Sneak Peek/Sample Chapters, Sports, Uncategorized

Paradox Chapter 4: The Football Seed Is Planted

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Some boys my age were into sports. My father had paid for me to play Little League once a couple years before, and I had a decent fast ball. But I never had more than a passing interest in sports until that one day at the beauty shop.

I had to tag along with Mom on enough shopping trips and visits to places like jewelry stores, and beauty shops, that I was used to twiddling my thumbs in girly places. But on that particular day, I found a magazine in the waiting area that was not the typical crap about clothes, makeup, hairstyles and relationships. It was a special edition of some sports magazine, dedicated entirely to football. I flipped through it while I waited for Mom, casually looking at the photos.

There were pictures of players in action—throwing, catching, running, hitting, tackling…and big dudes on the line of scrimmage locked in Sumo-like combat, grimacing behind their facemasks from the effort of trying to overpower the other man. There were pictures of injured players being carried off the field. There was one picture of a certain player with a black beard, his helmet pushed back up on his head so that his weary eyes peered out under the lowest bar on his facemask. He was sitting on the sidelines, sweat streaking down his face, evidently waiting for his turn to go back out on the field.

The field of battle.

Football players were like modern day knights, I decided; and the game of football was the new chivalry.

This realization impressed me to the point that, from that day, I began to learn about the game.

Mom almost always stayed out late on Friday and Saturday nights, sleeping for most of the day on Saturdays and Sundays. So, with no Allyson to monopolize the TV anymore, I was able to binge on football every weekend. What I saw confirmed my epiphany.

Each game was a battle. Head coaches were the generals, devising the strategy. The quarterbacks were the field commanders, who led the valiant knights against the enemy. The opposing knights employed certain tactics on every play. Some knights were heroes, and some were villains. Some of the teams were even named after historical warriors or badasses. Just in the pros, there were Cowboys, Redskins, Chiefs, Patriots, Buccaneers, Raiders, and Vikings. It was a thrilling, fascinating milleu.

PJ didn’t care much for sports. I began to drift away from him, hanging out, instead, with other boys who loved football. Outside of school, I played catch or a sandlot game whenever there was opportunity. In a very short amount of time I learned and understood the rules.

Prior to this phase of my life, there were times when other boys asked me to do these things, but I had no interest, and sucked at it when I did try. They told me to try throwing with my thumb on the laces, but I still couldn’t launch a spiral.

What a difference motivation makes. In less than a week after taking an interest, I could throw perfect spirals with accuracy. I still couldn’t punt very well, but for my age I had a cannon for an arm.

Soon I was part of “the football gang,” which included Jay, Rogellio, Lamont and Scott.

Football was soon all I could talk about. Uncle Si noticed my obsession, but didn’t have a problem with it as long as I trained hard.

I did train hard.

 

Once Uncle Si was satisfied with my footwork and stance, he taught me defensive skills. This included blocking, “slipping” punches, bobbing, weaving, and the art of simply maneuvering to keep out of range. This part of my training seemed to take forever, but he finally decided I was ready to start learning some offense.

First came the jab, then the cross, then the hook, then the uppercut. He made me practice them until it felt like my arms would fall off. Then he taught me how to put them together in combinations, emphasizing the jab over everything else. He had me practice in the mirror, and corrected mistakes in my form until I maintained good defensive posture even when executing a combination. Then he moved me to the bags.

I still had to skip rope and run my circuit drills, but now most of my training time was spent at the double end bag. This was an inflated bag suspended between one bungee cord above and one below. After you hit it once, it was hard to hit it again because of the way it bounced and oscillated. Thankfully, when Uncle Si saw I was getting too aggravated, he would move me to the heavy bag and let me take out my frustration on it.

In time, I got where I could judge how the double end bag would move, aim and time my punches to hit it repeatedly and consistently. And just as I was mastering it, Uncle Si pulled me off of it. He brought me into the roped-off area. I put my training gloves on, and my mouthpiece in. He wore punch mits. What we did wasn’t exactly sparring. He would catch my punches with the mits, but also take swipes at me I would have to duck or dodge. It was still just western boxing—hands only—but I was finally putting offense and defense together. The next time he had me work the double end bag, he had changed the bungee cords so it didn’t move in the exact same patterns I had grown used to. He did stuff like that a lot; and I assumed the purpose was just to cause me frustration. But what he didn’t tell me (and what I didn’t appreciate at first) was that I was learning to adapt quickly on the fly.

Uncle Si drove me home after training every night, and after Mom got the job at the jewelry store, he had begun feeding me, too. No more hotdogs, or meals composed of potato chips. My diet now consisted of a lot of green vegetables, with mostly beef for my protein.

I didn’t like all the vegetables, but I noticed the difference after just a week. Although I usually passed out from exhaustion after my evening shower, and slept like the dead through the night, I had a lot of energy after breakfast each morning.

That helped make me even better at football. But as that school year wound down, I was overcome with the hunger for real football. Sandlot just wasn’t enough.

UPDATE:  This book is published! Click here to buy on Amazon.

Click here to buy anywhere else.

 

Uncategorized

Privateer Episode 6

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…Is live on Arkhaven.

Due to my inability to find a dependable artist, this will likely be the last one for a while. (It is all the drama I went through regarding this very subject that caused one of the longest delays in finishing my time-travel novel, BTW.).

Turning the Privateer script into a graphic novel has been like undertaking  a long road trip. After numerous mishaps and setbacks getting the car and driver ready, I finally got gassed up and ventured out–only to have my best driver yet pull over and abandon ship before we even reached the Interstate.

I may end up doing the driving myself.

Anyway, I’m working on getting the doorstop Great American Novel ready for primetime right now. I have a novel-length Honor Triad story I need to finish, but I’m not sure I will before I start pushing that graphic novel boulder to the top of the hill again.

Next time, another chapter from Paradox.

Sneak Peek/Sample Chapters, Sports

Paradox Chapter 3: Your Most Dangerous Adversary

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It’s only natural that, when he heard the term “martial arts,” a young boy would imagine himself breaking boards, executing midair spinning back kicks, and heroically winning fights. My first training session with Uncle Si was not what I assumed it would be.

After school, I showed up at The Warrior’s Lair. I walked in and saw a handful of men, in pairs, working out. Some were using the punching bags, some were practicing throwing each other, and two were in the roped-off area, wearing padded gloves, foot pads, and padded helmets, sparring. While I was busy gawking, something smacked me in the side of the head. I turned to discover the source of the blow.

Uncle Si had crept up and thumped me. I stared at him in confusion. He had workout clothes on. His sunglasses rested atop his head and I could see his eyes clearly.

