short story

Brunch with the CZ’s

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Pastor Joshua Pack was a recent graduate of the Cyrus Scofield School of Divinity and he dreamed big,  Not long ago hired by a mid-sized non-denominational congregation in a large southern city, the pastor envisioned an expansion rivaling that of his hero John Hagee. A bigger stage, an ever increasing generous flock, books and TV. The sky was the limit. Heaven could wait but not his aspirations.

Pastor Joshua, as he liked to be called, was not so naive as to think his dreams would come easy. He would have to work on them and one of his plans was to groom the youth of his church to remain good customers…uh…attendees, well past their high school and college days and into their prime earning years where tithing and beyond would be an integral  factor in his climb to fame and God’s monetary rewards.

The periodic Saturday brunches with the teens, paid for by their parents of course, seemed to be an excellent way of cultivating loyalty. A face to face dialog with the young men and ladies over a big meal would serve its purpose and fill the pastor’s belly at the same time. What could go wrong?

This brunch started off as usual, a quiet prayer of thanks and a few words of wisdom about how Israel is not only our best friend but also our homeland too and that we must do whatever is necessary to make sure the jews maintain their God given land.

“Any questions” Joshua asked as he raised a large slice of pig to his rotund face?

A large athletic type young man was first up. “Sir, you say the old testament is of utmost importance. It prohibits the eating of pork, seemingly for health reasons, while we as Christians are responsible for the slaughter of millions of hogs each year and eat more pork than any other group in the world. As the great Satchel Paige once responded to the question of how he explained his longevity and good health…”I don’t eat pork, it stirs up the blood.” Plus if Jesus was a jew as you say, he did not eat pork either. Shouldn’t he be our example in this?”

Joshua choked a bit on his oversized under chewed bite and dug deep into his mind where he remembered 1 Timothy 4:1-4. “In the latter times some shall command others to abstain from meats which God hath created.” The pastor continued, “Since this is the latter times we pay no attention to anyone who says we should not eat anything we want, except for the jews of course who can do as they please since they are the chosen ones.”

“Uh, OK” replied the questioner.

A young girl raised her hand for permission to speak and asked “Pastor Joshua, as Christians we see Jesus as our savior and guiding light but in last week’s sermon you did not mention his name even once, dwelling only on Moses, David and Soloman. Why is that?”

Without flinching Joshua said, “Current events often dictate what the narrative of sermons should be. Jerusalem is in danger from the infidels and the temple must be rebuilt to fulfill prophecy. We always have to prioritize what is most important.”

“Uh, OK” the young girl quietly muttered.

A bright young man spoke up. “Pastor, you are always talking about the 12 tribes and how the bloodlines have continued right up to those jews who inhabit and control Israel today. Yet many respected historians including the Tel Aviv University professor Sholomo Sand say that most of the current so called jewish residents of Israel are an invented people, descendents of converted mongrels, the Khazars. As another of your heroes Bill O’Reilly would opine, What say you?”

Feeling his blood pressure rise, Joshua blurted out “Those are self-hating jews, secular and maybe even atheists whose sense of history is distorted by their imaginings. We must realize that jews are the perpetual victims of lies and persecutions. Now repeat after me the one word that will restore hope in your hearts…
threes times…holocaust, holocaust, holocaust.”

“Uh, OK” said the children as they sheepishly chanted the mantra as they were told.

The shy redheaded girl finally got up the courage to speak. “One of your main themes is how we must always obey the 10 Commandments with ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’ and ‘Thou Shalt Not Steal’ emphasized. But the Israelis have for over 60 years killed Palestinian women and children with impunity and continue to steal their land. How do you justify this?”

Joshua’s red face got even hotter and he fumbled with his cell phone pretending it was vibrating. “I’ve got to take this call. It’s from a sick parishioner and I may have to go and comfort her. I’ll see you kids in church tomorrow.”

As he walked away Joshua kept thinking that these brunches should have a theme, perhaps sports or Hollywood movies. Something to keep these young developing minds occupied away from the questions of christian zionism and the doctrines of the chosen ones. Talking about Lady Gaga, Angelina Jolie and the NFL would be more to their liking…and his. “Yeah, that’s the ticket” Joshua said out loud as one of those self deceptive brief little smiles lit up his face while thinking “I’ll go home now and brush up on pop culture and at the next brunch we’ll have chicken.”



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by Jim Davies

Exclusive to STR

May 27, 2008

I’ll not tell you the date, but based upon a very few simple and well-grounded assumptions, it will fall in the year 2027. “E-Day” is the day that all government in America will evaporate because, having gained a proper understanding of its nature, nobody will be willing any longer to work for it on any terms; tens of millions will have done what a certain DMV employee did in 2022. Here’s what happened, on that day.

The few remaining useful government functions had ceased to operate and had been taken over fully by free enterprise at far greater efficiency; and then the very last operation of any government in America came to a halt for want of employees. The arrogant manipulators who imagined someone had given them the right to live at someone else’s expense were left with nobody to carry out their instructions; they had no choice but to quit too, and many of them left the country, not wishing to live in a free society where they would have no elevated status – though some had quietly changed their dollars into gold and took it with them, just as some top Nazis had squirreled away gold and diamonds in 1945. Now, the Age of Government ended, and nobody heard even a whimper. It remained only for the rest of the world to catch up.

It was peaceful, in that there were no riots of the kind that normally accompany revolutions – even the relatively peaceful Russian one of 1990. The only significant violence was by habitually violent criminals who had been set loose from the Nation’s prisons in recent weeks, when all the remaining guards walked off the job.

