“As every citizen of this great nation is probably aware, today we celebrate the twentieth
anniversary of the Libertarian Act. For many this day is a time of celebration, but for others, it
is a time of sober reflection. At the time of its passage, the Act was designed to curb the growing
problems of violence that were sweeping the country. In America‟s inner cities, crime continued
to escalate, schools became the sites of increasing gang violence, and in time, the problem began
to spill over into every community. No one appeared to safe, and no place seemed untouched.
Under the burden of a crushing national debt and a crumbling social structure, both state and
the federal officials were at their wits end to find a solution. The Libertarian Act responded to
these problems by giving private citizens the power to enforce the law. Following on the heels of
the Safe Streets Act, the Libertarian Act repealed the use of the National Guard to enforce the
peace, and gave official sanction to bounty hunters and vigilantes who were now permitted to
track down and arrest offenders. With one stroke of the pen, the life of every known or suspected
criminal in America became redeemable for money. Those who were willing to adopt this often
dangerous, sometimes glamorous, life applied for licenses, and bounties were paid out to those
who brought offenders in, dead or alive. The question we are asking ourselves today is, after
twenty years of vigilante justice, is the Libertarian Act still needed?”
Gord sat and tried not to let the annoying sound of Tyson sucking his spaghetti distract
him from the TV. The investigative journalist was getting to end of all the background junk and
was about to get to the good stuff, the stuff that involved them. Grabbing the remote, he turned
the volume up a few notches and leaned forward in his seat.
―It's coming!‖ he yelled, pointing to the set.
“I‟m standing here with a group who calls themselves the Watchmen…”
―Yes!‖ Gord yelled. Tyson continued to eat his food, eyeing the TV with only mild
interest. Across the room, Janey continued cleaning the assorted gun parts she had lain on the
table and shook her head.
―Relax, Gord!‖ she ordered. ―It's just another human interest story.‖
―Yeah, but I get to talk this time. The last time they came around, all they wanted to do
was to talk to Tom.‖
―What good is it, anyway?‖ she retorted. ―You had your face covered the whole time?‖
―Shut up!‖ he demanded, pointing at the screen. ―My parts coming up!‖
On the screen, a black hooded figure stood next to the reporter, a microphone in his face,
trying to look tall and threatening. Underneath that hood, speaking in a low, husky voice, a
bounty hunter attempted to speak his mind.
―It‟s all about freedom, about the protection of our rights and our homes from those that
would do them harm,” he said.
The reporter brought the mike back to her lips and asked: “So is it fair to say you see
yourselves as the last line of defence against the problems we see in our streets?”
“Yes, ma‟am. I do.”
She moved next to the hooded figure that stood next to him, a taller, heavier man who
kept his big, dark arms folded across his chest.
“What about you sir? Why did you get into this business?”
A deeper, gruffer baritone voice replied: “Cause‟ it‟s where the money is. Plus I think
the crooks are the ones who oughta‟ be afraid, not us.”
“Do the men you hunt fear you?” she asked.
“Oh yeah!” he replied.