12 Sunday Sep 2021
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That’s the rumor. Diet Lime Chip, Amerika’s favorite nonexistent soda pop might have successfully experimented with something new. No word on if it cures the common hoax. But, look for it, on or about All Hallow’s Eve with some new SPOOKTACULAR fiction aimed at the TPC (and general readership) set!
Boo.
28 Saturday Aug 2021
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A Review of “A Fatal Mercy, The Man Who Lost The Civil War,” by Thomas Moore
*We can add to Tom’s long list of achievements his proper raising of three sons and his very positive influence on his step-children. Within two or three hours of learning of his death yesterday, I had a few ideas and thought, “wow, I need to run that by Tom.” I’m still in the hit in the face stage; shocked to follow, I suppose. Here, I repost my 2019 review of his last major novel, an instant classic on several fronts. He was approached, though I don’t think the porject evolved far, about turning A FATAL MERCY into a TV or Netflix mini-series, which, if done correctly, would be excellent. Don’t wait for that; buy the book.
The boy had it right in quoting his grandfather: “courage and fortitude are never in vain … no good cause is ever lost because all good causes are lost causes.” Even if he didn’t exactly understand the last part of it, that quote expresses an oft-felt theme, if not a rule, of life and of a higher civilization. It is the theme of his grandfather’s story from 1863 through 1913.
Was Drayton FitzHenry the man who lost the War for Southern Independence? The man himself certainly thought so, perhaps with good reason. Then again, the reader can, likely will, come to understand that there may have been a good reason behind the losing. The story is simple in its complexity, and visa versa.
Moore has really written two books in one. A Fatal Mercy is an in-depth study of the human condition and of Christian morality, Western in origin – Southern by the grace of God. On the one hand, the book is a stirring rendition of The War. In that alone, it is fantastic martial fiction, at once woven by an elegant and commanding imagination and steeped in painstakingly researched history. The story is compelling, riveting.
That is especially high praise from me. Unlike my father, I am not a “Civil” War buff. As a child, the old man dragged me from battlefield to battlefield, constantly uttering information gleaned from his (separate) War library. I certainly gained a respect – and the good manners to at least phrase “Civil” with those all-important quotation marks – but I never developed the … obsession. This book, all through its 727 pages, engendered some of that. This is a work my father would have read – and liked. Those of you who knew him, know that is higher praise.
Perhaps highest of all, is what that aforementioned history and the associated culture, presented alive and burning, generates with regard to what I see as the second grand interpretation, a thoughtful, reasoned, and unapologetic defense of relevant antiquity, classical knowledge, honor, and the grandeur of Western Civilization.
I am a student of classical Greco-Roman tradition. Here, Moore writes as well and true as any: “One reason we study the Classics, apart from the value of the knowledge itself, is for what they may teach us about our times.” With this sentiment, Cicero concurs: “To be ignorant of what occurred before you were born is to remain always a child. For what is the worth of human life, unless it is woven into the life of our ancestors by the records of history?”
Today, most Americans, Southerners included, are ignorant of history, children easily led astray from their ancestral heritage. Moore addresses this issue, with direct examples, slightly dramatized, through the eyes of his protagonist. Drayton’s book-long dilemma revolves around a momentary eye of the storm at Gettysburg. Rather, around the eye of the fish hook, as Shelby Foote put it if we stretch Foote’s geographic definitions to include Little Round Top (and it is, topography-wise, a sub-eye). See: The Civil War, a Narrative, Stars in Their Courses, p. 479, Random House, New York (1963).
Of that terrible battle and its defining outcome, Bruce Catton wrote: “There was no pattern to any of this, except for the undesigned pattern that can always be traced after the event.” Never Call Retreat, Encounter at Gettysburg, p. 186, Doubleday, New York (1965). If this is true – and who doubts Catton – then Drayton’s dilemma is understandable. Drayton lived out the maxim: “Iniuriam facilius facias quam feras – Easier to do a wrong than to endure one.” – Syrus, Maxims. As he refrained from the former, so he endured the latter. Both counts are attributable to – and tribute to – his wisdom and honor.