Josiah Browne, a caretaker in the otherwise deserted IRS headquarters in Washington, DC, placed his keys on the reception desk, pulled the master switch for the building’s lights, and walked out of the open door onto Pennsylvania Avenue, having lowered the Stars & Stripes from the flag poles there a few minutes earlier. He was the last known government employee in America to walk off the job.

Josiah was not the brightest star in his family’s firmament, but steady reliable service for government in humble occupations had led him in due course to serve the Revenuers, and he had done that with pride for thirteen years.

All the Brownes attended church every Sunday, and in a city renowned for a high crime rate even outside its government buildings, they led an upright life and Josiah had raised his children not to steal or cheat, not to bully their schoolmates, and to obey the law. Josiah didn’t read too well, but in recent months he had become gradually more concerned by reports that reached him on the “grapevine” that the men and women he cared for every weekday might be breaking some of those very principles.

During 2026 and particularly 2027, he had noticed that an increasing number of those fellow employees, who wore smart suits and usually came and went swiftly with their briefcases, weren’t around any more. Several of the “suits” had become friendly with Josiah, for he was a simple and friendly soul who would occasionally run them errands, and they would exchange pleasantries when passing through the lobby. One was Greb de Monay, the graying former revenue agent who had been pilloried decades earlier by Irwin Schiff, the pioneer of tax-law research, when Greb was a young hotshot, a rising star.

One evening, Greb stopped by and shared with Josiah the news that he too was leaving the Service. He said he had come to realize that all his working life, he had been trying to enforce laws that did not exist, and which would have been utterly immoral even if they had existed, and felt very bad about it. He also said he’d been learning about the real nature of government, and wanted to end his days putting right some of the damage he had caused.

Josiah related this story back home next weekend while his brother’s family was visiting, and nephew Caleb – who had a neat job in IT for a shipping company in Baltimore – told him Greb had been exactly right, and asked whether his uncle had joined one of the freedom schools yet. Not so, for Josiah’s computer skills were limited to gaming, so Caleb invited him to join one and showed him how to work it. So with a fair bit of help from the nephew, the uncle worked his way through TOLFA, and after three months he had just about got it. He then realized – as Greb had done – that he had been working for the wrong master; that all the precepts he had taught his children were being violated by his employer all over the floor. And so, without knowing whom he would work for next, he resolved to quit; and on E-Day, he put that resolve into action. What he could not have known beforehand was that he was the very last employee to do so.

The Internal Revenue Service had never been of “service” to anyone except the government that set it up, so when Josiah walked out on that historic evening, nobody grieved. He had hardly walked a block, however, when he noticed fireworks over the National Mall. He decided to check them out, and called his wife April to meet him, to meander around and join the party.

It was an amazing sight, which others compared to the German celebrations 38 years earlier. There was no centrally choreographed display; rather, single individuals and families and quite often company managers had brought boxes of fireworks bought outside D.C., and lit them up in areas they picked on the grass or near one of the monuments. Not far from the Capitol steps there was a bonfire, and what seemed like relays of pickup trucks and SUVs brought more and more papers to pile upon it. Josiah asked about those, and was told by people with very happy faces that they were some of the files they had been working on in the Justice Department, the DHS, the DEA and the FBI and several other components of the former government’s alphabet soup. The paper burners were all celebrating the destruction of some outrageous violations of privacy of innocent people.

Up and down the 2-mile long Mall there were some bands here and there, with makeshift stages, and nearby each person was dancing. There weren’t picnics, as such, for the evening was chilly – but there were several hot-dog stands to be seen, and that was the first time many had ventured near the Mall since the DC Peddlers’ Law had confined them to other streets. They were being very well patronized – as were the stalls set up with beer kegs and marijuana joints, both far more illegal yet. Everyone was having a good time, for none of those ridiculous laws now had any teeth whatever. The only disappointment of the evening was felt by the retailers of pot; they were able to sell the product only at prices lower than what they had paid for it during the preceding couple of weeks. The drug-price decline which began when juries had refused to convict in drug trials, tipped over the edge this week; marijuana commanded a price little higher than tobacco, now of course free of all tax.

Groups had been busy at the monuments. Only Jefferson’s, across the water, was left pretty well unscathed – but the others were enhanced with suitable graffiti, including the old familiar Humpty Dumpty outline, though now he was wearing a grin from ear to ear–because now there were no longer any “King’s Men” to even try to put him together again. Those had hitherto been kept away from these most sacred icons of government by special teams of round-the-clock police “vandal” patrols.

The busiest paint sprays were at the huge Lincoln Memorial, where the true nature of his bloodthirsty presidency began to get revealed on the stonework. Slaves, one graffito said now, he freed as an afterthought; his achievement rather was to enforce Federal rule over millions who wished to secede and to kill over half a million in the process, one American in 32 – a ratio higher than in any war before or since. Another sign adapted the title of Jeffrey Rogers Hummel’s 1996 book, the “Emancipator of Slaves, Enslaver of Free Men.”

Painters were busy too at the Washington Monument, and Josiah and April saw taking shape on one of its sides his famous quote, “Government is not reason, it is force; and force, like fire, is a dangerous servant and a fearsome master.” There were additions in smaller letters and different colors, to the effect that old George, like all the others, knew the truth but operated a government anyhow.

The Vietnam Memorial was of course left unpainted, out of respect for those 58,000 victims of government folly, but one group was busy digging-in a new memorial stone nearby, already engraved with the words “THEY DIED, SO THAT GOVERNMENT MIGHT LIVE.”

