• About
  • Blog (Ext.)
  • Books
  • Contact
  • Education Resources
  • News Links

PERRIN LOVETT

~ Deo Vindice

PERRIN LOVETT

Tag Archives: fiction

Better Late Than Never: Summer 2020 With Tom Ironsides

10 Thursday Sep 2020

Posted by perrinlovett in Other Columns

≈ Comments Off on Better Late Than Never: Summer 2020 With Tom Ironsides

Tags

academic studies, fiction, summer 2020, Tom Ironsides

The following just came to my attention. Dr. Ironsides submitted, 7/24/20), something somewhere that went unpublished. Here goes:

What Has Tom Ironsides Been Up To Lately?

Hello,

I hope you’ve been enjoying our new national insanity and dissolution as much as I haven’t. The esteemed Mr. Lovett, after asking many uncomfortable questions about ballistic delivery systems, has again embraced his innate laziness. [Ahem, ha ha] He will, I trust, return soon with more of his peculiar commentaries. For now, I am compelled to explain what I’ve been doing during these strangest of times. Here goes:

Rounding out an unusual academic term, I learned to use Zoom, even managing to flip the camera right-side-up once or twice. (I fear we shall repeat this experiment again this fall). I have not worn a mask, though I did find myself looking at diamond rings for some odd reason. USSOCOM invited me to Tampa as an emergency guest lecturer. Another federal agency pestered me about something else. My Vette is still “on order.” Professionally, I’m podding through that next research paper; to answer Birch, I think we could be looking at both Syracuse and Adrianople moments, almost simultaneously. I’m also muddling through two other papers, of which I offer a preview:

1.

Why Johnny Can’t Tell Time

*With Prof. Michelle Zeit-Uhrwerk, College of Education, Ohio State University

**To appear in the forthcoming volume (if any, thank you Corona) of the Journal of Earlier Childhood Re-Education, Toronto (2020??)

My co-author is admittedly, if quietly, aghast at my simplified answer to our titular question: Because you didn’t fucking teach him how! As Alexander Astin wrote, “students learn what they study.” They tend, within the confines of a school system, to study what is taught. A recent British research paper and the dregs at Slate both reached the conclusion that time, at least as expressed in an analog fashion, is rendered meaningless by modernity. The Smithsonian considers the entirety of timeliness a vestige of “racism” or something. They’re not alone in the delusion. As “rapper” Cha’quella Tha Quain put it, in keeping with the ongoing enstupidation of society, on Twitter: “timeclok [SIC] = whit [SIC] supremry [SIC] time up fo whit [SIC] time!!! #fukdaclok #BLM #transpride.” A hearty thank you (I think) to my daughter, Victoria, for searching the digital wasteland for this profound wisdom. Watch out, Orange Man! You’ve got some competition for the title of the head idiot! 

Some know of my trek through the fallen halls of lower academia, where I personally witnessed the inability of a vast swath of the studentry to connect the position of the hands of a simple clock with the corresponding time of day. The children readily admitted they are not taught this antiquated skill, allegedly as obsolete as multiplication, reading, and impulse control. I think we need not discuss the resulting confusion generated by the combinations of Is, Vs, and Xs adorning the faces of some chronographs. Of course, some students independently learn this mystical art. Others, a select few, still learn by rote instruction courtesy of dedicated teachers. The rest are left with a vague understanding that, as the sun passes overhead, something ticks by, as demonstrated by a set of four numbers, separated by a punctuation mark they cannot name, on a digital display. This is, sadly, not only my experience in contraposition against the anger of the hippity-hopper set. 

Following an offhand remark at a (pre-Coronafication) conference, Prof. Zeit-Uhrwerk contacted me about a small-scale randomized confirmation study. Here, I confess that she currently toils with the final editing process, whilst I merely add anecdotal garnish. An abstract of our abstract:

We sampled 442 K-8 students from 16 public elementary and middle schools across seven states, a population regressively reverse-weighted for age progression and the supposed increase in knowledge retention. The lunatics among you will be most happy to know that we observed no “achievement gap” along the precious lines of race, sex, familial economic standing, or other excuse-laden bullshit categories! We did find a shocking lack of comprehension across the board. For mathematical reduction, we devised a simple measurement scale of One through Twelve (so as to honor those Is, Vs, and Xs), where “1” = no concept of time, and “10” = full understanding, akin to that of an Eighteenth-Century peasant. 

The Mean (of Understanding):

μ = ΣX / N

= Σ(1,069.64) / 442

μ = 2.42

When Mu equals two on a scale to twelve, we may have a small crisis-like problem.

Examining gain (or loss, rather…) of understanding over the individual subject X-value’s years in “school,” we arrived at a messy blob of a graph which resembled a birdshot pattern deposited by a drunk from the floor. I burned out the batteries in my HP 12C and 17B, but I managed to finagle a correlation coefficient that didn’t conjure mental images of Wile E. Coyote going off the cliff. Here, dammit, r = -.987, so there’s that. My head hurts too.

Solutions?

In the age of narcotic overdose-induced riots and virus-masked economic collapses, I suppose once again simply teaching this lost art in first or second grade is out of the question. The innumerate harpies and pederasty-enthusiasts at the education administrative levels would likely mumble something incoherent about “federal programs” or “need more money!” For my humble part, I have very good news: my children can help yours.

My son is a recent EE graduate and my daughter specializes in organizational media. Together, they are forging a simple “App,” what we used to call a program, for the phones and devices your kids can’t live without. Soon, you’ll have the luxury of downloading, for free, and from the spy-site store or your choice, CLARK THE CLOCK! He’s a delightful cartoon character who “raps” about the circular movements of his hands. I’m not one to promote primitive log-thumping rhymes, but I’ve come to accept this may be the best (or only) meaningful hope for communication with the lingering Zs and Post-Zs. Clark’s currently beta testing, so please stand by. You have the time.

2.

Vampires on Campus

A Survey of Predatory Lending on an America University Campus

*Forthcoming: Slovakia Professorial Press, in Conjunction with the Didactic Research Center, Matej Bel University, Banská Bystrica (2020?)

This one is more of a glorified Op-Ed. It is interesting, especially what we’ve recently learned about the nature of the too-real Vampyre (of which few seem to care or care even to notice). At any rate, my targets are the money-sucking scum who prowl about universities, seeking the financial ruin of the young. They, by my hand, if necessary, are not allowed at my small Catholic college. However, I do visit, on a semi-regular basis, the Appalachian State University in Boone (or, I did before the hoax deepened). There, I observe things. In addition to the horrors of student loan usury, the credit card merchants, like lecherous money-changers in the temple of learning, lurk about, ever offering “easy” money (along with t-shirts, coffee cups, hoodies, and apps) to the unsuspecting marks. The Sheriff shot down my original idea, of going all John 2:13 on them, as a possible felony. This quasi-academic screed must suffice. I’m marketing it towards the Euro sector both to interact with old friends and to pass a warning to a nation(s) with a future.

…

Have a great day, friends. I hope you enjoy whatever it is that still gives you purpose and hope. I have to journey to the lumber house where they offer a composite metal material with the appearance of old slate roofing. I found that hard to believe as well.

