Category Archives: Speculative

All This and Civil War Two

What began as an interview with R.A. Mathis about Homeland: Falling Down turned into quite a discussion about America teetering on the precipice of oblivion. Here is Part One:

 

HENRY BROWN: First of all, thanks for agreeing to do the interview.

R.A. MATHIS: Thank you for having me, Hank.

HENRY BROWN: After reading Ghosts of Babylon, I guess I assumed you might follow up with something similar, or possibly move on to more mainstream literature. What made you decide to spin a SHTF yarn?

R.A. MATHIS: I wrote Ghosts of Babylon because I had to. It began as an effort to mentally sort out my Iraq experience. The Homeland series is the same.
The seed was formed from the occasional news story of another general being fired for questionable reasons, a new executive order being announced, or the IRS being used as a weapon. That seed took root as these stories began to appear with alarming regularity. I thought it was just me being a bit paranoid, so put it aside and kept my mouth shut. But then I noticed others voicing the same concerns, both on the street and even in the popular media.
The last straw dropped when a guy came to our house to work on the air conditioner. We struck up a conversation as he worked. He told me that he was mortally afraid of the government. That’s when I began to realize how widespread the concern really was. (As a side note, I believe this sentiment is a contributor to the current election cycle’s rebellion against all things establishment.)

(HENRY BROWN: I would have to agree. And on the one hand it’s about time. But on the other…it seems to me that the pent-up outrage, now that it’s finally loose, is proving to be misdirected in many quarters.)

R.A. MATHIS: Homeland is an attempt to test the thesis, to mentally sort it out as a kind of mental experiment. Unfortunately, the thesis is proving all too plausible.

On a similar note, I noticed your Retreads series has gone from pulpy men’s adventure to a more serious SHTF genre. Why the shift?

HENRY BROWN: I’m not sure I can answer that in a way that makes sense to others, but I’ll try. Some of the times I’ve been happiest in life were when I had my head stuck in the sand–either voluntarily or unintentionally. That applies to the writing partition of my life, too. My whole experiment in men’s fiction was partly an effort to relive the fun and the rush of adventure lived vicariously through characters in some of the novels I read as a kid and young man. Better yet: to pass that experience along to new readers. Such was my ambition. (And yet, I couldn’t go Full Ostrich all the way–in Hell & Gone you can already see the government attitude–through the goons in their alphabet soup agencies–that certain law-abiding Americans are more dangerous than actual terrorists. In Tier Zero I sort of laid the ground work for False Flag by introducing some ugly little secrets of black ops, and how, if Washington doesn’t have a convenient one to exploit, our would-be rulers are willing to manufacture a crisis as an excuse for the next power grab in their agenda.) But I got to the point where I just couldn’t swallow the blue pill anymore.

I see the world around me drowning in deception. People who recognize this must not let the truth be buried. We have to shout it from the rooftops as best we can, despite the odds. If those sound like the words of a maniac, well, so be it.

I guess I should mention that I’ve had it in mind to write apocalyptic or post-apocalyptic fiction for a long time–but something a little less heavy, like the Last Ranger series or Doomsday Warrior before it (only without the mutants, the Zen philsophy and the weird psychodelic acid trip scenes). However, taking stock of the situation facing us in America, people need to wake up; not be somnambulized into maintaining their complacency.

The Retreads were established characters, who I and some readers really liked. If I could choose anybody to guard my flanks when facing Armageddon, it would be guys like them. After all, they were staring down the barrel of WWIII from their very debut, and handled it pretty well. At the same time, I knew that pulling out all the stops politically would piss off some readers who liked the previous books. Oh well. Life is too short and freedom is too precious to lose sleep over whether I offended somebody or not. I get offended constantly in books and movies. Suck it up and drive on.

Aren’t you sorry you asked that question, now?

When you introduced the DHS involvement with the regular army in Falling Down, it made perfect sense and I wondered why it hadn’t been done before (my own excuse is that I haven’t yet depicted conventional national military forces). After all, the Red Army had its political officers–military commisars or whatever, feared by all the regular soldiers. Same with the Soviet Navy. The Wermacht was, to an extent, gripped by terror due to the SS and Gestapo. Compared to me, your active duty experience is very up-to-date. Did you witness anything first-hand that confirmed for you this scenario will play out in a SHTF scenario?

R.A. MATHIS: You are exactly right about the Soviet commissars being the basis for the DHS “advisors” assigned to active units in the book. In fact, an important parameter of my “thought experiment” mentioned above is that there must be historical precedence for the events in the book, especially in the actions taken by the government. Knowing that the new regime would be suspicious, or even hostile, toward the military, commissars assigned to keep the troops in line would be a top priority. If you put yourself in the regime’s shoes, the DHS seemed like a perfect fit.
My first-hand military experience ended in 2006, before our current President took office. At that time, the political correctness machine was already in full swing, but I never experienced blatant meddling by civilian agents. That being said, the amount and pace of social engineering forced upon our men and women in uniform since then is both staggering and alarming.

There is something I found interesting as I read False Flag. The occult ceremonies woven into the plot and connected with the tier-zero units and other operatives. Can you go into more detail about their purpose to the regime and why you included them in the story? Also, are these ceremonies simply mind control, or are they really colluding with unseen forces?

HENRY BROWN: Well, now you’ve done it. If people didn’t believe me to be a tinfoil hat whack-job already…

This angle came entirely from my research, which encompassed everything from MK Ultra and Monarch to “satanic ritual abuse.” I followed the leads where they led and was astonished to discover how interconnected it all is. It all sounds crazy on the surface–some of it as if inspired by a B-horror movie or bad sci-fi. And don’t get me wrong–there are a lot of cockamamie wive’s tales out there. Unfortunately, much of it is mixed up with things that happen to be true. I could go on at great length on this subject, but will try to pare it down to just a couple aspects.

One of the first bombshells to land on me was that multiple personality disorder (MPD) can be artificially created in people. And I’m understating the fact here, because some who have studied it much more than I have will tell you that EVERY case of MPD was manufactured by high level experts in cognitive sciences; and furthermore, that they do so with a common denominator of ulterior motives, and with government funding.

Some of those same folks will tell you that there absolutely are unseen forces at work. Certain spiritual beings are always looking for a body to occupy, and when a personality is split, they are given entry. This is stuff I don’t really want to believe. I’ve never been obsessed with UFOs, vampires, werewolves or witchcraft. I don’t watch “ghost hunter” shows or think zombies (as depicted in pop culture recently) are very credible. In most of the churches I’ve ever attended, great pains were made to downplay the supernatural in the Bible, and remove the paranormal/supernatural from the Christian worldview. Frankly, that tendency rubbed off on me, so I’ve never taken that stuff seriously most of my life. That is beginning to change. I’m at the point now that I do see a spiritual/occultic aspect to the postwar mind control efforts. But not many rational people can swallow that–which I certainly understand. What I tried to do was write that subplot in an ambiguous enough manner that the reader can take it whichever way they are most comfortable with–either just advanced brain-screwing built on the discoveries of the Nazi mind control pioneers with occultic trappings to make the victims believe they’re tapping into some ancient spiritual power; or human scientists carrying out the brain-screwing at the behest of the unseen beings they serve (knowingly or unknowingly). The bottom line for most readers, perhaps, is that it’s fiction. There are plenty of theories even more far out than this in other books or movies, and people suspend their disbelief for the sake of entertainment. Frankly, I’d love to be proven wrong about a lot of stuff I’ve said both on this blog and in my books.

As to what purpose our domestic enemies would have for such individuals…when you take stock of what they are doing and still intend to do, sleeper agents they can activate like flipping a switch can come in very handy. Especially in false flags. The cream of the crop could be held in reserve for really big jobs–high profile assassinations, for instance; while the unstable sleepers can be used as cannon fodder in the school-shooting-of-the-week. One investigator has discovered that many of the MPD cases are part of a “super soldier” program, which makes sense when you consider that the mind control endeavors in North America took over where the Nazi scientists left off. Pretty scary, if true.

You mentioned how the purge of the  US high command partly inspired you to write Falling Down. In my own SHTF book, that purge of field grade officers (which began in earnest about 2009) also plays a part. First off, I’m curious how the average Joe in the ranks feels about this today, as well as the junior grade officers. Secondly, you wrote it in such a way as to suggest that Colonel Lee bugged out before being nabbed by the DHS. Are we going to see him again in future installments?