Perhaps the most telling graffiti were sprayed around the statue of FD Roosevelt, in his half-concealed wheelchair. In various ways, they expressed the accurate perception that this insanely ambitious cripple had crippled a whole economy for twelve years and caused the slaughter of four hundred thousand Americans, blighted the lives of a million families, deprived three generations of retired people of the living standards they would have enjoyed absent the grotesquely mis-named “Social Security” system, and laid the foundations for a truly massive growth in government.

These were all sobering truths, and many more would be added in the weeks following. But the prevailing atmosphere on E-Day was of gaiety and relief and joy and optimism, more than recrimination about the savagery of dead politicians. Not too many splashed in the Reflecting Pool, but there were speakers in the spot where MLK had spoken of his famous “dream” so many years earlier, and April and Josiah listened there for a while and realized that at long last, that dream had been fulfilled before their very eyes.

Strolling back beside the pool, April and Josiah were passed by half a dozen evidently deep in conference, three of them in uniform–though those each dangled a “peace sign” medal on a breast pocket. Some of what they said could be overheard. “The thing is the world’s largest white elephant,” said one, “I can see no use for it at all.” “Hold on,” replied another, “that’s for the market to decide. Just because we can’t put 3.7 million square feet of office space to good use doesn’t mean that nobody else can. I say we just form the company and claim the title. Nobody else wants it, so there shouldn’t be any quit-claim settlements to pay.” “I agree,” said a third. “Heck, it’s right by a marina, some of it could be remodeled into a resort!” “Harrumph.” retorted the first. “’Desirable rabbit warren with 17 miles of corridor, convenient to downtown D.C., for sale or rent’” and the six dissolved in laughter.

As the group continued past the Brownes, Josiah realized they had been speaking of the Pentagon. How amazing, he thought to himself. The nerve center of history’s mightiest military machine, being put somehow to good use. “Amen,” he said to April, and quoted Micah 4:3 out loud: “they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up a sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.”

Tailgate stalls opened around the Mall offering free-market liquor, the first of their kind for over a century. One of them was spectacular: the White House Sommelier had “liberated” a good deal of the presidential cellar and was offering as much of it as he could pack into his pickup to any who would buy, with proceeds going to charity – notably, to the several that been recently formed to help those devastated by government action. He quickly attracted buyers, and ran an auction (illegally, of course, since he wasn’t licensed as an auctioneer; but everyone knew that no laws were any longer enforceable.) The prices were amazing! Each bottle or case came with a provenance to certify its origin in the cellar of the last US President in history, and one case of 2015 Château Margaux fetched 350 gold grams! The Sommelier didn’t know, but the buyer later sold it again for 750 gg, and donated half his profit to charity also. I cannot tell you if that wine was ever actually drunk, but it did do a heap of good.

Such prices were way beyond the Brownes’ means, so they just passed by the tailgates with interest. In any case, aside from a little wine on special occasions and a sip of Benedictine on birthdays, they didn’t drink.

Another type of stall was found around the Mall, marked by “HELP WANTED” posters; and there were lines of ex-government workers forming. Josiah had not made much of a plan for the future when he had walked out, for the last time, of what was widely known as Gestapo Headquarters. He didn’t have many skills, but thanks to his recent studies, he did have a new and healthy understanding of which way was up, and he was a willing worker, so he lingered a while at each he passed, in case there might be a job to suit him.

One in particular caught his eye; a couple were recruiting on behalf of one of the charities that had arisen to help those in need. This one was the Society to Assist Victims of Government, or SAVOG, and they needed some support staff for their new office following receipt recently of several generous benefactions.

Josiah introduced himself, and was amazed to learn that SAVOG planned to move into some of the ground floor offices at 10th St. & Pennsylvania Ave., NW – the very building he had just left! The charity felt there could be no more suitable place to set up their offices than where so much devastation had been caused to so many victims of government–the former IRS Headquarters; and since nobody held a valid title to it, the premises were there for anyone to take, without rental. But of course, staff would be needed to maintain the building.

Josiah was a perfect fit, and he was hired on the spot – to do basically what he had been doing for several years past. He and April were really pleased they had decided to join the fireworks party! Later on, in that job, his colleagues discovered that he had been the very last government employee to quit, and after he had borne his share of teasing, the news reached a TV company and he was interviewed for nationwide syndication and even overseas sales, for a royalty that more than made up what he’d lost in the form of lower wages.

April and Josiah left the party at 10 p.m., though it continued into the small hours – indeed, spontaneous parties took place for the rest of the week, all over the country, as broadcasters from the world over reported that not a single function of government anywhere at any level was functioning any more, and so everyone realized that the day for which they had learned to prepare had at last arrived–the day when each one took his or her life back, liberated at last to live it his own way. It was the most significant single day in thousands of years of human history. In cities and towns from sea to shining sea, joy knew no bounds as FREEDOM was celebrated!

An account of the next, busy, exciting three years is given in my book “A Vision of Liberty“, but now mankind’s long, disastrous subjection to the totally irrational institution of government had, in the first of what was to become every country in the world during the next decade and a half, come to an end. The new era had begun, and the human race was about to experience progress beyond all previous imagining.

An Exemplary Life?