And, there is an honor, and a wisdom, about Drayton FitzHenry that is rare among literary creations. Odysseus has it, as does Frodo. That wisdom moves beyond the narrative of the War, the horrors of Reconstruction, and into the following age. Along with other, innumerable truths, a lesson and a warning speak directly to us. It finds different ways of expression:
Moore’s articulate, enrapturing characters witness the end of a Republic. We stand at the very possible end of an Empire. Then, in the fable, and now, in our reality, both intelligent free will and resolve to honor Providence properly combine. Sayeth the poet: “Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo – If I can’t move Heaven, I’ll raise Hell.” – Virgil, The Aeneid, VII, 312. The men at Gettysburg, of both sides, did exactly that. A Fatal Mercy does the same, does both in fact, recalling the horror and heroism of combat while instilling pride in the genteel, the cultured, the learned, the respecting, and the respectable. It is all of powerful magnitude.
The Author states: “My principal goal was not just to write the best contemporary novel of the War, but also to place my protagonist in an excruciating moral and emotional dilemma and see how he would resolve his inner conflict.” Moore has done that, and greater still. This book is a timeless Classic.
Also: The letters… The burning of the letters, Chapter Seventeen, moved me. The reader will, I trust, understand soon enough.
(Picture: Amazon/Green Altar Books – Shotwell/Moore)
A Fatal Mercy, The Man Who Lost The Civil War, Thomas Moore, Green Altar Books, Columbia, SC (2019).
19 Friday Mar 2021
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column, fiction, muh check, really-not-fiction, short story, TPC, War
And, this week, it’s another short work of fiction based on highly plausible real near-future events. This one runs exclusively or initially here because 1) I assume it’s the TOO Real Story, and 2) I was notified by TPC’s excellent internal staff communication system that the venerable paper is going on a 2-week Sprink Break (woot!) hiatus. Accordingly, my next two weekly columns will be a little “harder” and will run here (possibly elsewhere – developing [slowly] that). Here goes:
Brynlee pulled her thong up to fully expose the new marijuana leaf tattoo riding high on her plump, white right cheek. She was delighted TikTok was working again (it had been off-and-on for a few days for unknown reasons) though she was moderately distressed the comments feed still wasn’t active. ‘Weah muh boiz? Weah beo-chez? Thot bee hawt!’ she slurred as she began to twerk for the camera. ‘Yaw git high why I shake dis booty, shake dis booty, shake diss booooo-tay!’
The noise from the living room really bothered her – almost as much as the loss of instant gratification from her ten-thousand loyal followers. ‘Turn dat sheeit dow!’ she screamed. ‘Dat bee dee nooz?’
Suddenly, Marqueena, the seven-year-old daughter she’d had with Darnell, a man she barely remembered, stormed into the kitchen. Sober eyes would have detected the fear and distress on the cute little face, have ivory, half ebony.
‘Which ship is daddy on?!’ the little girl asked with a shout.
‘Gah! Gurl, waay,’ the attention whore exclaimed as she tapped off her phone. ‘Wuh? Why? He on dat Ray-gan, da airpane sheep.’
With an ear-splitting scream the child crumpled to the floor in a sobbing heap. Between wails, she bleated, ‘Daddy! Daddy!’
Her wasted, worthless mother stepped over her writhing body and ventured to the doorway. From there, she witnessed something on the 80-inch screen that almost drove the booze and drugs from her underpowered mind. She looked just in time to see the third playing of the first hypersonic anti-ship missile as it plowed into the starboard side of CVN-76. Four more bright flashes followed in rapid succession. Within minutes, over one-hundred-thousand tons of steel, billions of dollars, and six-thousand men – Darnell included – sank to the ocean floor.
While little Marqueena rolled and cried, pounding the linoleum with her fists, Brynlee stupidly muttered, ‘Day-um. Muh check…’
The horrific martial scenes on the television were replaced by a stunned Tucker Carlson. With great effort, he spoke again, ‘And, that was Sunday night. Three days ago. They’ve been lying for three days – lying as if nothing was wrong. Well, it is. It’s worse than wrong, it’s unbelievable. It’s terminal.
‘It took Russian and European reporting – that they tried to block! – to break the truth openly. For three days, President Harris, or Pelosi, or whoever the hell is supposed to be running this failed nation has been lying to us. A training exercise? Retaliatory strikes. Mission accomplished? Your sailor will contact you when routine radio silence is lifted! Lies. Lies. Lies!
‘Here’s what we know – now! – that really happened. The Iranians knew the strikes were coming and they were ready. Not a single US cruise missile or bomber got through. Tehran obviously has this Russian S-400 or S-500 system and it obviously works. They also have, according to new reports we’ve been able to verify, advanced ultra-high-velocity sea-skimming missiles. That’s what sunk the Reagan along with three support ships.