R.A. MATHIS: On the purge subject: Like the old saying goes, you can’t fool the troops. I still have friends in uniform. They see the attack dogs ejected while the lapdogs are promoted. It has an adverse effect on morale across the width and breadth of the active force.
Yes, we will see more of Colonel Lee. Good catch on that one.

HENRY BROWN: Considering those purges, among other things, what is your general gut feeling about whether the regular military will hesitate to make war on American citizens?

R.A. MATHIS: That is why I included Cole in the book. I needed to see the situation through the eyes of a soldier. I don’t think they will obey that type of order, the outstanding conduct of our troops in the Middle East (with very few exceptions) over the last 13 years will testify to that. But what if extreme coercion is applied?  In Homeland, all military families are brought on base when it hits the fan. This allows the soldiers to focus on their jobs, knowing that their wives and children are protected and cared for. However, this move also gives the regime leverage. If a soldier refuses to commit atrocities, his family may be forfeit. That kind of pressure is enough to make good men do very bad things. I do not envy our troops in such a situation. The same tactic can be used on just about anybody. This was a key tool of the totalitarian regimes in the last century. I don’t see why future regimes would stop using it.

HENRY BROWN: I don’t envy them either. In fact, rarely does a day go by anymore that I don’t find myself opining that I couldn’t be a part of what the military has become. It is no place for a patriot, or even for a good soldier anymore.

R.A. MATHIS: What are your thoughts on the likelihood of the American military making war on its own citizens?

HENRY BROWN: No offense, but in my experience officers often have a perspective on situations and shared experience that is rosier than the grunts see it. I’ve been on the enlisted side and could write quite a hatchet-job on the rank-and-file, even back in my day and even in an elite unit.

It boils down to this: kids growing up in the USA have no appreciation for how good we’ve had it here. They not only take our freedom and rights for granted, they are conditioned to have contempt for America. Very few of them resist that conditioning. Those people grow up and join the armed forces and, big surprise, the motivation is rarely patriotism. It’s for college money and job training. And that’s how the recruiting commercials pitch it. They throw bait out for mercenaries and that’s what they get.  (But perhaps many did join in the months/years after 9/11 for a more altruistic motive).

Career soldiers would just as easily fight for any cause and as part of any army. That’s the impression I got of the average G.I.

All officers have some generic pretense of honor, but when the rubber meets the road, most officers and NCOs are serving their career ambitions, not their country. Some are better than others, but those who rise to the top are nothing more than uniformed politicians.

Baron Von Steuben gave us quite the compliment when he illustrated the uniqueness of the American soldier (unlike any other soldier who receives an order and automatically complies, Americans had to have confidence in the motive behind the order before they would comply). This is definitely no longer the case.

All of this was bad enough when I wore the uniform; I’m sure it’s much worse now. Thank God there are exceptions. But what few good soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen remain are either being purged, or forced out by the increasingly hostile environment the military is being transformed into. So yes: I’m afraid most will fire on American civilians, and with little hesitation–especially with the added head games they are sure to get immediately prior. I would love to be proven wrong, but won’t hold my breath.

So, whether faced with our own military or with modern-day Hessians under globalist command (assuming the 3 percenters have prepped adequately enough to avoid being simply starved to death) with no support from a foreign ally and probably without popular support, how viable do you consider a guerilla resistance effort to be?

R.A. MATHIS: You mention in False Flag that no insurgency has ever won without foreign intervention and popular support, which I thought was a very good point. The two things America has to counter that are the 2nd Amendment and the 2008 election of the best gun salesman the country has ever seen. We have over 300 million citizens and about as many firearms in this country. We are also buying up ammo as fast as it can be produced (at least what is left over after DHS gets their share). Combine that with hundreds of thousands of highly trained combat veterans scattered to every part of the country, and the odds don’t look so long.

(HENRY BROWN: What a coincidence that veterans, patriots and gun owners top the list of potential “domestic terrorists” the government is most worried about, eh?)

R.A. MATHIS: This alludes to the working title of Book Three, “Every Blade of Grass.”

HENRY BROWN: How appropriate–that very quote (whoever said it) was just going through my mind as your words sunk in.

R.A. MATHIS: I think the success of a resistance would vary by region. Rural areas would be virtual no-go zones for regime forces. Some urban areas may just welcome them like the Vichy French.
It seems to me that the biggest problem for the resistance would be the lack of electricity. If the regime restored power to each region as it was brought into compliance, it could make for effective deadly propaganda against the resistance. It’s the old “freedom vs security” dilemma on steroids. I’m not sure which way the populace would go in that case, especially in winter.

 That’s about the halfway mark. Look for the rest of the discussion next time. – Hank

When it Hits the Fan (Falling Down Excerpt)

Here’s an excerpt from R.A. Mathis’ excelent SHTF novel, Homeland: Falling Down. – Hank

 