“This lesson normally comes further on in training,” he said, “but you might as well start adapting now: Always be aware of your surroundings, who is within them, what they’re doing, and might be about to do.”

I rubbed my head where it was still stinging from the smack.

“Follow me,” he said.

We entered his office. He picked up a bag from the top of his desk and threw it to me. I caught it. He gestured, indicated I should open it. Inside it were a pair of gym shorts and a gym shirt, sweat pants, sweat jacket, a protective cup with jock strap, and a mouthpiece.

“You’re not gonna need most of that stuff for a while,” he said. “For now, just put on the shorts and wife-beater.”

“You’re…you’re giving me all this?” I asked, disbelievingly.

“Yes. You’re welcome. Now go get dressed.”

That first day, Uncle Si wasn’t concerned about anything but my feet, it seemed. He briefly went over a balanced stance, placing my feet roughly shoulder-width apart. He said I needed to learn when my feet were the right distance apart, without looking. Then he taught me how to shuffle. Done right, I learned, the shuffle would keep you balanced and close to your optimum fighting stance at all times. From now on, I wasn’t allowed to walk anywhere except to the rest room. Everywhere else, I had to shuffle.

He ordered me to shuffle after him as he moved around the padded floor, then shuffle back away from him when he advanced. He corrected me when my feet drifted too far apart, or too close together. Then, instead of verbally warning me, he simply knocked me over.

I must admit: I did learn a little faster that way than I would have otherwise.

I had never jumped rope before. I never saw the point. Besides, the only time I ever saw it done, it was black girls doing it in the school yard. Uncle Si taught me to skip rope that day.

He played loud music, so I could keep rhythm with it. I’d never heard music like that. It sounded from another time. But the beat was easy to follow.

He had me trade off between skipping rope and shuffling, until my ankles were sore. Then he introduced me to circuit drills.

The circuit drills were what first caused me to entertain the thought of quitting. I had to shuffle from station to station, completing different exercises at each station. Push-ups at one, sit-ups at another, pull-ups, flutter kicks, bear crawls, jumping jacks (which he called “side-straddle-hops”)… My favorite was the trunk-twister, because it was almost like resting. The station I dreaded more than anything was where I had to do “mountain climbers.” They didn’t look like much to watch, but they absolutely waste a person trying to do them.

“Good,” he finally said, after a few hours. “Good work today. Your feet are coming along.”

“My feet feel like they’re gonna fall off,” I muttered, “and I haven’t thrown a single kick.”

He tossed me a towel and motioned for me to take a seat. “What do you want–sympathy? Remember: I said what I teach here is a mixture.”

I nodded, sitting down. It felt really good to be off my feet.

“I’ve developed a system that takes the best elements from several different disciplines,” he said. “I’m gonna teach them to you in a certain order that makes sense. One of the most important skills in any kind of combat is how to move, tactically. You have to maintain balance at all times. You have to keep yourself in a good position to block or avoid an opponent’s strike, even when you’re on the offensive. And you’ve got to do it right, even when your tank is empty and you want to do nothing more than quit. Understand?”

“I think so,” I said, toweling off my face.

“Good. Before you take a shower tonight, take Ace with you for some roadwork. You can keep it to just once around the trailer park, and not too fast your first night.”

“Roadwork?”

“A run.”

“A run? You mean jogging?”

“A jog for tonight,” he said. “But I’m gonna have you running before long.”

***

I did take Ace for a jog that night. She seemed to enjoy it. It wasn’t much fun for me, though.

Uncle Si continued to emphasize footwork, but my second day, he put me in front of a mirror. By pushing, pulling, prodding and twisting, he positioned me into a stance that didn’t feel natural at all. I already knew where to put my feet, and to keep my knees bent. He also had me tuck my chin down, and cock my fists. My guard was high, so that my knuckles were just below the level of my nose. I could shield my face with minimal adjustment. My elbows were tight against my sides, to protect my ribs, he said. I was twisted slightly at the trunk, so that my shoulders were at an oblique angle to the direction I faced–presenting a smaller target than if I stood square.

“Look at that guy in the mirror,” he told me.

I did.

“It’s a cliché,” he said, “but in your case, as true as anything ever was: that guy right there can be the most dangerous adversary you’ll ever face.”

Maybe it was a cliché wherever he came from, but it was a novel concept to me. “Myself?” I asked, confused.

“Exactly. You’ve been trained to doubt yourself at all times. You’ve been trained to assume you’re in the wrong whenever challenged. You’ve been sold a bill of goods that says, ‘Whatever the situation, I am not good enough to succeed’.”

My jaw dropped and I stared at him.

“It’s not all your mother’s fault,” he said. “It’s not even mostly her fault, though she contributes.”

“Allyson,” I muttered. As far back as I could remember, my half-sister had taken it as her personal duty to make my life miserable. Eventually the physical torture gave way to verbal abuse…which seemed even worse. She finally left home last year, and I didn’t have to hear her insults and mockery on a daily basis anymore. But some of the things she said still bounced around in my mind.

“Allyson hates you,” he confirmed. “You’re not crazy–it’s the truth. You’re right. Your mother will never admit it. Allyson will never admit it. But I’ll tell you the truth, even if nobody else has the balls.”

“Why does she?” I asked, searching my memories, as I had for years, for some clue as to the source of her hatred.

Uncle Si rested a hand on my shoulder and said, “Quit looking for a reason to blame yourself. It’s not because of anything you did, or didn’t do. It’s simply because you exist, period.”

He stepped back and sat on the floor. “Have a seat.”

I sat facing him.

“There’s a couple factors that contributed. You know what psychology is, right?”

I shrugged, still bewildered. “The way our brains work?”

“Kind of. The brain is hardware. Psychology is about software. The way your mind processes data and forms conclusions based on that data.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

The way you think,“ he clarified. ”There’s a few things going on psychologically with your half-sister. One is simple: she was an only child, and all the focus was on her. Then along you came and started getting some of the attention she was used to.“

“But that wasn’t my fault!” I protested.

“You’re right. It wasn’t. And it’s still not.”

I was speechless. I didn’t know how to handle a grown-up taking my side on any issue.

“Also, she resented her parents’ divorce,” he continued. “She fantasized about her father coming back and them being a family again. When your dad came on the scene, that was an obstacle. Then when you were born, the fantasy was shattered completely.”

“But I couldn’t help…” I started.

He held his hand up, palm toward me. “I know. It wasn’t your fault. I’m just explaining two of the reasons Allyson hated you from the day you were born. All her ridicule and belittling and accusations and lying are attempts at revenge against you, for events and situations you had no control over.”

