I’ve posted something on D-Day pretty much every anniversary since I began blogging. This time I won’t be writing so much about it–just showing imagery.
This guy did a fairly decent job on the video, though he’s not informed well on the UN and China. But hey, most people in our dumbed-down culture don’t even know what WW2 was.
Got about two days or less before the sale ends.
Tomato Can is a retro-pulp novella in the gritty style of hardboiled noir from the 1950s, which is when, in fact, it is set. It takes place in the hometown of the Brown Bomber: Detroit, Michigan.
Unlike many boxing pulps (and retro-pulps), this one is technically accurate…though it is packed full of slinging leather.
We usually post something to commemorate D-Day. Might do that a bit later.
The sneak preview of False Flag continues.
(THIS IS AN EXCERPT FROM A WORK OF FICTION. THE USE OF THE N-WORD BY CHARACTERS IN THE WORK DOES NOT MEAN THE AUTHOR TALKS OR THINKS THAT WAY.)
3
Y MINUS 20
SHREVEPORT, LOUISIANA
Trooper Jason Macmillan, 29 and fit with a full head of brown hair under his Smokey-the-Bear hat, turned his halogens on bright, then adjusted his side spot onto the little Chevy S-10 pulled over in front of him. After the make was run on the vehicle’s owner and radioed back to Macmillan, he got out of his cruiser and approached the S-10’s passenger window.
He turned on his big Maglite and shined it through the rear window into the cab. He didn’t see anything incriminating inside.
But that was kind of the point: he couldn’t see everything inside.
The driver rolled his window down. Already squinting from the bright light of the cruiser’s headlights and side spot in his mirrors, Joe Tasper was now completely blinded when Trooper Macmillan fixed the Maglite’s beam directly in his eyes.
“Driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance,” Macmillan said. “And please turn your engine off, sir.”
“I’ve got battery problems,” Tasper said. “If I shut it down, I’ll need a jump to get going again.”
“Do me a favor and shut it down,” Macmillan ordered. “Then please comply with my request, sir.”
Tasper turned off the ignition, dug out his wallet and leaned over to open his glove box. Macmillan rested one hand on his holstered sidearm. He’d never had to pull his gun in the line of duty, but could never tell when the opportunity would arise. Tasper handed over his papers and Macmillan took them, relaxing just a bit.
“The reason I pulled you over is that your windows are illegally tinted,” Macmillan said.
“I just bought the truck today,” Tasper replied. “I was on my way to get a new battery for it. I can take the tinting off Monday after work. You’ll give me a jump when you’re done, right?”
“You sit tight here,” Macmillan said, waving the license, insurance card and registration form. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“The store is gonna be closed in a half hour,” Tasper said. “I have to get there quick to get the new battery.”
Macmillan ignored him and returned to the comfort of his patrol car. He called in the additional info, but Tasper’s record was clean, except for normal traffic citations, and his story checked out about buying the pickup that day.
Macmillan took his time filling out the ticket. When he went back to the suspect’s vehicle, he asked to see the bill of sale, then looked it over. He questioned the suspect about why someone in northwest Texas had driven so far to buy a truck in Louisiana, but failed to trip him up or get him to admit anything. Macmillan added a seatbelt violation to the citation and got the suspect to sign. The suspect asked again about getting a jump start, but Macmillan ignored him and returned to his patrol car.
Normally he waited for the suspect to drive away first, but knowing Joe Tasper wouldn’t be able to start his vehicle now, MacMillan drove away without waiting. He decided to come back this way at the end of his shift and see if the S-10 was still sitting here. Who knew? Maybe it would be abandoned and he could schedule it for impound.
It turned out to be Trooper McMillan’s lucky night. A county mounty called for backup on a resisting arrest code. MacMillan floored the accelerator, flipping on his light beacon, and got the Crown Victoria rolling down the fast lane at 120. The incident site was only a few miles away. He would get some stick time tonight.
MaQuon Lutrell was pulled over for a “no turn on red” violation. The sheriff’s deputy asked to search his car. MaQuon had a bag of weed under the passenger seat and didn’t want to go back to jail. He heard people say that cops couldn’t search a vehicle without either a search warrant or the driver’s consent, so he didn’t give his consent. The deputy asked what he was hiding and the conversation soon turned into an argument.
When the deputy ordered him to get out of the car, MaQuon feared it might get ugly. And it did.
The scenario ended with the deputy and an increasing number of arriving cops beating on him with police batons. One of the arriving cops was a young State Trooper.