After what seemed like a hundred miles, they finally reached the hospital. The ground outside was littered with patients. Doctors and nurses rushed from one victim to the other, trying to conduct triage as best they could. Walking wounded crowded the emergency entrance, blocking the door. Cole had seen this before in Syrian refugee camps. Whether the staff knew it or not, that’s what this place was turning into. He couldn’t believe this was the same city he visited two nights before.
Lieutenant Young ordered the vehicles to form a perimeter around the entrance to clear the way for medical personnel. The crowd wasn’t happy about it, but relented. Young went in to find the administrator. Cole helped his passenger from the Humvee “You’re safe now.”
The woman sobbed. “They just pulled me from my car. I don’t know why. They tried to rape me. I was trying to get to my son’s school. He’s in the first grade. I never should have let him go this morning.”
“Some of our guys are going to schools. Tell Private Hicks which one your son goes to and we’ll try to get you to him.” He gave her an MRE and a bottle of water, wishing he could do more.
Cole noticed a nurse kneeling over an old man who was lying in the grass. Her blonde hair was pulled into a neat pony tail that fell gracefully over her shoulder as she treated a gash on the man’s forehead.
Cole grabbed a first aid pack from the back of his Humvee and walked over to her. He squatted next to the pretty nurse and handed her the sterile bandage. “This will help.”
“Thanks.” She examined the man’s head and asked Cole, “You have any water?”
“One sec.” Cole ran to his vehicle and brought back some bottled waters.
“Thanks again.” The nurse opened a bottle and washed out her patient’s wound, applied a spray-on antiseptic, and bound it with the dressing Cole gave her.
The old man took her hand. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She gave him another water. “Drink this. You’ll be fine. Just rest a while and call if you need me.”
“You’re an angel,” the old man said.
The man took the words right out of Cole’s mouth as he watched her brush a lock of hair from her deep blue eyes.
She held a hand out to Cole. “I’m Amber.”
He took it, hypnotized by the young nurse’s striking gaze. “I’m…Cole.” He regained his senses and looked at the multitude waiting for care. “You’ve got your hands full.”
“It’s getting worse every hour. We’re already low on bandages and antibiotics. I don’t know how long we can keep this up.”
“I’m here to help.”
“Be careful what you offer. I’ll put you to work.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Someone yelled, “Help! Somebody help! Please! My little girl!”
Cole saw a man carrying his daughter. She was pale and limp, her limbs dangling as he staggered through the crowd. Both were covered in blood.
Cole ran to them and took the child into his arms as Amber asked, “What happened to her?”
The father responded, “Car accident. Truck came out of nowhere.”
Cole sprinted to the ER, holding the girl tightly. A doctor blocked him and said, “You can’t take her in there. We don’t have any more room.”
Sergeant Crowe walked up and grabbed the doctor by the collar. “Make room.”
The doctor wilted under the sergeant’s cold stare and iron grip. “I’ll squeeze her in someplace. Follow me.”
Crowe took the child from Cole. Her eyes opened slightly and looked up at the crotchety sergeant. He said, “I gotcha, sweetheart. You’re gonna be okay.” He snapped at the doctor. “What the hell are you waitin’ for?”
The doctor trotted into the hospital with Crowe and the girl close on his heels.
Amber was true to her word. She worked Cole and his men relentlessly. He lost count of how many people they treated as the hours passed. For every one they helped, three more arrived in need of aid. By dusk, almost every inch of ground around the hospital was covered with wounded waiting for help.
Streetlights came to life as Amber went back to the E.R. for more supplies, but returned empty handed. Her warm breath puffed in the chilled night air as she told Cole, “They’re out of everything. Do you have any more supplies?”
“No. What little we had ran out hours ago.” He surveyed the mass of humanity sprawled across the grounds. “The temperature is dropping fast. If we don’t figure something out, most of these people will freeze to death by morning.”
Crowe grabbed an MRE and a bottled water from his vehicle and yelled, “Hicks!”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
“Take these to the little girl we brought in a few hours ago then report back to me with her status.”
“How do I find her, Sergeant?”
“Just tell ‘em she’s the one I brought in. They’ll know who you’re talkin’ about. Her name is Becky. Tell her Sarge says hi.”
“Will do, Sergeant.” Hicks sprinted into the hospital.
Cole jested, “I always thought you had a heart in there somewhere.”
Crowe saw Cole staring at him with a grin. “What the hell are you smilin’ at?”
Cole tried to straighten his face. “Nothing, Sergeant.”
“Then wipe off that shit eatin’ grin.”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
Smoke from the smoldering city burned Cole’s nostrils. The cold night bit at him through his Gor-Tex jacket. He gazed at the poor souls shivering on the hospital grounds, wondering how many would be alive come morning. The chatter and beeps of the Humvee radios filled his ears, making him feel detached from his surroundings. The audio didn’t match the visual.
He looked at the blood smeared across his uniform. A little girl’s blood. American blood. This wasn’t supposed to happen here. This happened in Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan, and a hundred other places like them. But not here.
Amber asked, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Cole lied. “I’m good.”
Sergeant Crowe walked up to them and said, “These people are gonna freeze if we don’t do something. Gimme a hand. I got an idea.”
Cole, Amber, and several soldiers from the platoon helped Sergeant Crowe gather empty metal drums from inside the hospital and filled them with anything flammable.
Crowe told them, “We’ll set these on the ground and keep ‘em burnin’ all night. Gather the wounded around them close as you can. Should keep hypothermia from settin’ in. A nice warm burn barrel saved my ass on many a cold night.”
As the men set out the barrels, Crowe said to Cole in a low voice. “It’s time to think tactically. Prepare to defend this position.” He pointed to spots on the edge of the hospital grounds. I want fighting positions dug there, there, and there. You know the drill. Get moving.”
Amber ran up to Cole. “What’s going on?”
“We may have to defend this position.” Cole pointed to the hospital. “This place is full of drugs, food, and a bunch of other things people will need. If they’re desperate enough, they won’t think twice about killing us to get in.”
Amber shudder as gunshots crackled a few streets away.
Cole looked into her frightened eyes. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Private Hicks reported back. “Where’s Sergeant Crowe?”
“He’s over there.”
The soldier ran over to Crowe. “I found Becky.”
“How is she?”
“She didn’t make it, Sergeant. The docs said there was nothing they could do.”
Crowe stared at Hicks, his jaw grinding.
Hicks added, “Her dad said to thank you.”
“You take it from here,” Crow said to Cole, “I’ll check on the L.T……. Ain’t seen him in a while.” The platoon sergeant suddenly seemed old and tired.
Crowe turned and walked back to the hospital, kicking a trashcan over with a curse. Cole saw him wipe his eyes before going in.
The glow of fires in the city silhouetted the buildings nearby, casting ghostly shadows across Cole’s gaunt face as the last rays of sunlight disappeared. He looked at the sick and wounded civilians huddled around the fire barrels. The points of warmth shone brightly in the darkness. It looked as if the stars had fallen to Earth. Cole never believed in astrology, but he could easily read the ominous portents of these flickering terrestrial constellations.
Shouts echoed in the twilight from the edge of the clearing.
“Help!” a woman shouted.
“Hey!” More yelling. A man this time. “Dammit!”
Pop! Pop! Then screams. People running. Stampeding.
“C’mon!” Cole and his men rushed toward the disturbance, weapons at the ready.
A fire barrel went over. Flame danced across the frosty ground.
“Freeze!” Hank shouted as he ran at the front of his troopers.
A thug held a woman by the hair, her body shielding his, a gun to her head.
At their feet lay a well-dressed man bleeding from several bullet wounds to the chest.
“Back off or the bitch gets it!” the gunman yelled.
Sergeant Crowe arrived next to Cole.
“Take it easy,” he said to the gunman. “Put the gun down.”
“You first, soldier boy.”
“I’ll give you anything you want. Just don’t hurt me,” the woman sobbed.
“You can’t win this one. So put it down. Now!” Crowe ordered.
“Please, don’t let him hurt me,” the woman begged.
“Screw you!” The gunman whipped his pistol about and shot the sergeant.
Crowe staggered backward. Cole’s men returned fire as one. The shooter and the sergeant both hit the ground.

 

Stay tuned for a discussion between me and the author about America’s fate in the near future, and how it might play out. – Hank

Falling Down: Homeland # 1

As frightening, depressing and infuriating as it can be, these days I spend more time reading about impending catastrophe than about any other subject.

When somebody I know produces such work, there’s a good chance they will get to buck the line and their book will go to the top of my TBR pile. I read R.A. Matthis‘ first novel, Ghosts of Babylon, a couple years ago and it deserves the five-star Amazon reviews it received. When I found out he was kicking off a TEOTWAWKI series… well, his new book went to the front of the queue.

The novel follows three principle characters through the final stage of America’s fundamental transformation–Eduardo, the news media personality; Hank, the small town sheriff (with a name like that you just know he’s a stand-up guy…ahem); and Cole, Hank’s son and an E-6 in the Army recently returned from a deployment to Syria.

For the awakened, the strongest subcurrents in the novel are familiar: economic collapse; the encroaching police state (as represented by the Department of Fatherland Homeland Security); utter and complete politicization of the Armed Forces, to be used against the American people, and purging of those who would honor their oath of office. But Mathis’ storytelling is so understated, I can almost imagine the typical normalcy-biased coincidence theorist reading it without being offended. Where I used a sledgehammer in False FLag, Mathis uses a small, quiet whisper (relatively speaking).

The cast is rendered expertly, and this is especially obvious with Eduardo. He’s got all the gray areas and “complexities” you could hope for in a three-dimensional character. The plot, pacing and dialog are also strong. Mathis is really firing on all cylinders here. The occasional typo snuck by the editor (as with seemingly every book these days–mine included), but not enough to pull the reader out of his immersion in this near-future dystopia.

It’s hard not to slip into cliches when describing this book, like “page-turner” and “couldn’t put it down.” I had family visiting, plus work and assorted other obligations, and didn’t think I could get much more than a chapter or two read in a 12-day period.

I was stunned to found myself finished with the entire  book in two days. I still don’t know how I found so much time. (Getting this review ready for posting took longer, as it turned out.) But it’s that good, and I want more.

Mathis blogs over at The Assembly Area. You can also find him on Facebook or his Amazon page.

Paper Clip, High Jump, and Nazis in Antarctica

Those are what my co-guest, Bruno De Marqes, talked about on the Speculative Fiction Cantina podcast.

Fate plays some interesting jokes. I was there to talk about my books, especially False Flag . I fully expected to rock the boat broaching some of the conspiritorial subjects FF deals with. (Truth be told, there wasn’t time to go into much detail anyway.) Bruno was there to talk about his book, Futureman. I couldn’t believe my ears when he mentioned researching Operation High Jump and Operation Paper Clip.

So here’s a guy in Portugul who chased down the same crazy historical facts-that-sound-like-pulp-fiction I had. The between-the-lines background for one sub-plot in False Flag is MK Ultra and Project Monarch. All of the above were related to Paper Clip.

It doesn’t sound as crazy coming from a foreigner, for some reason.

Anyway, the subjects were only mentioned in summary. Most of the interview focuses on other aspects of us/our fiction.

There is No Political Solution

Before I explain that title, let me expound on it:

  • There is no political solution to the trouble America is in.
  • There is no economic solution.
  • There certainly is no racial solution.
  • There is no cultural solution.
  • There is no moral solution.

If you don’t recognize (or don’t care about) the calamity faced by the United States of America right now, then this post is not for you. Good-bye.

THE SOLUTION IS NOT POLITICAL

For the last 102 years, the USA has incrementally abandoned the principles that made it so great and prosperous. It was so great and prosperous that it continued to thrive for a time even while being strangled by suicidal policies antithetical to our foundation.