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Friday, May 2, 2008

“not exactly a Jimmy Stewart ending”

The ‘Power Elite’ as Huxley called them, like their subjects to conform to a certain personality type. It makes taking over the world a very much easier task. Untold years of indoctrination via every conceivable medium (with the sole exception of the Internet) help facilitate great results in this long-term social engineering project to usher in a united world government with uniformly brown semi-moron citizens to do all the work. In the following not-so-fictional account of the life of the ‘average joe’ Phaedrus imagines how any one of us could unwittingly enable this nightmare vision to become a reality, due to a combination of apathy, misplaced trust in our leaders, and an unwillingness to rock the boat…

Conventional, respectable mid-western couple, Joe and Patsy married in 1971 following a four year courtship. The couple ventured out on the road of conventional married life in the typical American way. They were keen to get ahead; not obscenely ambitious you understand, but just naturally seeking to thrive and prosper in that optimistic, forward-looking innocent way of those distant days. Just about everything they owned was bought no money down with payments over 3 years. Falling for every garbage advert on TV., they accumulated a stack of useless crap, but it felt pretty good at the time and everyone else they knew was doing the same thing so there was a pressure to conform. Additionally, Joe had a well-paid, steady job at the car plant and Patsy taught math and English at the local elementary school. Things were as rosy as they can be for any young couple starting out.

In fact, life was pretty sweet for several years. They planned not to have any kids right away, but rather prudently to wait until such time as they were financially secure enough – like any responsible parents in those days. Nevertheless, after some 11 years of general contentment, Patsy began to feel that having kids couldn’t be put off any longer and the time was now right to start that well-planned family.

Like the responsible couple that they were, Joe and Patsy had therefore deferred having children until they were good and ready for such a heavy responsibility. Conception was a good while coming though for Patsy, for reasons the doctors couldn’t quite figure out. Tests didn’t show up any abnormalities in either of them. Eventually, however, after much delay, further tests, and fertility treatment, they became proud parents of a wonderful daughter, Lucy. Raising a child is never easy, but Joe and Patsy gave it their best shot. Unfortunately, owing to the pressures of work, quality parenting time was in short supply and though they loved their daughter dearly, the time they spent with her was a great deal less than they would have liked. Lucy was less extrovert than most girls her age and craved her parents’ attention, which owing to their lack of time she never got enough of. She spent unhealthily long hours growing up watching TV. Mom and dad weren’t happy about that, but they were well into the rat-race by this time and simply consoled themselves with the thought that at least with the television for company, Lucy had something absorbing to keep her occupied.

Sometime in the late 1980s, there was a massive political debate about protectionism versus globalization. Some cool-looking guy in a pinstripe suit was arguing vigorously for free trade and said it would bring greater prosperity and better paid, more secure jobs to America. His opponent, rather older and not quite as snappily-dressed, asserted that it would do nothing of the sort and would in fact, only benefit the interests of big business and the super-rich. He went on to say that the American worker deserved protection from some of the working practices in the far east and elsewhere in order to defend his standard of living at home. The pinstripe retorted that God help us all when the American worker needs protection from foreigners. The American worker, he continued, was the best in the world. What could he possibly have to fear from his foreign counterpart? The tone of this rebuke had something mocking about it which rattled Joe. It somehow sounded as if the older man believed the American worker couldn’t take on foreign competition and hope to win; almost like it was some kind of physical challenge that he and his colleagues weren’t up to. “Bring it on!!” he snapped angrily, “Shove your protectionism! The American worker don’t need it. We’ll whip their asses!”

It was only many years later after most of the big plants had closed down that Joe realized the pinstripe’s argument had been somewhat misleading. Rather than squaring up for a fist-fight with some coolie in a rice paddy, he’d actually been pitted against said coolie’s own pay rates and working conditions. The coolie in the far east was quite prepared to work surrounded in squalor, ingesting cadmium and other toxic heavy metals, for little more than 40 cents a day, whereas Joe’s union’s workplace agreements set quite a high standard in all respects for its workers; hence the company couldn’t survive in the international marketplace. It shrank over the years to a fraction of its former size and was eventually shut-down altogether. It was only then that the reality of those attractive-sounding buzzwords, “free trade! modernization! and globalization!” finally sank in. But by then the damage had been done. Poor old Joe!

Meanwhile there was the constant burble of the radio and TV as a sort of soundtrack/backdrop to the years. It’s odd how the US always seems to be fighting a war abroad someplace or another. Sometimes it seems as if these conflicts never end. Our troops pull out of country x, declaring victory – when no sooner has the dust settled than they’re invading country y! It reminded Joe dimly of some sci-fi movie he’d once seen set in 1984. The world is dangerous place, Joe concludes. Thank God America has a history of strong leaders that don’t take any crap from foreign aggressors or we’d all have been in big trouble long ago!

More years pass and his darling daughter, Lucy has some great news to impart: she’s getting married! She’s found this really great guy called Michael and they were head-over-heals in love! One evening shortly afterwards, Lucy brings Michael home to meet her mom and pop. Joe is mortified! Lucy has been dating a Negro, and it further transpires, is already pregnant by him! He’s too shocked to connect the fact that his laziness in letting the TV raise his daughter could come back and bite him in the ass like this in later life. However, by this time he’s so wary of being branded a ‘racist’ that he bites his lip and says nothing. Somehow he manages to force a smile and acts like he’s delighted, even though he instinctively knows his genome – everything that’s made him and his kin what they are up until this point, is about to go down the toilet for keeps.

As soon as his daughter has the baby, her black partner, Michael, starts acting kind of strange. He disappears for weeks on end; never at any time contributing towards the child’s upkeep or getting in touch with its mother, but only rarely via the phone to accuse her of seeing other men behind his back. Meanwhile the child is also behaving strangely. Lucy had noticed for some time that it was almost impossible to engage in steady eye-contact with the infant, and it also had an unhealthy obsession with playing with its own excrement; daubing it on walls and flicking it over the furniture. After a handful of visits to various health care professionals and at the age of two-and-a-half, the child was diagnosed with autism. The senior consultant in paediatrics confided guardedly in Joe, “I’m not supposed to say this and please don’t repeat it, but we often find this disorder arising more frequently in children of mixed-race parents.”

