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PERRIN LOVETT

~ Deo Vindice

PERRIN LOVETT

Monthly Archives: October 2019

Duke Marshula – a TPC Halloween Special

31 Thursday Oct 2019

Posted by perrinlovett in Other Columns

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Duke Marshula, fiction, Halloween, TPC

ORIGINALLY AT TPC

The TPC Halloween Spook-tacular: “DUKE MARSHULA”

*Brought to you tonight by LIME CHIP! Soda

The Mor-Doh Pa$$, Newtonvania, a minute till midnight…

It was a cold, dark, dreary, and other foreboding adjective-laden night. An electric current haunted the cold, listless air. Young Ellis Harkersaps stared blankly at the dark, imposing figure, seated astride the imposing, dark horse. The neophyte solicitor’s lips quivered and quaked as a voice spoke words – words, cold, dark, and raspy – to disturb the dreary, electrified, miserable, lonely, et cetera evening vapors,

‘My Toyota is fast and my wives are hungry, my friend! You’re late.’

The stagecoach driver removed a gnawed cigar from his mouth, spat, and replied, ‘Geesh, muh Lard. Blimey, but it was a smidgeon to nab dis Angleshman from tha arms a them haggard gypsy Uber womans.’ He spat again and made exaggerated I-talian-esque hand gestures.

Upon receiving a polite, yet dire invitation from the horseman, Ellis Harkersaps departed the coach and stepped into the hollowed-out shell of a rusty Yaris coupe, rigged strangely behind the menacing, opaque horse. The coachman cracked his whip, cursed when the frayed leather ribbon snapped in half, and slowly plodded away. Ellis thought his captor-driver might have, in parting, called after, “Go Dawgs!”

Along a dark, narrow, winding, worn, untidy, ill-kept, and completely unsafe-looking path, the horseman led poor Ellis. Somewhere beyond sight, deep in the darkness under a sky without moon or stars, a cat mewed mournfully. Upon crossing what felt like a crumbling speed bump, the driver announced,

‘At last, my young friend, we are arrived at the magnificent CASTLE MARSHULA!! It is, you must know, available for rent, some weekends, via Air-B-n-B. Local taxes and moderate cleaning fees apply…’

The demented driver pulled the heap away at a crawl. Ellis surveyed the manor and huffed under his breath, ‘Castle?! Looks like a common, condemned and abandoned Rite-Aid…’

‘I heard that.’ A gravelly voice echoed from somewhere.

Screenshot 2019-10-23 at 8.00.28 PM

Ellis rang the bell. And waited. He rang once again. And waited. Thrice he rang. There was no answer. His fourth attempt was a knock, soft but firm. Finally, a shiver meandering down his back, he began kicking the cheap plywood door and screaming, ‘Goddammit! Let me in! It’s cold out here.’

The door opened. There, in the doorway, just inside the door, on the floor, stood, with a slight slouch, a bearded man in a dark caped-outfit. His terrible appearance almost made Ellis relish the cold out of doors. But, the sinister figure spoke kindly, if roughly,

‘Welcome, young Harkersaps of Porterdon. I am Duke Marshula. Welcome to my squatter’s pa… my little home … sweet home. Enter cheaply and leave a little of the cash you bring.’

Ellis unwisely entered and the Duke escorted him back to where the manager’s office in an old Rite-Aid might have once been located. 

‘Weren’t you the guy just driving that junker? Anyway, I have the figures and forms you requested, Duke.’ Ellis spoke with a shudder of intrepid hesitation and through an imperfect countenance.

‘No, no, my young friend. No and no. I pay my, uh … driver uh, very well! And, for you – first, a little Newtonian hospitality. Perrinfield. PERRINFIELD! YOU IDIOT! Bring refreshments! For our victi… for our guest.’ 

Presently, there appeared a most shabbily dressed, lurching, stumbling figure of a man, bent and untamed to gaze upon. Ellis noted his budget-saving resemblance to the coachman. The troll carried with him a poor attitude and an ax. The toad spoke,

‘Hell. Jus got in… Well, not times like tha pressed net. I’ll quarter him up like a spring goose!’ He laughed a hideous cackle of maniacal insanity, his left eye rolling wildly.

‘Perrinfield, NO! Not yet… The wine?’ The Duke remonstrated, his palm covering his face.