112th Congress Convenes On Capitol Hill
How the ideological battle of wills manifests in Congress.

For the most part, this national suicide has been driven by the Democratic Party. Which means the solution must be the Republican Party, right?

Wrong. Even when the GOP wins elections…even when they control the Executive Branch and BOTH HOUSES OF CONGRESS…the course correction is never made. Nothing of import changes for the better.

We’re supposed to believe that some quibbling about the degree of taxation, or funding one undeclared war instead of another, represents a profound difference between the two parties. Let’s argue about whether we should be speeding over a cliff at 90 MPH or 60MPH, and censor anyone who believes we shouldn’t be speeding toward the cliff at all. Meanwhile our freedom continues to be usurped and our sovereignty stolen no matter who wins our dubious elections.

GOPjudas
LEFT: “Good one, Mr. President! Next, let’s get them fighting about Confederate flags while we pass the TPP.” RIGHT: “Have fun paying for our welfare while we steal your elections, pendejo!”

The GOP captured both the House and the Senate once again on the promise to defund Obamacare and secure the borders, just to name a couple. It’s painfully obvious they never intended to oppose their Democrat “opposition” in the first place.

They are both marching to the tune of the same drummer. That drummer is not We the People who foot the bill.

Some Americans are waking up, but are vastly outnumbered by the subversive forces invading (or the ones already here, and firmly entrenched).

THE SOLUTION IS NOT ECONOMIC

You can pontificate on the stock market, interest rates, oil prices or minimum wage until you’re blue in the face, and you haven’t even acknowledged the core of our problem.

There is more than enough information out there about the system of fiat currency that has been illegally foisted on us to rob from/destroy the middle class while amassing all the real wealth in the coffers of the international bankers. If you have any interest in the truth, you can educate yourself on it.

economic-collapse
“Relax–we’re professionals. When we destroy an economy, rest assured that we receive the compensation due professionals with our expensive credentials. You wouldn’t want to be financially decimated by some amateur.”

Disaster was deferred by tweaking some minutiae inside this criminal system for a while, but it can’t be prolonged forever.

We can’t avert disaster by working inside this system. The system can’t be fixed. The system was designed to fail, and economic devastation is now inevitable. “Quantitative easing” is just Newspeak for an insane notion of doing the same thing while expecting a different result. It prolongs disaster for one more election cycle while ensuring the disaster will be even more disastrous when it hits.

THERE CERTAINLY IS NO RACIAL SOLUTION

I can’t believe how often I’m hearing Internet Rednecks talking as if all our problems are caused by skin pigment or DNA.

CFRWake up, you ignorant tools. It was lily-white traitors who sold us out and who perpetuate our slide into oblivion. Certainly they use illegals and ignorant minorities (among others) to exacerbate the problems. They also count on your ignorance to misidentify the core problem, and you’re not disappointing them.

If racial uniformity was what is needed to preserve a civilization, then National Socialist Germany would still dominate Europe today, and be stronger than ever. And even if that were the case, it’s hardly the kind of place you would want to live (unless you’re a masochist whose fantasy is to live like a slave that only does, speaks and thinks what he is told).

THERE IS NO CULTURAL SOLUTION

Why does the majority of the population support (or at least tolerate) the very policies and “laws” that lead to their own subjugation, impoverishment, and eventual outright destruction?

TVherdingAs many of you know, it’s because of cultural conditioning. They have been intentionally dumbed-down, and programmed to think and behave according to patterns of self-destruction by everything they watch, listen to, and read (for those who still can read).

On the one hand, it’s encouraging to see phenomena like the Sad/Rabid Puppies, Truth Revolt, the CLFA and various other entities challenging the collectivist gatekeepers at some strongholds of pop culture. It’s encouraging to see Zero Hedge and InfoWars reporting on what the lapdog media works so hard to cover up.

On the other hand, it’s too little/too late. These battles should have been joined 30 years ago at minimum.

CNN

It took generations to drive us down to the moral, political, economic and cultural abyss that we find ourselves in–and there was virtually no resistance.

There would be tremendous resistance trying to regain what we’ve lost, and it would take generations to regain it.

We don’t have generations. We don’t even have one generation. Oblivion is staring us in the face right now. I’m not even sure we have a year.

After we have been reduced to a third world police state, all the cultural battles we could fight will be moot. Not that you’re allowed to speak freely in a police state, anyway.

THERE IS NO MORAL SOLUTION

Morality in America is a joke, now. It’s sad when even a murderous KGB scum like Vladymir Putin has the (relative) moral high ground to remark upon it. But it can’t be denied. The USA is now a moral cesspool and is getting worse faster than we can even track it.

Multi-Colored Lights Illuminate The White House To Honor Gay Marriage

Yet the old adage “you can’t legislate morality” is more true than ever, for a number of reasons. One reason is that those in a position to legislate it are themselves morally bankrupt.

THE CORE PROBLEM

Our political, economic and racial problems are just symptoms. Effective, meaningful action could have been taken on all these fronts as recently as 30 years ago to alter our course away from national suicide. But our moral depravity had corrupted our thinking, making accurate self-evaluation impossible.

But moral depravity is just a symptom, too.

We believed so many lies, and drowned ourselves in a moral cesspool, because we were programmed to do so through the culture.

But the culture is just a symptom, as well.

All these systems afflict us, feed on each other, spread and perpetuate because of the core problem. And because, as a nation, we reject the one true solution.

THE SOLUTION IS SPIRITUAL

Had we not turned against the Creator God who blessed us in the first place, we would have maintained the moral strength to reject lies, embrace truth, be good stewards of our culture, make sound political and economic decisions.

mandelhouseMoreover, we would have had the courage to reject the evil men who hijacked all of the above.

As has happened to other nations throughout history, and as His M.O. demonstrates on an individual level, the judgment of God Almighty doesn’t necessarily always manifest overtly like fire from heaven, or the plagues of Egypt. He often just removes His grace (His “hedge of protection” if you like) and allows the person or nation to become a victim of its own folly.

He allows us to wallow in our own immorality. Sometimes, in fact, He dispatches deceptive spirits to hoodwink us–since we love deception so much, anyway. In our subsequent moral meltdown we completely expose ourselves to treasonous forces within us, and ravenous enemies from without.islam

This is what we now face, America.

I’m not sure how much longer your coincidence theory, normalcy bias and other forms of self-delusion will even be possible. (Long enough for most of you to dismiss me as a crackpot, fearmonger and/or religious fanatic, of course.) I am convinced it won’t be much longer.

The USA may still be called by the same name. Might still have the same flag. Might retain some of the ostensible trappings to pacify useful idiots. But the constitutional republic we have taken for granted will be gone.

Those of you who survive the coming hope and change may find your options somewhat limited.
Those of you who survive the coming hope and change may find your options somewhat limited.

Your only hope is in the God of the universe, and in His anointed (that is, the Messiah who came clothed in human flesh, whose name was given as Yeshua, or Jesus, and who will one day return to collect what He paid for on the cross).

Anything else you could trust in will soon be removed.

And He warned us these days were coming, by-the-way.

Just like the USA, the Earth and everything on it will one day pass away. But God is eternal and so is your soul. The decision you make regarding Him is the most important you will ever make. It will determine your fate in the next world: eternal life; or the second death.

Choose now, and choose wisely.

Race-Baiting is “Divide and Conquer”

17

D MINUS 53

JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA

This was BS duty. Jake McCallum trained his team for direct action. That’s what their purpose was. And yet here they were in a rented storefront doing flunky work that the local cops were more than capable of.

Local cops were there. And state troopers. So were the U.S. Marshalls and reps from competing federal agencies. Mac’s boss had played up this assignment as a “joint task force” operation that faced a significant threat. The threat level was exposed for what it really was when they were told they wouldn’t need helmets, armor or rifles.

In this little store front meeting room, local police and federal agents were busy collecting information from outraged members of a group that had been circulating a petition for secession. The perps were forced to surrender their wallets and let the agents go through their I.D., insurance cards, credit cards, cash and other personal items. Cellphones were confiscated and checked. They were grilled regarding places of employment, aliases, alternate addresses, friends and relatives. While local and federal agents recorded information on them, the group members protested, but were obviously not going to offer any violent resistance.

