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Of Supremacy And Arms

This column is a combination of two separate items. The first part is a short revision of something I just came up with in regards to the stupidest part of the stupidest political discussion in modern history. The second part is short fiction(!) that I’ve been sitting on for a while and which underwent numerous revisions for … reasons. If one tries hard enough, one can make any two issues compatible. Or not, your choice.


White Supremacy? Really?

Something caught my eye while I skimmed through last week’s pointless “debate” between Tweets and Mike Wallace’s son. Russia(!), the Hoax, and … White supremacy?  DHS is “officially” worried about the threat, but then again, we know what DHS is, who runs it, and whom it was created to serve.

It’s not White supremacists burning, looting, and destroying [insert any American city].

It’s not White supremacists committing 56% of all murders.

It’s not White supremacists transferring ever more power from the criminal government in DC to a criminal government abroad.

It’s not White supremacists behind all of America’s idiotic wars in the Middle East.

It’s not White supremacists telling us what music we can’t listen to.

It’s not White supremacists demanding we dishonor our God and rename our parks to suit their fickle whims.

There is a ton of supremacy on display in this dying country, none of it “White” in nature. But, I will condemn it. I hereby condemn all anti-Christian, anti-White, anti-Western, anti-American, and anti-civilizational supremacy! It is becoming harder to just “stand back” and “stand by.” Yet, ever in high trust and good faith, we do, and we will until we do not.

To that end, Dr. Ironsides has a colorful story of the semi-direct action variety that he relays, for no apparent purpose, at a wedding. Let’s check-in, shall we?


Up In Arms

A Tom Ironsides Tale

A Wedding Reception, More or Less Present Day, Kind of Late…

Having finally corralled his brother, his nephews, and his son, Tom fired up a Diamond Crown Maximus, savoring the smooth, full-flavored Corona smoke for a moment. Larry, Larry’s oldest boy, Larry, Jr., and Trey followed suit. Trey slipped Bert a beer wrapped up in a cloth napkin. 

‘A toast,’ Tom said, without the slightest hint of gesture, ‘to Mister and Misses … Todd…’

‘To your daughter and son-in-law, Tom.’ Larry added with a faint tip of his cigar.

‘And to BEER!’ Bert exclaimed a little too loudly.

Shuddup, idiot…’ Trey growled as he kicked his young cousin’s shin. 

‘So, uncle Tommy,’ Lawrence, Jr. said, ‘Now, do we hear about the clandestine armament methods of the…’

‘Ah, yes!’ Tom said, settling back in his chair. ‘Hang on a second…’

They waited until a group of chattering young women in rather suggestive dresses – all carefully if quietly studied by the younger men – made their noisy way back towards the center of the fun. The men again alone, Tom began,

‘So. This is just a story, true enough, but totally not suggestive of any recommendation. In the preface, I note that there are plenty of these – these stores scattered around the country. Mind you, just about every town has at least one Guard Armory. Not that that matters. Okay, it was around Christmas back in…’

A Kaolinite Quarry in Georgia, Sunday, December 26, 2010, 0745 Hours…

Immediately after the last drone landed on the F350’s hood, it was picked up and stowed by a trainee. Having commanded complete radio silence, Tom had a junior officer flag the team to move out. One by one, a short line of trucks turned North onto US 221. In his mirror, Tom observed the spotter jump in the bed of the last vehicle in the convoy. He accelerated to the speed limit.

‘If this goes south?’ the younger officer to Tom’s left asked.

‘Then, I’ll really wish…’

The Reception, Again, One Minute Later…

‘No. Hang on. Before that, juzz bufforp. Sorbrey.’ Tom held his cigar in his mouth while pouring a round of Ben Nevis’s MacDonalds Ten Year Single Malt. ‘Burthf… pff… Birch sent this bottle from his Scott’s vaca. From the highest peak to the lowest fen! Mmmm. Nice. No. It was just before, the part I’m almost comfortable with reciting. Gotta tell this in a grand jury-friendly manner. Ahem, it was…’

Hickory, NC, Friday, December 24, 2010, 1025 Hours…

Tom drove the bucket truck down the ramp off I-40, with the other vehicles following. A few loops later, his small convoy was parked in the truck and camper section of the lot at Cracker Barrel. Out in the cold air, Tom lit a cigar and motioned the entire team together under the shade of a large tree. 

‘Alright, boys. A quick tutorial before Sunday’s main event.’

‘Are we going in to eat?’ asked a trainee.

‘No, son. Bathroom break, yes. Eating … well maybe. But, first a story.’

‘Is it about why we didn’t fly straight to Augusta?’ asked a young agent, newly transferred into the SAD.

‘Children, please!’ Tom puffed. ‘My mission, my methods. If I’m wasting another Christmas playing Goddamn Army C-I-D!, of all idiotic things, then I’ll make a road trip out of it. Easy to get the trucks if we’re already in them. Anyway,

‘Gordon, like Jackson, Lejune, et cetera, is a bigger job. Not impossible, you’ll see, but a little more … complicated. What we need is a little training exercise before the real exercise. Something easy – so easy a meth-head could pull it off. And, mind you, this is just a story, from the news – you can look it up – really happened. Not like we’re about to head north, just as soon as we get Larson his pancakes in a damned minute, immediately upon leaving this place, to a mile up the road and repeat it or anything…

‘Every town. Any town in America. Ten thousand people or more and there’s at least one Guard Armory. Small arms. Vehicles. Supplies. Usually a gen back but in decent order. Ready to go, so to speak. For the taking. And, that’s just what this fool down in South Carolina did.’