‘Hack him, Perrinfield. Get him drunk, Perrinfield. Pick him up from the bus terminal, Perrinfield. Was I ever born under a bad…’ Perrinfield disappeared into the gloom outside the parlor, muttering and cursing as he went.

The Duke looked up through his gnarled fingers, sighed, and coughed. He was just inquiring as to the rights to, and necessary bribes for, a used hand-cranked printing press, Ellis Harkersaps waiting eagerly with an excuse quickly contrived, when three buxom young women in scandalous attire entered the little manager’s office/formal dining room.

They all three chanted in alarming unison, one voice, bitterly sweet but sweetly bitter: ‘Perrinfield has cracked the crockery! Your guest voted for Obama! But, no attention have you showered upon us. No shower. You, yourself, have never showered! Not even a leaf for a morsel as supper.’

Ellis noticed the spectral women all wore matching tied-up Braves jerseys and Tammy Faye’s makeup. He moved to speak but found that he was rooted to the ground, rooted as if with the roots of a plant. Perhaps a tree. A pine, no less. A stout one. His mouth was parched. It would admit no answer of snarky rebuke. The Duke spoke for him,

‘Young Harkersaps, these are my brides – Besserelda, Kayladith, and Ann’azalea. Three … are my brides. We are old-school LDS… I will accept no bamboozle.’

Ellis swayed as if to swoon. Just then, the ghostly women repeated their demand for a “morsel.” The Duke howled out a laugh that shook the bowed and water-stained tile ceiling. He trailed off into a coughing fit, though he was able – just barely – to lift up an old Tupperware bowl for the inspection of his polyamorous Bravo babes. ‘A taste, my loves.’ He hissed, still hacking malignantly.

I recoiled within the shrouded confines of my own mind. A play of life and death unfolded before my frightened eyes, red with tears of fear and hate. The strumpets made for the Tupperware like school girls to a coin-operated cigarette machine. From out it, laughing as they did so – most disquietingly – they raised up a wrapped bundle of swaddling cloth. I knew then, as I know and remember now, what was held neath those ragged coverings. Their fangs bared, their mascara smearing, the lecherous ladies seized upon the helpless rancid baby cabbage. It emitted the most pitiable squeak as it’s putrid leaves sagged and flapped. Belching! Snorting! The fiendish wives descended on the rotten little vegetable. The taste of my lunch, previously consumed but only that very afternoon, filled my dry gullet – particularly back where the taste buds register tones harsh and bitter. I mean it was damned unpleasant. I thought to scream and run away. Instead, I leaned against the wall and yawned, contemplating my forthcoming resignation from the less-than-lustrous firm of Dewey, Cheatam, and Howe. In an instant, the doomed soup-fodder met its grisly fate. I shedded a single tear as somewhere, far away but yet near enough to not be so far, too far, a produce clerk cried out with the angst of demise. “The cat will have that one. And, so much better the so with,” I thought. The women burped and rolled on the floor. Off-putting enough was that. But the Duke! His eyes! Never has any Member of the Congress witnessed upon the innocent world such boredom! Such rank malaise! Perish the very notion that in that Rite-Aid, within that veritable castle prison, that I should endure such such and such … of this and that.

Luckily, at that very moment of sheer exhaustion of trope and poor taste, Perrinfield reappeared, bearing forth a two-liter bottle of plastic, within which resided some generic soda concoction, likely bought on sale, woefully expired, and now utterly flat. He announced dejectedly,

‘My Lard. Mas’ Mark, er … Angleshman. Wenches… I give you the night’s drink – Lime Chip Soda!’

A round of “oohh’s” and “aahh’s” floated lazily about the place. Ellis Harkersaps angstily fingered his pocket revolver. Most horrifically, a cheesy music began, as if from nowhere, though still heard herewhere, starting low and then rising to a headache-inducing screech. Perrinfield started singing – out of tune – being soon joined by the others, plus a multitude of assorted oddities, previously unseen:

♭♭

It’s confounding…

Lime is beating…

Sadness makes it roll… 

But, listen, Bitches…

(Nothing is wronger)

My pockets have a hole.

I remember joining the Lime Corps,

Slinking those slouches then.

The wackness would hip me.

(And the Noid would be mauling)

LET’S DO THE LIME CORPS AGAIN!!!

