The next day Mr. Felt had been stuck in video call meetings to the Maine state capital from dawn to dusk. He was being stonewalled by every lawmaker who would give him an ear. He didn't matter to them regardless of party, even with the company stuffing them with many cash donations over the years. Loyalty was only something found in dogs.

He was disheartened by the entire political process, and vowed it was time to take matters into his own hands. In Fact it was recommended to him by "L.O.O.G: the League Of Outsider Gentlemen”.

All the out-of-state executives living in Maine part-time had been contacted by a package left outside each member's primary residence. The package had been filled with L.O.O.G painted products, designed by Nmple in California. Their purpose was to encourage the recipient to read the group's mission statement, with hype letters typed on both sides of the page for the good of the environment.

Soon all the executives would gather over a video call for their first official meeting. It was then decided by the council that they would pool their funds into a combined defense budget. The world was increasingly becoming a volatile place, where it was harder and harder to find peace. Pinker's private police force was the perfect paramilitary contractor to serve new masters. Those who served any and all pigs who paid them, now with L.O.O.G. they conspired.

By February 6 Pinkers had moved in. Setting roadblocks on the rich private roads to screen traffic and sleeping outside in tents. Their guns looked semi-automatic, their clip sizes illegal. They even patrolled on the edge of Steve's property along an old right of way road, but he was too depressed to leave bed and fend them off. Not until he got into the whiskey the next day. He got his shotgun and headed out. Then they backed off.

Mr. Felt adjusted his wide brim hat as he returned to his office on a floor high up, he was executive CEO of Exitrcorp and he had work today to do. He leaned back in his sleek, and comfy working chair.

"Ahhh that's nice," he said to himself, stretching his arms back.

The L.O.O.G funded soldiers put there to keep peace had too many strings attached, so he needed someone on the ground that he could sort of depend on. His son, and his crew of dope smokers, and psychedelic selling fitness gurus had started guarding his massive construction project ongoing on his Maine island where the master's lair would soon be reconstructed.