smiles at an old white man, and he back at her, as the sound of footsteps draws near.