LET’S DO THE LIME CORPS AGAIN!!!

It’s zucchini.

Constipation, flee me.

So you can’t knee free; no, not a squall.

In belabored distention,

With liberalistic dissention,

Well deluded; Tom T. Hall.

With a clip of a rip dip,

You’re into the LIME CHIP!

And nothing brings greater shame.

You’re priced out of cremation.

Like it’s a bargain libation!

LET’S DO THE LIME CORPS AGAIN!!!

LET’S DO THE LIME CORPS AGAIN!!!

…♭♭

Against his better (maybe worse) judgment and to his eternal regret, Ellis Harkersaps began to toe-tap along, his fingers snapping to the alarmingly catchy if completely moronic tune. All was well until, quite suddenly, all parties noticed the label on the green plastic soda bottle. The music died. Hearts stood still. With one voice of terror, pain, confusion, lust, agitation, fear, sorrow, worry, fear, envy, yadda, yadda, and morose, they all cried out:

“IT’S DIET!!!!!!!”

Ellis Harkersaps crashed through the back door – just punched a hole straight through it – his being one of dozens of hasty exits from the dilapidated, abandoned – now, re-abandoned – squatter’s palace of doom. Alas, just when the story was getting “good,” the party ended. Another condemned wreck of a building left standing amidst the ruin of another Eve of the All Hallowed. But, it was not yet the end, entirely…

For, seeking shelter from the ghastly spectacle of Sanheim, there entered into the Duke’s deserted castle-drugstore, the Vispoli family, recently disembarked from Anytown. While the children, Ruthie, Bryson, and Lizzie, plundered the remains of the pharmacy cabinets in search of dat fix, Todd and Claire examined the wreck of the back room, where once, if I forgot to mention this earlier on, there might have been a manager’s office. Might have been. Standing on a dank cabbage leaf, Todd exclaimed to his sleepy bride, ‘A bottle of Diet Lime Chip! Glory be.’ Under his breath, he added, ‘And, an ax…’

[Commence, here, in your head, either “Werewolves of London” by Warren Zevon or “Pet Sematary” by the Ramones – or RHPS’s “Time Warp” – that one’s probably stuck, right?].

***Please note that in the telling of this tale, no literal limes, baby cabbages, cranky English majors, or upon-a-time residents of the SGI Plantation were harmed in any way. A show tune might have conceivable been plagiarized, but that’s about the worst of it. Oh! And, Bram’s gothic – looted that too. But, hey, he’s dead and the copyright’s run so heck with it, eh? That’s the worst. Well, that and the concept, execution, etc.

Screenshot 2019-10-23 at 8.25.17 PM

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

THE TPC VERSION

Perrin’s Big Old Crazy Scary Halloween Music Fest 2019 – New and Disproved!

31 Thursday Oct 2019

Posted by perrinlovett in Other Columns

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Halloween, Halloween 2019, music

Music for that scary night when all the little Bernie Sanders wannabes come calling:

Note: some of these links may have been disabled or changed. Sorry. Think of it as a suggestion list if nothing else.

Now: the music for Great Pumpkin Night:

Werewolves of London, Warren Zevon, 1978.

R-2221286-1345014745-6414.jpeg

Zevon (RIP)/Asylum.

Werewolves, Alternate Take, Zevon, 2007 Release. I know more than a few people don’t like this version. Then again, more than a few people can be wrong. Cool, jazzy, and you always have the ability to listen to the damned original…

Long Cool Woman, The Hollies, 1971. No Halloween, per se, but fits with:

Devil Woman, Cliff Richard, 1976.

Evil Woman, ELO, 1975. All these women…

Witchy Woman, The Eagles, 1972. More women…

Self Control, Laura Branigan version, RIP, beautiful, 1984. The best-looking artist on the list.

Legend of Wooley Swamp, Charlie Daniels Band, 1980. Lucius Clay approves.

David Pumpkins – Elevator Skit, SNL and Tom Hanks, 2016. Not a song. Just funny.

Monster Mash, Misfits, 1997. Yeah, I have trouble understanding the words too.

Mash, Original, Bobby Pickett (with Dick Clark), 1962. Classic; those facial expressions.

Dragula, Rob Zombie, 1998. Burn through ’em.