I took a good look at Uncle Si, wondering if he was actually a human, or some sort of omniscient being masquerading as my uncle. “How do you know all this?” I asked. “Can you read minds?”

His mouth twitched into a fleeting grin. “I can read yours. Sometimes, anyway.”

That was such a bombshell, I just let it soar by without trying to process it.

“But you haven’t been around me, or Mom, or Allyson. I never even met you until the other day.”

“Oh, I know all of you,” he said. “We’ve met.”

“Why don’t I remember you, then?” I asked.

“You don’t remember a lot of stuff. Do you remember the day you learned to walk?”

I frowned and shook my head.

“Do you remember your mom and dad together? Happy?”

Again, I shook my head.

“Well obviously they were for some period of time, or you wouldn’t be here. Right?”

“Huh?” My confusion mounted by the moment.

“Never mind,” he said, whipping his head back and forth as if trying to shake something loose. “There’s some things you’re better off not remembering. And now,” he added, cryptically, “let’s hope there are some memories that will never even form in the first place.”

Before I could wonder much about that remark, he changed the subject back. “So, if you know that Allyson hates you, and she wants to see you fail at whatever you do, all because of stuff that’s not your fault…is she a reasonable person?”

“No. I guess not.”

“She’s not. She’s irrational, and petty. And vindictive. So why would you care what she thinks?”

“I guess I shouldn’t…?”

“No, not ‘I guess.’ You shouldn’t. Period. She’s a liar. Should you believe what a liar says?”

“No,” I said.

“That’s right. So take all that stuff Allyson said to poison your mind for all those years and reject it. Get rid of it. Recognize it as false, and refuse to let it affect how you think about yourself.”

I pondered this new information for a while, before mumbling, “But…but…”

He shook his head, closed his eyes, and made a cutting gesture with both hands. “Stop it, Sprout. Listen to me. I don’t hate you. I don’t want you to fail. I have no reason to lie to you about this. Not only is Allyson wrong, but she’s not as smart as you are.”

“Of course she is,” I replied, automatically. “She’s six years older than me.”

“She is older than you,” he agreed. “But you’re already smarter than her. That’s another reason she hates you.”

“Uncle Si, I think maybe you don’t know me as good as you think. I’m not smart. I don’t think I’m even average.”

His face flushed. His mouth didn’t change shape all that much, but he appeared angry.

“You listen to me, Pete: you are far above average. Got it? Above. You’re smarter than you know. You think PJ is so smart, with all his experiments and contraptions? What if I told you that you’re smarter than him, too?”

“I wouldn’t believe you,” I said.

“Well you need to believe me!” he snapped. The other men in The Warrior’s Lair all looked in our direction, wondering what the outburst was all about. Gradually they went back to their activities.

We were both silent for a few long minutes. Uncle Si’s color returned to normal. Finally he sighed and said, “Just think about what I told you.”

He stood, reaching over to tousle my hair. “Get back in the mirror.”

I stood, faced the mirror, and resumed the boxing stance he had taught me.

He pointed at my reflection in the mirror. “This guy is gonna hit you with stuff Allyson told you. He’s gonna hit you with shots that come from stuff Mom’s said and done. He’s gonna hit you with speculations about why your father left, and why he doesn’t spend time with you.”

“But that’s me,” I said, as if he were being silly. “That’s a reflection of me you’re pointing at.”

“Exactly. Ding ding ding!” He shifted his index finger from the reflection to the source. “You are letting other people tell you what to think about yourself. You’re letting other people, who are more concerned about their own agendas than what’s good for you, decide whether you will succeed or fail.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Even if that’s true, it’s not like I can do something just because I ‘decide’ that I can.”

His smile seemed sad as he said, “Oh yes you can. You’re not just smart. You’re stronger than anybody gives you credit for.”

“I’m just average strength,” I said.

“First of all, that’s not true either,” he said. “Second, I’m talking about the strength inside you. After hearing all your life how you’re useless, stupid, weak and ugly, and can’t accomplish anything important, you decided to come train here anyway.”

I shrugged, feeling a choking sensation in my throat and wet heat behind my eyes.

“I warned you it was going to be hard work. You imagined you would be insulted, embarrassed, humiliated–all the stuff Allyson would do, if I turned out to be like her. Right? You were afraid you would fail–that you wouldn’t be tough enough. You knew you would lose some fights, when it came time to fight here. And you could be seriously hurt.”

He really could read my mind. This was creepy.

He extended his index finger until it touched me right between the eyes. It felt hot–like a panhandle after the pan has been sitting over a stove burner for a while. I flinched.

“But you came anyway,” he said. “You were scared, but you came anyway. Even after everyone in your life had reinforced how you should doubt yourself, you came anyway. You didn’t let fear stop you. That means you beat fear, Pete. Not everybody can do that. You proved yourself stronger than fear. You’re a fighter.”

“You really believe that?” I asked, barely able to force the words out.

“Damn straight,” he said. “I believe you’re a warrior, and that you belong here. Hell, I don’t just believe it–I know it.” He pointed back at my reflection again. “Allyson couldn’t stop you. Your parents couldn’t stop you. Your teachers couldn’t stop you. Not even this guy was able to stop you; and like I said: he’s the toughest opponent you’re gonna face for a long time.”

I looked at my reflection, seeing somebody I had long assumed was stupid, weak, and incompetent.

“I’ll tell you something else,” he said, “he doesn’t have to be your enemy. In fact, sometimes he’ll be the only one you can count on. You start listening to me, Sprout.” He looked angry again. “You may not be able to trust what other people tell you, but you can trust me. And if you do, you’ll start to learn what you’re actually capable of.”

 

UPDATE:  This book is published! Click here to buy on Amazon.

Click here to buy anywhere else.

Sneak Peek/Sample Chapters, Socio-Sexual Studies

Paradox Chapter 2: Meet the Mother

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Nothing seemed unusual when I got back to the trailer after school. But it was a segue into something that would prove very unusual.

Mom was watching TV. She turned briefly to check who was walking through the front door, and said, “Hey. There’s some hot dogs in the fridge.”

“Okay,” I said, and stumbled over piles of laundry and empty cigarette cartons on the way to the fridge. I found the weenies and buns, and pulled them out. The buns were stale, but we had no other bread. I stuck one in the toaster but didn’t push the lever down just yet. I unloaded stacks of slimy dishes from the sink until I found a Teflon pot. I rinsed and wrung the dish rag several times before dripping some dish detergent on it. I rinsed out the pot, then scrubbed it with the rag without waiting for the water from the tap to warm up. Once reasonably clean and rinsed, I filled the pot with water, set it on the burner of the stove that still worked, and began hunting for a match.