When Mac remarked about this bogus operation, his boss told him it was a sort of quid-pro-quo job. They relied on the NSA’s intelligence database for some of their raids. It was a good idea to pay the NSA back once in a while with this kind of hands-on data mining that couldn’t be accomplished online when the DomTers didn’t advertise their personal and group information on social media.

On first glance none of these group members looked like domestic terrorists. They were all middle class; most were middle aged; they were dressed conservatively and practiced good personal hygiene. And they weren’t all white. Mac couldn’t imagine them carrying bombs or rifles. But they sure were carrying dangerous ideas around.

Still, Mac’s men would be better employed against somebody who did look, smell, and act more like a terrorist.

While his men helped interrogate the people in the store front, Mac’s mind wandered back over the few operations he’d led since taking over this team. He cringed upon remembering he’d have to write the report for the last operation.

Mac had been putting this off, because he didn’t want to deal with it and wasn’t sure how to spin it: The raid on the Tasper house in Texas had been carried out with clockwork precision–his experience as an operator had finely honed his ability to organize and lead such missions. Trouble was, the intelligence was faulty. After busting in the door at 0300, rounding up the family for questioning, and cracking the gun safe, they found nothing illegal. At least nothing currently illegal.

Mac’s boss had offered to “season” the site. Plant evidence, in other words, so Mac would be credited with a good bust for his efforts, at least. This was something else that bothered him, but he’d give it more thought later when he’d dealt with other matters.

Other matters like one of his shooters: Samuels.

It was bad enough the operation was all for nothing, but Samuels had to stomp a baby kitten to death in the little girl’s bedroom. The Tasper family was complaining about that to their representative more than about the damage to their house. How was he going to explain that incident in the report?

Mac’s tablet beeped to warn him of an incoming file. He stepped outside through the back door to look it over.

Another Contingency Profile from Domestic Intel. He opened it and began reading about Gary Fram, whose profile raised just about every red flag there was to raise. Mac studied the satellite and street-level images of Fram’s house. Within a few moments he had decided which SOP, with what modifications, would work best for a home raid. He’d drafted enough of these contingencies that he could get the basic plan spelled out succinctly, to be adjusted further in the future, according to situation, policy, or team assigned, if a raid was greenlighted. But before he finished drafting a contingency for the profile, his phone rang.

He recognized the incoming number as one of Jeffries’. “Yo, what’s up DeAngelo?”

“What’s goin’ on, my brotha. Hey, I’m in the neighborhood, man. You wanna get some chicken wings?”

Mac checked the time. He hadn’t eaten for quite a while and realized he was famished. “That sounds like a plan,” he said. His team really didn’t need his supervision to finish this data mining flunky work.

The local Hooters was packed every night, but at that time of day they had it mostly to themselves. Their redhead waitress was about a seven, but would probably only rank a five without the makeup, push-up bra and short shorts. They ordered beer and the hottest wings available.

“So how you settling in?” DeAngelo asked, dipping his first wing in dressing.

Mac nodded, tearing a hunk of meat off a wing with his teeth. After swallowing, he said, “I’m getting the hang of it.”

“From what I hear, you’ve got the planning thing down,” DeAngelo said.

It was good to know somebody appreciated Mac’s ability. He wondered who DeAngelo knew in his chain of command to get this information, though.

“That’s good,” DeAngelo went on. “You gotta represent, Mac. You’re the only brotha up in there. Make us look good and they may hire some more of us.”

“How is it where you work?” Mac asked.

“A lot like major league baseball–it’s mostly a white show, with a few of us token niggas so they can say they’re not prejudiced.”

“The few, the proud, the nappy,” Mac remarked, and they both grinned around their spicy chicken meat.

The waitress came by to check on them and replenish their beer. Both men watched her little white booty as she walked away. Mac couldn’t help wondering what she’d be like. He’d heard a lot of comments about how crazy redheads could be. Crazier than white chicks in general.

Mac sobered up quickly, though, when he remembered Samuels. “You ever had to deal with a shooter who pushed things just a bit too far?”

“What’s up, man?” DeAngelo asked.

Mac told him about the kitten-stomping incident. DeAngelo listened, then shrugged.

“He’s just being a white boy,” DeAngelo said. “Half of them are psychopaths, man. If they weren’t working for the government, they’d be serial killers or something. Did you hear what happened in Texas?”

Mac shook his head. He’d been too busy to check the news.

DeAngelo frowned, his eyes flashing something dangerous for an instant. “More white cops, man. Pulled this brotha over for nothin’. Drag this brotha out his car and beat him to death right there, man.”

“What set them off?” Mac asked.

“Drivin’ While Black,” DeAngelo said, shrugging. “They’re tryin’ to say he didn’t have insurance, and that he attacked them first. Six different cops, man. There’s video going viral, though. He didn’t try to defend himself until they started beatin’ on him.”

Mac immediately thought of Eric Garner and grew infuriated. “This is too much, man. How far are they gonna try to push us?”

DeAngelo shook his head slowly, with a hard scowl. “I’m tellin’ you: local police are nearly as bad as the Constitutionalists. And state police ain’t much better. All those good ol’ boy networks, man. You’d think they’d be extinct by now, but they’re gettin’ even stronger. It’s all gonna come to a bum rush one of these days.”

Every time they talked, DeAngelo sounded a little more militant in his worldview, but that matched Mac’s own evolving mindset. White people’s media and entertainment might be getting ostensibly more sensitive and diversified all the time; but at the same time there were more and more bloggers, blog followers and social media participants sounding less sensitive and more separatist. Their boldness grew daily as they railed about the decline of western civilization. They called African-Americans “feral,” referred to mixed relationships as “mudsharking,” talked about Caucasian heritage like it was something to be proud of, and even used the phrase “white supremacy.”

“You think it’s any better at the federal level?” Mac asked.

DeAngelo swigged some beer down and made a face. “It’s a white man’s world over here. America is racist–no way around that.”

Mac nodded. “I’m the Jackie Robinson where I am, seems like.”

“Not even that, my brotha,” DeAngelo said. “You’re a Buck. I’m a Tom. At least that’s how The Man sees us. They talk a lot of shit about equality and all that, but when it comes down to drawing lines, they’ll side with their own. You and me are useful to them for now, but we’ll just be another couple niggas to them eventually.”

Mac licked buffalo sauce off his huge fingers, then stared at the texture of the skin on a drumstick while forming his words. “You hint around a lot that something big is coming down, racially. You know something I don’t?”

DeAngelo sighed. “Off the record?”

Mac held his hands out and raised his eyebrows. “Just you and me talking, man.”

“These cats like Sharpton and Jackson are a joke,” DeAngelo said. “Nearly everybody knows it. They ain’t done a damn thing for black folks, except make Whitey hate us even more. It’s like two gangs getting ready to rumble out there, man. Actually more than that—the Spics already outnumber us, and it’s gettin’ worse every day. But imagine something like Baltimore or Ferguson, only nationwide, and our people actually throw down this time. Meanwhile, Whitey is thinkin’ if he can’t have us for slaves anymore, he should either kill us off or send us back to Africa.”

“Race war,” Mac said. “You think it’s gonna come to that?”

“Oh, I know it is,” DeAngelo replied, solemnly. “And like I said, we may not just be fightin’ the whites. Might be a three-way fight with them and the Spics…or they may gang up on us. And that ain’t even puttin’ the Asians in the equation. You know there’s never been any love lost between us and the Slopes, man. They’ll most likely side with Whitey, too.”

Mac let this sink in. It was a lot to process. He knew there would always be rednecks, and some degree of white privilege, but had always assumed life would continue on pretty much as it was. Or, if anything, get better. They had finally gotten one of their own people in the White House, after all. For two terms. But DeAngelo talked about a coming attempted genocide like it was a done deal.

“That’s one thing makes working with the feds an advantage,” DeAngelo said. “We’ll be able to see it coming a lot farther off than those poor brothas in the hood.”

“And then what?” Mac asked, the pitch of his voice raising.

“Again, off the record,” DeAngelo said, locking eyes with Mac.

Mac nodded.

“Me and some other brothas been gettin’ together. Nothin’ official, and still we’re careful about what we say and how we say it. But we all know there’s a day comin’ when we’ll have to look out for each other, y’know? Mutual protection.”