Thriller (Full), Michael Jackson, 1982. Before we knew the real MJ (RIP) horrors. With commentary from Price (RIP).

Poison, Alice Cooper, 1989. A few Cooper songs I could have gone with; I chose this one.

House of Fire, Cooper, 1989. And this one.

Ghost Riders in the Sky, Johnny Cash’s Version, 1979. Scary with a message.

The Time Warp, RHPS Version, Richard O’Brien, 1974. No need to suffer a theater full of freaks. (They still do that?) You’re welcome.

Sweet Transvestite, RHPS Version, Tim Curry, 1974. Probably the only trans-friendly post I’ll ever make.

Blue Moon, The Marcels, 1961. Shout if you know why I included this one.

The Zoo, Scorpions, 1980. Why not?

Nightmare on My Street, DJ Jaz Will Smith, 1988. Just remembered this one!

Pet Sematary, The Ramones, 1989. My personal favorite – possibly tied with Werewolves.

Sematary, Last Live Show, 1996. You don’t know this…

Stranger in Town, Extended Studio, Toto, 1984. Is your hero a criminal?

Uprising, Sabaton, 2010. Scary history. Great gym song!

Dr. Demento Halloween Special, Demento, Westwood One, 1986. Hour and a half of crazy.

Little Red Riding Hood, Sam The Sham & The Pharaohs, 1966. For the g-g-g-generation.

Swamp Witch, Jim Stafford, 1974. Wonder if she knew Lucious?

Purple People Eater, Sheb Worley, 1958. Currently seeking the DNC nomination…

Ghostbusters, Ray Parker, Jr., 1984. Can’t believe I didn’t have this one earlier.

…and…

Here Comes Santa Claus, Gene Autry, 1947. Oops. Too early – for another week or two…

30+ hits sure to rock the candy off the beggars!

Have a great Halloween!

The cigar-chomping, government-bashing, culture-questioning madness shall resume soon. Oh, curious about how Tom Ironsides spent a Halloween evening? Check out Chapter Ten of The Substitute.

Jihad in New York City – Report: Man Shouted “Allahu Akbar” After Mowing Down Pedestrians – Eight Dead, 15 Injured…

31 Thursday Oct 2019

Posted by perrinlovett in Uncategorized

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A spooky story from two Halloweens ago.

PERRIN LOVETT

The answer is clear: we must enact common sense controls on rental pickups. Only the police and military need such large, high-capacity delivery vehicles.

Source: Jihad in New York City – Report: Man Shouted “Allahu Akbar” After Mowing Down Pedestrians – Eight Dead, 15 Injured…

nyc-box-truck-2

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Treaties are for Allies

30 Wednesday Oct 2019

Posted by perrinlovett in News and Notes

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academia, college, education, SJW

One does not make them with one’s enemies. Conservatives never get that. Tom Dilorenzo explains the rot:

Niall Ferguson ends his op-ed with a call for a “Nonconformist Academic Treaty” among university faculty and administrators who still defend freedom of speech. The communistic academic censors must be confronted with “massive retaliation,” just as the Soviet Union was threatened with such by NATO during the Cold War, he says. This is what he means when he says that “we” must hang together or hang separately.

Such a “treaty” would likely garner very few signatures because of the fact that, with few exceptions, American academe is a socialist institution. Almost every last college and university is partly or totally funded by government, and with government funding comes government control of the means of production, the very definition of socialism. Almost all university professors are therefore essentially government bureaucrats and, like all bureaucrats, they understand that the way to survive is to never, ever, break the rules or rock the boat, no matter how rotten the rules may be. They understand that if they do, the Red Army of Mediocrities will take its revenge, fire them if possible, or at least never again give them a merit pay raise. They may also end up being assigned an 8 A.M. class on the main campus along with an evening class at one of the far-away branch campuses on the same day as an added touch of petty revenge.

University boards of trustees are mostly useless since they are easily bamboozled, lied to, or intimidated by academic administrators. Many of them remain quiet, for to complain and not be asked back as a trustee may harm their social lives. (At my own place of employment alumnus Tom Clancy, the famous author, once complained at a trustee meeting that the tuition was so high that the son of a mailman like himself could never afford it. He was dropped from the board the next year). There are no shareholders since universities are either government bureaucracies or “nonprofit” institutions, so there is no shareholder pressure either. It is even confusing as to who the real “consumers” are since the students who sit in the classrooms are rarely the ones paying the extortionate tuition bills – at least until they graduate and are confronted with mountains of government-guaranteed student-loan debt.