-Tom

[dthi/fac.jpg] Dr. Thomas H. Ironsides, II (Ph.D., Harvard) is Professor of Classics at Saint Thomas of Aquino College and President of the American Classical Education (ACE) Center. As a USMC and CIA hired gun (retired), he scoured the Earth in order to secure banking profits and perpetrate/obscure imperial malfeasance. With any luck, by the end of the summer, his little cabin in the hills will have a roof.

Economic Imitates Fiction

15 Wednesday Apr 2020

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

≈ Comments Off on Economic Imitates Fiction

Tags

economics, fiction, Todd Vispoli, Tom Ironsides, TPC

Not that long ago, just as the Corona Hoax and concurrent Economic Collapse were getting underway, I ran a lengthy analysis of the same, at TPC, using fictional voices to make real points and predictions. It’s interesting, and alarming to see nearly all of Todd’s (and Tom’s) calls coming true. Just a few (more) that I saw today alone:

WE HAVE NO MONEY ANYMORE!

Universal Basic Income

The System Is Rigged

Not sure if I directly relayed the following, though I’ve mentioned it here and at FP for years: They Want To Steal Your Cash!

Another example(s) of reading it from me with humor, today, or get it weeks, months, or years later from the drab MSM. (Read it here!)

PS: A new TPC column should be along later today!

Remarkable Analysis

30 Monday Mar 2020

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

≈ Comments Off on Remarkable Analysis

Tags

banksters, economics, Federal Reserve, fiction, Todd Vispoli

Just moments ago, the babbling idiots on CNBC BRAGGED!!! about the multiplier effect, noting (correctly) that for every dollar in “public” loans from that hideous $2+ Trillion bailout, five to ten dollars in private bankster loans can be created. *Poof* Instant “money.” This sounds oddly like what Todd Vispoli tried to explain to the sheeple back on St. Paddy’s Day:

There used to be a ratio – nine to one or ten to one. For every dollar in public debt, they could technically manufacture another nine on the private side, though they didn’t always do it or have to. Now, that’s a thing of the past. There are, now, no reserves to manipulate. It’s all debt-based fakery and smoke, and now, they just print whenever and whatever they think will work. Or, that they think they can get away with.

They get away with a lot. And, people brag about it. So, two trillion could become ten to twenty trillion. Like magic.

Meanwhile, Orange Man is bigger than the Batchelor.

Welcome to Clown World, the pandemic edition.

A Social Distance – a little fiction where we left off…

28 Saturday Mar 2020

Posted by perrinlovett in Other Columns

≈ Comments Off on A Social Distance – a little fiction where we left off…

Tags

Coronavirus, fiction, hoax, short story, Todd Vispoli, Tom Ironsides

Noo Yawkas and Congress-critters are telling each other to “shut the f-ck up,” and the police are hunting out-of-staters in RI, FL, and TX. But, let’s take a look at the lighter side, if any, of the current panic:

A Social Distance

Steubenville, Ohio, Saint Patrick’s Day 2020, 6 PM…

A woman was screaming at the top of her lungs. The words were incoherent but her tone and demeanor left no doubt as to her murderous intentions. Another woman, a little older and quieter, had just connected with the emergency operator and frantically pleaded for help. On the floor, two men rolled and wrestled violently. Neither trained or experienced for the encounter, they flailed and tugged; each unsure whether to grapple or strike, they did both with inartful abandon. Nearby, a larger man began shoving several teenagers towards a wall, cursing and spluttering as he did so. It had come to this so rapidly. And it would surely get worse as night fell. Part of the large crowd pressed in closer, jostling with each other – to avail themselves of a better view of the mayhem or, possibly, to join it. Others, having no desire for brutality, began to depart the scene.

Seeing his chance, he darted through the madness and ran a short distance. He quickly glanced over his shoulder. Someone, maybe another irate woman, yelled something about “go ahead and run!” He didn’t care so long as he was temporarily free. He had a job to do. Turning away he again scanned the environment. It wasn’t his usual neighborhood and he would have been out of place on a good day. Just then, as he started to recover his wits, a crazed man in a medical mask rushed by in a frenzy. Rammed almost to the ground, he jumped up. He resisted the urge to say anything and kept moving. He was also resisting the calls of his own better judgment: “Just get out of there, you fool!” He’d never in his life been in war nor any serious criminal altercation. As he ducked and dodged forward, he wondered if his luck would run out. He fully expected gunfire to ring out at any moment.

Then, when from behind the shouting, screaming, and sounds of physical objects being broken reached a frantic peak, he came to a corner. Turning it, he beheld utter devastation. It was like the views of some third-world country in the midst of a civil war that one sometimes sees on the evening news: he was about to enter an area of desolation and despair. He did so at a run, fast enough (he thought) not to become a target, but slow enough (he hoped) to allow his senses to process the survivors – if there were any left. 

Foot by torturous foot, he made his way – as quickly though carefully as possible – through a sea of destruction, down a veritable bombed-out street. He knew it had been quaint and civilized just hours earlier. The thoughts, augmented by the whirling fury around him, made him sick. What has become of us! he asked himself. Portions of a lunch too hastily consumed ventured to the back of his mouth. He fought the urge to vomit. He fought the stronger urge to make a break for safety. To say things were looking black would have been an understatement. Here, here of all places where it should have been, he found only chaos and the crumpled remains of civilization. Only when he was about to give in to all his urges, to abandon his desperate quest, did a ray of hope shine in like the sun through dark clouds: he saw something! No, it wasn’t what he’d come for, what he expected, or even what he thought might be useful. But, damn it, it was all he had now. Figuring any alternative would make do under the circumstances, he reached out his free hand and grabbed it. He grabbed it and ran! Now! Now, he pursued a speed he had not known since his days in college and that failed tryout for the varsity track team. This time around, his prize might well be his life. He knew that and made use of all his cascading fears and all his remaining energy.

A moment later he was rewarded. This thing, made so precious by the insanity of his fallen world, along with the other odd bits and pieces of things he’d found in a pinch, was finally and truly his. The monetary price, small though it was, did not matter. Ten times the value he would have paid and happily. The extra plastic bags he snagged, almost as an afterthought, were the icing on the sour cake. He had made it through the gauntlet of death! Phone in hand, he collapsed into the comfort of his waiting SUV, somewhere out there in the vast Kroger parking lot.

‘Honey! Honey,’ he cried into the small, flat glass screen, ‘I found some! They were all out of toilet paper, but I got a box of Kleenex. The last one. It’s a small square one, but it’s better than nothing. I love you, baby, I love you!’

‘Todd,’ Claire asked with mild annoyance in her voice, ‘where are you?’

‘Kroger. Steubenville,’ Todd gasped as another police car screeched to a stop nearby. ‘On my way back, I tried everywhere. The Kroger and the Shop ‘n Save in Weirton. Even Walmart. All I could find was a little four-pack. A roll of paper towels. Some canned tuna. No… No hand sanitizer anywhere. It’s a wasteland out-’

‘Todd Vispoli!’ Claire said, the annoyance crystal clear now; ‘It’s time you came home. I’m cooking supper and Bryson wants to toss the football around. Ruthie wants to play cheerleader. And Lizzy has a question about something. I need my husband and the kids need their father. Quit playing soldier and come home!’