Yes, Mac decided, that was smart thinking. It wasn’t just a good idea—if what DeAngelo said was true, it would prove to be a necessity.

“Hey, you know the circumstances we met under,” DeAngelo said, shrugging. “Like it or not, I know all about your background. And because I know it, I know we could use a brotha like you, when it all goes down.”

DeAngelo was inviting Mac into some kind of clandestine brotherhood within clandestine agencies. One that might make all the difference in the survival of their race in North America.

Mac had made friends in SF, in Delta and as a contractor. Some of those friends were black; some were other minorities; some were white. But he lost touch with most of them and gave up on the rest as politics became a more and more powerful influence in everyone’s life. You just couldn’t agree to disagree anymore.

In Iraq the man he trusted most was Leon Campbell. But Leon got out of the contracting biz, went back to the States and started a business with friends. Mac had other guys in SSI he got along with–some who he’d even dodged bullets and eaten dirt with. But none of them knew what it was like to be black. They never would–and probably didn’t want to.

DeAngelo knew. And he was in touch with others who knew. There was power in that.

“Give me a holla next time y’all get together,” Mac said.

 

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

###

The image link to False Flag (the entire book) is  on the upper right sidebar. You can watch the accompanying Youtube video here.

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The Catalyst

As Mike said previously, we’re at a point in history where selling works of fiction is almost a silly agenda to be concerned about.  Fixating on the American Dream at this late hour is tantamount to opening a Kosher bakery in 1936 Berlin. Nonetheless, my ability to sound the warning is limited. My only platform, such as it is, is built on my fiction (and my blogging too, I guess). So here’s another chapter of my warning, in fictional form:

16

D MINUS 56

AMARILLO, TEXAS

“Oh man, I don’t believe this shit,” Delton Williams muttered as he swung his car around the curve and saw the po-po lined up across the road, lights flashing on their cruisers. Another random roadside spot check. Another part of the “zero tolerance policy” garbage the politicians on the local news were talking about lately.

Delton had lost his job months ago when the company he worked for downsized and outsourced their remaining labor overseas. His Unemployment Compensation was about to run out and he’d had no luck finding a job. He’d just sacrificed some gas to go to an interview which turned out to be a scam. He should have known the “no experience necessary” was too good to be true in this economy. Their job posting said he’d get paid training to be a financial consultant, when in actuality it was a door-to-door sales job and they expected him to pony up some cash to pay for the training. He’d spent the last of his cash on gas and now he wouldn’t be able to buy baby formula. He and his girl already switched to cloth diapers, hang-drying them on the apartment balcony because disposables were too expensive. The easy way out would be to either start selling weed in his neighborhood, or go on welfare. He didn’t want to do either, but was running out of options.

He needed to get back to the apartment soon so his girlfriend could take the car to her late shift job at the convenience store. Delton’s sister had borrowed the car Sunday and he hadn’t had a chance to clean it out since then. Who knew what she might have left in there somewhere? He was only a mile or so from his apartment. This checkpoint was the last thing he needed right now.

Six cruisers were parked here, in all. Most of the cops stood over by a cluster of trees shading them the late afternoon sun. They were all either white or Hispanic.

He rolled down his window as he came to a stop abreast of the two cops standing in the road. Maybe they would wave him on and harass the next guy.

“Good afternoon, sir,” greeted a short, beady-eyed cop, leaning down to face Delton through the open window. “We’re conducting roadside spot checks today.” He pointed beyond the paved shoulder to an area in front of the trees. “Would you mind pulling off up there so we can check you out real quick?”

“Yes sir, I would mind,” Delton said. “My girl got to get to work and she got no ride without this car.”

The cop blinked in puzzlement. Evidently he wasn’t used to people treating a question like a question. “That’s alright sir,” he finally said. “It’ll only take a second.”

Just in case the cop was being honest, Delton asked, “What exactly you gonna check?”

“We just need to look at your driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance, and to look the car over to make sure everything’s all right.”

Delton was behind on all his bills, because Unemployment was not covering his expenses. He had foregone paying the electric bill so he could send a token payment to the insurance company. He was pretty sure it appeased them for at least another month. But the premiums kept going higher and higher every year…

“You wanna search my car without a warrant?” Delton asked.

The beady-eyed cop’s demeanor changed. Hard lines formed around his mouth. “Excuse me?”

“I said you need a search warrant to do that.”

Beady Eyes looked over the car’s interior. “Is there something you don’t want us to find in here?”

Now the other cop, taller and uglier, stooped over to join Beady Eyes outside Delton’s window. “Is there a problem here?”

Beady Eyes gave the big ugly cop a meaningful glance. “He’s refusing to comply. Says he wants to see a search warrant.”

“Have you got something to hide?” asked the second po-po.

“I ain’t hidin’ nothin’,” Delton said. “Why I gotta be hidin’ somethin’? I told this officer here I need to get home so my girl can take the car to her job.”

“You could be in and out of here if you didn’t give us a hard time,” the second cop said. “This is just a random stop, as part of the zero-tolerance policy…”

“I ain’t givin’ you a hard time,” Delton said. “I’m mindin’ my own business, just tryin’ to get home so my girl can get to work. You’re givin’ me a hard time.”

The second cop stood to his full height and hitched up his gun belt. “Tell you what: do me a favor and pull up over there.”

“No thanks,” Delton said. “How ’bout you do me a favor and let me get home?”

“You need to think hard about this, sir,” the second cop said. “If you insist on making this difficult, you won’t like what happens.”

“You guys can’t search me unless you got a reason,” Delton said.

“Where’d you hear that?” Beady Eyes asked, voice dripping with disgust.

“Man, it’s my rights!” Delton replied, unable to keep the irritation out of his tone.

The two cops exchanged a look. The other cops, over in the shade, were now taking notice that something was amiss. Beady Eyes turned to them and called out, “We’ve got a belligerent one, here.”

The other cops hurried over, stationing themselves on both sides of the car.

Why can’t they just leave me be, Delton wondered, wracked with the sinking feeling of hopelessness. But he countered all their demands by insisting they produce a search warrant.

Finally one of the other cops approached to lean down in his window. “Unless you show us your license and registration, we’re gonna arrest you.”

“I’ll show you that stuff,” Delton said. “No problem. He reached across the front seat to open the glove box, where his registration was.

“He’s going for a weapon!” Beady Eyes cried.

Cops flung open both doors and grabbed Delton.

“Chill the hell out! I was just gettin’ the papers, like you axed!”

His words were drowned out in the shouting of the cops. More and more hands grabbed hold of him and they hauled him out. He tried repeating his protest but they didn’t hear him, or paid no attention. All of them were shouting at once and he couldn’t sort it out. They shoved him against the side of his car and somebody wrenched his arm behind his back.

They were going to cuff him.

Delton tore his arm away and twisted around to face them. “Back off, man! I was just gettin’ the…”

Something hard hit him in the ribs. Through blinding flashes of pain he saw the one holding the night stick. His body reacted before his brain thought it over, and he planted his fist in the guy’s face.

Now sticks crashed all over his shoulders and the top of his head. The only female cop in the group aimed a tazer at him. He batted it out of her hands and pushed her. She went tumbling backwards.

Blows rained down so fast and heavy it was like fireworks went off inside his head. Through the blinding pain of the beating he felt the ground come up to strike him yet another blow on the back of the head.

The perp’s resistance was an unexpected highlight to the checkpoint duty. Not only did they get to see Officer Katy Hobbes go tumbling ass-over teakettle after losing her tazer, but they were getting quality stick time like most of them had never enjoyed before. Then Archuletta began yelling, holding his arms out to stop the beating.

Panting but pumped on the adrenalin, they gradually stopped swinging. Their human pinata was unconscious.

They all glanced at each other and smirks were exchanged. Hobbes picked herself up and came over to take in the scene, and a couple jokes were cracked at her expense. Then Archuletta squatted to examine the perp.

“Hey guys, this doesn’t look good.”

“Cuff him and get him in my car,” Fender said, chuckling. “Somebody can bring aspirin to his cell.”

“No,” Archuletta said. “I mean this looks bad. Maybe we should get an ambulance over here.”

Archuletta stood again, then noticed all the civilians from the backed-up traffic standing outside their vehicles with smartphones out, taking pictures and video.

“Oh, shit.”