If you’re reading The Substitute, then know that, in the end, Tom relocates to a small private college and from it opens the ultimate classically-based private prep school. Small schools. Private schools. Homeschools. Big Ed, Inc. is really no better than the “public” K-12 mess. Get out.

The Sickly Tower of Babel

30 Wednesday Oct 2019

Posted by perrinlovett in News and Notes

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America, decline, demographics, health

Lifespans decline as waistlines increase.

From 1999–2000 to 2015–2016, the age-adjusted prevalence of obesity among men increased from 27.4% to 38.1%. For American woman, the situation is even worse — the prevalence of obesity among them increased from 33.3% to 41.2%.

Adult obesity is correlated with higher death rates as it often is associated with increases in hypertension, high cholesterol levels, type 2 diabetes, and other health conditions which limit ones functionality such as asthma, sleep apnea, and joint problems.

That’s 38.1% and 41.2% obese (really fat). Adding in those merely overweight and it’s something like 75% of the population. And, despite the lies of 1965, that population keeps changing in other ways too.

A record 67.3 million U.S. residents speak a foreign language at home, the latest sign of the growing influence of immigrants on American culture.

Census Bureau data shows that homes that do not speak English first grew seven times faster than those that do.

The data, analyzed by the Center for Immigration Studies, found that in the top five American cities, an average of 48% speak a foreign language at home, mostly Spanish or Chinese.

And in 90 major cities, more than half speak a non-English language at home.

The analysis said, “The Center for Immigration Studies finds that 67.3 million residents in the United States now speak a language other than English at home, a number equal to the entire population of France. The number has nearly tripled since 1980, and more than doubled since 1990. The growth at the state level is even more pronounced. All language figures in Census Bureau data are for persons five years of age and older.”

Well, at least we have a sane fiscal and monetary policy…

The Insidious Evil: When the Unbelievable is 100% True

30 Wednesday Oct 2019

Posted by perrinlovett in Legal/Political Columns, News and Notes

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children, CIA, conspiracy, crime, FBI, Satanism

The Conspiracy is usually a Fact, not a Theory.

No need to fret, [Redacted], whoever prepared the FBI document dump on the Finders also threw in a map produced from the execution of a search warrant on McMartin preschool in Manhattan Beach, CA.

If the name McMartin Preschool rings a bell, it’s because the school gained infamy as ground zero for the child abuse case that kicked off the so-called Satanic Panic.

360 children were alleged to have been abused at McMartin daycare. Many of the children claimed that they’d been subjected to sexual and satanic ritual abuse in a system of tunnels under the school. When investigators declared that excavations turned up nothing, the claim of secret tunnels became a byword for spurious ritual abuse claims.

Now, after a generation of ridicule, the FBI has confirmed the tunnels’ existence, vindicating the children’s testimony.

The (Still Heavily-Redacted) FBI FILE

When do those military tribunals start?

“The Substitute” Promo (Chapter One Preview!) and Other Affairs – from TPC!

29 Tuesday Oct 2019

Posted by perrinlovett in Books For Sale, Other Columns

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The Substitute, TPC

The Substitute, the First Novel by Perrin Lovett

(and other matters)

 

THE Book

 

At long last, she’s here – my first serious foray into fiction and a comprehensive story featuring everyone’s favorite spook turned teacher, Tom Ironsides.

 

I give you, The Substitute. ORDER NOW AT AMAZON.

Screenshot 2019-09-23 at 2.36.13 PM

© Perrin Lovett

CVR FINAL 3731fc56-58a3-4367-af61-41bd153c77aa

© Perrin Lovett

 

Tom, of course, is a retired CIA Paramilitary Officer. Now, he faces what may be an insurmountable challenge – confronting America’s failed or failing “public” schools – an extreme man for an extreme mission. Follow his adventure through an academic year as he deeply investigates the happenings in one particular fictional system. Being who he is, he also stumbles across a continuing series of cases and events that relate back to his previous employment. Several flashbacks keep the action moving, like the following a preview of the beginning of Chapter One, At Home Far Away:

 

******

 

Belgrade, Serbia, April 1, 2001, the wee hours…

 

Five men stood or sat in and around a used Mercedes T1 Transporter van. The early morning air was cool, a little wet, but bearable, not that comfort had anything to do with their line of work. The team leader sat between the rear doors, which were wide open to provide a view downhill to the compound. He raised his satellite phone as he gazed down at the house through a night vision scope. Continuing his observation, he spoke, ‘Some of his drunks are staggering out of the veranda. The cops are kind of humoring … pushing them aside. They’re about to bring him out. Now. You want us to take the shot?’