“Hey Mom, can I borrow your lighter?” I finally asked.

“Bring me a wine cooler please,” she said, eyes still glued to the TV screen.

I reopened the fridge, plucked a pink bottled beverage out of a four-pack, and delivered it to her on the couch.

We lived in a three-bedroom trailer, so I had my own room—which was nice. The third bedroom was filled with Mom’s extra shoes, clothes, and other stuff, so effectively we had just two bedrooms. Only one toilet worked, but if one of Mom’s future boyfriends turned out to be a plumber, the second one might get fixed. The dingy carpet in our living room sagged down to form a depression where a section of the floor had rotted away under it, but Mom usually stacked something in that spot so it wasn’t so obvious.

I handed her the wine cooler and she dug around in her purse until she found the lighter, and handed it to me.

That purse was scary. There was so much junk in there, I sometimes imagined her hand coming out with a dead rat one of these times.

I lit the burner and the water slowly began to warm. I went down the hall to my bedroom to retrieve a paperback to read while I waited for the water to boil.

“Can you make me one, too, Sweetie?” Mom asked.

“Yeah,” I said, transporting another weenie from the refrigerator to the pot.

During a commercial break, she turned from the TV to address me with eye contact. “So. Something else about your Uncle Si, huh?”

“What?” I asked, realizing he must have paid her a visit or made contact with her somehow.

“Recovering from a coma,” she explained. “I figured he would die in that hospital, or hospice, or whatever it was. But he looks really healthy. It must not have been as serious as we heard.”

“You saw him today?” I asked.

She nodded. “He stopped by. He really does favor your father.” She twisted her lips, examining me. “And you. If your father wasn’t such a loser…well, anyway, Simon reminds me why I got with your dad in the first place.”

“Oh, puke, Mom,” I said.

“I know,” she said digging a cigarette out of that frightening purse. “But I sure didn’t feel like puking those first few weeks with him.” She snapped her fingers and did a little seated dance on the couch that she obviously found more cute than I did.

“What did you talk about?” I asked. “With Uncle Si?”

She shushed me, showing her index finger, as her head whipped back toward the television. Her show was on again.

I read the book until the weenies swelled, then pushed down the lever on the toaster.

“Why do you always have to toast the bread?” Mom asked, eyes still locked onto the idiot box. “You don’t use enough electricity already?”

“I don’t always toast it,” I protested. “Only when the bread’s stale. It kinda’ covers the bad taste.”

“Toast mine too, then. Let me see.”

I navigated the obstacle course between the stove and the couch, delivering our meal to eat together in front of the TV.

The phone rang. Mom’s show was back on, so she gestured toward the phone without looking away from the screen. “Get that, Sweetie? Mommy’s still eating.”

I was still eating, too, but I answered the phone.

“Who told you you could use the phone, loser?” demanded a haughty voice I had come to hate over the years.

“I’m not using it; I’m answering it, first of all,” I said. “And secondly…”

“Shut up, moron,” Allyson interrupted. “I need to talk to my mother.”

She consistently emphasized “my mother” when referring to Mom, as if Mom was her mother but not mine. I considered asking, “how’s it feel to need?” But that would prolong our conversation, which I really didn’t want to do; and Mom would take her side in the resulting argument, as always.

“She’s watching TV,” I said.

“Well no shit, dumbass,” Allyson retorted, in a tone that was almost gleeful. “Just because you can’t walk and chew gum doesn’t mean everybody else is stupid, too. I promise. Mom can hold the damn phone to her ear even while the TV is playing. Now give her the phone and go back to fingering your own asshole.”

I handed the phone to Mom. Even though her show was still on, Mom took it and, with a cheery tone of voice, said, “Hey girlfriend! How’s your love life?”

My hot dog bun was no longer warm enough to mask the stale taste. As I finished eating, Mom chatted and cackled. Her show ended, and I knew she couldn’t possibly have paid attention to it as well as to her daughter, but Mom wasn’t even slightly annoyed—quite the opposite.

I grabbed the paperback and retreated to my room.

Mom called me back to the living room, later, when both her TV show and the phone call were done.

There was another show on TV now, which Mom didn’t like as much.

“What do you think of Uncle Si’s offer to do some after-school work for him?” she asked, during the next commercial break.

“I’d really like to do it,” I said, already feeling defeated. I had already been allowed to have a dog, so my quota of favors had been used up for some time to come. There was no way she’d let me spend time with a cool guy related to my dad.

She surprised me by saying, “If you do it, you have to stick with it. You can’t start, then decide you’re bored with it after a few months.”

“Huh?” was all I could say.

She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “This could free me up to take that job at the jewelry store, for the closing shift. But you can’t tell anybody, or we might lose the food stamps and everything else.”

“You mean…I can do it?” I asked, incredulous.

“You’re sure you’ll stick with it?”

“Yes!”

“No going back, now,” she said, with an admonishing tone. “If I take this job, you have to keep yours. If you decide later you don’t like it, you have to keep doing it, anyway.”

I didn’t know why everybody was questioning my commitment that day. Maybe because my enthusiasm about the dog faded when she turned out to be a trouble-making retard. “It’s a deal,” I said.

It turns out, the owner of the jewelry store had just sweetened the job offer a few days before. It was hard to imagine how Uncle Si’s timing could have been any better.

UPDATE:  This book is published! Click here to buy on Amazon.

Click here to buy anywhere else.

Adventure, Sneak Peek/Sample Chapters, Sports

Paradox Chapter 1: Altering the Course of Your Life

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As promised, here is the first chapter.  Just one disclaimer:
These chapter titles might not be in the final draft. They were strictly for my benefit while writing/editing. As mentioned before, I do a lot of editing/revising while I write (one reason it takes me so long). These titles were helpful in organizing and finding stuff. I’m using them now in the sneak preview because blog posts need titles, and they might help the reader know what to look forward to.
I have a handful of titles in mind for the book; but am not sure which one I’ll settle on. For now I’ll call it Paradox.
Enjoy.

It was my retarded dog that indirectly brought me face-to-face with the rest of my life.

She was the only pet I’d ever been allowed to have. We got her from the pound. I learned everything I could about training dogs, but still…

Wait. Let me back up a bit.

I was over at PJ’s house. I was to spend the night there, which meant one of two things: either Mom wanted some privacy with whoever her newest boyfriend was; or my father had contacted her recently, asking her to let me go see him (which meant that he was in between girlfriends long enough to remember the reason for the child support payments). Mom became pretty lenient when she found a new boyfriend, or when she feared my father wanted to be part of my life. On such occasions, she was happy for me to spend the night somewhere else and tell my father, “Sorry. We had other plans.”