The beating took place in a well-lit area on a street connecting residential and industrial areas. Across the street, hiding behind a cluster of bushes, was a group of preadolescent boys. They were friends from school who got together to hang out one last time since Mrs. Thatcher was moving tomorrow and would be taking her son, Arden, with her to Texas.
The boys laughed and joked among themselves, watching the black grown-up getting the crap beat out of him. Arden bragged that he would be a cop one day himself, and get paid to beat up niggers.
Chapter 2 from False Flag.
(Read Prologue and Chapter 1 here.)
2
Y MINUS TWO
BAGHDAD, IRAQ
Jake McCallum hadn’t had many visitors since he’d been in the hospital. A few guys from Security Solutions, International, including the president of the private military company, dropped by. Ingrid–a field surgeon and his on-again, off-again girlfriend, checked in regularly. But his closest friend in SSI, Leon Campbell, was stateside. And after the first few days there was little break from the bedridden monotony in the cool, white room.
At six-foot-eight and with a massive, carefully-sculpted musculature, it was agonizing for Mac to lay here and feel himself atrophy. His arm was broken and his knee recovering from surgery. In a civilian context he would have been released to recover at home; but here he was treated like a wounded soldier because it wouldn’t be safe for him in-country in his vulnerable condition.
A black man, who was not Leon, appeared in the doorway and rapped his knuckles on the jamb. He was a little shorter than Leon, and huskier. “What’s up, my brotha?” the man greeted.
Mac noted his business formal attire, despite the environment. His shoes were in the latest style. The creases in his pants were razor-sharp, and his jacket was tailored to his V-shaped torso. With perfectly trimmed mustache and goatee, he looked like a model for the cover of Jet or something. Mac had rubbed elbows with plenty of Agency guys over here. Agency guys usually dressed business/casual Nobody except politicians dressed sharper than that.
From his bed, Mac chinned an acknowledgment of the visitor, who then entered with a very subtle three-legged swagger.
“DeAngelo Jeffries,” the man said, extending his hand. Mac wrapped his own huge paw (the one he could still use) around the offered hand and pumped it once.
“I’m in town for a while, checking things out,” Jeffries said. “Guy I’m with was assigned to debrief your girlfriend—tall Swedish blonde—so I thought I’d come by and holla at ya.”
“Debriefing” meant Jeffries was working for the Agency in some capacity. McCallum had wondered if his trip to Indonesia would get their attention.
“Nurse said they had to do some work on your knee,” Jeffries said, sliding the chair over to seat himself at bedside.
“Yeah,” Mac said. “I can get around on crutches for now. Hopefully I’ll be able to put weight on it before much longer.”
“Knee injuries are no joke, man,” Jeffries said. “I had to have mine scoped a few years back. It’s like the most critical joint in your body. Has to withstand the most abuse.”
“Hurt it playin’ ball?” Mac asked, slipping into a ‘hood accent without conscious thought.
“Yeah, you know it,” Jeffries said. “But nothin’ like yours. Speakin’ of ball, I know you had to play somewhere, with your height.”
Mac shrugged massive shoulders. “High school. A little college, before I went in the Army. So if somebody’s debriefing Ingrid, that means you’re here to debrief me.”
Jeffries shrugged this time. “Naw, man–nothin’ official. Wouldn’t do that here, anyway. But rumors go ’round, and I’m supposed to ask you some questions. That’s all.”
“What you wanna know?”
“You know: routine stuff. Like were you injured here or somewhere else?”
“On vacation,” Mac said, technically telling the truth.
“Where’d you go?” Jeffries asked, in a friendly, conversational, none-too-concerned tone of voice.
“Indonesia,” Mac replied, wondering how much Ingrid was telling this guy’s partner. She didn’t know everything, but she knew enough to raise some eyebrows in certain circles where a smart person never wanted to cause eyebrows to be raised. “My first time over there.”
“SOCOM never sent you over there, huh?” Jeffries asked, surprised.
So Jeffries had read Mac’s dossier.
“Not me,” Mac said. “They always had me focused on the Middle East. Taught me Arabic; oriented me on Islam; all that.”
Jeffries nodded. “I guess it makes sense you got a Private Military Company over here. Ain’t too many brothas got that kinda’ juice at War, Incorporated.”
“I’m only vice president,” Mac said.
Jeffries chuckled. “Looks to me like you do all the work at SSI, while the president just handles the administrative end.”
Mac shrugged again. “Nigga behind the trigga. You know.”
Jeffries shook his head, sadly. “We come all this way. Even got a brotha into the White House. But the white man still has the white collar.”
“Even in a war zone,” Mac agreed, chuckling himself, relieved that Jeffries didn’t seem to be hungry for details about his “vacation.”
