The following is an excerpt from the diary of Betty "Brooklyn" Charles.
February 18, 1937
Dear Diary,
I think I must be one of the few folks who weren't upset when Texas seceded and all the other states broke up. Living in Minnesota wasn't exactly my idea of a good time. Sure, the cow-tipping was fine, and I got to fly the family plane on weekends, but let's be honest here: It was hell.
If I hear one more guy say, "What's a nice girl like you doing flying with pirates like these?" I think I'll puke. Those idiots have no idea who I am. They see blonde hair and a girlish figure, and they think I must be the sweet, girl-next-door type. If only they knew. I've been a pirate since grade school when I stole Debbie Mitchell's ruler. She had two. I wanted one. Thing is, I was always quick enough to not get caught, or smart enough to blame it on somebody else.
When the U.S. fell apart, along with all its laws, I celebrated. I believe we all secretly wished that the world would return to a time of chaos and every-man-for-himself. I know I did. You can only look at so many corn fields before you start to lose your mind, and go to only so many county fairs before you're bored out of your skull.
What truly amazes me is that some people still believe nothing has changed. They fool themselves with their business lunches and their boardroom games. They're forgetting that the stakes have changed. What they earn so legitimately is easy pickings for folks like me and mine—pirates who can just walk up and ask for it with a smile and the right kind of threat, or slip it into our pockets when no one is looking.
Easy targets? They're the suckers I like the least, actually. They're no challenge. They're like big-eyed cows standing in a field of green, chewing their cud on a comforting, repetitive schedule. Those of us with imagination just walk up and give them a shove. They don't even see it coming, and over they go. Boom. Moo. Stupid cows. I confess: it makes me laugh, but it's not the most fun I've ever had.
No, the targets I like best are the ones who fight back. When America blew apart at the seams, it was like a firecracker being tossed into a hornet's nest. The meanest, nastiest bastards came out with their stingers ready and an unbelievable buzz on. They were the smart ones, the ones who knew there was profit to be had in others' tragedies. The Stock Market Crash of '29 didn’t so much devastate these folks as inspire them.
Nobody trusts anybody anymore, and that's probably wise. Old McDonald had a farm. E-I-E-I-O. And on that farm he had a militia. E-I-E-I-O. With a boom-boom here, and a boom-boom there, here a boom, there a boom, everywhere a boom-boom; Old McDonald kept all his neighbors at bay and dreamed of taking them over some day. And I'm okay with that. Because the more they fight among themselves, the less attention they pay to whose hands are in their pockets.
I guess I did learn one good thing during my horrible farm-girl existence. I'd be hopeless today if I hadn't learned how to fly. I owe Uncle for that. Nobody ever goes anywhere anymore except by plane or Zeppelin. Isolationists destroyed the interstate roads. There's no money in being a highwayman in a place with no highways. The traffic was lifted into the skies, and that's where I belong.
Hell, I never would have met Nathan if I wasn't flying him back and forth between New York and D.C. If I'd never met him, I'd still be up there, catering to fat cats with too much money and not enough generosity. Sure, they offered plenty to have a pretty blonde on their arms at dinner or in their beds. I wasn't interested. I'm not the kind of girl to grovel for what I want. I take what I want. Nathan understood that. He understands me, because we're just alike, he and I. We're pirates. Nobody ever becomes a pirate. You're born that way.
In a world where everyone's a criminal, there's no shame in stealing.