PJ was one of the pals I made in grade school. We both liked to make stuff. For a science project, he built a Jacob’s Ladder. I build a crude electric motor in a shoe box. Most of our classmates drew graphs or diagrams, but we liked each other’s projects best. That’s what drew us together.

PJ liked to build “experiments” in his back yard, using plastic buckets, PVC pipe, bungee cords and other stuff. The contraptions reminded me of some of the ridiculously complex traps set by characters in the old, old cartoons. The technical term for an experiment like these was “Rube Goldberg,” but I wouldn’t know that until many years later.

Me and PJ were in his unfenced back yard, building yet another Rube Goldberg contraption, when I noticed a grown-up approaching us with a big, dumb German Shepherd on a leash that had been chewed in half.

My big, dumb German Shepherd. Great—she destroyed yet another leash.

“Is this your dog?” the man asked me.

There were two strange aspects to this. One was that, the way he looked at me while asking the question, he already knew it was my dog, and not PJ’s—even though it was PJ’s house. Two was the familiarity of the man’s hard face not concealed by the shiny sunglasses, and the flat, gutteral voice. And more than that. There was some quality about him that triggered a sensation a lot like deja vu.

The familiarity of his face should have been a bigger deal to me than it was. I had seen my father in person a few times, and this guy bore an uncanny resemblance to him. Only, whereas my father was whipcord thin, this stranger was obviously muscular under his business-casual attire (which was alien to neighborhoods like this). The pyramid-shape of the neck was a dead giveaway for fully-clothed body builders. He had a square jaw and a nose with that pronounced Dick Tracy notch toward the brow that was a family trait on my father’s side; but his was crooked too, like it had been busted at least once. He was a tough-looking SOB.

Behind his sunglasses, his eyes were hidden; but I could feel his gaze when it rested on me.

“It’s my dog,” I confirmed, hoping she hadn’t killed a cat, dug a hole in somebody’s yard, or broke something expensive.

The man reached us and handed me both parts of the leash. I took it, and only then noticed how Ace was straining to get free.

“Her and another neighbor’s dog started chasing each other,” the man said. “They were tearing-ass through every yard in the neighborhood. Gonna break something any minute.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, wondering how I was going to keep her out of trouble if she kept chewing through her leash.

The man pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to me. It was a leash made out of chromed chain, with a vinyl strap for a handle.

“Try tying her up with this,” the man said. “Probably can’t chew through metal.”

She might be dumb enough to try, but I didn’t say that. “Are you sure, Mister? I don’t have any money to pay you for it.”

Ignoring my question, the man squatted to bring his dark shades on a level with my eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Pete Bedauern,” I said, nervously. Usually, when somebody asked my name, it meant I was in trouble, or about to be.

“Well how about that,” the man said, extending his hand for a shake. “We’re related, then.”

“We are?”

“I’m your uncle Si,” he said, rising to stand again, rubbing his knees and grimacing.

“Uncle Si?” My mind churned furiously for a moment as I stood there staring at him. Then it came to me: my father’s younger brother Simon. Somebody had told me he was in a bad accident that put him in a coma.

Just then, PJ’s mom came outside. “Is everything alright out here?”

PJ’s mother wasn’t home all that often. She was a buxom blonde, maybe in her 30s. What I remember about her most was how, when watching TV, she was frequently irritated about statements from a character in a show, and would argue with them as if they could hear her. Then she would lecture PJ and me, angrily, as if we had spoken the dialog that upset her.

Uncle Si’s hard face broke into a grin and he walked toward PJ’s mom, who was standing in the open doorway. “Hello. I’m Si Bedauern.”

Prior to that, it would have been difficult to picture a grin on that hard face. I didn’t recall PJ’s mom ever smiling before, either. But Si’s grin must have looked natural enough to her, because she brightened right up.

I took Ace away to tie her up with the chain leash, happy that the grownups looked like they would keep each other busy for a while so me and PJ could get back to work on the contraption.

Uncle Si talked with PJ’s mom a long time on the back porch. I didn’t notice when they both went inside, but he was sitting at the table when she called us in for supper. We ate pizza and ice cream that night, and PJ’s mom acted the happiest I’d ever seen her—laughing at all Uncle Si’s jokes and fascinated by his every serious statement.

***

I didn’t think much of it when Uncle Si was there at breakfast the next morning, too. He still had the sunglasses on. Grownups did a lot of stuff I didn’t understand and I had learned to mind my own business by that time.

I caught sight of PJ’s mom only once that morning, as she spent most of her time in the bathroom—and she looked rather disheveled. Uncle Si pulled me aside and told me he would take me to school.

The plan had been for me and PJ to take the school bus together, but I had also learned not to argue with grownups. Uncle Si said he would come back, walk Ace to my house and put her in the kennel, so it didn’t seem to be a big deal.

Uncle Si’s car was a late model Corvette. At first glance it didn’t look too much different from other Corvettes on the road. But it was louder than any car I’d ever heard, and I had the feeling it might explode any moment, because the engine was just too powerful for the chassis. Most of the drive I was flattened back against the seat, the muscles of my face pulling at me like I was on one of those spinning carnival rides. I didn’t know a car could navigate those streets so fast, but I decided that, as fast as he drove, it made sense that Uncle Si would have been involved in a car wreck that put him in a coma.

The Corvette came to a stop and that scary engine shut down. I looked out the window and noticed we were not at the school. We were a few blocks away.

“Get out,” Uncle Si said, opening his door. “Let me show you something.”

He got out and walked around the front of the car. I opened my door and got out, not too worried about being late for school because:

1. I hated school, and

2. It was a grownup’s fault if I was late, so this grownup would have to work it out with the other grownups.

Uncle Si faced the building he parked beside, and nodded toward the sign overhead. It read: “The Warrior’s Lair.”

This got my attention. I was kind of a nerd about history, when it came to warriors of various cultures. I did poorly at school, but studied on my own about knights, samurai, Mongols, Cossacks, Turks, Apache, Commanche, and my favorite: the Vikings. They were my favorite for the silliest, most superficial young boy reason: they looked cool wearing horned helmets (which it turned out weren’t historically accurate, anyway).

“What is this?” I asked.

“Come on,” Uncle Si said. He pulled some keys out of his pocket, walked around the corner, and unlocked the door.

I followed him inside. An odor hit my nostrils that reminded me of a gymnasium. He turned on the lights. The walls were covered with mirrors and posters of men in martial arts uniforms. Most of the floor was covered with padded mats, and a roped-off square was in the center. There was also a variety of punching bags, and racks with weapons on them. I saw katanas, wakusashis and nunchukus, along with some others I couldn’t name.