‘Okay, okay, baby,’ he panted as he watched more police cars and a firetruck enter the lot. ‘But, it’s going to get rough. We need toilet paper. Basics. Tom Ironsides, my new friend, said it’s going to get really ugly. Already is. I just saw people trying to kill each other for grits and bacon. Not a loaf of bread left in the store-’

‘Todd, my dear,’ Claire said with a bit more understanding in her voice, ‘we know that. It’s all on the news – all that’s on. You didn’t need a CIA spook to tell you. I asked you not to go to Pittsburgh in the first place. Remember?’

Todd thought back to the weekend and her advice that the conference would probably be cut short even if it was allowed to commence. As he watched an officer retrieve a rifle from the trunk of a Dodge Charger, he shifted into reverse and prepared to depart. ‘You were right, you were right,’ he said. ‘We were wrapping up a panel discussion when the cops and the health inspector shut it down. Tom and I went to a bar – you’d remember it, Marv’s place on the river – for beer and sandwiches. But, we’d just started eating when the police came in and ordered everyone out. I was a little afraid we’d get arrested or something. They had many harsh words for Marv.

‘Anyway, as we were walking out the front door, these two FBI agents approached and wanted to talk to Tom. “Colonel,” they said, “we’ve got some really bad news. Need your input on some things,” they said. He talked with them for a few minutes, half of it in whispers. He seemed almost amused and kept telling them, “I just don’t care.” Then, they said something that got his attention, something about it backfiring and the Omega Section, whatever that is. All of a sudden, Tom got really serious. Before he left with the G-men, he told me to head straight home but to maybe stock up before I got to the house. He said there was about to be panic – but not for the right reasons – and that things like toilet paper would be in short supply. He said we might be locked down for a while. Said it might turn into martial law – or worse. I’ve been looking for tee-pee since I left Pittsburgh. Tough luck out here.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I did my big monthly shopping a few days ago, while you were packing. Then, this morning, based on the ordinary news reports, I decided to do a follow-up. Riesbeck’s in Anytown had plenty of toilet paper, paper towels and everything else. We’re set for a good three months, maybe longer. I’m a prepper if you recall.’

‘And, thank God, baby!’ he said with relief as he pulled onto the highway, passing an ambulance and more police cars, all with sirens blaring and lights flashing. ‘I’ll be home in thirty minutes. Tell Bryce to be ready.’ He thought for a second and then asked, ‘Hey, in all your prepper readings and so forth, did you ever hear anything about this Omega whatever?’

‘We’ll all be ready when you arrive, dear,’ she said. ‘Omega? No, sweetie. Sounds like a big hoax to me.’

 

 

The Masque of the Red Debt

21 Saturday Mar 2020

Posted by perrinlovett in Other Columns

≈ Comments Off on The Masque of the Red Debt

Tags

Coronavirus, debt, Edgar Allan Poe, fiction

The following just kind of wrote itself out, perhaps a manifestation of my growing anger with this ridiculous hoax people are buying hook, line, and toilet paper. Or, it might just be another ripoff. The Prince is now considering a national lockdown for two weeks. If that happens, and when it’s over, and nothing has happened but your economy is completely wrecked, then maybe your anger will emerge too.

The Masque of the Red Debt

“And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.”

  • Edgar Allan Poe, The Masque of the Red Death, 1842

*****

THE “Red Debt” had for over a century plagued the nation. No scheme had ever been so evil, or so impactful. It reduced to ruination and nothingness the currency. All value it supplanted. The bankrupt corpses of the victims littered the land. All was seemingly lost.

But the Prince Faux Prospero was fat and stupid and insouciant. When half his subjects were aborted, he called forth a host of six-hundred-sixty-six of his friends amongst the rich, the beautiful, the lustful, and the wicked. Away they departed into the far hinterlands, where, upon a stout hillock, the Prince had constructed the super-sized-est of McMansions. Gay was their procession. “Pizza” was in the train. Upon their ensconcement, the wardens locked them within and the world without. The world, they felt, could simply burn. Within they were enriched. Without lurked the “Red Debt.”

After some time so secluded, the Prince hosted for the throng a masquerade of some significance. 

Six were the rooms of the paraded revelry – a literal half-dozen. These safe spaces were arranged in a manner that required drunken meandering to peruse in full. The Prince was crooked in all affairs, even architecturally. First, the chosen guests entered through the white hall of purity, an apartment bereft of all furnishings and accompaniment – a place of no interest to them. Second, was the beige hall of plenty, of honest endeavor, a room largely empty. The third was the hall of celebrity, wherein every surface mirrored the visages of the gleeful guests, all thrilled to see and to think of themselves. The fourth, the theater of lies, was ablaze with telescreens, each pouring forth a cacophony of disinformation to the amusement of the elite. Fifth, there was the harsh chamber of power, all adorned with flags and columns. There, brash music played in military time. The last – the sixth hall – was shrouded in shades of green and gold, which shimmered bewitchingly. This was the Temple of Usury. Here, in the center of the spacious floor, there reposed and hummed a printing press of vast proportion. From this infernal device, issued a continuous stream of cash money, free and easy for the taking. 

Within these strange walls, the Prince and his guests socially distanced themselves from the suffering of The People. Outside, beyond the tall gates and strong walls, a lone man shouted in vain, calling, “End it! Burn it!” None heeded his words or countenance. 

Within, the party raged. All about, one fool after another cavorted in garb befitting their collective, contrived status. Few if any noticed among them the appearance of a visitor. Only upon his passage through several of the halls – slowly lurching forth in much the same fashion as the grave stalks the careless youth – did the assorted oddities of his presence take note. A gasp here, a whisper there, but till forth came the shadowy menace. For all in black was he clad, in a robe without shape. A cold air went before him and lingered in his wake. Silent he was. As was suggested by his blank, sterile mask perhaps he had no mouth with which to speak. It was as if he wore a virus as a veil in a successful bid to out-Shylock Shylock.

When, upon some time, he had processed unto the theater of lies, suddenly there in all screens began to flicker and all went silent. Concurrently, in the chamber of power, abruptly halted the jingoist hymnal. So was alerted the Prince Faux Prospero, who heretofore had minded the music which haunted that chamber. From there, he cried aloud, “Churl! Who mocks our advantage with such spectral Corona? Remove thou medical mask, so we might examine our next victim!” His plea ignored by the advancing figure, the Prince broke to within six feet of him, his silver stang raised high and poised. Yet, the strike became stricken, for, with a shriek, there fell dead the False Prince of Prosperity. 

Six-hundred-sixty-six rainbow-clad mere mortals, elite no more, ran helter-skelter through the halls as, at last, the silent figure reached the Temple of Usury. Standing before the printing press, he raised his mask upon its elastic bands. Then, all beheld the RED DEBT! He had fallen upon them even as they had fallen upon the ranks of the decent and the poor – his way was deception and by it he now did war. His ghastly hand was laid upon the machine. Six-hundred-sixty-six screaming heathens swooned, swayed, and toppled down – as dead as the culture and society they had of late entombed. The screens all went out and the press hummed its final tone. Room by room went as dark as a gravity well the lifeless halls. And through darkness and death, the Red Debt destroyed all.