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

###

The image link to False Flag (the entire book) is  on the upper right sidebar. You can watch the accompanying Youtube video here.

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Multi-Purpose Treason Part 2: Shovel-Ready Chaos

Last time I called out the massive illegal immigration fomented by the hijackers of the US government, and how it accomplishes more than one agenda item toward bringing down the American republic.

The Border Invasion overlaps with another globalist strategy.

Contrary to what you’ll likely hear from teachers, professors, and the Idiot Box, it was not the bureaucrats, politicians, and community organizers who made the USA the most prosperous nation in history. It was our (once) free market, and the entrepreneurs who took advantage of its opportunities to fill consumer needs and make an honest buck in the process.

You’d never know it now, but Americans used to produce things (besides debt, paperwork and porn, that is). We made the most of the industrial revolution and became the envy and marvel of the world. Even when wracked by the Great Depression, wise thinkers in Japan were leery of going to war against the sleeping industrial giant across the Pacific because, unlike now, the infrastructure was still in place to fire up a war machine any foreign enemy would be hard pressed to stop.

Of course regulations and taxes that favor foreign interests at the expense of Americans has utterly devastated US industry. And the industrial infrastructure that remained between the world wars is long gone, now.

So is the work force. Starting in the New Deal and encroaching gradually over the decades until its explosion under the Hussein Administration, a huge chunk of the American workforce has been transformed into able-bodied parasites who contribute nothing of worth to our society.

The buildup of the Entitlement Class (of which invaders/illegal immigrants are just one portion) also accomplishes more than one strategic objective for the enemies of America and your freedom.

First, of course, it has followed the Cloward-Piven model to bankrupt our economy. As our industry was strangled, the middle class decimated and the workforce shrunken, the welfare state has ballooned well past the point it can be sustained.

(This causes a conundrum for the traitors in Washington, because they want to see America destroyed; but the politicians always want to delay the collapse for one more election cycle. This has locked them into a vicious cycle of “quantitative easing” that they couldn’t get out of now even if they wanted to, and will make our collapse even more devastating.)

Secondly, entitlements are a way for the traitors to extort money from those of us who still work, and use it to buy votes from those who discover they don’t have to. By robbing Peter to pay Paul, the politicians can pose as generous, compassionate  benefactors…as if they were using their own money charitably instead of ours. Tax/Spend/Elect is a self-perpetuating dynamic ensuring the people who caused the problem will be able to keep making it worse. Parasites will knowingly vote for liars, crooks, and traitors as long as it guarantees their entitlement check.

Thirdly, it has destroyed the nuclear family in the inner cities, particularly among blacks, whose ensnarement on the poverty plantation is more effective than any whip-toting slave owner could have accomplished. They blame their poverty on Whitey or “the rich” and racial animosity abounds. Meanwhile, the remaining working-class whites resent them for their entitlements. It appears that a whole lot of whites are now blaming all the problems surrounding black culture on genetics alone. I’ve never heard white people display separatist attitudes in such numbers as they do now. Any hope of either side recognizing the actual cause of the problem is now lost, as they descend into stubborn tribalism.

Fourthly, this has created a powder keg. Entire generations have been programmed to not work for a living; and to…

  • rely on entitlements;
  • consider those handouts their god-given right;
  • hate anyone who objects to the entitlements;
  • hate America in general;
  • self-identify as victims who haven’t yet got their due.

When the economy collapses and the free handouts stop, these parasites won’t have a clue how to feed themselves. Their whole lives have taught them that the way to survive is to have somebody else (the IRS, so far) extort the earnings out of working people for their sustenance.

Starvation is a perfect catalyst to ignite the nationalism of the Victim Tribe, who will quickly find someone else to blame for the nightmare they brought on themselves.

The violent horror overtaking our major population centers is hard to conceive, and will probably go a long way toward the 90% population reduction of the  Agenda 21 architects.

Examine the M.O. of the criminals in government when small-scale violence has broken out in events like the Baltimore or L.A. riots, when police were held back intentionally to give rabble-rousers “room to destroy.”

The Man won’t step in right away to restore order. People will be given plenty of time to rip each other apart. Whoever survives will beg for some great leader to ride in on a white horse and bring order out of chaos. Peace at any cost. People will volunteer to be interned in camps, so long as they’ll be fed and sheltered.

As the general in Star Wars told his staff on the Death Star, “The last vestiges of the old Republic have been swept away.”

The last vestiges of individual freedom will be swept away–with popular support, I’m sure.

Can you guess who the scapegoat(s) will be?

Multi-Purpose Treason Part 1: Invasion, USA

Virtual Pulp was founded to sell books. That was the avenue we chose to pursue happiness and the American dream. But as that dream is fundamentally transformed into a nightmare, becoming successful novelists is a goal that pales in importance compared to the radical changes descending upon us.

Some may have noticed we’ve already been speaking out on controversial subjects more than we used to. We decided to use our freedom of speech while we still have it. Now, however we are kicking into overdrive. Book sales and diplomatic sugar-coating so as not to offend just don’t matter a whole lot in the face of the perfect storm our country, and the world, is facing.

Virtual Pulp is now the lantern hanging in the belfry of North Church. We might post something about entertainment or the culture war…but it’s no longer a priority. We will be warning anybody with the wisdom to listen about some of the trials coming your way. I have no interest in debates with coincidence theorists, concern trolls, or anyone trapped in their normalcy bias.

Multipurpose Treason is the S.O.P. for the interests that have hijacked our government. Most of the criminal policies foisted on us accomplish more than one objective of the globalist enemies of the USA.

Take illegal immigration, first:

The Establishment insists that American citizens have to be treated like criminals at airports and bus stations for our security against potential terrorists. Men, women, boys and girls must be fondled and groped by uniformed perverts because one of them might be carrying a bomb or box cutter. Meanwhile the border is intentionally left wide open so that not only drug lords, welfare parasites and violent Hispanic Supremacist armies can invade and infiltrate our cities, but Islamic terror cells, too. There’s no telling just how many and what kind of America-hating scum are flooding in by the train loads.

Well, the so-called Justice Department evidently knows, because they furnish some of them with weapons. The same kind of weapons they don’t want in the hands of law-abiding Americans, BTW.

Some of us have pointed to the rampant election fraud in 2012 and prior, and understand that the criminals in Washington are using this to build up their parasitic voter base into an ironclad majority which (along with dead voters, serial voters, rigged vote-counting, etc.) will ensure that their enemies can never, ever alter the national course away from the abyss of a socialist/fascist third-world police state. And we’re right.

But others point out that this invasion is kicking in the afterburner on the Cloward-Piven strategy to bankrupt the USA…and they are right, too. (This is just one of many methods converging to strike the death blow against our mortally wounded economy.)

But that’s not all. This invasion is setting up a “nation within a nation.” We are being forced to subsidize a seething alien population that will not assimilate (in fact, probably won’t even bother to learn our language), is hostile toward our form of government (the legitimate one, that is), covetous of our property and, in many cases, overtly dedicated to the reconquest of “Atzlan.”

That ties in directly to my next point, which I’ll get into next time.

Working Directly For the Shadow Government

 

15

Y MINUS TWO

UPPER EAST SIDE, MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

Jason Macmillan found the park bench in question. A moderately attractive 40-something woman sat on it, wrapped in a fur-lined parka, smoking a cigarette.

“Ms. Simmons?” he asked, when he was still a polite distance away.

She glanced up and flashed him a business-casual smile. “You must be Jason.”

He shook the thin hand she offered and was surprised at the electricity that passed between them. His eyes and mind told him she was nothing fantastic on the desirability scale (especially around the Washington-New York axis, which was crawling with hot, horny women) but his body didn’t agree.

He sat on the bench, with less than a yard of space between them.

“It’s not that cold yet, is it?” he asked, with a meaningful look at her expensive coat.

“It’s partly psychological,” she said, taking another puff of her cigarette. “I keep hearing what a bad winter we’re in for one of these years, so I’m bundling up in preparation. Plus I just spent a month in Hawaii, so my blood has thinned out.”

He nodded toward the huge building where the Council met. “They should be out by now, shouldn’t they?”

“Oh, their meeting’s been adjourned,” she said, with assurance. “But there’s the usual hob-nobbing to do afterward. And then Lawrence goes through his dog walking ritual. Are you familiar with that, yet?”

Macmillan shook his head.