Joe gloomily drives Lucy back from the surgery. He resigns himself to the deficits of modern family life. After all, practically every family he knows seems to be in one mess or another these days. What can you do? The pamphlets the consultant had handed them as they left had some useful tips on how to deal with children with autism, but they also stated such kids cost about $650 a month more than the average healthy child to raise. And the prospects of getting so much as a nickel out of the father weren’t great. Moreover, Lucy’s chances of a second shot at happiness with a new guy – at least one with prospects – were now that much more remote, given that she had a mixed-race child with ‘special needs’ in tow. It was going to be tough going for them all.

Every once in a while Joe gets to hear some half-assed conspiracy theory from some guy in a bar. On this occasion, some wacko with unkempt hair and thick spectacles is explaining how in reality it was the US government that destroyed the World Trade Center in 2001; how Uncle Sam is the American people’s greatest enemy by far, and all this talk of “terrorism” is just a smokescreen to account for endless wars abroad and increasing police powers against US citizens at home. This guy’s views get a mixed reception among the patrons. Two other customers appeared to be hanging on his every word, one other was seemingly indifferent, but Joe and his usual drinking buddy, Ed had no time for such crap. If there were any mileage in such an outrageous story, then it would have been all over the mainstream media long ago. No journalist worth a dime would ever let a sensational scoop of the century like that pass him by, so self-evidently the claim has to be complete rubbish. Joe rolls his eyes to Ed, knocks back his beer and shuffles outside shaking his head in disbelief at the gullibility of some folks.

The late summer afternoon air is oppressive. Joe hears a drowsy, soporific drone from above: there are planes criss-crossing the sky leaving wispy, white trails in their wakes. The patterns are quite pretty and diffuse and disperse almost artistically. Before making the final left turn towards his home, Joe buys an evening paper from a street vendor. Buried somewhere on page 72, opposite the sports section, he finds a curious article about strange chemicals turning up in the food chain and falling fertility rates among white males over the last 30 years. “Is there a connection?” the paper asks, but draws no firm conclusions. He turns instead to the major league baseball results and subsequently cans the paper in disgust when he discovers how badly his favorite team faired last time out. He’s tired and grumpy as usual, he eats his evening meal alone in front of the TV then goes straight to his computer to check for mail with barely a grunt to the nowadays largely ignored Patsy.

One day a short time later, he arrives home, bitching as usual about the cost of everything going up and how tough it is to get by these days, when right out of the blue, his world is blown apart by some earth-shattering news his wife has to tell him. Lucy’s estranged partner, Michael, has been shot dead by the police. His jealousy had gotten to him once too often one sultry afternoon. Crazed by a combination of drink and drugs he’d stabbed her 27 times in a fit of violent rage in the belief that she’d been having sex with other men. None of this was true, but he’d turned to the crack-pipe of late and had become increasingly paranoid and delusional. This final episode culminating in the death of Joe’s daughter had simply been “a disaster waiting to happen” – as the local law enforcement officers had put it. When Michael suddenly pulled a gun on these cops, as they approached to question him over a report of some screams heard coming from nearby, they had no option but to return fire and had killed him outright.

More years pass. For something approaching 35 years now, Joe had been contributing to a pension scheme, but the first such scheme went belly-up in some huge financial scandal that was never resolved, so now he’s only got 12 years’ worth of contributions under his belt with a new investment outfit. Unbeknown to Joe, however, he won’t be calling on it, for he has no retirement to enjoy. Very many years of exposure to various environmental toxins and the stress of his insecure lifestyle have finally taken their toll on poor Joe. Compounded by the pressure of having not had a secure job for 17 years, eating too much junk food on the move and the stress of always being just one deal away from the trailer park eventually killed him. He developed severe chest pains and his doctor told him he needed a triple bypass urgently. Unfortunately, the cost of the surgery would have ruined the family and left them outdoors, so instead he simply adopted a low-fat diet and exercised more. Yeah, that oughta do it: who needs surgery? The people that founded America never had recourse to it!

Joe’s wife Patsy was devastated by the loss of her hard-working husband just 9 months later, but at least she had the consolation that his long-standing financial prudence would provide her with some much needed security in the old age she now faced alone with her autistic grandchild. But some small print in the pension agreement threw the whole thing into doubt. She could take SOME benefits under Joe’s contract, but it would be little more than a token sum of less than 10% of his rightful entitlement, had he lived. Furthermore, the capital sum would never pass to her, owing to some other complexly-worded provision annexed to the end of the agreement in a separate schedule. The salesman who sold them the plan made it all seem so simple at the time! Pity they’d been foolish enough to have trusted him and not kept an independent record of what he’d told them.

With the conviction that right was right, and truth always prevails in the end, she engaged a New York law firm, Shyster, Shafter & Shylock, to fight her quarter for her. They sounded very hopeful of a successful outcome and issued proceedings immediately against Joe’s former insurance company. Patsy confidently left them to pursue the matter; she had a lot of other pressing stuff to get on with herself.

5 months rolled by and she was shocked to learn, from an interim account sent her, that the lawyers’ fees had already gobbled up half of her expected winnings IF she were to win the case. The situation had already become untenable. She had no option but to instruct them to drop the proceedings. It was simply beyond her means to fight on and get a pay-out. She had no choice but to cut her loses and run. She settled-up with the lawyers to the tune of $45,000 which she had to borrow from her sister and put the whole rotten episode down to experience.