‘Our Navy is so weak, so unprepared that they can’t even recover the very few survivors. The Iranians, to their great credit, have been picking up our wounded, treating them, and offering to return them as soon as possible. They, it seems, have Allah’s grace; we’ve lost it.
‘Within an hour of the Battle of the Arabian Sea, China moved against Taiwan, their first step being to sweep the US Pacific Fleet aside. That’s when we lost the Roosevelt and the Nimitz and other support ships – lost them to more advanced weaponry and better tactics. That’s when we lost most of our island-based assets in the South China Sea and the Philippine Sea. China, by the way, is not interested in recovering any of our MIAs. Also, by the way, there is practically nothing we can do about any of this…
‘That’s when … that’s how we lost an estimated thirty-thousand casualties – in one hour. That’s why Vladimir Putin sternly reminded Washington of the new Russian defense alliances with Beijing and Tehran. That’s when the failed, satanic, blood-thirsty fools in the White House started lying. That’s how we know this paper tiger has no teeth. Just maybe, maternity flight suits and transgender sex change operations weren’t the right priority. Well, regardless of how we look at it, America’s imperial age just ended.’
24 Thursday Dec 2020
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As promised and, again, exclusively at FPC. Not a member? Then, join at www.freedompreppercommunity.com.
23 Wednesday Dec 2020
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London City Airport, Early Evening…
No one had explained a word about the sudden change in scenery. An outside NHS doctor spent over an hour assessing his general condition, at intervals consulting with nurses and his solitary handlers. He thought he’d asked for his attorney or his advocate, but he simply couldn’t remember. The flat American accents had tipped him off, and if he was honest, he had long suspected this day would come. They didn’t even ask him to sign anywhere, nor did they present him any writ or order. Four sturdy men in suits, in addition to the usual guards, had escorted him from the infirmary to the transfer bay. Two of these bespoke Yankees rode along with him in the back of an SUV. He thought he glimpsed unmarked police cars in a short procession, but he wasn’t sure.
Little of it, any of it, made sense. And he didn’t have much time to process what was happening. Nearly a decade of hiding, waiting, and suffering had crawled by him, only for this evening’s unexplained venture from Belmarsh, and the short, fast drive under the Thames (he guessed it was the Blackwall Tunnel), and now he was securely in the custody of – someone. Who were his new friends? The FBI? CIA? As the surprisingly well-appointed business jet began to swing around on its approach to the lone runway, he realized something. Whoever they were, they had not shackled him!
In fact, once on board, they had begun treating him rather well, more like a guest than a prisoner. Something in the cabin smelled sweet, familiar almost. He was seated in a comfortable leather chair and was just sipping from a bottle of Perrier when the pilot hastily announced their imminent departure. One of these agents, if that was the word, a large man seated across a small table from him, gestured for him to fasten his seatbelt. The gesture came with a smile, something to which he was no longer accustomed. No sooner than he had secured himself and turned to gaze out the window than the plane launched forward, soon climbing over the River, passing on the one side a sewage plant and, on the other, the sewer of a prison he’d of late called his home. In a few minutes, he realized they must have already been closing on the Delta, heading, he assumed, due east towards Antwerp. He couldn’t be exactly certain, but there came the feeling that the craft slowed in the air and subtly turned to the south – to what degree, he did not know.
And, just as he gave thought to another effervescent sip and perhaps a request for something solid to eat, another man kindly invited him forward to the flight deck. Entering through the open cockpit door, he beheld before and below him, shrouded in moving darkness, what he took for the Channel and, far ahead, the lights of the Continent. Two men sat under dim lights behind a sea of screens and controls. The younger one, on the right, was dressed in a similar if more understated fashion as the rest of the crew. He looked like the government issue. The other man, older, and obviously in charge of the flight, bore an altogether different look and demeanor. He was half slouched over to his left, with his arm resting near the window. His right hand lazily, casually held the yoke. His black hair, flecked with sprinkled salt, was shaggier than one would have assumed, as was his short, stubbly beard. He was chewing on a cigar and wore, over powerfully-built arms and shoulders, what could only be described as the tackiest of Christmas sweaters. Upon entering, he caught the end of a short conversation between the pilots.
The older casual man on the left was quipping in answer to something: ‘…Corona is a hoax, Biden didn’t win, and Gina didn’t kill herself. Eff- it!’