“Well, you are new, after all,” she said. “His show champion dog has its own dedicated driver and vehicle. Can’t be getting shedded fur all over the limousine, now can we? Then his dog handler escorts the dog to Lawrence and hands it off. Lawrence walks with it for exactly half an hour, then hands it off back to the dog handler, who hands it off to the doggie driver, who takes it out of sight, out of mind for the rest of the day.”

She didn’t seem scornful or bitter. Rather, amused. But not quite mocking.

“Has he given you the speech about Border Collies?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he replied.

“Oh, then you’re due for at least one. He’s got dates and places, names of breeders and dogs. He’ll tell you all about how Collies were bred to help herd livestock. They’re born with the herding instinct and even his spoiled, urbanized pet unconsciously tries to herd him away from traffic and other perceived threats. Lawrence is fascinated with the whole concept of herding, in fact.”

“He hasn’t opened up to that extent with me, Ms. Simmons. He probably doesn’t know yet if I’ll work out.”

“Call me Jade,” she said, patting the bench surface right next to her. “Come here. I don’t bite.”

Macmillan scooted over until they were right next to each other.

“I hear you started out in the Louisiana Highway Patrol.”

He acknowledged the question with a slight hunching of the shoulders. “Yeah. But that was a long time ago.”

“Impressive that you’ve climbed so far.”

Her voice was sensuous–almost hypnotic. He was turned-on despite himself. Forget Viagra—this broad was an effective cure for erectile dysfunction all by herself.

“I think I like you, Jason. So I’m going to share a little privileged information up front—otherwise it might take you some time to figure out: Lawrence wants to meet with both of us at once in order to foster competition between us. So don’t be surprised if he seems to be pitting us against each other sooner or later. He believes we’ll both work faster and harder for him that way. Ironic, isn’t it? So Free Market of him.”

“So you’re my competition, then,” Macmillan said, trying to reciprocate her subdued, playful manner.

“But I don’t think it should be totally competitive,” Jade Simmons told him, with direct eye contact. “I prefer cooperative arrangements.” She glanced pointedly at his left hand. “So you’re married.”

“Is that a problem?” he asked, smoothly.

“That’s up to you,” she replied, patting his thigh this time.

He wasn’t sure how to respond. He was used to being the sexually aggressive one.

“I’ll save you some more time,” she continued, chuckling. “The only reason you’re in this is because your assets are expendable, whereas mine are valuable enough, Lawrence wants to save them for future operations if possible.”

This sounded like an insult, which rankled Macmillan. His agents were sharp and well-trained. So elite even the CIA wasn’t privy to their ops. How could her guys be less expendable than his? Maybe she meant only his civilian informants.

“I agree with him,” she said, “which means I want you to succeed. So the game is rigged in your favor: if you can get your dominoes lined up, you get the operation.”

Lawrence Bertrand appeared around the corner on the sidewalk, flanked by two imposing bodyguards, with his Collie leashed at his side. He was a tall, thickly built aristocrat with a nose like a vulture’s beak, probably in his mid-to-late 60s.

As Bertrand’s small entourage drew closer, someone else arrived at the park bench and stood beside it, waiting—obviously the dog handler.

Bertrand made it to the bench, handed the leash to the handler, exchanged a few words about the Collie’s diet, then dismissed him. The two bodyguards wandered far enough away from their boss to provide some privacy, but close enough that they could go into action in case Alex Jones popped up out of a trash can with a video camera or something.

Jade Simmons made as if to stand. Moving quicker, Macmillan shot to his feet and made room for Bertrand to sit on the bench. Bertrand took the offered space. Macmillan stood facing the seated Bertrand and only then noticed that Jade was still seated. She smirked. She had only feinted at rising. This was some sort of power play, to establish that Macmillan was lower on the totem pole than her.

Macmillan would like to get her alone, where he’d show her exactly where to stick the totem pole.

“I trust you’ve introduced yourselves,” Bertrand said.

“Yes sir,” Macmillan said.

Jade nodded. “How was the meeting?”

Bertrand frowned. “All this oil fracking on private and state land is a nuisance. But still, we’re at the point where, with or without more quantitative easing…” his words trailed off and he looked annoyed. “That’s hardly any of your concern, Jade.”

The reprimand didn’t seem to bother her that much, but it kept her mouth closed for a moment.

“How is the initiative coming along?” Bertrand asked her.

“I’ve got penetration across the board,” she replied. “Per your instructions I’ve concentrated on the DomTer cells, and we’ve got assets in or close to leadership in 38 states. We’re pushing for full permeation, of course, but in the mean time we’ve got fully trained, invested assets who are ready to go right now.”

Travis turned from her to address Macmillan “I’ve got Jade going at this from a different angle, but her priority is identical to yours. We need assets tuned and fueled up PDQ, waiting on the ‘go’.”

Pretty Damn Quick was a lofty goal when you had to accomplish all that was cut out for Macmillan and the people under him.

“Your predecessor not only failed,” Bertrand told Macmillan, scowling, “but he managed to lose valuable assets in the process. I think part of the problem was, he promoted operators to leadership who were too hands-on. Brice Mallin was a hell of an operator; but the wrong man to run the show. Chiefs plan; Indians execute. Show your fangs a little, but I need you and your command structure where you can observe and administer. That means delegate and supervise. Unfortunately, it also means recruiting, to replace the operators we lost.”

Brice Mallin had a big reputation as a bad dude. But not only did he lose three teams of shooters overseas, he wound up greased himself.

“Yes sir,” Macmillan said.

“The teams we spoke of,” Bertrand went on, “with the civilian assets prepped for high-profile…that is your priority until further notice.”

Civilian assets. So that was it, after all. That was why McMillan’s teams were considered more expendable than whoever Jade Simmons had working for her.

“I want to see significant progress very soon.” Bertrand now glanced at Jade to include her in what he was about to say. “With any kind of operation like this, discretion is of the utmost concern. We can’t expect the press to be able to continue damage control for us with the same success they’ve had in the past.” His scowl deepened. “There are too many rogue elements out there now.” He gestured toward the headquarters building. “We’re working on that problem, but frankly, we might not be able to accomplish much until after you’ve done your job. Anyway, we’ve got to police the situation tightly, and there are these rogue elements trying to start trouble…most are crackpots, but there’s this one B.I.A. agent that doesn’t know his place.”

“Are you saying we’ve been compromised?” Jade Simmons asked.

“They’re all poking their noses into our business,” Bertrand replied. “This one was snooping around one of our prior operations. He’s not a blogger or reporter or anything like that, but he’s kicked up some dust in his little backwater. The risk is, having some training in investigation, he could stumble onto current operations. Perhaps even our priority initiative.”

“So you need him out of your hair?” Macmillan asked.

Bertrand coughed and made a face. “It’s trickier, now. He’s running for sheriff in his home county.”

“Too high profile,” Jade said, nodding.

“Not if he starts making waves again,” Bertrand said. “For now he’s backed off. So let’s get what we can on him. He’s got family. And if he does become sheriff, he’s got that to lose. In any case, I’m putting him at the top of our database.”

“Yes sir,” Macmillan said.

“Understood,” Jade said.

Bertrand directed his focus back on Macmillan “You should have the mission parameters already.”

“Yes sir,” Macmillan said.

“I want you to be prepared to operate anywhere on that list of venues. And I want every item from the criteria addressed.”

That was a tall order, but not impossible. Macmillan welcomed the challenge.

“Above all,” Bertrand said, “we can’t have loose ends. The press can’t smooth over sloppy work as well as it could in the past. They can’t until we sort out this whole Internet boondoggle. Eric Varney will help us with background checks on recruits, as always. But beyond that, you need to do some careful screening of your own. And keep on top of it, even when candidates pass. Attitudes can change. Someone might decide to stop being a team player.”

Bertrand was paranoid, Macmillan decided. Nothing on Earth could turn a made man once he’d graduated up through all the layers of concentric circles to get here. C.I.A. and NSA employees didn’t even have the clearance needed to be a part of this organization, now operating within a subcompartment of the DHS. Most of Congress didn’t even know the organization existed.

“If there’s any security breach whatsoever,” Bertrand said, “well, let’s just say you don’t want to be the person responsible.”

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

###

The link to False Flag is also on the upper right sidebar. You can watch the accompanying Youtube video here.

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