“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” Jeffries said, suddenly serious. “But there’s a new development here. Al Qaeda is reorganizing; working on changing their name.”
Mac knew “former” Al Qaeda cells were instrumental in a lot of regional mischief. And white people were making entirely too big a deal that American tax dollars were buying weapons which found their way into the hands of the late Osama Bin Laden’s jihadists. The issue was much more complex than who was behind the 9/11 attacks and whether the new regime in Syria would be more hostile to the US than the old one was. Now, evidently, the jihadists were getting ready to topple the precarious post-Saddam regime here in Iraq, too.
“The withdrawal is a done deal,” Jeffries said. “The day is coming when you won’t have the Army or Marines here to back you up.”
“I go to the briefings,” Mac said.
“You ever consider working domestically?”
“In the States?” Mac nodded. “I tried to get on a SWAT team after I left the Army. Wound up a contractor instead.”
Jeffries shook his head, frowning. “I ain’t sayin’ you wouldn’t be good at it, but SWAT—that’s local stuff. The Man wants to keep us local and small scale, but we need to get in where the power is, on the federal level.”
“You mean like what you’re doing?” Mac asked.
Jeffries nodded. “I’m at the federal level. I got my finger on the pulse; feel me? And if bad stuff goes down, I’m in a position to do somethin’. Look at the whole Eric Garner thing…did you follow that?”
Mac shook his head slowly. “Yeah. Man, that jury…”
“That jury was just the start, man. You know I can’t talk about everything, but trust me, my brotha: it’s gonna get real ugly before too long. The man sees us movin’ up, now, and he don’t like it. I mean, we even got one of ours into the White House. White House. White. It’s their house, the way they see it. And they’re frothin’ at the mouth to make make sure us uppity Negroes don’t ever get up there again. There’s gonna be a backlash sooner or later, and you can kinda’ see it happening already.”
Mac considered his white friends. Some of them were just consumed with hate for Obama. They could rattle off facts and statistics to justify it, but what was the real reason? Then there were loose cannons like Josh Rennenkampf, who Mac was sure must be a closet Neo-Nazi.
“You got too much talent to waste on a SWAT team,” Jeffries went on, laughing derisively. “Or to waste bein’ a contractor.” He swept his hand in an arc–not to indicate the room they occupied or even the whole hospital, but the volatile country surrounding it, along with the chaos and military/political quagmire it represented.
“I dunno,” Mac said. “Contracting has been a good fit for me.”
“Well you might wanna think it over, my brotha. I might be able to hook you up, you ever decide to give it a try.”
“I appreciate it, man,” Mac said.
Jeffries stood from his chair. “Tell you what: I’m not gonna pry into your personal business about the vacation right now. You’re in the hospital, on pain meds. I’m just gonna say you fell asleep before you told me much. You get with Ingrid, find out what she said, then you can get your stories straight. Then we can finish debriefing. Sound good to you?”
Mac nodded, dumbly. When they shook hands again, it was in the familiar street method passed down and constantly revised by young men ever since the Vietnam era.
After Jeffries left the room, Ingrid came to visit him. She was a tall, well-proportioned, attractive Scandinavian woman, with a lab coat on over a nice casual blouse and pants. She asked how he was doing, and if he’d been questioned.
“Yeah. And he’s not done, either. What did you tell them?”
Ingrid shrugged. “What I know, which wasn’t much. I was on the boat when all of you went ashore. But I did see the one firefight.”
Mac groaned. Why did she have to mention that?
Well, he guessed the Agency probably knew about it already, anyway. “What did they seem most interested in?”
“Who all was there,” she said. “They knew about Tommy Scarred Wolf and his brother. And about you. They wanted other names, but I couldn’t remember them. I just gave physical descriptions.”
“Alright. If they come back to ask if you remember anything else, say no.”
They chatted for a bit, then she kissed him and left.
Mac pondered the whole strange encounter with Jeffries. The agent had saved Mac a whole lot of hassle, not asking questions there probably weren’t any safe answers for. In fact, if somebody really wanted to be a jerk, they could classify Mac as a suspected accomplice in the murder Tommy and Vince were framed for back in Medan, Indonesia.
Something bothered Mac about how easy Jeffries had made it for him. On the other hand, he was grateful to finally find an ally who saw things how they really were in this white man’s world. The negative possibilities surrounding Jeffries’ behavior paled in comparison.
Sneak preview of my dystopian thriller/paramilitary TEOTWAWKI novel.
PROLOGUE
D PLUS THREE
LAS ANIMAS COUNTY, COLORADO
It was determined some years ago that 0300 was the ideal time to raid a home.