‘Yeah, right. Listen, RAF and the Bude are blowing up again about it, Tom,’ said the younger man on the right, ‘like it popped up out of nowhere.’
Unperturbed, the man of the left gave a dry response: ‘I know. Ninety-high and tracking our position perfectly?’
‘You know?’ the young man asked incredulously.
‘Yeah,’ the older man hummed, ‘or, I suspected. He’s with us. An escort.’
‘Then, who is he?’ asked the younger man.
‘Santa Claus…’
He could no longer contain his bewilderment. ‘Whose plane is this?’ he asked, more to the older man.
The whimsical pilot immediately pivoted around and smiled sincerely. ‘My brother-in-law’s!’ he said happily. ‘Well, he bought it, as a tax write-off and so forth, but I get to fly her. Keep her down in Hickory. She’s not a lot of use most of the time, what with the price of fuel but, for this jaunt, Uncle Sucker is picking up the whole tab!’
‘Who are you?’ he asked, feeling even more bewildered than before.
‘I’m Tom,’ the pilot said, extending his hand (leaving the yoke floating momentarily), ‘and this is Freddy,’ he said nodding to the younger man who smiled slightly at the introduction. ‘May I call you Julian?’ Tom asked.
‘Yes, uh, yes, that’s me,’ was Julian’s answer, before he ventured another question: ‘Are you CIA?’
‘No,’ the pilot said flatly and proudly. ‘The guys in the back are Marshals, or Secret Service, or something or another. Freddy here is Company, but I’m not. Not anymore. I’m just a guy with some cheap time and a plane. Welcome aboard the White Hat Express!’
He stumbled through his more recent memories for a moment before uttering: ‘Tom? You’re the professor?’
‘At your service, pen pal!’ Tom replied with a smile.
‘You two have been corresponding?’ Freddie asked with sudden interest or alarm.
‘Yeah,’ Tom said dismissively. ‘Now, Julian, where to?’
‘What do you mean?’ Julian asked.
‘I mean where do you want me to take you?’ Tom asked. Then, he clumsily tapped at a few of the screens above the throttle. ‘I’ve got nine-thousand, or ninety-five-hundred kilometers worth of range. Can’t make Australia, directly, but, there’s … Sweden? No, maybe not. Paris is just over the horizon. You probably aren’t keen on the States just yet—’
‘They’re keen on him,’ Freddy added.
‘Well, not yet,’ Tom said. ‘You just think about it, Julian, and let me know. I can hold over the Channel if I need to. Try not to take too long. I have a mountain cabin full of women who are probably angry with me about this side trip. Missing Christmas and all that, you know.’
‘You’re not taking me to a prison in America?!’ Julian asked perplexedly.
‘No, why would I?’ Tom questioned. ‘You’re a free man. It’s in the— Wait, they didn’t tell you?!’
‘Tell me what?’ Julian was confused. ‘No.’
‘Well then, the honor is mine,’ Tom said proudly again, ‘You’re free! Full pardon. Freddy or one of them has the paperwork. And, not to burden you, but you are requested – at your convenience – for a special consultation on some more recent, pressing matters. The uh, the shitshow, you know? There’s a storm about to hit. Hard. Anyway, Merry Christmas, old man!’
Julian leaned on the door, feeling a lump moving up and through his throat. A pardon? He thought. For—
As if reading his new friend’s thoughts, Tom quietly added, ‘Not that you did anything wrong. But, all’s safe and legal now. And, I’m serious. Wherever you want. Got family somewhere? Or, friends? Why don’t you talk it over with her and get back to me.’
‘Talk to whom?’ Julian asked as tears filled his lower eyes. ‘Who is her, she?’
Tom looked sidelong at Freddy and almost growled, ‘You didn’t fucking tell him?! He hasn’t seen her yet? It’s a small plane!’
‘We had her scooch down in a rear seat, and she’s obviously still playing along,’ Freddy said defensively. ‘It was going to be part of the surprise, along with the pardon. Then, you had to take off like a wildman and—’
Tom cut Freddy’s explanation short. Holding the intercom button, he spoke out loudly and clearly, ‘Sweetheart, come on up here. He really needs you.’
Julian, utterly confused, wiped his sleeve over his eyes. But, she was already there. From behind him, a golden, sultry voice cooed over his shoulder, ‘Hello, beautiful.’
Turning, he looked into her eyes. His jaw dropped even as she moved in quickly to heartily embrace him. He exclaimed, ‘Pamela!’