So what did our ideal citizen, Joe, have show for his life? A HUGE stack of paid and unpaid bills, bank and credit card statements, and a disabled, mixed-race grandchild. Great legacy, huh, Joe? But the fact is he didn’t die entirely in vain. Even though he himself and his family had nothing to show for his entirely unremarkable existence, he nonetheless DID significantly contribute to others’ needs somewhere along the line. For example, his tax-dollars helped fund several wars. They also paid the salaries of the politicians that oh-so-carefully looked after him and his family’s interests whilst he was alive. Much of the money also went to the US’s special ally, Israel – a strategic friend of the West that had to be kept afloat at all costs lest we all be murdered in our beds by terrorists.

So Joe’s life had a purpose after all. He worked hard, never thought too deeply about anything, always trusted the government and respected the President. Sure he bitched about all the taxes he paid and how his and everyone else’s standard of living had gone down the can over the decades, but he never kicked up a fuss over it. He just resigned himself to the idea that he was powerless and that no matter how crazy and suicidal some government policies – of both parties – might have appeared, at least they were only doing their best for America and only meant well at heart. When things HAD gone wrong, as they so frequently did – it was nothing sinister, no secret agenda, but rather just plain old incompetence – which politicians of all colors seemed cursed by. Joe’s was in short, a life of blissful ignorance and intellectual poverty. His genome consequently got what it had coming all along: oblivion.

"The Israeli Factor" Chapter 2

Posted on

Greg Bacon’s blog

Vice-President’s Underground Bunker
Naval Observatory Grounds
March 13, 2008
1000 hours local time

“Scooter”, the VP’s hand picked assistant and go to guy, was thinking it’s a good thing that these walls are bomb and sound proof, for if they were not, most of Washington, DC would get to hear the one everybody called “Dick” go another of his rampages.

“Goddamn it, I want to know NOW why that false-flag attack against one of our carriers in the Gulf, why that hasn’t been pulled off” screamed “Dick.”

“We should have been bombing the hell out of Tehran by now. That attack was planned with utmost care, from the speed boats we stole from Iran off Kish Island, to painting those damn things to look like they belonged to the Quds Force, to filling the damned thing with explosives, to having freshly dead Persians on board, with copies of the Koran in their robes, to our friends in the Israeli submarine service planting a sub-atomic device below the ship’s hull where the boat was primed to hit. All of that planning, time, effort and money spent and just what in the hell have we got to show for it, huh. I want answers and I want them NOW” thundered “Dick” and for effect, he slammed his fist down on the table.

“Scooter” looked around the table. This was a collection of mostly young, aggressive types, hand picked by “Dick” and himself, to fill out the VP’s staff years ago. The ones chosen for this project had shown on past ops, to get excited at the sight of another’s blood.

And not just spilled blood, no, not for this group. The blood of another had to be spilled in a most gruesome way. A favorite among this group was jetting down to Gitmo, where they practiced “enhanced interrogation” techniques on those lost souls. One way to give this group a rise in their Levi’s was to let one personally disembowel a subject with a straight razor, so they could watch in awe the man slowly suffer a drawn out death.

What they lacked in experience, they more than made up for by enthusiasm, with any project, now matter how bloody or depraved thought out by “Dick”, any of his ideas these kids took the ball and ran with it.

Eyeing the bunch, “Scooter” thought that a few of them had probably pissed in their pants, so venomous were “Dick’s” tirades.

Except one. That one was Elliot Abrahams, senior member of this group and veteran of several presidential administrations. Elliot had served with distinction 25 years ago, in Central and South America, running black bag ops for then President Reagan’s National Security Council.
Some of the more homicidal recruits for the never ending war against democracy in the region were personally trained by Elliot.

He personally showed the the American backed and funded troops in El Mozote, El Salvador, how to scare the hell out of the locals by grabbing babies from their mothers, then tossing the child into the air and using a bayoneted rifle to catch the kid.

Elliot, between Republican administrations, had taken a “sabbatical” to Israel for training with the MOSSAD’s Department 2800. “Scooter” wondered who was the teacher and who the pupil in those sessions.

Yes, Elliot was one cool customer, alright, thought “Scooter” and one he didn’t want to piss off.

“Mr. Vice-President” said Elliot, “If I may, sir. The scheduled operation in the Gulf, as you so brilliantly oversaw, was planned with exquisite care. And yes sir, Tehran should already be a smoking ruin by now.’

‘Where the operation failed was in its human element. The driver of the speed boat demanded more money, much more than the 10 million dollars his family was to get. As a result, the operation was called off and the recruit and his family, including aunts and uncles and nephews, taught a lesson. A lesson which will not be lost on the other recruits for our Middle East black bag ops, as we brought those “volunteers” to see what happens to one who backs out of an agreement. The mutilated bodies that are missing heads, that had been cut off with a dull saw, should have sufficiently put the resolve back into those folks.”

A perverse grin crept across “Dick’s” face. “Dammit Elliot, you always know how to get my heart pumping fast. OK, what’s done is done, let’s keep this thing going. We need a good excuse to invade Iran, so what else do we have planned for sinking that carrier? As everyone knows, just telling a pack of lies to our compliant MSM won’t do the trick this time. They fell for our line of BS before we invaded Iraq, but this time, we need to send them a message that will scare the hell out of America and get them so mad that they’ll demand we bomb Iran into rubble.”