 

The Snakes – St. Patrick’s Fiction – from TPC

17 Tuesday Mar 2020

Posted by perrinlovett in Legal/Political Columns, Other Columns

≈ Comments Off on The Snakes – St. Patrick’s Fiction – from TPC

Tags

Coronavirus, economics, fiction, Saint Patrick, snakes, Tom Ironsides, TPC

The Snakes

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day! The following is a fictional tale involving all-too-real national events and themes, an homage of sorts to the Socratic dialogues of old. It’s almost 3,700 words long. For the “TL;DR” and Farcebook crowd, I offer an appropriate alternative: CLICK HERE (no reading required).

*****

Announcer: ‘…concludes the administration’s latest remarks on the ongoing national emergency. C-SPAN now returns to our coverage of the Current Events Panel Discussion at the National Education Policy Conference in Pittsburgh. Doctor Thomas Ironsides of Saint Thomas of Aquino College is answering a series of questions related to the crisis in the schools and the Coronavirus…’

A confused young school administrator sought to clarify the panelist’s previous answers: ‘But, Doctor Ironsides, you said, you said that the situation with the virus is akin to the allegory or the metaphor of Saint Patrick and the snakes. Wikipedia says there were no snakes in Ireland back then. If there’s another meaning in all of this, for, say, students in my district, then what is it?’

‘No. Saint Patrick didn’t drive out literal reptiles. It was more like reptilians. Snakes were a collective metaphorical name given to his true target, something much worse, something that Church Fathers and medieval scholars were loath to even name, so wicked, was it. Let’s just say that if he was in America, today, then his work would impact some of those demonic storytime hours you host for the kiddies and some of the truth-averse rainbow Read One-Eighty lessons,’ he answered with a smile. She frowned and he continued: ‘For us as a nation, it means that, as bad as it may be, that the Coronavirus isn’t the long-term problem. It’s the economy and the culture. That’s what has been revealed by the current crisis. That, and just how gullible and foolish the people have become; America is now a giant George Carlin skit.’

The woman blinked and then asked, ‘So, you’re saying the virus isn’t a big deal?’

‘No,’ Tom said, ‘what I’m saying is that the economy – all that money – is a bigger, more dangerous deal. The Corona-nineteen is obviously dangerous, but call me a skeptic, I have some doubts. I think they’re using it as cover, both for the economy and to mask some of their latent agendas. They keep saying this is the new nine-eleven. That, I have first-hand knowledge of – more than I can tell you and certainly more than you would believe. But remember, they said that nine-eleven was the new Pearl Harbor and that nothing would ever be the same – the new normal. Given who in the government and the media beats the drums about the bug and the comparisons they make, I wonder if this is yet another example of one false flag hoax begetting yet another, latest in a never-ending series of lies and manufactured panics. Or, could this finally be the ballyhooed wolf at long last emerging from the woods? Either way, how can we trust the powers this time?’

The moderator took advantage of a pause and spoke, ‘Doctor Ironsides, that’s an interesting point. Well, several, really. We, among ourselves, had some talks and more questions about what is going on with the economy. Do you have any inside insights as to what policy changes we can look for in the coming weeks or months?’

‘Other than it’s going to be really bad, no,’ Tom said with a laugh; ‘I’m no more an economist than I am a medical doctor. But I think Todd may have some answers. He’s been over here kind of fidgeting like he’s got something to say.’ He turned to the younger man at his left and said, ‘Been awfully quiet the whole time, this far. Whatcha say?’

‘Thanks, Tom, Doctor Ironsides,’ the younger man said. ‘If it’s all the same, I think I can take it from here.’

‘Have at it,’ Tom said.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ the other man began. ‘I’m Todd Vispoli and I am the Adam Smith Chair of Economics at Anytown University just down the road in Ohio.’ He looked around the room and, for a second, watched the red light atop the television camera blink. Then, he said, ‘It is the economy. And, it’s not what we should be looking for – although I think there’s plenty more to come; it’s what we’ve seen already. That should be the cause of general alarm. We are in a full economic collapse now.

‘Last week, around the time that the President spoke from the Oval Office, the Federal Reserve announced that they were immediately injecting one-point-five trillion dollars into the financial markets, into the commercial banks. That was allegedly in response to the day’s, Thursday’s stock market collapse, with that coming on the heels of other terrible bear-market days. It’s interesting, the President had just assured the people that the banks were fully capitalized and then they needed that level of assistance. CNBC said it was a direct intervention to calm the markets. Super plunge protection, if you will. The announcement worked for maybe an hour. Then, the market continued to tank. I think the day was the then biggest loss since the crash of Nineteen-eighty-seven. The next day saw a recovery when the money hit, but what a price to buy back one day of loss. This week, the roller-coaster is back in motion, with the Dow down three-thousand points yesterday, now the worst day since Eighty-seven and the largest point drop in history. Again. The roller coaster – I haven’t even looked at it today. Yesterday, the Fed cut the funds rate to zero and printed another seven-hundred billion dollars for the banks. Then, they printed another half-trillion and the IMF agreed to kick in yet another trillion. They’re even calling it quantitative easing again. Yeah, all that and the closures and the voluntary lockdowns, the masks and toilet paper, et cetera; Carlin would have had a field day with this mess. 

‘God, they’ve ginned up almost three-trillion dollars in a week! We have paleo-conservatives and assorted liberals now glibly calling for socialism to make Bernie Sanders look like a spokesman for the John Birch Society. And all this craziness comes after the recent revival of Fed interventions in the so-called repo market. Those injections were on the order of a hundred-billion per day, a revival of procedures from the fall of last year-’

‘What are they, what is the repo market, Doctor Vipoli?’ asked the moderator.

Todd laughed. ‘A great question! The truth is, other than being a free money giveaway program, no-one outside of the Fed has any idea. I’ve been teaching economics for almost twenty years and I don’t understand it. Other than that it is theft. The banks are not capitalized at all. They meet their day-to-day or night-to-night operating requirements – transfers to each other on computers – with an electronic shifting of funds that we’re not even sure exist in any real form. Lately, the books don’t balance and they have overnight shortfalls in the transfers, so the Fed provides easy money to make up the difference. The original reasons, back in September, had something very nebulous to do with quarterly tax payments and high-volume trading calls – both allegedly signs that the system was booming – and that a one-time infusion was necessary to carry liquidity demand. I guess they liked it so much that they decided to make it semi-permanent. Or, permanent. They say they’re overnight, one-day loans, but we never see any evidence that they’re paid back. In fact, if they were paid back, in full, the very next business day, then what was the reason for them in the first place? Other than pitiful management or crooked accounting or short-sightedness?

‘Rhetorical questions, of course. It’s obvious that there is a deep structural problem both in the markets and in the monetary system itself. First, there is no money in our economy! Zero. I’ll get back to that in a moment – someone remind me if I wander off. Second, given how this charade has devolved, there just isn’t enough of what they call money to go around. That’s why they run the overnight printing presses. Last fall – and, I had an argument, a debate about this, last week with Gerald Celente – last fall, through the end of the year, they printed, loaned, and inflated trillions of dollars into the banking system. Gerald says six trillion; I say over ten. We simply don’t know, other than it is a ridiculous sum. I doubt the Fed even keeps track of it. They stopped publishing accurate monetary base estimates years ago.’ He laughed again, shrugged his shoulders, and took a sip of water.

‘Is there a generalized name or theory behind this phenomenon, doctor?’ the moderator asked. ‘This is all news to me, new to me.’