It was the coolest place I’d ever seen.

I had fantasized about learning the martial arts one day, if I could somehow come up with the money for lessons.

“You have keys to this place?” I asked, like an idiot.

“Yup. It’s my place,” he said.

“You teach Karate?”

He pursed his lips. “More like Bushido. As far as the art…well, some Karate, some Kung Fu, some Ken-Po, some Jui-Jitsu, some boxing, some freestyle wrestling…a mixture. I believe it’s gonna be the fighting system of the future.”

“Oh my gosh,” was all I could say, at first.

He gave me a tour of the place, encouraging me to punch and kick some of the bags and dummies. I’m sure my efforts were comical.

“Bushido means ‘way of the warrior’,” I said. “Do you teach people how to fight, and how to live like a warrior?”

He nodded.

“Oh my gosh. How do people get into this school?”

“Why?” he asked. “Is this something that interests you?”

I nearly wore out my neck nodding.

“Maybe I can work out a family discount.”

“I don’t have any money at all,” I said, dejected. “I’m too young to work at a job, and my mom…she’s not gonna pay for something like this.”

Head hanging low, I followed him into an office where he sat behind a desk and I slouched into a chair opposite him.

“You understand there’s a value in services like what I provide here,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, nothing in life is free. Everything of value costs somebody something. This building, the equipment in it, the lights, the running water for the bathroom, and the training of my students, for starters—it all costs me something. Either money, or time, or sweat, headaches…all of the above.”

“I know,” I said. But I didn’t really know. No kid my age did. At least not in America.

“That’s why I charge money,” he said. “I have to pay the bills, put food on the table, and maybe pocket a little bit while I’m at it.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I can’t come here. I get it.” But maybe some day, if I could just come up with a way to make some money…

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Uncle Si said. “I’m considering letting you come here and take lessons for free. But you have to recognize the value of that gift. You can’t take it for granted, or get lazy, or come at it half-assed. You’d have to take it deadly serious, Sprout. You’d have to give 100%, without whining about how hard it is—because it will be very hard—the hardest thing you’ve ever done up until now. And when you’re sore, and exhausted, and scared of what I’m gonna make you do next, you have to drag yourself back up here and crank it right back up to 100%—day in; day out. It’s gonna be work. And if I see you slacking, taking it for granted, or not taking it seriously, then you’re out. I won’t waste my time with somebody who doesn’t appreciate the value of this gift.”

“I’ll do everything you say, if you teach me,” I said. “Only, I’m not sure my mom—”

“I’ll talk to your mom,” he said, as if my mother was an easy person to deal with. “But this is about you. We’ll see if you’re as dedicated as you think you are after about a week.”

Maybe I was being too cocky. The training sounded tough—maybe too tough for me. What if I started training and then wimped out? I couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing somebody who gave me a chance like this.

As if he could read my mind, Uncle Si pointed at my head and said, “See, I know something about you that you probably don’t know. I know you’re tough enough to make it. I know you’ve got the brains to recognize the value. I know you’re capable of the discipline it will take. What I don’t know is if you’re mature enough yet to apply yourself, long-term. If you can, then you’ll make it. I have no doubt.”

I felt a lump in my throat and pressure behind my eyes. No man had ever told me something like this before. It was a compliment! He couldn’t have dreamed up a more motivating speech with a room full of psychologists.

“Should I take a chance on you?” he asked.

Unable to speak, I simply nodded.

“Okay, Sprout,” he said, rising from behind the desk. “Remember this day. We’ve just altered the course of your life.”

 

UPDATE:  This book is published! Click here to buy on Amazon.

Click here to buy anywhere else.

Reviews

I’m Baaa-aaack!

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There are numerous reasons I haven’t blogged for a couple years. This post is about one of them.

On-and-off over the course of a few years, with multiple interruptions , I’ve been writing something. I alternate between calling it “my Great American Novel” and “my doorstop.” My misadventures in graphic novels comprised the latest, longest interruptions. More on that in the future, maybe.

But  now the rough draft is complete. I can’t remember the page count for War & Peace; but this book probably will rival one of Tolstoy’s works in length.

The scope of the novel includes such topics as manhood, leadership, relationships, football, America, history…with action and adventure spread throughout, of course.

When the saga begins, Pete is a pre-adolescent boy growing up as many men from Generation X did: in a broken home with a party girl mother and absentee father, left to figure stuff out on his own. He’s smart and talented; but also hopelessly ignorant. His fate is to make stupid mistake after stupid mistake, and pay dearly for them the rest of his life.

But Fate gets outflanked when his time-traveling uncle arrives on the scene to teach him about life, love, and full-contact sports. And to rescue him from a cross-continuum hit team of invisible assassins.

To use movie terms, fiction I’ve written up to now could be described as rated PG13, with R-rated action. This is more of a solid R, due to language and “strong sexual content.” So if this were a movie, there would be some nudity and some “love scenes” where there is no question what activity the characters are engaged in–though graphic details are left to the imagination.

As with most of my books, I can guarantee you somebody will be offended–whether it be because it’s from the opposite political perspective most readers are used to, or because of what the uncle teaches Pete about game, frame, and hypergamy. But I don’t plan on changing that.

Unlike the first few books I brought to this stage, I’m not in a hurry to publish (ironic, considering how long it’s taken so far). Former fighter pilot (oh yeah, there’s air-to-air combat, too. Did I fail to mention that?) and stand-up guy John Earle is helping me proof it. I also tend to do a lot of revising/self-editing during and after the rough draft. Typically, I then have some beta readers look at it before I polish and publish. With this book, I think I’ll find my beta readers differently.

Next time, I intend to start posting chapters right here on the blog. That means you can read my doorstop masterpiece for free. You can also share your thoughts in the comments. No commitment; no expectations. But if you have the time and find the story interesting, you can tell me what you think along the way. Or not. IOW, you can be a beta reader.

I don’t know how well this will work. I’ve shared excerpts from other books after-the-fact; but never offered a sneak preview like this. I know others have, so this is not unprecedented.

See ya next time.

Intel, Non-Fiction/Documentary, Politics/Current Events

A Thought Experiment For Genocide

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Let’s say you’re an elite, God-hating leader of an international cabal hell-bent on world domination. For whatever reason, you and your luceferian pedophile comrades have decided it’s time for a drastic, genocidal reduction in human population…BEFORE you have destroyed the sovereignty of independent nations and manipulated them into subservience to your New World Order. What do you do?