*And now, this column [AT TPC] will enter into a short period of festive rest. I intend to return in the new year, not later than the invocation of the Insurrection Act or the commencement of President Trump’s second term. Merry Christmas to all and a very happy 2021! -Perrin
At seen, 12/22, at TPC!
20 Sunday Dec 2020
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31 Saturday Oct 2020
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The 2020 TPC Halloween Spooktacular
*Brought to you by Diet LIME CHIP! Soda
TPC Headquarters, Covington, Halloween 2020, as the sun sets…
A small host of costumed and MASKED children ambled lazily, listlessly, if cautiously incautious down the dark street. But, this year was different. The little ones were uncharacteristically quiet, in a near-silent way. One note of laughter – maniacal as could human voice might achieve – sounded from the shadows near the Confederate Monument. Laws, court orders, and history be damned! the Chairman thought, a sledgehammer in his sweaty hands. Outside, the wind blew a somber, haunting note through the barren trees. Inside, frantic last-minute preparations were underway.
‘Hand me another board,’ MB growled from atop the short ladder.
‘We’re running low,’ Bess said with a tremble as she passed up a roughly-hewn one-by-six. ‘A few more and we’ll be out. And to think about the children. The children—’
‘It’ll be enough,’ MB gritted through the nails in his teeth. ‘Got the lower windows. Just a few boards up here, per pane, should do it. They say these things are big – too big to pass through a couple of flimsy boards. It’s not like a tiny virus slipping through the relatively miles-wide gaps in a cloth facemask.’ He stopped to admire his handiwork.
‘Did you remember the back door?’ Bess asked shakily. ‘No one has used it since the mob was here about Duke Marshula.’
‘I gotta chair up against it,’ MB replied. ‘Da used to make regular use of it. Anybody seen him lately?’
‘Not since the Braves washed out,’ Bess said, staring off into nothingness. ‘He put on his NBC suit and vanished. I hope … they haven’t got him too.’ She shuttered.
‘Nah, Da’s too tough for—’ MB broke short his contemplative ablations. He paused and gasped: ‘Was that a howl?!’
‘Oh, Lord, oh, Lord!’ Bess shouted hysterically, running in circles. ‘They’re here!’
‘Shotgun, Bess, shotgun!’ MB barked. There was, for the moment, no need.
‘Sorry, y’all!’ A friendly voice called out. It was Kayla. ‘That was my stomach growling. I need to review the new Chinese place. Need to get me a big dish of beef chow mein!’
‘God! Don’t do that,’ MB said, stepping off the desk where he’d jumped in a panic. ‘Have a Snicker, diva. Nobody eats out tonight. Maybe ever. Old Lee Ho picked the worst time to open a diner. I’d say he’s Fooked all-right.’
‘I’m afraid you’re correct,’ Bess said. ‘And, has anybody seen or heard from Ryan Ralston?’
‘Alas poor Ralston, I knew him well,’ Kayla whispered.
‘Not for an age,’ MB sighed. ‘First word of all this Amerikan, ginger-snapping, dog-soldiering, company of wolfen-man howling in Atlanta, and off he goes to confront ‘em. Carrying a Pop-Tart. Had those strange friends of his tagging along. You know? The duck and the cat or whatever? His grandfather told him not to, but yeah.’ He paused and then said with a grimace: ‘Pop-Tart. Cat. Chinese. Gettin’ a little hungry myself.’
‘Say, do you guys think Fred’s hungry?’ Bess asked with sudden maternalistic concern. ‘He’s been up there for three days. Only has a few two-liters of Diet Lime Chip.’
‘Fred?!’ MB called.
‘Door’s closed! I ain’t coming down! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!’ Fred shouted through the ceiling.
The gang made their way beneath the attic door, sealed tight from above. ‘If you’re not hungry, then you got any news?’ Kayla ventured. ‘About them?’
‘Hang on!’ Fred echoed through the water-stained drywall. A humming noise emanated from his (poorly) jerry-rigged short-wave radio. ‘Coming in, now! Dr. Fauci’s speaking. He says the CDC in Atlanta has been overrun. Everyone’s dead or infected. Says the quote-unquote test they have is reliable, even if it’s never been tested and is not really a test. He’s predicting six trillion of us will be … converted or eaten unless more people start wearing plastic bags over their masks. Says the trouble is heading east rapidly.’
‘That’s our direction!’ Bess cried.