‘That the druggie that broke into the Armory and made off with the M-16s?’ Larson questioned.

‘The very one! Anyone can read about it. Army Times. J.D. Simkins’s article. The dude’s name was Brad, uh… Brandon. Brandon Shane Polston. Army National Guard Post in Lancaster, South Carolina. Thanksgiving of 2017.’

Larson thought he knew the calendar: ‘Wait. Isn’t that anachronistic? 2017, I mean? It’s just…’

‘Interrupt me again!’ Tom barked, moving into the younger man’s face, imparting a generous quantity of smoke. ‘And, I’ll have your ass up in public relations, lying to school kids, old people, and Congress-Critters!’ Larson coughed then remained otherwise quiet and attentive.

‘The Armories are physically, logistically almost all identical. Flat brick building. Set just off the road. Semi-residential or light industrial areas. Parking lot. Grass yard. Chain-link fence. The one down in Lancaster was, is no different. 

‘So, Brad or whoever was walking passed the building and noticed a low spot in the fence. With nothing better to do, he hopped it. A short time later, he found a door that opened straight into the secure weapons storage. He was evidently the only soul in the building, so he just helped himself. Got some M-16s. A SAW or two. M-203. Et cetera. Nice little haul. I assume they had a shopping cart for his convenience.

‘Still totally alone and completely un-surveilled – no guards, no cameras, nothing – Bradley made his way outside. He stashed the arms and came back with a car and two idiot friends. They loaded up and went off to see the local deal-ah for some quick cash or a hit or God-knows-what. Would’ve got away scot-free but for a broken taillight and an observant local cop.

‘Ha! And, later, when the detectives toured the Armory, they also found it unlocked, unguarded, and open for business. Dollar to a grenade launcher it’s in the exact same shape as I speak. The one right up the street here too. The moral is: make sure your equipment is in good order. Traffic laws and so forth. Any questions?’

‘Didn’t the same thing happen at Gordon around the same time?’ Agent Tindal asked.

‘It did. Let’s not get into dates and confuse young Larson. But… Old uniform, an expired ID, and a smile, and they’ll help you load your car full. But, that was the up-front small-arms depot. The big one is in the pine woods off of 221. No fences, cameras, gates there. Only two, four, possibly six MPs on a holiday weekend. Wishing they were anywhere else doing anything else. The telephone company truck ruse… And, it’s much bigger. Bigger items. Hence, the trucks and the forklift. Trucks with working tail lights!’

‘Not even a chain-link? With a lock?’ Larson unwisely put in.

‘Nope, time-traveler.’ Tom smirked. ‘They only reserve those for going around MIM-104 batteries. Those, one can sometimes find – otherwise unguarded – in remote areas overlooking nuclear plants and other high-value assets. Hmmm. Bolt-cutters… Shame we don’t have a flatbed with a big tarp or just a semi-tractor. Maybe some Raytheon codes. Ah, well. And, hey, my new tag-a-long wingman, Freddie D, can tell you about some concerns the Air Force has – or should have – about the wings at Barksdale and Minot.  You’se kids can go shopping again after I retire.’

‘Grab n’ go. We turn this stuff over to real C-I-D, or…’ someone began to ask.

‘I was thinking black budget counter arms. For the enemies of our ene… Well, we’ll see. Yeah. A country breakfast is starting to sound good, now. Checkers, anyone?’

The Reception, Even Later…

Tom continued to hit the bottle and the tobacco, regaling his audience with operational details. The more he drank, the harder it was to follow (or believe) everything he was slurring. Big Larry casually tapped away at his phone, finally exclaiming: ‘Holy Shit! It’s true. Just looked up those stories, those articles. Anyone of them is like a how-to guide for anyone with even a room-temperature IQ. This kind of thing really happens? And, doesn’t require a paramilitary strike-team to pull off?’

‘No. Of course not. Literally, any druggie or loon can arm up, easily, and for free. Let ‘em ban the B-guns. The good stuff will always be around. Especially, if or when other things start happening. You’ll see. How do you think the martial underdog arms up initially?’

‘Kind of makes me feel silly about burying that vault you sent up.’ Larry, Jr. said.

‘Nah. Always have a backup for the backup.’ Tom rejoined. ‘Like this bottle. Dammit, but Birch should have sent two!’

‘Well,’ Said Trey, standing up. ‘I’m going to go see if Romona is still giggling about catching the bouquet.’

‘Careful, boy,’ Larry admonished. ‘That’s a really dangerous business.’

Tom laughed and then turned away and spoke to no-one in particular, almost like he was giving a public service announcement right through digital paper to some unseen reader: 

‘Friends, what you’ve just heard is two things. One, it’s plain, old-fashioned fiction about some family men at a wedding party. Two, it was just some old news stories about very real events that have already really happened, multiple times, and as reported in the government’s pet media. It’s like what Aquinas wrote: Unjust law is no law at all. Despite the examples, there is no lesson to learn here. Except, maybe, that’s it is always a good idea to check your taillights, along with your oil level, and tire pressure. Safe motoring. I’m Tom Ironsides, and I approve this ninety-two-proof whisky.’