That was when normal people enjoyed their deepest sleep. They would be slower to wake. When they did wake, they’d be disoriented for a few crucial moments.
The assault transports, which looked like unmarked SWAT vans, rolled up on the gate at 0245. The gate was simply a cable hanging across the driveway, suspended from trees on either side. Hanging from the cable was a metal sign which read: “NO TRESSPASSING.” An officer hopped down from the van, unhitched the cable and let it fall across the road, taking no small satisfaction that the sign would be run over by multiple vehicles momentarily. He jumped back into his seat and the small convoy rolled onto the rough snow-covered dirt drive.
The DomTer’s house was a ways up the mountain from the road, and isolated enough that it made surprise more difficult than normal. The sound of engines straining to pull heavy vehicles up the steep drive could potentially give warning to the perps. Helicopters would be faster to put boots on the ground, but were even louder than their assault transports. Helicopters were also of limited availability, and in high demand these days. In any event, somebody high up had decreed this operation go in on wheels.
The assault transports and the supporting armored vehicle and communications van arrived at the end of the drive at 0303. Doors flew open and a full platoon of federal agents burst out of the transport to deploy.
It was supposed to be an especially cold winter this year, and up here it already was. Thick white clouds hung overhead, threatening more snow any time now. Their black uniforms stood out in stark contrast to the white landscape.
All was quiet. No lights were on. Good–likely the perp was still asleep or only just stirring–if he heard the truck engines at all. Either way, there was nothing he could do now that wasn’t suicidal.
Satellite imagery of this property hadn’t been a terrific help, as the buildings were well-camouflaged. It took a few confused moments for the agents to locate the house–a dome-shaped structure back in the trees.
Funny though—no sign of the dogs. They’d been worried that shooting them would also tip off the perp prematurely, but that seemed to be a non-issue. Everything was working out in their favor today.
The breech team went forward, bristling with weapons, explosives, armor and night vision devices. The blocking team circled around to close off any escape routes in back. The other teams dispersed to search the barn, sheds, and the rest of the property. The breach team leader got confirmation via his radio headset that the blocking force was in place. His team stacked on the front door, primed and chomping at the bit. The ram was passed forward.
“Go!”
The two agents closest to the door swung the ram back, then forward with all their strength, at the door.
The door didn’t give way, but they never had a chance to wonder why, or batter at it a second time.
From a distance the explosions didn’t seem that impressive. There was no fireball, and though the blasts all occurred simultaneously, the report was loud but not ear-splitting.
Up where the breach team stood, however, it was hell on Earth for a split second that would forever alter their lives permanently…and end some of them.
Big bore armor-piercing rounds tore through them from the front, sheering the bone of one agent’s arm, passing between armored sections of another and punching through his torso. But the worst of it was underneath them.
The very ground they stood on erupted. White-hot shrapnel streaked upward all over the kill zone. It ripped through boot soles and feet, through legs, buttocks, and at angles through their bodies, blowing tunnels through vital organs allegedly protected by their state-of-the-art body armor.
Other blasts sounded around the property as agents evidently stepped on mines or tripped booby-traps.
The commander, sitting in the passenger seat of the communication van, surveyed the scene in wide-eyed horror. “Ambush!” he cried. “It’s an ambush!”
1
Y MINUS ONE
TEXAS PANHANDLE
Jimmy and Bill stopped by the game warden’s office, went through the usual routine, then headed for their favorite diner with the eight-point white tail gutted and wrapped in a tarp in the back of Jimmy’s pickup.
At the diner, the two ravenous hunters ordered coffee and lunch.
Jimmy and Bill knew each other from high school, but hadn’t been especially close friends. After 9/11 Bill joined the Marines and Jimmy became a medic in the Army. After returning home they ran into each other at the V.A. Since agonizingly long waits were standard at veteran’s hospitals, they had plenty of time and nothing better to do than talk.
It turned out they had a lot in common. Both liked to hunt. Both were firearms enthusiasts. Both were disillusioned about the “war on terror.” Neither of them liked the way V.A. doctors were trying to classify them as PTSD. Nor did they like nurses and doctors asking them if they owned firearms. And both were pissed off about what was happening to their country.
A strong friendship developed after that, and many of their conversations centered around speculations on what kind of country America was going to be in a few more years, how the transformation might take place and what, if anything, they could do about it.