‘Well, Gresham’s Law held, perfectly: the bad money drove out the good. Period. For a few years now, I’ve been calling it Kemp’s Last Stand,’ Todd said with a chuckle. ‘It goes back to an older theory, a historical observation: in general, large-sector currencies, or the currencies of powerful nations, only last about fifty years on average. When do we start the clock running on the dollar? It’s not Seventeen-seventy-six or even Nineteen-thirteen. Nixon took us completely off the gold standard, any last remaining link, in Seventy-three. Ten years later, the move was effectively permanent. I’ll pick the date as July sixteenth of Eighty-four. That’s the day that Jack Kemp’s Gold Standard Act, a last-ditch effort to return to some normalcy, was left to wither and die in a House banking subcommittee like a deformed Spartan baby left out in the cold. So, on average, the modern dollar has fourteen years of life left. But, I don’t think it’s average. It’s worse. And it could easily collapse in four years or even four months. Sooner or later, I say sooner, it’s done; too much debt and damage at this point.’

The moderator’s face, what could be seen of it, mirrored much of the confusion floating around the room. He adjusted his medical facemask and said, ‘Okay, I’ll bite. Why don’t we have money anymore? What do we have?’

‘What we have is financial sorcery,’ Todd said in answer, ‘black magic literally conjuring up fiat out of dark nothingness. It was a long, torturous death and it started in Nineteen-thirteen with the creation of the Fed. Inch by inch, year by year, they sucked all of the actual value out of the money and from the real economy. Like vampires. It’s why the things that used to cost a dollar a hundred years ago now cost a hundred dollars or more. It’s why banks and corporations own everything. It’s why the government will never pay off its debts. And, it’s why at least a third of all corporate revenue gets sucked into finance payments. More monetary dilution than monetary inflation and they’ve diluted the money until it is no longer money.

‘Money, like any other word, has a meaning, a definition. It was the same in the Eighteen-twenty-eight Webster’s as it was in the Nineteen-eighty-six Barron’s Financial Dictionary. The same as it still is in many economics texts today. Gold, or some other precious metal, was literally the standard because it was: valuable in and of itself, it was portable, acceptable to the masses, and it was fungible, or mutually interchangeable. Most importantly, it was valuable in and of itself. If for no other reason – and there are many – people have always valued gold because it is pretty.

‘These digital ones and zeroes that comprise our gazillions of modern dollars are not pretty. No woman would suggest you give her a bracelet of finest computer code! They have no value unless it’s in the substance of the electricity needed to write them on a disk or to transmit them from one server to another. How much electricity does that require? And, how much does that much electricity cost for hosting all the fake money in the whole economy? A penny? A dollar? Ten dollars?  What’s the relative value of the same amount of current, not currency? Could we, for the worth of all the Fed’s fake money codes, say, power a lightbulb for an hour?! The relative value is either zero or it’s negative.’

‘Oh, that reminds me. The funds rate is already effectively below zero, and it has been for some time. All the idiot pundits say, “you can’t go lower than zero,” but that’s just another one of their lies. Of course, you can go lower. The Europeans are below zero. That just means that either the central bank loans an extra fraction on top of the usual principal sum – at zero; or, it means that only a sub-one-hundred sum has to be repaid. Or, both. We’re there, because of the free easing and repo infusions; they bribe the banks to take the fake money with even more fake money.’

‘How can they continually print all the fake, er, the debt, uh money?’ the moderator asked.

‘It was once called the Mandrake Mechanism,’ Todd said. ‘That’s what Edward Griffin called the process – named after a cartoon magician, Mandrake – in his Creature from Jekyll Island book, a must-read. Based on growing debt demand from the federal government, the Fed manipulates the reserve requirements of the commercial banks to create additional private money – we’ll call it that, money – based on public-private debt. There used to be a ratio – nine to one or ten to one. For every dollar in public debt, they could technically manufacture another nine on the private side, though they didn’t always do it or have to. Now, that’s a thing of the past. There are, now, no reserves to manipulate. It’s all debt-based fakery and smoke, and now, they just print whenever and whatever they think will work. Or, that they think they can get away with. The government, secure with its never-ending pot of fool’s gold, is happy enough to never intervene – unless, as lately, they say, “print more!” The public is just too – what’s the word for it, Tom?’

‘Stupid,’ Tom said.

‘That’s the word!’ Todd replied. ‘Even as their relative incomes go down, and even as their purchasing power vanishes, even as they and their children become slaves to the money-lenders, the people are silent. They stay quiet because even though it’s all dearly bought with debt and more debt, at least they have their televisions, their smartphones, McDonald’s, their booze, and their pills to give them the illusion of partial prosperity. The self-delusion and the hedonism go hand-in-hand. That, and the failed schools Tom talks about, the moral decay, and all the other self-inflicted problems have brought us to a place where the people are happily menaced by Mencken’s imaginary hobgoblins. It’s ridiculous.’

‘How long do you think it can go on?’ asked another panelist in an N-95 mask.

‘No idea,’ Todd said. ‘I’m surprised it has lasted this long. The wizardry is powerful. But, sooner or later, maybe now, it has to end. Financial collapse, hopefully with a reset, a Biblical Jubilee.’

‘But, isn’t the government helping the little people with the thousand-dollar bonuses that they’re talking about?’ asked the masked woman.

‘That’s help we could do without. That’s an inflation catalyst. Besides, how, other than with more and more debt, do we pay for that?’ Todd answered and asked. ‘They’re talking about making it a yearly thing – the beginnings of universal basic income? More of the socialism that everyone suddenly likes but no-one understands. If they give it, take it. Maybe take the money and run. Fast.’

‘Doctor Ironsides, do you have any estimates on the greater geopolitical or the societal situation?’ the moderator asked.

‘I give us five, maybe ten years,’ Tom said.

‘And, then what?’ the other panelist asked.

‘Then, comes a breakup,’ Tom said. ‘Maybe it’ll come with that happy reset, a mere parting of the ways, but history dictates it will more likely involve a civil war. Multi-sided, short but nasty. I hope whoever gets to rebuild will at least do so with sound money.’

There was another pause and then Todd spoke: ‘And back to the fake money: most of it is electronic. It’s only a fraction that makes it into paper or metallic circulation. I haven’t checked lately, but we reached the point, some time ago, that making a coin cost more than the value of the coin – in terms of the value of the electronic currency, which we have established is itself worthless. I think it’s safe to conclude, in relative terms, that anything south of a five-dollar bill, is absolutely or even doubly worthless. And, we’ve lost all desire to combat the decline.

‘President Kennedy ordered, above the Fed’s angry objections, the last batch of real, literal United States Currency, ordered in the early Sixties and in circulation until Nixon’s decree or thereabouts. Rather than being styled Federal Reserve Notes, these bills were titled United States Dollars. They came directly from the Treasury. Old school style. We don’t do that anymore. Johnson, Nixon, and the rest learned the lesson after the Fed had Kennedy assassinated.’

Following a collective gasp, the moderator spoke: ‘Wow. Okay, I think we have a question. Sir?’

A portly, effeminate man approached the microphone and spoke through his mask: ‘Oh my, no. I had a- But now- Come on! I don’t really understand everything you just said, but the Federal Reserve would clearly never kill anyone. Actually, everyone knows that!’

