Behind enemy lines

[MisterSpock]

Once again, I am in the belly of the beast.

Portland, Oregon.

After fighting my way through traffic littered with the remnants of statues, after driving around screaming protesters kneeling and still trying to throw themselves on my vehicle, after checking in to the Dystopian Hilton. . . . . 

I am safely ensconced in my room.   Computer on, scotch at hand.

This is my journal of survival.

If I make it.

Pray for me.

Why?

Is money involved? Is it nearly enough?

Or are you just like an african big game hunter, just in it for the kill?