A muffled, warbling voice instructed from the other end. He cut it short,

‘Been here for over forty hours. He’s coming out in a second. Do you, or do you not … want him dead?’

The electronic voice from Virginia warbled away.

‘Got a twenty mike-mike ready to roll, here,’ the leader said without breaking his stare, even as he reached around and patted the barrel of an older Soviet ShVAK-20 autocannon, ‘If it’s dead, then I need to move over kind of quick like.’

More warbling.

‘Okay, shit! It’s not like they have any evidence or cause for this arrest. Not here, certainly not at the Hague, not even our guys. Yeah! Who the hell wants to bother with a trial?’

Warb…

‘Save it. He’s coming out. Between four officers right now.’

The hardened paramilitary operations officer watched as heavily armed police escorted a handcuffed Slobodan Milosevic, first and now former President of the Serbian Republic to a waiting car (one of five, as he counted them). ‘Last chance. I can still light it up…’ He was cut off in turn.

A stern voice spoke through the receiver, a little clearer to his hearing than to that of his men, ‘Negative! Watch them drive off and then get out of there. Green Ops will make sure he arrives at Central. We’ll have him in Tuzla tomorrow. Stand down and prepare for evac. Go ahead to the rendezvous point. You’re done.’

‘Roger that. Black Delivery, out.’ He folded the phone closed and watched as Milosevic was tucked into the back of a car that sped away immediately. He spoke to his team, ‘Okay, boys and girls, field trip’s over. Load it up and let’s get clear.’

As he stood up, he patted the barrel again, ‘Birch, does this thing even work?’

Before Birch could answer, five small-arms shots rang out in the distance. The team wheeled around and rescanned the general area of Kuca Misosevic. Silence followed. There were a lot of guns out and about. It was probable that someone at the house had vented a little frustration. If it was something else, then Green Ops and the locals could deal with it. Either way, the men counted their work as finished.

‘Yeah. There’s a party over there… The twenty? Kinda glad we don’t have to find out, Tom,’ Birch replied with a smirk. ‘You heard the man. Let’s move out.’

With all parties and equipment secure, the van slowed crept forward towards the road. A SEAL support newbie, a huge man that Tom and Birch thought sort of looked like a tree, was at the wheel. Tom spoke to Birch quietly on the makeshift back seat, ‘Somebody’s really confident about this nab and extradition. I don’t think they ever intended to assassinate him.’

Birch answered softly, ‘They did, or at least it was plan B. But, yeah, money buys confidence. G-team’s spent a small fortune convincing Dindic. He’s our guy now. We’ve spent even more with the ICTY. The banks don’t aim to lose. Ever.’

‘You can say that again,’ Tom said with a shrug and a little louder. ‘Was this another grand waste? Rather than play collection agent for Basel and the IMF, I’d prefer to track down some of the al-Qaeda chatter. Something’s moving. Wonder what the money men know about tha…’

The shotgun rider, a veteran SEAL, interrupted: ‘Roadblock! Roadblock! Twelve o’clock!’

Tom raised his night vision scope for a moment, peering through the windshield. ‘Guns. Up and leveled! Through it or around it! Go, man, go!’

The big newbie floored the gas and headed for an opening between two blocking vehicles on the right. They were welcomed with a hail of bullets. The van rolled over two shooters and clipped a truck as it blasted through. The primary support agent in the rear opened up with an H&K 416, firing a deluge of three-round bursts. After a split second, he cried to the front, ‘Company! Van and two cars following us!’

‘Secure this shit in, Birch!’ Tom ordered as he hopped over the seat to the waiting ShVAC. ‘And, hey, we’re about to find out!’