‘I’ve killed people for them,’ Tom said with dead seriousness; ‘More than a few – aaack-tually. These modern-day serpents don’t aim to lose, but as Todd said, they’ve run the game about as far as it can go. Here’s an interesting way to frame some of this! While he was talking, I was playing with my calculator. A dollar bill is about six and one-eighth inches long. Three trillion of them, laid end-to-end, would reach from here to Mars and back again – two-hundred-eighty-four million miles long. Each bill weighs exactly one gram. So, in a great big stack, they weigh – hang on – they weigh three-point-three million tons! That’s like ten fully-loaded supertankers – full of electronic paper garbage. We’re being crushed by monopoly money, figuratively, maybe literally.

‘If that’s the price of buying stability today, whereas it only took a tenth of it to buy peace, six months before, then what’s it going to take tomorrow? How many zeroes do they have on their calculators?’

‘Not enough,’ Todd interjected, ‘especially if, or when, this level of fiat starts leaking out of the commercial banks, which it has too, like with the thousand-dollar bonuses. The resulting inflation will call for more money to combat, which will, in turn, make things even worse. Everything in the economy is based on fake debt. I say fake because they don’t ever loan any real value. They give hollow promises, and we give them slavery in return. The quote-unquote money for the loan is created by the loan itself. You school people are always babbling about equity these days, not quite, I think, understanding what that means. But, true equity would allow the borrower – and we’re all borrowers – to repay in exactly like kind. If they press a button for free cash, then we get to do the same in repayment. That would, of course, mean canceling all the debt out, which is just what is needed. That, and making usury a capital felony. We’re overdue for a Jubilee.

‘It’s really all the banks do with all the back and forth nightly loans. Why not let it apply to everyone? With all this free fake money flying around, why does no benefit from it ever go to genuine living humans? One, it’s because they hate us, and two, it’s because they’re desperately afraid of losing their power – which is all their sorry existence amounts to.’

‘And desperate people do desperate things,’ Tom added; ‘like killing people who get in the way. Or, say, manufacturing a crisis. Or, more likely, taking advantage of a natural crisis. You know, like a pandemic or something? My friends, not all wars are fought with bullets.’

Announcer: ‘We are being ordered to cut- We are leaving the National Education Conference in Pittsburgh so as to show our, uh, regularly-scheduled coverage of the White House Tour Office, which is closed, but in which men are currently steam-cleaning the carpet. Let’s watch that…’

 

After the panel prematurely concluded, in a hallway full of reporters in masks, policemen in masks, and health officials in NBC suits…

‘That was almost kind of fun, huh?’ Todd asked Tom.

‘Yes, it was!’ Tom said. ‘Now, I almost feel like walking around and punching some of these ridiculous facemasks. You wanna join me in a little mayhem?’

‘Think we just caused enough of that,’ Todd laughed. ‘But, I’m done for the day. All of us are, now, with the police dispersing the conference. There were more than ten of us. Anyway, how about we grab some green beers for the holiday – if inflation hasn’t made them too expensive – and you tell me about some of those bankster kills? Much as you’re comfortable with.’

‘I’m no longer comfortable with any of it – best forgotten. But, beer is a great idea! Put some social distance between us and these nuts.’ Tom said. ‘I saw a place around the corner overlooking the river – if it’s open. Are any bars left open?’

‘I know that place. Yeah, he’ll be open. Guy’s a rebel. Let’s go!’ Todd said. Then, as they started walking, he lowered his voice to a whisper: ‘Hey, rumor around the word processor has it that you’ve met him, you know, the big guy…’

‘Yeah,’ Tom said quietly, ‘he roped me into an interview’ – here he made air quotes – ‘in one of his idiotic columns ahead THE SUBSTITUTE. Very strange, the whole thing.’

‘You think the family and I will ever get a novel?’ Todd asked.

‘Probably depends on how much green beer he has…’

 

READ AT TPC

-or-

DOWNLOAD THE WHOLE STORY

Post 3,000

15 Wednesday Jan 2020

Posted by perrinlovett in Other Columns, Uncategorized

≈ Comments Off on Post 3,000

Tags

3000 posts!, blog, blog history, fiction, writing

3,000! THREE THOUSAND posts since the blog began back in 2012. I’ve been running a little hard lately. In the near term, I may slow just a hair to concentrate on some projects, but folks, we’re only just warming up, here.

This report came in on Monday:

Screenshot 2020-01-13 at 6.23.06 PM

4 Million words in 20.5 months. That’s a little high – it’s probable that the total accounts for many articles, etc. that were checked at least twice. Still, I’d estimate it’s really more like 2 Million, or roughly 97,500 per month, 3,200 words a day. That’s about right. I average in the top 2-3% of users for volume and for unique words. Mistakes too, as many of you know.

Anyway, this is 3,000. No. 2,999 was about Amazon publishing:

Screenshot 2020-01-15 at 10.02.13 AM

Know idea what’s up next. Rest assured, you will read it here. More to come!

Screenshot 2020-01-15 at 10.10.50 AM

And, Thank You, All! – P

In Good Company

15 Wednesday Jan 2020

Posted by perrinlovett in News and Notes, Other Columns

≈ Comments Off on In Good Company

Tags

Amazon, books, Dean Koontz, fiction, publishing

There’s something to the trend of Amazon both publishing and selling books, particularly fiction. My debut novel is doing okay, and apparently making waves now, but I’m not in the league of Amazon’s latest super author, Dean Koontz.

When Dean Koontz’s book contract expired last year, his stature as one of the country’s top-selling authors made him a hot target for several major publishing houses. He chose Amazon.com Inc. AMZN -1.16%

It was a surprising move because it means his new books likely won’t appear in retail stores, which generally boycott Amazon AMZN -1.16% -published titles. But Mr. Koontz is banking on Amazon’s vast retail machine to get his work to readers, whether in physical or digital formats.

“Maybe I won’t be in some stores or make the New York Times best-seller list, but I’m willing to take that risk and I think we’ll sell more books in all formats,” Mr. Koontz said.

Amazon dominates the U.S. book-retail market—accounting for over half of all new books sold in October, according to research firm Codex Group—but it is also a force as a book publisher. Signing up blue-chip authors like Mr. Koontz could make the tech giant an even more formidable threat to the traditional industry, led by publishing houses such as Penguin Random House, which is controlled by Germany’s Bertelsmann SE, ViacomCBS Inc.’s Simon & Schuster and HarperCollins Publishers, which is owned by Wall Street Journal parent News Corp.

Mr. Koontz’s first novel for Amazon is expected to publish March 31. He already has published a collection of short stories, “Nameless,” that generated over a million downloads in the first month after its debut last November. The stories are available only as e-books and audiobooks.

Mr. Koontz, whose over 100 books include hits like “Odd Thomas” and “Watchers,” isn’t the only high-profile writer Amazon Publishing has snared. In 2018, Patricia Cornwell signed a two-book deal; the first novel, “Quantum,” was published last October and enjoyed brisk downloads despite poor reviews. Both Mr. Koontz and Ms. Cornwell are in the top 25 of all currently published U.S. adult fiction writers, as measured by the size of their most dedicated fan bases, according to consumer surveys by Codex.

I am not in the, uh, top 20. But, getting there! (?) A million sales in the first month; I think I could handle that. Go Koontz!