They hunted together; went to the range together; introduced girlfriends; invited each other over for Superbowl parties. Now and then one of them met others who shared a lot of their concerns over the state of the Union. Sometimes those others made it a habit to join them at the range and at bull sessions in the diner. Sometimes they brought wives and/or sons. A few times they asked Bill to talk about what he’d done and seen in the Sandbox. He obliged by explaining small unit tactics at length. A few quizzed Jimmy on combat medicine, and techniques he’d used in Ass-Crackistan. A lot of those folks bought weapons and gear, showing it off to the two veterans, or sometimes seeking advice and approval before buying. All of them bought ammunition with every available dollar, including Jimmy and Bill.
When the two friends entered the diner, they left their cellphones in the truck–even though both phones were rooted, and they had removed the hidden backup batteries which allowed third parties to remotely turn the microphones on.
As they discussed the hunt, the buck, and what Jimmy would do with the hide, the meat, and the antlers, a Toyota Tundra swung into the parking lot and pulled up right next to the GMC. They sat facing each other in the booth, but both noticed the new arrival through the window.
Arden Thatcher exited the Toyota’s cab and wandered up to lean over and look into the bed of the GMC, flipping up the tarp to snoop under it. He was a little below average height, thin and bowlegged, but compensated with cocky swagger for what he lacked in stature. With clod-kickers, a cowboy hat and a Rebel flag on his Levi jacket, he was the poster boy for Texas rednecks.
Arden had come upon Bill engaged in a conversation with some other folks at a survival expo, and jumped right in. He talked like a gun enthusiast, who hated the present administration. After that first meeting he bumped into one or the other of them by coincidence–like the way he just happened to show up at the diner just now.
Jimmy and Bill watched him turn from the GMC and saunter toward the diner’s front entrance.
***
Arden Thatcher didn’t leave his smartphone in the truck. Nor had he taken it apart and removed the hidden backup battery. He stepped inside the diner and swept his gaze over the patrons until he found Jimmy and Bill. Jimmy was dark-haired, with a big crooked nose. Bill was a redhead with Scotch-Irish features. Both still wore woodland cammies with matching baseball caps.
Arden smiled and nodded before heading their way.
Jimmy nodded back. That was a good sign. Maybe they were warming up to him. They still hadn’t invited him to go shooting with them or otherwise hang out with their local gang.
He felt sure he could earn their confidence in time.
“Hey Jimmy,” he said. “Howdy Bill. Mind if I pull up a chair?”
“Howdy Arden,” they mumbled, neither of them scooting over to make room on their booth seat.
Arden found an unoccupied chair at a nearby table and slid it over to sit perpendicular to the two veterans. “About due for a bad winter, I hear.”
Jimmy and Bill nodded, chewing their food.
“Who bagged the eight-pointer?” Arden asked.
Bill chinned toward Jimmy, who grinned. “We knew it would be winner-take-all,” Bill said. “That first shot would scatter all the game for 20 grid squares.”
“I hear the mating cry of the sore loser,” Jimmy remarked, smirking.
“Grid squares,” Arden repeated. “Does that mean you had a military topo map of the area?” He seemed to be a little proud that he knew about military grid, and had shown them he knew his stuff.
“Naw, USGS,” Bill said, blowing on a spoonful of soup. “Gotta use latitude, longitude and minutes. It’s just habit to think in military grid.”
“Oh,” Arden said.
Silence fell over the table for a moment. The waitress came over and asked Arden what he’d like. He ordered a cup of coffee and a slice of cherry pie.
“Y’all hear this latest thing about the illegal aliens?” Arden asked.
Both men grumbled in the affirmative.
“More and more people are rejecting the mass media brainwashing,” Jimmy said, finishing off his enchilada. “The globalists have to bring in more illegals to cancel out their votes.”
“Ain’t enough that the sheeple get to vote five or six times every election,” Bill added.
“Elections are a total sham anymore,” Jimmy said. “And what choice do we get every time? Communist or Communist Lite.”
“Tastes great!” Bill blustered, drunkenly.
“Less filling!” Jimmy blustered back, pounding his fist on the table and adding a hiccup for effect.
Arden’s coffee arrived and he took a big gulp, oblivious to the once-famous beer commercial referenced. “It ain’t just about elections,” he said. “It’s genocide against white Europeans.”
Jimmy and Bill both raised their eyebrows, shared a glance and looked back to Arden.
“Genocide?” Jimmy asked.
“Sure,” Arden replied. “It don’t always take gas chambers—if that even happened. They’ll breed the white outa’ the world if they have to. The whole country’ll be one shade a brown or ‘nother, it keeps goin’ the way it is now.”
“What ‘they’ are you talking about?” Jimmy asked.
“You know,” Arden said. “The NWO. ZOG, or whatever you wanna call ’em.”