“So gentleman, how do we sink a US carrier in the Persian Gulf and pin the blame on Iran?”, asked “Dick” to no one in particular.

“Sir, if i may”, ventured NSC rep Mark Grossberg. “As you know, the Iranian Air Force has some of our older F-14’s still in service that they acquired when our man in Tehran, the Shah, purchased those jets. Sir, we still have a number of F-14’s on hand, in reserve mode. Sir, we could paint up several of them to look like they belonged to the Iranian Air Force. Install some of those automated flight devices, like we had on the 747’s that slammed into the WTC and use those F-14’s to attack the carrier. Sure, there will be wreckage, but most of that will be on the sea floor. To cover up our trail, we’ll use that same Navy dive team that recovered TWA flight 800 off Long Island Sound, sir.”

“And by using some of those same sub-atomic devices that were to be used in the false-flag boat attacks, we can be sure of doing heavy damage to the carrier, if not sinking her outright. I’ve crunched some numbers on the expected deaths and of the 5,000 or so sailors and marines onboard, we should see a mortality rates of around 80% Which means, sir, that over 4,000 dead Americans will be available to show non-stop on some of our friend’s cable TV news channels. Sir, that’s more than was killed in our 9/11 attacks and it would all but guarantee Americans demanding vengeance and immediate retaliation against Iran, sir.”

“Sounds like a plan, wonder boy, but who in the hell are we going to use for pilots, huh, answer me that one?”

“Sir, we have an excellent selection of brainwashed automatons at Gitmo. As you know, sir, some of those people have been held incommunicado from their families for over six years. Throw in the propaganda sessions, administered by a trained psychiatrist using psychoactive drugs, the torture sessions, lack of adequate food and complete isolation from other humans and sir, I am proud to say we have a whole company of Sirhan Sirahn’s at our disposal.”

This time, the VP didn’t grin, but was smiling from ear to ear. “Damn fine work, Marc. Why don’t you and Elliot take care of that and let’s plan this op for the middle of May. That will give you time to put in place the “smoking gun” evidence that those idiotic embedded reporters in the ME theater need to push our version of the story 24/7.”

“Scooter” breathed a sigh of relief. “Dick” was not one to piss off, even by making an offhand comment about simple matters, like how he couldn’t shoot a quail for shit, like his friend in Texas had unfortunately mentioned. For that off the cuff remark, “Dick” had shot his friend in the face. No doubt, all of that 12 yo single malt Scotch in the VP’s body helped pull the trigger, but still “Dick” was a man of action and by gosh, action he was going to get to make his dreams of nuking Iran turn into reality.

“Sir, one more question”, some under assistant to the Secretary of Defense asked. “What about President Bush?”

Shit, thought “Scooter”, this guy has a death wish.

With blinding speed for a man of his size, “Dick” vaulted over the table and proceeded to beat the living hell out of the man for asking that question.

The VP kept pounding the man’s face until it was turned into a bloody pulp. “Scooter” could tell he was still breathing, by the way the bloody foam bubbled up out of his nose.

The beating only stopped when “Dick” became winded.

“Goddamn it, I told you clowns before that we leave Junior out of these sessions. He is not to be informed of anything until the day it happens. That damned moron might blurt out something to the press and we’d all be in deep shit.”

“Now, anymore questions?”, asked “Dick.”

The room was silent.

The Israeli Factor – A Short Story

Posted on

Greg Bacon’s blog

MOSSAD Safe House
Outskirts of Tel Aviv
March 11, 2008
2000 hours local time

The image “” cannot be displayed, because it contains errors. “From the Brook of Egypt to the Euphrates”.

“Gentleman, let’s stick to the subject at hand and not discuss the post-meeting entertainment”, said the former Israeli PM, known to his friends as “Bennie.”

Around the room were gathered Israeli’s and Israeli-Americans, but all had one thing in common: They were die-hard Zionists and would do anything to see their dreams of an Eretz Israel come into existence.
An Israel that would stretch from the River Nile to the River Euphrates, north into Turkey and south to the Persian Gulf.

So dedicated were these men to this dream that they would willingly sacrifice themselves or hundreds, thousands or even millions of others to achieve their goal.

Those gathered consisted of Shlomo Berg, former head of the super secretive Israeli intelligence, counter-intelligence and false-flag agency, the MOSSAD.

Shlomo had been “officially” terminated as actual head of the MOSSAD last year, in an incident in which the sanctioning of an American Senator who had started protesting Israeli influence over the U.S. Congress had gone horribly wrong. Not wrong in the sense that the operation was botched, no, the Senator and his family died in a horrific plane crash. Shlomo had been fired because his operatives had gotten too sloppy and not left the required trail of evidence that would have pointed the finger of blame at American Muslims.

For that slip, Shlomo had been let go, but retained off the books to help with this group, the dreaded Israeli Department 2800.

Also in attendance was Jacob Stein, the senior of the group. Don’t let his graying hair and thick eye glasses fool you, the man’s mind is still as sharp as a razor’s edge.

Jacob was the “godfather” of the group, and had been held in high appreciation ever since his group had managed to assassinate the American President in Dallas back in 1963.
Since then, Jacob’s hand was evident in more than a few operations directed against “friends” of Israeli, from outright murder of American and European politicians who would not go along with Zionist plans for Middle East domination, to the laying of “honey traps” to entice and snare the gullible ones who couldn’t control their sexual urges, or what Jacob called the “Monica.”

The representative from the American MSM was there, known to one and all as “Wolf.” Wolf had helped immensely with Department 2800’s plans by dutifully showing only MOSSAD sanctioned news clips on his cable TV channel and running those clips repeatedly, until the message sunk into the easily manipulated American mind.