‘Do we have the silver bullet?’ Kayla asked alarmedly.
‘Yeah,’ MB answered, ‘got some Coors in the cooler.’
‘GSP had a sighting on Twenty, near Oxford, before their team vanished.’ Fred trailed off for a moment. ‘I’d say they must be on us by now. On you. You downstairs people are on your own!’ With that, he and his radio went silent.
‘Oh, no, no, no, no, no!’ Bess wailed, again circling the floor. ‘Children in C-Town! Won’t someone think of the werewolves?!’
‘I think those last kids on the street were just eaten alive,’ Kayla said ruefully. ‘Just a hunch, but I know this year we don’t need facts. I mean, if Dr. Fauci said they’re real, then they’re real.’
‘The wolf and the kid…’ Bess mumbled Aesopically.
‘Screw the kids!’ MB barked again, barkingly. ‘Uh, sorry, Bess. I mean bless those rugrats and whatnot. But, they’re on their own. They knew about the wolves. Same warning we all had. Now, I’ve got one last sash and three boards.’
‘Oh! The worst year,’ Bess said through tears. ‘First the economic coverup … I mean the virus. Then, the police state … I mean lockdown for safety. Next, we had all of the White Supremacy peaceful protests over the not-police killing of Cannon Hinnant. Russia planted that laptop for the Proud Boys – with the videos of everything except Big Floyd. And now, werewolves are coming. WEREWOLVES ARE COMING!’
‘We know they’re real because the deep state government and the totally-independent media that have both lied to us about everything ever say so,’ Kayla remarked.
‘They won’t get TPC!’ MB said defiantly while hammering a cigarette and trying to light a nail.
At that very moment, the sum of all their fears burst into violent reality. From down the stairs, there came a rattling sound, followed by a creaking and hoarse moaning.
‘Did anyone lock the front door?’ someone asked in vain.
‘Something’s snarling downstairs!’ Bess screamed.
‘It sounds hungry and crazy and overly curmudgeonly for its age! Kayla shrieked.
‘Tell me when it’s over!’ MB called down from his perch on the chandelier.
Bess leveled the double-barrel towards the blackness of the stairwell. Kayla stood by with the flashlight. MB swung pensively. In breathless terror, they waited. Heavy feet clomped up the steps. A shady, shaggy shadow crept forward out of the deeper darkness. There came the distinctive sound of a wild beast snapping, menacingly, nationalistically. At the last possible second, Kayla hit the light.
‘Get that out of my eyes!’ A perpetually-perturbed, none-too-local, and all-too-dialectic voice shouted. ‘Bess, put that blunderbuss away!’
A figure stumbled into the room.
‘Perrin!’ Bess cried. ‘We thought you’d been eaten by a werewolf!’
‘We thought you were a werewolf!’ Kayla chimed.
‘Little help up here,’ MB whispered from above.
‘Cheap soda socialists!’ came a rumor from the attic.
‘WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU NUTS GOING ON ABOUT?!’ Perrin demanded, demandingly.
‘Hello!’ Kayla hello’d. ‘Werewolves taking over? It’s all that’s on the news!’
‘They ate Da and Ryan and all the children,’ Bess said as she absent-mindedly ejected two previously fired shells from an ancient hammerless Nerf blaster.
‘Yeah, man. It’s like the pandemic, but completely more plausible,’ MB added before tumbling to the floor in a heap. ‘Go Dawgs…’ he muttered from behind the poorly-placed armoire.
‘Werewolves?!’ Perrin bellowed in typical cynicism. ‘That’s just another hoax! Won’t you people learn that everything everyone says at all times is a lie? That’s the truth, you know.’
‘But, even you said, It’s a monster! Grab the guns!’ MB remembered at the most or least opportune time. ‘Dude, like you’re even carrying a rifle, right now.’
‘I was talking about the ELECTION FALLOUT!’ Perrin boomed before wheezing pathetically, forced to lean on his newly, uh, appropriated .458 SOCOM for support. ‘The election! Civil War! Mass casualties! For the love of— For the last time – like fake, unisolated viral hoaxes, werewolves don’t exist!’