“NWO are lily-white Europeans themselves,” Bill said. “Why would they want to ‘breed out’ their own race?”
Arden shook his head. “Most of ’em are Jews. Don’t you know that? Besides, even the ones that are truly white protect their own blood lines. They just want the rest of us to lose our racial purity.”
Jimmy fidgeted, visibly uncomfortable. “What is ‘ZOG,’ anyway?”
“Zionist Occupational Government,” Arden explained. “Our government is controlled by the Israelis. Ain’t it obvious?”
Bill set his coffee cup down, leaned back in his seat, and wiped his face with a napkin, exchanging another glance with Jimmy. “Arden,” he said, “We got nothin’ against you. But it’s fairly plain there’s some matters we don’t see eye-to-eye on. If you’re lookin’ for like-minded people to hang out with, you should go on and look somewhere else.”
Arden looked crestfallen, his jaw slack. “What? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter,” Jimmy said. We believe what we believe. You’ve got different opinions, and you’re welcome to them. We’d prefer not to argue with you or anybody who believes like you do. We just want to do our own thing.”
“What are you?” Arden demanded, blushing. “Jew lovers?”
Maybe Jimmy was a Jew. He sure did have a big nose. The dark hair might mean he had a Mex somewhere in his family tree. Arden had determined to let that slide. But if they were going to cop an attitude just because he was fed up with the Z.O.G…
“No offense, Arden,” Bill said, staring hard into Arden’s eyes. “But it’d be best for everybody all around if you just left us alone.”
The waitress arrived with the slice of pie. Jimmy smiled at her and said, “If you would, please, serve that to him at a different table.”
AMARILLO, TEXAS
Many miles away in a secure commo room, Jason Macmillan, along with the comm tech on monitoring duty, sat listening to the conversation via the microphone in Arden Thatcher’s cellphone.
McMillan’s power and fortunes had increased significantly over the last 20 years. Too bad his health hadn’t prospered proportionately. He had most of the ailments common to men in their middle age now, including a degree of obesity, high blood pressure, and erectile dysfunction. What hair hadn’t fallen out all turned gray. But people respected him more than ever. He had the power to step on just about anybody from 95% of the population, should he need to. And even if he retired today, he’d be set to live comfortably for the rest of his life. Not that he wanted to retire. Ever.
Macmillan tore off his headset and swore. “More candy-asses,” he declared, shot to his feet, and marched to the door. He turned back to tell the comm tech, “They wouldn’t even let him eat a slice of pie at their table. When he gets far enough away, tell that stupid redneck the assignment is terminated.”
“Should he report to his handler for a new assignment?” the comm tech asked.
“No. Let him cool his heels for a while. Tell him we’ll be in touch if another assignment comes along.”
“Yes sir,” the comm tech said, and Macmillan shut the door.
Macmillan cussed under his breath as he made his way to his own office-away-from-home. They had wasted months working their informant into the confidence of that DomTer cell, and Thatcher blew it over the course of a few minutes.
Every potential target city had its challenges. Around Amarillo it was infiltrating the organized groups. Not the racially motivated gangs–those were easy, and conventional departments already had informants planted. But the groups that posed a real threat were proving tough nuts to crack.
The problem this time was, Thatcher had a long enough leash to improvise. But he wasn’t smart enough to improvise. He didn’t know the marks as well as he should have. Plus he actually believed in all that Jewish conspiracy business; so he assumed others would, too.
Macmillan didn’t care whether there was a Jewish conspiracy or not. It didn’t change the parameters of his job. But it occurred to him how he might be able to turn Thatcher’s belief in it from a liability into an asset. He would work on it with the handler before they attempted to give Thatcher another assignment.
We warned you that Virtual Pulp is more free-wheeling than before.
We pose the following questions:
Are Democrats really “liberal?” Or are they socialists?
Are establishment Republicans (RINOs, NeoCons) fundamentally different from the Democrats?
How intelligent is the average Obamunist?
Was the 2012 election legitimate?
Where is our nation going?
Remember The Animals’ cover of “House of the Rising Sun?”
If you’ve never entertained any of those questions…you might after watching this video.
All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.
George Orwell, Animal Farm
In 1992, I ended a promising Navy career in order to be with my wife, who had refused to move to my next duty station. After a few blissful months of loving togetherness, she blindsided me with a divorce and I found myself marooned in one of the last places I wanted to be: the San Francisco Bay Area—the Land of Flakes, Fruits, and Nuts. Yes, they are just as crazy as they seem on TV. There’s a reason Nancy Pelosi keeps getting reelected.