Aron Begin, former colonel in the IDF and nephew of the terrorist par excellence Menachem, was there with his specialty of being able to recruit the sickest and most depraved IDF soldiers, the ones who got carried a bit too far when blowing up Palestinian homes, murdering the adults and kidnapping their children.

Aron’s “mistake” was allowing his gang of IDF cutthroats to be caught by an Al Jazeera cameraman. Oh, but the cameraman paid dearly, with his life in an “accidental” machine gunning, but by then, it was too late. The video images of Aron bashing in the head of that 12 yo girl had already been beamed to the satellite.

A horrifying image that most of the Middle East had seen, but not America or Europe, thanks to “Wolf” and his numerous friends and associates in the MSM.

That got Aron kicked out of the world’s “most moral army”, but he landed a cushy assignment with this group.

And the financial mastermind of the group, Lov Zackheim. Lov had spent most of his adult life in America, serving in a number of presidential administrations, always managing, thanks to certain influences, to be in posts in and around the U.S. Treasury, which Lov used like a personal piggy bank, deftly creating a set of “shadow” books from which he was able to pick the pockets of the U.S. Treasury for over $3 Trillion dollars.
Money which had been spirited first to bogus holding accounts in offshore banking havens in the Bahamas and the Cayman Islands, then on to various accounts scattered at MOSSAD run banks in Europe in the MIddle East.

Money which came in handy when buying off a number of corrupt politicians in both America and Europe and for financing guerilla activities directed at US troops in Iraq.

Lov’s skill at this was so refined, that an army of auditors couldn’t find the trail of the lost money. But an army of auditors in the Pentagon had tried, and were getting close to figuring out just where and how American tax dollars had been stolen, when on September 11, 2001, an Israeli electronic device planted in the Pentagon, led a missile screaming along at 800 MPH to smash into the Pentagon, killing those pesky auditors and destroying the evidence they had accumulated.

Several of Aron’s hand picked guards, what “Bennie” laughingly called the “Psycho Unit” were on hand to help with the post-meeting entertainment.

“Bennie,” said Jacob, “With this American presidential election, were are we at?”

“Jacob, not to worry. We have the American electorate right where we want them, in the palm of our hands. As you know, the republican candidate, McCain, is scared shitless that we’ll release those televised recordings we bought from our Communist Vietnamese friends showing Johnny boy singing like a canary to get special treatment while in captivity. He’ll gladly do ANYTHING to keep those tapes hidden, so vain is this man. And he’s more than eager to have one of our own, Joe Lieberman, as his running mate.”

“Bennie” continued, “And we all know what THAT means” as a roar of laughter went up around the room.

“The Clinton, Hillary, has been a closet Zionist for years and has an immense addiction to power and money, and we have offered her plenty of both, if she plays by our rules. Gentleman, Hillary is solidly in our corner. She’s already sold her soul to us years ago and has no intention of asking for it back”, said “Bennie.”

He continued, “The black man, Obama, is somewhat of a problem. He has not sworn undying allegiance to Eretz Israel, nor has he stated that he would bomb Iran into oblivion, and that is a problem. He might be getting, as they say in the states, too “uppity.”

“I believe Jacob has some rather nasty surprises for him, if he does win, but that’s becoming a rather remote possibility every day, thanks to our good friends in the American MSM, like Wolf.”

With that mention, a chuckle of laughter went up around the room.

The meeting broke up into a several groups, each discussing recent MOSSAD counter-intelligence actions against Syria and Lebanon.

It was agreed that more murders of Hezbollah and Hamas leaders would be beneficial to their ultimate plans and their was even discussion of staging another “kidnapping” of an Israeli soldier, to give the IDF the excuse it needed to invade southern Lebanon, and send the IAF to bomb Beirut again, to keep the world distracted while IDF engineers rigged up a sluice to steal immense amounts of water from Lebanon’s Litani River.

One group became particularly animated when discussing the recent attempts to ignite the Iran War by using MOSSAD operatives in speedboats designed and painted like they belonged to the Iranian Quds Group to harass the U.S. Navy and how those efforts needed “enhancing.”

And to keep pouring money and support to the one they affectionately called their little “bitch”, Palestinian Authority President Abbas.

“Bennie” brought the meeting to an abrupt halt by saying, “Gentleman, gentleman, all work and no play is no fun, so let’s close this meeting and proceed with the entertainment.”

With that cue, one of Aron’s soldiers opened a side door and out poured a collection of 10 Bedouin children, some as young as nine, but none older than 15.

They had been kidnapped two nights before, in a MOSSAD Department 2800 raid on their village in western Galilee. Aron’s “Psycho Unit” had dressed up as Arabic nomads and descended on the village with a fury, killing all adults in sight and setting fire to the their hovels.

Of course, one of Wolf’s TV crews just “happened” to be at the scene to film the devastation wrought by the Israeli’s dressed as Arabs and had beamed the video around the world, immediately drawing the wrath of Americans and the British who took to the airwaves to denounce this “Arab” brutality.

The children, though, had been spirited away, to this location, where they had not been fed in two days. Their eyes were filled with a mixture of terror and hunger.

When they were each offered one piece of cake, they ravenously ate the sweet, little knowing that the cakes were spiced with just enough heroin to make the children lethargic and unable to resist, but not enough to knock them out.

When the eyes of a 10 yo boy that “Bennie” had been coveting started to dilate and his head started to roll, “Bennie” let out a lusty laugh, and with one hand started petting the boy and with the other, started to undo his zipper.