The rear agent leaped behind Tom, picking up the night scope so as to act as his boss’s spotter. Birch was scrabbling to get in touch with Force Recon. Bullets cracked here and there on the skin and frame of the now very used van. The spotter tapped Tom’s shoulder and pointed back and right.

‘Ears!’ Tom screamed.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

In a deafening second, they both found out that the old gun worked just fine and they lost one pursuing car. In another second:

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Another car burst into flames and crashed down a hillside. One more, baby! Tom had a clear, distinctive view of the van through the comically oversized iron sight. He checked the belt and prepared to squeeze the trigger again. The Mercedes lurched and turned hard. He lost his view for a fraction of a second. When the van was visible again, he instantly saw its hood, grille, and front passenger quarter-panel erupt in a shower of sparks. Up in the front, his veteran SEAL was damned good with an AK, even hanging out the window of a speeding van, shooting in the dark. Tom watched the van sputter and grind to a halt in a ditch.

‘Good shooting!’ Tom yelled, a yell which even he had trouble hearing. ‘Guess I don’t get all the fun! Anybody else deaf?! And, WAS ANYONE HIT?!!’

Fortune favored the bold; no-one was damaged aside from ringing in the ears which even decent ear protection couldn’t prevent. Something about not shooting an anti-aircraft gun in an enclosed vehicle… Birch informed that a Marine helo would meet them in about three minutes, maybe one minute after they arrived at the field. The van slogged to a stop, resting on mostly flattened tires, in a patch of mud.

‘E’rbody off!’ Tom yelled. ‘Let’s give the bird something to steer by. Light this heap up!’

The five stood by, wary – watching the sky and scanning the horizon as the Mercedes began to burn behind them. The distinctive sound of an approaching rotar-craft thump-thump-thumped towards them. Tom’s signal flare did its job well. Just then, the younger agent barked, ‘The van! The van’s out there on the road!’ And, given away by headlights and its silhouette, a van was meandering down the street adjacent to their position. Tom stared at it hard.

Birch put in, ‘I mentioned that to the Jarheads during our getaway. They gotta see it now.’

Tom kept staring. Suddenly, he turned to Birch, ‘No! That one’s a different shape and a little bigger. More of a small bus. Tell them to hold their…’

As the Blackhawk prepared to set down near the flaming wreck, its door gun spoke, loud, clear, and mercilessly. **Burrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrurrt!** The small bus was cut to burning pieces.

‘Oh, hell.’ Tom started. ‘Don’t tell me that was…’

As the others were pulled into the chopper, Tom stood rooted in the mud. He watched as a screaming child crawled from the remains of the bus. ‘GODDAMMIT! NO!’

He too was pulled, kicking and screaming, into the helo by a sturdy Corporal. The DOD never billed him for the damage he did to the chopper bay. The whole squad, once they understood what had happened, took Tom’s sorrowful view of the matter. It was much worse for him, understanding all the details. The master crooks used the “law” to snatch a smaller crook. Tom and his men were merely pawns. Other pawns had tried to kill them. All of it went with the territory. But, why was it that every single time, some innocents had to die? Every damned time!

 

Derry, New Hampshire, April 10, 2018, 05:00…

 

Tom woke up with a start, sweating profusely. He counted that particular adventure as one of his “favorite” nightmares. It was certainly one of the most recurrent. Serbia… In the end, he’d been right about Milosevic. After a baseless capture, an illegal transfer, and a five-year sham of a trial, the man “committed suicide.” Then, and only then was he posthumously declared acquitted, with a lack of evidence of any chargeable war crimes. Tom had seen it, known it, way back then. And, he’d been right about the chatter as well.

An already exciting life kicked into overdrive following the morning of 9/11. If! There were more “ifs” than anything else and he still harbored many suspicions. Back at the time, had anyone near Washington had half a brain, they might have inquired as to who, exactly, Slobodan was allegedly committing those fake war crimes against. Some of the same characters were linked, here and there, to cells in Germany, the UK, Michigan, and Florida. 

…

******

 

Click that link, above, and start reading! Note: you do not have to limit yourself to just a single copy. The book makes a great Christmas gift. Order as many as you can afford. And, a Kindle e-version is (very slowly) coming together. And! I’m already four or five chapters into an all-action, political-thriller prequel, a first-person novella set a year before the 2018 beginning of Part One. I also have about twenty separate Ironsides shorts which could (will) morph into a series of future novels and novellas. 