As a newly created single father in a land where a $16 an hour job paid $7 an hour and a $45,000 house cost $175,000, I had to pull a rabbit out of my hat, and fast. Out of options, I swallowed my pride, asked my family for help and moved back to my home state where I enrolled at the main campus of the state university. Between my GI Bill and some educational grants, my son and I were able to make it, though it was a mighty struggle.
After a few months, something bizarre happened. My family insisted that I apply for welfare. Now, this was wildly out of character because in my family we had always considered nothing to be skeezier, slimier, more contemptible, and just plain parasitic than someone who went on welfare. I refused on principle, but they used Kryptonite on me: my son. My pride, it seems, was causing my child to suffer unnecessarily. I protested that it would be futile anyway because there was no way an able-bodied white male was going to be allowed on the dole in order to attend college. “Nonsense,” they said. “Single mothers go to college on welfare all the time. They can’t turn you down. It would be discrimination.”
Yeah, right.
So, I began my experience in the previously unknown Tenth Circle of Dante’s Hell—the welfare office. I really stood out, there. The only other white person was a morbidly obese woman accompanied by a small army of mulatto children. Being that we were in the Southwest, everyone that worked there wanted to speak to me in Spanish. When I requested to be addressed in English, there was much eye-rolling and exasperated sighing. Eventually, the paperwork was done and we sat in the waiting room, an incongruous blue-eyed blond-haired pair in a hostile sea of brown eyes and black hair.
After an eternity, my name was called by my assigned caseworker, a stunningly attractive Latina with a penchant for skintight western-style clothes. We exchanged a few pleasantries as I settled in my chair, then she got down to business. “You’re not eligible.”
“Could you at least read my paperwork first?” I suggested.
“Doesn’t matter. You’re not eligible.”
There was no swaying her so I returned to the waiting room to explain to my son that we would continue to struggle. As we were talking, the caseworker stepped out of her office and saw us. After a brief hesitation, she walked over and asked, “Is this your son?” I admitted that he was and she engaged him in a brief conversation. When she was done, she said, “Come back to my office.” I did and, wham-bam, within a few minutes I—the welfare state’s greatest enemy—was a burden on society. I was allotted a generous amount of food stamps. She apologized that it wasn’t more.
A strange thing happened. At first, I followed my usual food budget and leftover food stamps started piling up. Already corrupted into thinking like a welfare bum, I began to worry that they might be tracked and that I would lose some of my allotment if it didn’t seem like I needed them. So, I bought meat. A lot of meat. We had steak three times a week on average. Up until then we had been eating only a pound of hamburger per week. The food stamps were still piling up so I started buying name brands instead of store brands and bringing home a lot of treats.
Meanwhile, an even stranger thing happened. The checks started coming. Checks for benefits that I hadn’t applied for. I called my caseworker to report the mistake and she told me, “It doesn’t matter. You’re entitled.” So, I deposited the checks. Eventually, a check arrived that was an energy assistance subsidy for heating and cooling costs. This was certainly a mistake because all my utilities were paid by my landlord. So, I called my caseworker again and was told, “It doesn’t matter. You’re entitled.” She then told me to stop bothering her and I did.
Now, I wasn’t getting the full welfare ride that some people get. Nonetheless, it was a cozy existence. I’ve never lived more comfortably with less stress in my life. All I had to do was go to school and do my single-dad thing. This continued until I remarried and my new wife’s income bumped me into ineligibility.
The experience taught me a few things. First, white men aren’t supposed to get public assistance, they’re supposed to pay for other people’s public assistance. Second, welfare corrupts quickly and stifles initiative and self-responsibility just as fast as right-wing “racists” say. Third, the welfare system is as bloated, insane and arbitrary as it seems. Fourth, if you’re getting the full ride and still live in squalor, that’s on you. In fact, I recently read a report revealing that a job had to pay at least $50,000 a year just to break even with the full ride. In other words, if you can’t live a comfortable life on the full ride, you’re an incompetent idiot.
Just for the record, I’ve long since paid back all my benefits with the confiscatory taxes that I pay.
Nothing is more fun than trying to find logic in a neo-Marxist’s rhetoric, right? I never heard of Wordsmouthwick Court before, but the blogger had some astute summaries of assumptions made by the typical leftard (read that: “liberal” if you don’t care what words mean). Here are some I found worthy of comment:
Humans in the past were on average more stupid and ignorant than at any point later.
Yup. Talk to any leftard and you’ll find out that the present day (whether you talk to them today or 40 years from now) is the pinnacle of human intellect and everything there is to understand about science, for instance, is known (by the people who publish scholastic textbooks, at least). The higher literacy and academic savvy in generations past proves they were dummies compared to us—just look at how much tax revenue gets flushed down the bureaucratic toilet spent on education now, versus those dark days. That is proof that we are smarter.