Whilst the office party evaded the eyes of the literary scion of Floyd, not one of them noticed the disheveled carcass of Da, who had, unseen, followed Perrin in, tromp to the top stair step, right behind Perrin, standing, glaring at the assembly with wicked yellow eyes, his wild hair matted like that of an unkempt wild wolf, his chest heaving, fangs protruding, growling, like a man who, bitten by some demented demon wilderness canine – as part of a sentence that just drags on and on and on and on … and you get the point, I think – had himself been turned into a hairy beast, more creature than man, intent on revenge and mayhem, poised to pounce, claws out, et cetera, et cetera, etc, and so forth; behind a semicolon, far, far, far beyond the help of a definitely terminable punctuation mark (of any kind), and now issued forth a GggggrrrrrrrRRRRR!!!! sound that indicated that he was most likely considering his former co-workers as a meal – notwithstanding Fred, who was still safe up in the attic (and, let’s face it: attic doors embedded in, let’s say a nine or ten-foot ceiling would be a little difficult for even a “War-Wilf!” to reach, because I’m going with the idea that Tolkien knew what he was talking about when he said something to the effect that not even the wild wargs could climb trees [although, even if a collapsing, spring-loaded attic door isn’t the same as a tree, we can all freely speculate] and therefore, moving on) and furthermore, okay, okay, OK, I’m losing my place now … they finally noticed that which they almost hated to think might really be Da!
Looking over his shoulder, Perrin got off the group’s final pointless words: ‘Da, what big ears you- gggahafffff!!!!!!!’
And, somewhere between the cold street and the high, full moon, a shuttering, bellowing HOWL pierced the night!
…
Away, over on 441, driving north, unaware of the unfolding calamity – perhaps shielded from it by some vague disturbance in the continuum, Thomas Becket wondered aloud: ‘How the hell did a nice French teacher like me get roped into this third-rate tripe? Ah, well, maybe there’s an old Warren Zevon song on. Or, at least a cheap ripoff…’
I saw a politician with a crumpled paper in its paw,
Staggering through the Esoteric South in pain.
It was looking for the place called T-P-C!
Gonna get its fill of something lame.
Raooooooooo… ah, yeah…
HAPPY HALLOWEEN This Holiday Canceled By Order of Dr. Fauci.
25 Sunday Oct 2020
Posted in Legal/Political Columns
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It’s too bad that no one thought to mention any of the following tripe to Abe Lincoln and his successors. An oath to fiction:
Milley too feels strongly about the necessity of keeping the U.S. military out of politics and the election.
“We don’t swear an oath of allegiance to an individual, a king, a queen, a president or anything else,” he said in an interview with NPR. “We don’t swear an oath of allegiance to a country, for that matter. We don’t swear an oath of allegiance to a flag, a tribe, a religion or any of that. We swear an oath to an idea, or a set of ideas and values, that are embedded in our Constitution.”
As a result of these comments, Banks is optimistic that the worst case election scenario in the event of disputed election results might just be lawsuits in certain states where the outcomes are murky.
“A really important limitation in the event that there is martial law is that it’s highly unlikely to be tolerated in a situation where our civilian institutions are working,” Banks noted. “Martial law requires a complete meltdown. It requires the inability of our civilian institutions to manage government. It’s hard to imagine that.”
Tolerated? Odds are it will be demanded. And done.
16 Friday Oct 2020
Posted in fiction
≈ Comments Off on SOLD OUT – A New “Novel”
A gift for you, dear readers! I had honestly forgotten that this summer, I wrote another novel. Yeah, how does one forget something like that? Dunno. It’s some fifteen times longer than El Dinosaurio, but it’s a book in that diminutive category.
Because you’re special, some sample text:
They both suspected, though they did not know, it would be the last time they ever saw him. Roberto was a man of few words. Naturally, he bolted out the front door without saying anything. A second later, his car passed by, zooming down Main Street towards an uncertain future.
Almost a year earlier, they had moved into the new building in the center of town. A town of pews and not of news, they thought it now. Sometimes time ticks by; sometimes it just ticks.
‘We’ve got to sell the paper!’ he said, frantically throwing business cards in the air like confetti.
‘Today’s copy, or the whole thing?’ she asked.
‘Both!’ he said.
Morina was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. He figured he’d like to take her out for the evening. He did.
Here, because you’re really special, for free, is the whole thing: SOLD OUT (PL, 2020).
07 Wednesday Oct 2020
Posted in fiction, Other Columns
≈ Comments Off on Of Supremacy And Arms – Weekly Column WITH Ironsides Fiction!
Tags
fiction, politics, short story, supremacy, Tom Ironsides, War, weapons, white people
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.
I.
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?
II.
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.’
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