Pensacola 32502: S.T. Jefferson-Davis--Patriotic American Law Enforcement Hero

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Action and Adventure  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is the unauthorized almost autobiography of a heroic, forward looking, visionary civil servant in the employment the United States Government. I have compiled this story of this truly great American from notes I made of conversations that we engaged in over a period of many years and from independent research. S.T. was unaware of my note taking, so this is a candid story mostly straight from the man’s own lips.

Submitted: January 05, 2015

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Submitted: January 05, 2015

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This is the unauthorized almost autobiography of a heroic, forward looking, visionary civil servant in the employment the United States Government.  I have compiled this story of this truly great American from notes I made of conversations that we engaged in over a period of many years and from independent research.  S.T. was unaware of my note taking, so this is a candid story mostly straight from the man’s own lips.

S.T. Jeff Davis was born to a sweet young woman somewhere in the Deep South in the early beginnings of the New Age South.  This young lady was the white looking product of the generations old tradition of Entitled Southern White Aristocrat Boys getting their young rocks off with young girls who knew and know that their destiny in life was and is to bear the unrecognized child of one of these boys. 

Word around the boy’s locker room was that many of them considered this an honor. 

In the earliest days of the post Civil War Southern Aristocracy, negra former slaves, females, were more often than not the object of these desires but, biological drives being what they are, and a general absence of prohibitive social norms being a basic factor of entitlement, the practice soon spread to non-negras known commonly in fraternity circles from North Carolina to Mississippi as “White Trash” and occasionally other men.  As time went on and our Great Society evolved with the changes in those times, and growing numbers, however limited they were, of southern Negros were admitted into the ranks of the Entitled, and the practitioners of this Great Southern Tradition became known as Entitled Southern Boys. 

S.T. Jeff Davis was the product of one of these playful liaisons.  His mother wanted to name him after great southerners, but she didn’t want to mislead anyone as to his heritage.  So she gave him the initial “S”, for Strom, and “T”, for Trent, two truly aristocratic southern male names, even though neither was his daddy, and gave him the last name of “Davis,” even though that wasn’t his real daddy’s name either, and moved to Mississippi where growing up without a father was about as unique as a soft pine in a pulp forest.

For the most part, S.T.’s childhood and young adulthood was pretty average.  After high school, he attended the University of Mississippi, where he majored in government with a concentration in U.S. federal government.  He wanted to be a cheer leader, but he couldn’t make the team.  In fact, both his high school and college careers, he completed each with a perfect “c” average, were remarkable only for their unremarkability.After college, he tried to enlist in the Army and the Marines.  His goal was to go away to some far off land and come home a hero.  Or at least die in combat and be remembered as a hero, and maybe have a little plaque with his name on it attached to the chain link fence in front of his high school.  But, like so many other products of southern education, then and now, he couldn’t score high enough for either service to take him into the infantry, or anything else, for that matter.The Marine Corps recruiter seemed to unnecessarily go out of his way to emphasize that S.T. wasn’t acceptable as an officer candidate, either. 

But, he didn’t give up and eventually he landed a job in the Starbucks Management Trainee Program.  Life was good.  He could mix as many as 8 orange caramel mocha lattes with whipped cream at a time, and never drip the whipped cream.  Pretty soon, he was the opening morning manager.

But, a meteoric rise to pinnacles of success can burn a man out and, in the end; S.T. was a man and nothing more.

ST had risen through the ranks of coffee shop baristas like an on target ICBM.  Within a couple of fast moving years he progressed from lead toilet cleaner on the swing shift cleanup crew in Pensacola, Florida, to the coveted position of General Manager of the Washington, D.C. Starbucks that is located a couple of blocks from the White House. 

He was clearly earmarked for barista fame and stardom—a rising star actually--when the vision of the future flashed before him. 

Actually, it flash banged before him.

He was sitting at a table  near the front of the  Washington, D.C. Starbucks that is located a couple of blocks from the White House, on his 15 minute midmorning break, enjoying an iced frappuccino watching the myriad of Ethiopian, Eritrean and West African girls whom he employed as baristas.  They were good workers, and fit the barista model:  smiling, laughing, carefree young people of color who enjoyed working for works sake and neither expected nor asked for a living wage.  If they needed extra money they simply picked up an additional job.He especially liked the Ethiopian girls:  laughing, smiling—at him—and constantly flirting.  They had tiny feet and long legs, shapely hips, small waists and nicely sized and shaped breasts and occasionally broke into native dance or song behind the counter.  The West African girls were a little more rollie pollie, and more pretty than exotic, but they were fun and easy to work with, too.

His Starbucks was a favorite among White House Staff and visiting consultants who could afford the prices and the Presidential appointees in the State Department went out of their way to have these young refugee women directed to him for employment. 

Here on the D.C. side of the river, it seemed as though all of the Starbucks employees were from West Africa or Nigeria or the Congo.  On the Virginia side of the Potomac, it seemed like they were all from Ethiopia.  These were nice people, but he was concerned that they were all foreigners and that Starbucks, his company, had hired them over the local Washington, D.C. residents.  True, they were all hard working folk, as one would expect from the descendents of people bred for slavery, and they smiled, and sometimes hum a song while they work.  Some of the people from the Congo even danced a little when they worked.  They were so happy and go lucky.  Why did they have to come over here to work?  Why couldn’t they get a job at a Starbucks in Africa?  But in his heart, he knew that it was unfair that his company, and so many other companies, like the companies who provided the janitorial services to the federal government, should hire foreigners when there were so many local Negro Americans standing in line, waiting for these good paying jobs. 

It just didn’t seem right.

And then it happened.

Beer can sized objects came in through the door and rattled around the floor and exploded.  A black helicopter swooped low in the street, blowing dust all over everything, and several black SUVs with blaring sirens and flashing emergency lights screeched to a halt in front of the shop.  The West Africa girls behind the counter screamed and clutched each other, thinking it was Arab raiders from their homeland coming into paradise to kill and rape them--in either order.  The Ethiopian girls screamed and held each other and the Eritrean girls did likewise, each group thinking the other group was attaching.  And they all wet their pants as burley black jump suited men with black WWII German army helmets, wearing black face masks and expensive black space alien Oakley Sunglasses followed the flash bangs, with cool looking automatic rifles, just like the SWAT teams on CSI Miami, sticking the rifles in everyone’s face yelling “Federal Agents,” and snarling “Drop the orange mocha latte frappe and get down!  You know what we’re here for.”

Moments later, the two West African girls were led crying and dripping from the coffee shop.The Ethiopian and Eritrean girls were on their knees, slipping and sliding on the wet floor, tugging at the fronts of the body armor that the raiding agents wore, alternatively pleading for mercy and checking themselves for bullet holes or machete slashes.  The agents were examining their Resident Alien cards and eyeing them suspiciously. 

And then, they were gone as quickly as they had come, ghost riders in black SUV’s with black windows with a black helicopter circling overhead.  The only people left in the street were Lou Dobbs, Ace Reporter and CNN Rock Star, Staunch Defender of America Against the Onslaught of Dark Skinned Tomato Pickers and Toilet Bowl Scrubbers from South of the Border, and his camera crew.

In that moment, ST had seen his future and from that point forward, he was a man with a destiny.  A man with a mission.  A mission to protect American jobs for Americans, and to stoutly staunch the flow of job stealing non-Americans from all over the world without regard to race, religion, creed or color. 

He was going to be a United States Government federal immigration agent.

Film at eleven.


© Copyright 2017 Eddie C Morton. All rights reserved.

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