 

Early readers report ease of reading from the layout, font, etc. – a quality book. The style is already being compared to that of Stuart Woods. Join the party and see what you think!

And, at TPC:

The End of Asset Forfeiture?

 

Georgia 2019 School Scores are Out! And They Ain’t Good…

 

READ THE AFFAIRS NATIONAL AT TPC

And, stand by for that cool Halloween special thing on Thursday.

“Like” and “Could Be”

29 Tuesday Oct 2019

Posted by perrinlovett in News and Notes

≈ Comments Off on “Like” and “Could Be”

Tags

debt, depression, economics, Federal Reserve, sorcery

Like, there could be a depression in this banana republic.

At this point, if the Federal Reserve stops juicing the economy, Pento argues, we could be looking at another depression.

“That’s why the Fed’s panicking,” he said. “If anybody still believes they’re omniscient or omnipotent or know their butt from their elbow, that’s over.”

The Federal Reserve is expected to lower its benchmark interest rate this week by 25 basis points, the third such cut in three months. According to the minutes from the Sept. 17-18 meeting, “downside risks had become more pronounced since July,” yet “several participants” wanted the Fed to provide more clarity on when the response to those risks, including “trade uncertainty,” would end.

The fun side of sorcery – nearly unlimited free fiat for the banksters!

The dark side – 100% rates for the working poor!

And yet today, just a few years later, many of the same subprime lenders that specialized in the debt are promoting an almost equally onerous type of credit.

It’s called the online installment loan, a form of debt with much longer maturities but often the same sort of crippling, triple-digit interest rates. If the payday loan’s target audience is the nation’s poor, then the installment loan is geared to all those working-class Americans who have seen their wages stagnate and unpaid bills pile up in the years since the Great Recession.

The crisis is too big not to fail.

He’s Entitled to His Opinion

29 Tuesday Oct 2019

Posted by perrinlovett in Legal/Political Columns

≈ Comments Off on He’s Entitled to His Opinion

Tags

coup, impeachment, Ukraine

Desperate Dems roll out the tin.

“I was concerned by the call,” Vindman said, according to his testimony obtained by The Associated Press. “I did not think it was proper to demand that a foreign government investigate a U.S. citizen, and I was worried about the implications for the U.S. government’s support of Ukraine.”

Yes, yes, the concerns… Again, he’s entitled to his opinion, as wrong as it might be. In my opinion, the people running the fake impeachment racket are enemy combatants staging a limp-wristed coup. It’s a testament to Trump’s patience that there is anyone left to hold these sham hearings.

Undermine what? The members of Congress are only slightly less stupid than the people who elected them; most could not even find Ukraine on a labeled map of Europe. Or, was the support thing referring to the deep state and their ties to the cabal trying to keep the lid on an on-going criminal investigation in Ukraine which likely involves US citizens and which Trump had ever right AND RESPONSIBILITY to urge along?

Thank you for your service.

The New (Old) Tyranny

29 Tuesday Oct 2019

Posted by perrinlovett in Legal/Political Columns

≈ Comments Off on The New (Old) Tyranny

Tags

Julian Assange, Paul Craig Roberts, tyranny

RCP on the CIA, Assange, and failing America.

Currently Assange is being tortured, apparently to death, while bring held in solitary confinement in a maximum security British prison awaiting his extradiction to the US on false charges. As the CIA cannot be certain it has suborned all the federal judges, Washington is just as happy if Assange dies in a British prison as there is no valid case against him under current US law. Probably the absence of a valid case doesn’t matter as the rule of law in the US is very difficult to find.

The lack of any valid case against Assange is the reason the distinguished documentary film maker John Pilger describes Assange’s persecution as a Stalinist Show Trial.

What is astonishing about the CIA’s destruction of Julian Assange is the silence of American law schools and bar associations, the silence of universities, the absence of student and labor union protests, the absence of any protection of Assange’s rights from courts as the last news organization willing and capable of holding governments accountable for their crimes is destroyed openly in full view of the law schools, intellectuals, bar associations, courts, and print and TV media.

That’s about where we are… He should know better about a little of it, though – law schools and bar associations? Really?

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