Warriors’ Respect: An Acquaintance Remembered – Ironsides Fiction

10 Friday Jan 2020

Posted by perrinlovett in Other Columns

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

fiction, Iran, short story, Tom Ironsides, War

Warriors’ Respect: An Acquaintance Remembered

[Current Events Fiction]CLICK4PDF]

 

Six Pence Pub, Blowing Rock, NC, Tuesday, January 7, 2020, Evening…

 

He sat at the bar, almost wincing as the fool next to him ignorantly pontificated. What had started as a friendly “how ya’ doing, fella?” had morphed into a boring diatribe about brine and snow. Now, the geo-political malarkey deepened. 

‘That thar boy was a murderous thug! He was a-plannin’ mo’ of them em-i-nent attacks. He alreddy dun kilt that thar ‘Murican soldiers and attacked our embassy with his militias. Cain’t have no more hostages from them Irans! Trump had to kill that boy and we dun did it! Ain’t nothing them tarrists can a do bout it now. Ha! But I’d love to see ‘em try. Wouldn’t you, buddy? We whoop they azz-’ His new friend, some fat, balding boomer, allegedly in town to sell the city road salt, babbled incessantly while pointing to the television news, featuring a dull rehash about a Tweet about the assassination.

‘Excuse me,’ Tom politely interjected, ‘But you’re a fucking idiot. You have no idea what you’re talking about. Please keep your profound stupidity to yourself. Thanks, buddy.’

‘I dun seen it all on tha news! Hannity, and Limbaugh, and good ole Binny Shapiru!’ The man exclaimed, taken aback as indignation strove against his copious alcohol consumption. 

‘Everything you’ve heard, I won’t say read, is a lie,’ Tom instructed. ‘Everything you just blathered out, while it would certainly please the ears of your controllers, is utter horseshit. You wouldn’t know a terrorist from a Saint. Please, do shut up.’

The obese man sat stunned before his belligerence overcame his shock. ‘You- Well, fuck you, mister! You’se a liberal! I knew it! I sits down and sez to muhself, “I hope this feller ain’t no faggot.” But, shore as the Pope worships Mary, you is! You talks to me like that again and I whoop yo azz, fag! I dun served in Vietnam. The jungle! You probably a draft dodger or somethin’. Lemme tell you whut we dun did to-’

Tom listened for a minute more, grinning and quietly flipping through his phone. When bubba paused to gasp for air, Tom turned and showed him a picture of Carmyn licking his face at a party. ‘That’s my girlfriend. She’s an actress. You probably used to jack off to her. You know, back when it still worked, I guess.’

The tubby retard, still gasping and now red in the face, turned it up a notch. He most unwisely grabbed Tom’s free arm near the wrist and pulled in closer, imparting some of his beer and garlic-scented breath. ‘Smart azz, huh?! I’m bout reddy ta hit yo purdy mouth, boy!’

Without breaking his concentration on his phone, Tom quickly reversed gripped the man’s flabby forearm and wrenched hard, cranking his elbow into a painfully awkward wrong-way bend. The man’s squeal was met with a “shhhh” as Tom rolled to another, older picture. He held it up to his buddy’s face. ‘And, this is me and General Soleimani, uh, the murderous thug. Back in 2001, in Afghanistan, when we were fighting the Taliban together, excuse me, fighting them thar tarrists.’ Releasing his grip and still being mostly polite, he tried to explain just a little of the unkind world to the loud drunk.

 

Hotel Romandy, Geneva, Switzerland, Sunday, September 23, 2001, Late…

 

A somber, sinister group of men walked through the terrace seating area outside the conference room, headed towards the bar. Two tarried behind the others, the two most dangerous-looking characters of the company. It was the admittedly tenuous beginning of a delicate working relationship. On that occasion, without any coordination, they were attired in understated fashion rather than suits or uniforms, both happened to be wearing black leather jackets. Tom thought of some way to soften the mood. He got an idea from glancing at the mountains surrounding the city, now illuminated beautifully by the waxing moon.

‘I’d really like to visit your country properly, General,’ he began slowly. ‘I’d love to ski up north of Tehran. Maybe Darband or Abali, isn’t it?’

Qasem Soleimani was as gracious as he was deadly. ‘I myself am more fond of the area even further north, around Alvares, which you may know, is also near to the Caspian. Of course, if all goes – I won’t call it well – you and I could cross the border back into Persia and visit Shirbad. It’s just west of Herat, where we may have some … business. Wonderful snows.

‘I know this must feel a little off, Colonel. You’ve been to Iran previously. We have a rather extensive dossier on you. Kill on sight orders, in fact. Uh, those I have, of course, belayed for the time being. You know, we missed each other a few years ago. These are, I must admit, better circumstances.’

‘Have you ever skied in America, General?’ Tom asked while thinking about, almost rueing his last vicious visit to Iran.

‘The White Mountains. Ages ago, before the revolution. It was, for me at the time, the chance getaway of a lifetime. My family had so little money; it was a great luxury.’ The man laughed at the faded memory. ‘If I remember right, that’s your, what you call,  neck of the woods, no?’

‘Well, we might have missed each other then too.’ Tom said and chuckled at the smallness of the world. ‘Maybe some things are best left on the powder.’

‘Undoubtedly, they are. Now, soon our men will need to- Oh, we’re stopping again.’

Following a few perfunctory words with Crocker and the departing team from State, the lethal pair eased up to the bar, alone for the first time.

‘You’ll need to help me, Mister Ironsides, but Glen-mor-angie – the Scottish is always a jaw-breaker for me.’ The General studied the bottles on the shelf behind the bar, pointing to one.

‘Well, I didn’t know you guys partook of the single malt! Excellent choice though.’ Tom said.

‘Social settings and good company sometimes require good liquor. Allah is merciful, most forgiving at times and of good causes.’ The General studied a bottle closer.

‘And an interesting choice of words. Jawbreaker is our callsign for the initial operation.’ Tom said while trying to read a label.

‘I know. We’re not so completely in the dark.’ Soleimani said with a smirk.

‘Well then, know that we’ll be inserting, likely on Wednesday night. I’ll be there with the SADs and the Deltas. Who can I expect from your Quds? Maybe someone else willing to overlook past indiscretions, I’d hope.’ Tom did look a little hopeful.

‘I should be able to join you and our men later. For now, immediately, look for my-’

The men talked and drank deep into the night. Plans were made, logistics explored. Soleimani was, as promised, a walking encyclopedia of the terrain, the local tendencies, and the ways of the enemy. They shared multiple strategies and a few misgivings. They talked about Hammurabi, Solon, and Caesar. They spoke of family relationships, of children, spouses, and parents. On matters of state and religion, they agreed and they agreed to disagree. A tedious friendship was born. Respect flowed haltingly with a burn like the whiskey. They did, in fact, meet again twice – once soon after in the hills of Afghanistan and once years later in Baghdad during a meeting that Washington denied ever happened. However, they never did rendezvous on the slopes. Even after his retirement, Tom followed the general’s quest to defeat ISIS in Iran, Iraq, and Syria. A worthy defender of his nation and people, he thought Soleimani. He’d cursed the administration aloud the week before when he’d heard the news of what he considered plain murder and a despicable war crime.

 

Back in Blowing Rock, another bar…

 

‘So, just shut up about it, already,’ Tom said at last. He was finished with his unheeded educational lecture and was now checking his email and something else. His new friend still didn’t grasp any of what he’d heard.