Keep in mind that, like all your other self-serving acts of Machiavellian scumbaggery, you have to disguise what you’re doing, and who is doing it. In fact, as the consequences of your genocidal scheme become evident; your present and future victims must be herded to where they will blame the consequences on somebody other than you–preferably your enemies or somebody who is a hindrance to your agenda.

So you can’t just start nuking cities. Too over-the-top. Plus, cities have nice stuff that other people built that you’d like to enjoy once you and your select elite comrades inherit a de-populated Earth. You might want to rape and eat children, for instance, in an office building, a restaurant, or somebody’s house.

Not every weapon of mass destruction is so high-profile. You could surreptitiously release a deadly chemical or biological agent that will spread and kill hundreds of millions of people. The trouble with that is, once released, it might kill you along with your victims. This scheme requires a bit more complexity. Also, it requires the collaboration of governments, news media, and nearly every other institution, public and private.

Science and medicine have never found a cure for any virus, including the common cold. So you could weaponize some kind of virus to make it kill people. But there’s a dillemma: again, if it’s truly deadly to a large portion of the human population, then it could backfire and kill you, too.

You need a way to kill off millions of people who are not in your elite luceferian pedophile network, which allows you and your fellow travelers to  survive, so you can establish your managed, controlled Globohomo Utopia. You can use a virus to help get you there; but you have to use it indirectly–not directly. You need to poison the masses somehow; introduce the virus as the catalyst and the poison as the cure. Here’s a way:

  1. It has to be a virus that makes people sick, but is survivable for most people–like the seasonal flu. It has to put people in bed for a while; but have, say, a 99.997% survival rate. Release this into the population, and spread it around the globe.
  2. You can’t just call it the flu, though. It has to have a specific name that sounds new, scientific, and scary. You have to imply that this is something “novel,” that science has never seen before.
  3. Play down the scary, “deadly” narrative at first, so you can spread it everywhere–especially to the USA. Any attempt to restrict international travel should be quashed. Spewing out accusations of “racism!” and “xenophobia!” should intimidate all potential interlopers into obedience and shut down any such restrictions. Then, once you’ve got virus carriers everywhere, you can switch narratives to: “THE MOST DANGEROUS VIRUS EVAHH!!!!!!” Then, whoever tried to restrict travel to stop the spread? Blame the spread on them by claiming they didn’t do enough to stop it.
  4. Even though your weaponized virus is not deadly, you must make people believe it’s deadly. Use the Swamp Media, government agencies, corporations, and other assets to blitz the sheeple with hype 24/7 to convince them it’s the deadliest, scariest “pandemic” the world has ever seen.

5. Inflate the death count by any means necessary. Lie about causes of death, of course (if somebody died of the regular seasonal flu, or pneumonia, cancer, or anything else at all, report it as being caused by your virus with the new, scary, scientific-sounding name); but you also might want to legitimately kill some people off with your concoction, just in case. Since 99.997% survive your virus, you have to find extremely vulnerable people, with diminished immune systems, respiratory  disfunction, or other serious ailments…and expose them to it.  The easiest solution is to admit infected patients into nursing homes to kill off people’s grandparents. (If you want your own parents/grandparents to survive for whatever reason, pull yours out beforehand.) Afterwards, you can brag about what a hero you are for “saving lives.” You might even get a book deal to share your selfless heroism with…oh, hell, who are we kidding? Nobody’s gonna read it. The book deal is just a way to launder money to our useful little tools.

6. Prevent people from using effective treatments to overcome the virus. And if anybody touts safe, proven medicine that can actually protect people from your virus…demonize, ridicule, and censor them. You want the peasants to listen to your paid, controlled mouthpieces when it comes to their personal health.

7. Prevent herd immunity. A virus becomes more contagious but less dangerous as it spreads throughout a population. People build up an immunity to the virus until it’s just an inconvenience–not a grave threat. YOU CAN’T LET THAT HAPPEN! Lock everyone down (and you know who we mean by “everyone,” wink wink). Even if it means shutting kids out of your mandatory indoctrination centers public schools, do it. Mandate mask-wearing, to get people recycling their own germs and carbon dioxide all day/every day; and as an experiment to see what level of resistance subsequent dictatorial fiat decrees will suffer.

8. There are countless side benefits to what you’ve done so far. The lockdowns that you mandate will ruin the lives of countless inferiors who are not in your elite circle. They will wreck countless businesses not sponsored by your elite club. They will lead to a spike in suicides among the unwashed masses. They will provide excuses to help steal a first-world national election right under everyone’s noses. Those are just a few perks among many. But the best is yet to come.

9. I know, I know: When do we get to start mass-murdering the peasants? Fear not! Your kiddy-diddling comrades have patented the Final Solution decades ago. It’s time to roll out the solution that’s been waiting for a problem!

10. Under a state of “national emergency” (because the “pandemic” is so “dangerous,” see?) you don’t need FDA approval for your insidious gene therapy that you will now refer to as a “vaccine.” Eventually, you’ll get the FDA to play ball and approve it in record time, anyway. But until then, the “emergency” must stay in place.

11. This nifty little Darwin Stab will make people more susceptible to mutating strains of the virus–not less. In fact, it will spur the mutation. It can cause ADE so that the peasants’ immune systems are compromised and they will have to receive booster shots in perpetuity until you kill them off with whatever you want (like TB or the plague, which you’ve been sponsoring the spread of in West Coast cities). It causes organ inflammation, so that even young, healthy people will die of stroke and heart attack. Of course, the “solution” is far deadlier than the “problem” you introduced, but don’t worry–your useful idiots and the flyover rubes will never believe the truth. That’s what the Swamp Media and Homowood are for.

12. You need everyone not in your club, or serving your club, to accept your solution. Pretend you’ve taken the Darwin Stab yourself. Have saline injected, or post deceptive photos, and say you received it. Have the politicians and celebrities you own (pretty much all of them, in other words) publicly take the Stab to inspire their loyal worshippers to do the same. If your lies don’t convince them to take the Darwin Stab; and inspiring celebrities don’t convince them…bribe people to take it. Offer them food, gift cards, cell phones, lottery tickets, cash prizes…whatever it takes. Use guilt. Convince them that they must do it to protect their friends and family. Your reasoning can be convoluted and oxymoronic, and it doesn’t matter–we’ve spent 3/4s of a century making sure that the average US resident is incapable of reason and critical thought, so no biggie.