Education can solve all social issues.
And by “education” they mean state-controlled compulsory indoctrination/socialization that requires more money than the astronomical amount paid the year before…and every year since they began turning America into the academic laughingstock of the world.
Carbon Dioxide being released in to the atmosphere is always very bad and very serious.
Right. Because plants need it. And plants are bad for the environment. Photosynthesis contributes to global warming. The science is settled.
All religions are or have been equally violent.
If you ever pay attention during debates, aitheists/Darwinists will attack Biblical Christianity by attributing to it the track record of other religions. And sooner or later, the following assertion will surface:
Christianity was made up as a tool to control people with.
Which, if true, and given their fetish for controlling people, should make it their favorite institution.
Men and women are easily interchangeable.
Except in entertainment, where women are obviously superior…and yet victims at the same time.
If a corporation is big, it is doing something evil.
Unless Democrats voted to bail it out with money extorted from the proletariat (taxpayers), and said corporation shovels contributions back into Democrat coffers.
Government is very much less corruptible/evil than business is, if at all.
Because all the nice people go into politics, while all the mean people go into business. Earning money=bad. Confiscating/wasting other people’s money=good.
Terrorism is caused by the US and UK bullying and policing other countries.
Well, to be more accurate, all the problems in world history have been caused by the USA.
All music and art have equal value.
But some is more equal than others. Just ask the anti-puppies (during the B Phase of their self-contradicting tirades).
…But is that “attaboy” of societal approval much of a consolation prize? Watch the two excerpts in this clip:
The first guy did everything our feminized society tells us a man is supposed to do to keep a “good” woman. What is his reward for all the sacrifice and servicing of the woman on his pedestal? You red-pillers know all too well: she got bored, contemptuous, and found excuses to dump him. “All his cooking made me get fat!”
That’s what happens to chumps. But at least you have the approval of a TV judge, huh?
I don’t watch TV, unless it’s a show on Netflix or Amazon Instant Video. I’ve certainly never wasted my time watching court shows, except when I’m in a waiting room. So I don’t know the story of the second couple. Maybe the guy is a scumbag—I never heard the particulars of what he did or didn’t do. But he’s an alpha dog, and that alone was probably enough to prejudice this TV judge against him.
Exhibit C–another “strong independent womyn” who grew contemptuous of her beta provider:
And again, the simp earns the approval of society. Go let yourself be taken advantage of by the next entitled princess and flush another few years of your life down the toilet. Maybe she’ll turn out to be “the one.” Or maybe the entitled, egotistical shrew after her.
Exhibit D: “That Guy.”
This guy obviously let himself go physically, emotionally and mentally.
At least he’ll be able to see his kids, sounds like. Trouble is, observing their weak beta provider father get walked all over as they grow up is going to damage his kids anyway.
Memorial Day opens with Kyle Vogel stateside, going to visit his grandfather, a holstered Walther P-38 in hand. From there we flash back to Iraq in 2005, with SSgt Kyle Vogel’s squad encountering an IED. Then we flash back even further to 1993, when a young Kyle discovers his grandfather’s footlocker full of souvenirs from WWII.
Kyle strikes a bargain with the WWII veteran: He will select three items from the footlocker, and his grandfather will tell him the story behind them.
Not a bad way to spend Memorial Day. Not a bad gimmick to juxtapose soldier’s stories from World War Two and Gulf War Two, either. Loaded with potential, in fact.
For a low-budget film, the producers managed to round up some nice costumes and props, as well as a name actor and his son (to play the grandfather “Opaw” as a young soldier). A good flick could have been made with what they had to work with. Maybe even a great one. It’s been done before and could have been done this time. Overcoming the budget constraints would have been possible, but the film makers seem, to me, to be stuck in the “B” movie mindset. Or maybe that’s all they’re capable of.
First off, they desperately needed a competent technical advisor. This was obvious from the first scene in Iraq and only became more painful as the flashbacks mounted. But that’s not the only aspect of the film that grew increasingly tiresome. Add the acting, writing and direction to that abominable snowball.
The director really wanted to make this a sentimental tearjerker, but fell on his cinematic face. The movie has a lot of positive Amazon reviews, and I have no explanation for that. I found all the hamfisted dramatic contrivances so inept that it took what remaining discipline my crotchety old civilian self still has to watch it all the way through.
This might be a Hallmark Movie Channel late night special some day, but even if it isn’t, I advise against paying money to watch it.