13. The bottom line is: the rubes must take the Darwin Stab! There will be some peasants who can’t be convinced, inspired, guilt-tripped or bribed into accepting our Final Solution. The Face Diaper mandates have already identified who most of these stubborn pests are. So threaten them. If threats don’t work, take away their ability to travel. Fire them from their jobs. Prevent their ability to buy or sell. Starvation will kill them off just as surely as our patented mRNA poison–maybe even faster. Unfortunately, those who can’t be coerced into taking our kill shot; and who might survive despite our efforts to starve them to death, are exactly the opposite of the sort of peasants we might want to allow to exist in our Globohomo Utopia. Jail them, or gun them down where they defiantly stand. Of course, there are plenty of options like the Havana Syndrome for more surgical cleansing.

 

Action, Adventure, Reviews, Superhero

Comic Books for the Mentally Healthy

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Plenty of people are fed up with how the self-righteous leftards at Marvel and DC have ruined pretty much every character they inherited from creators and writers who actually had talent and imagination. The good news is that they now have options–and so do you. If you like the medium but the GloboHomo Narrative isn’t your cup of tea, you can read some decent graphic literature…for free.

New content is added multiple times a week at Arktoons, which now has a substantial amount of content. Arktoons is the online comic reading site built by Arkhaven Comics. We have reviewed Arkhaven titles Alt-Hero, Avalon, and Alt-Hero: Q here before. Those titles have been re-launced through Arktoons, plus a whole lot more.

First of all, there are  three “Classics” series, introduced by Chuck Dixon, reproducing some of the comedy, adventure, and war comics from the Silver Age. Chuck Dixon has some of his own, original work (in addition to Avalon and Q) available. Go Monster Go is a horror/Supernatural series about a ghost car that appeals to me because it’s about the teenage rebel hot rod milleu in the era before hot rodding diminished into a subculture (and then disappeared altogether). He’s also got Shade, a superhero series set in Europe.

There are some titles based on the literary work of Vox Day. Midnight’s War is set in a city controlled by vampires, where a small resistance cell is interfering with black market  blood plasma trafficking, and saving some would-be victims in the process. A Throne of Bones is a fantasy set in a Tolkienesque (?) world in which Roman legions (?) are at war, not with Huns or Goths, but with armies of goblins. I find the military perspective interesting, as I did with some of Howard’s Conan adventures. Quantum Mortis, so far, looks like military sci-fi set outside our solar system.  I’m interested to see where it’s going. Something I saw or read made me think it would be a sci-fi police drama, like American Flagg! (but without Howard Chaykin’s avante gard leftist crap).

There are a few series from Jon del Aroz, including Clockwork Dancer, a steampunk series about an inventor who gets in trouble for building robots; Flying Sparks features an aspiring superheroine who doesn’t know her boyfriend is a crook; and Deus Vult is about a knight on a quest through some sort of underworld populated by cat and frog people, on his way to match wits with the devil himself.

Swan Knight Saga is a fantasy based on John C. Wright’s YA novel, about a young man who can talk to animals, who finds out the world is secretly oppressed by elves. It’s better than it sounds.

Arktoons has several other series; but the one I have the highest expectations for is Hammer of Freedom, about a homeless veteran fighting the power in a GloboHomo police state (Sao Paulo, 2045).

Superheroes only make up a fraction of the lineup at Arktoons. There’s a pretty good chance there will be something for most comic fans (unless the comic fan prefers reading about transgender Norse gods or some such). I’ve found that, rather than read each snippet as they come out, I prefer waiting until those (often quite short) snippets accumulate to the point that I can absorb a significant portion of the plot line at one sitting.

The artwork varies. Some is very slick, while  some looks rushed and amateurish. The writing that I’ve seen runs from solid to perhaps brilliant.  Time will tell.

Again, it’s free, though you may want to subscribe just to support the creative teams making these comics available.

Music, Politics/Current Events

Let the Woke Take the Poke

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Big Tech and the Swamp Media have been working tirelessly to suppress the truth about COVID1984, masks, and the vax. This isn’t “bias” or “Trump Derangement Syndrome. It’s a deliberate, active campaign to deceive you into acting against your own self-interest and go along with the agenda as if that is in your own self-interest.

It’s surprising how much truth is seeping through the cracks, despite their ruthless efforts to gag anybody who “speaks truth to power.” Here is another example of a dissenting voice, which may be yanked from CommieTube soon:

The lyrics are a truth-bomb of rhetoric. Kudos to the artist for putting this together.

There’s a lot we still don’t know about the Wu-Flu; but the experimental vaccines may prove to be more deadly over time. Not that the Treason Machine will ever be honest enough to acknowledge it. But there may be a silver lining, if the leftards, SJWs, useful idiots, and other bovine lemmings continue winning Darwin Awards by taking the vax. We might have an experience like Noah stepping off the ark one day, discovering that we’ve been given a restart and it will take a few generations to get back to the level of idiocy we’re at in 2021.

Politics/Current Events

Fake News, Fake Polls, Fake Election…Now Fake Audits

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Whistleblowers who have come forward to provide evidence regarding the stolen 2020 election have been ignored, smeared, and/or threatened. Not that our “justice system” will allow the evidence to be presented anyway; but evidence is being tampered or destroyed faster than a Hillary henchman with hammer and BleachBit.

In Example # 37,983 of how we are no longer under the rule of law and our rights have been suspended without fanfare, a guy at a baseball game displayed a “Trump Won” banner and was booted out. I won’t link to the Swamp Media article about it, but you can find photos on Gab and elsewhere. I won’t be surprised if he gets arrested and declared a domestic terrorist. He didn’t even try to defend himself or his business against a feral mob of BLM useful idiots. This is how tightly policed independent thought is, today. The Democrat/Media Machine knows its narrative is full of holes. That’s why they have ramped up their Orwellian efforts to comical proportions.

But back to the 2020 charade “election”:

The fraud is so ubiquitous and diversified, there’s no way to track all of it and link to everything. But UncoverDC reports on how the “audit” in New Hampshire is rigged to provide the “nothing to see here, folks” narrative that the ruling oligarchy and their Swamp Media desire:

“Someone went in, reopened the election, and then closed it and back-dated it. What this proves—in theory—is ballot stuffing. Meaning, they can run through ballots after the election, close it down, and backdate it.”

Who watches the watchmen?

For what it’s worth, there is a class action lawsuit against Dominion. Like the ruling elite care what us cisgendered rubes think or want, anyway. But there is a miniscule, fast-shrinking list of actions that can be taken against America’s enemies, which don’t involve violence, and this is one of them.

Frankly, I don’t trust any of the audits. It seems more likely to me that the Cabal will use them to do what’s happening in New Hampshire than actual honest, decent people being in control, at any level, and doing what’s necessary to achieve victory on any scale.

Prove me wrong. I dare you.

Red-Blooded American Men Examine Pop-Culture and the World