‘All that thar tells me is that you’se one a them tarrists! And, whut do you know, you lying shit?!’ The dim visitor demanded.

‘I know the shit is already hitting the fan,’ Tom said as he again presented his phone. ‘Watch this.’

‘Whut in tha hell that is?!’

‘That is live satellite feed from over Iraq, over Ain al-Asad Air Base. You said you’d love to see them try. Well, they’re trying right now. The news up there will have it in an hour or so once Langley puts the right spin on it. Watch now if you’d like the uncensored version.’

‘Whut am I a watchin’??’ The tubby man growled as he squinted at the little screen.

‘Those flashes are missile impacts. Probably Qiams or Fateh-one-tens. Latest generation guidance. Extremely accurate. Pinpoint, I’d say. Right now, every time one flashes, they’re hitting our hardware. I’d guess they’re knocking out the drone hangers, the smaller ones clumped here and there, center. That base is where the strike last week came from. Makes sense. What I would do.’

‘Whut you’d do?! I know you. You’se a Democrat or something! Love nuthin’ better than helpin’ yo tarrists friends, huh? Stand up! I’m bout to beat some sense into yo liberal azz!’

‘No, you’re not.’ Tom said, looking down at his glass.

‘I’m a-gonna do it!’

‘No. You can’t. Sorry.’

‘And, YOU’RE DONE, sir!’ yelled the pretty bartender at the heavy, sweaty, woefully-overmatched moron. ‘You don’t know what you’re messing with, with this one.’ She gave Tom, who was unconcernedly addressing his Oban, a wink. To the fat drunk, she instructed: ‘Before you get yourself killed, get out! Don’t come back. Now!’

Tubby mumbled something about a town full of queers and sympathizers and shuffled angrily out into the light evening snow.

‘That fat bastard didn’t even leave a tip!’ The barmaid announced with a hint of regret.

‘I got it. Mine too, in a minute,’ Tom replied.

‘So, professor, is this World War Three?’ The young woman asked with slight concern in her voice.

‘No. Don’t be too alarmed, darling. It’ll all blow over, for now,’ Tom reassured. ‘It’s not world war, unless something utterly stupid gives way between now and morning. This was, is a very measured response. Making a point or two. They’ll be done in a few minutes, although CENTCOM just registered something odd on domestic air radar around Tehran – probably nothing. The missiles are a show of force, directed at our equipment, not our men. Neither has any business being in-country anyway. Maybe this is the beginning of a withdrawal. Hell, I’ll have my last toast to that. That, and Qasem. Maybe not the best man – none of us were – but maybe the one his people needed. Salute!’

After paying off his tab and leaving two tips, Tom mosied outside. From the sidewalk on Main, he heard the old jungle fighter yelling incoherently from down the street. Gotta give that one credit for persistence, Tom thought as he raised a one-fingered salute over his shoulder. Next, he heard a city police officer ordering the old drunk off. He slowly walked on towards his little rental flat. It was getting cold. His phone rang. Carmyn was watching the breaking news. He soothed her nerves and thanked her for a lick while requesting another at her earliest convenience. Just before he reached his door, Vicky called. He was calming her fears as he walked into the living room, where Ari and Maddie were waiting with the television blaring. Upon hanging up, he directed his placidity to them, first asking them to turn off the tube. 

‘Uncle Tommy, do you know what’s going on?’ Ari pressed.

‘Yes. That foolishness on the talking screen is only more propaganda bullshit. Some ancient Greek once said, “Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad.” Some say it was Euripides, though I’m not so sure. Anyway, watch that stuff and you will go as mad as your President and the Iranians. What it’s designed for. Maybe Qasem was mad to go in like he did, to keep this up for so long. No, we’ve all of us got enough madness.’

‘What are you talking about, Tom?’ Maddie asked as she turned off the set. ‘We know you have to know A LOT about what’s behind all this.’

Tom was tired and tried to move towards his room, several wistful thoughts plaguing his mind. ‘Goodnight, girls. Of the business behind it all, I know more than I care to repeat this evening. Respect for the dead.’

Happy Birthday, Old Man

02 Thursday Jan 2020

Posted by perrinlovett in Other Columns

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

1/2/1965, birthdays, fiction, short story, Tom Ironsides

It was on this day back in 1965 that Mr. and Mrs. Ironsides welcomed their second little bundle of joy.

Happy 55th birthday to Tom Ironsides!

(I imagine he’s still shunning the AARP card)

Soon, and very soon, he gets his second and then third major literary outings. FOR NOW! Here’s a special birthday short just for the old blog!

ALSO IN PDF:Drive Fifty-Five

Drive Fifty-Five?

Carmyn Larck’s Quiet Little House, Highlands, NC, Thursday, January 2, 2020…

The slamming of the front door woke him up. The giggling and the expeditious girl talk got his attention. The loud banging sound and the laughter prompted him from the sheets. While he yawned and fumbled his way into some old USMC sweats, he heard the patter of feet and furtive whispers. He thought something was crinkling. About the time he reached the bedroom door, the house became altogether silent. He looked down the hall and then slowly proceeded towards the front of the quaint 1930’s bungalow. A clinking drew him into the kitchen. Something in the living room almost caught his eye, but it had been a blurry New Year’s season already. He walked into the galley and found Carmen’s daughter standing by the Keurig machine, facing him, waiting.

   ‘Good morning, Tom!’ the young woman said as she extended a large mug his way. ‘Coffee, just the way you like it!’

   ‘Thanks, Jessica, morning,’ he said while squinting. ‘Need some. Uh, what was that fuss a minute ago? Where’s your mom?’

    ‘What fuss?’ Jessica immediately deflected with a sweet, if slightly deceptive up-speaking. ‘I didn’t hear anything. Anyway, Mom had to run out for a second. Said she’d be right back. Some party last night, huh?’

   ‘Urm, yeb,’ Tom slurred as he sipped a near-scalding mouthful of strong, black café français. The girl (and the K-machine) knew coffee. And, she was right about the party. He was then aware that he’d skipped his morning dose of Advil. ‘So, uh yeah, happy new year, again.’

   ‘Happy, happy!’ she sang oddly. ‘Hey! Let’s go sit on the sofa and chat until mom gets back.’ Without waiting, she grabbed his arm and started tugging. He had little choice but to move along, carefully balancing the hot liquid as they jostled through the rooms. He was still concentrating on the drink when she shouted, ‘TA-DA!!’

   Tom glanced at her wide-eyed and then settled his gaze on the enormous gift box sitting on the living room rug, the coffee table and a chair pushed aside to make room for it. It looked to be a cube with roughly six-foot sides. It was covered in a hodge-podge of birthday (and Christmas) paper. A huge bow sat neatly on the top. A large label, which might have been cut from a pizza box, hung prominently on the front. It simply read: “TOM.” He was about to say something – anything – when Jessica carefully took the cup out of his hand and set it a safe distance away from them. Then, she nudged him towards the giant present. She made sure to usher him in front of the oversized couch, seemingly checking as if to measure distance. She turned and checked twice as he mumbled incoherently about “a big-” or another. Putting her arm around his shoulders, she turned to face the massive favor. She kind of squeaked while bouncing up and down once and said, ‘Go, girls!’

   Tom gasped as out of the front of the box, through the mismatched paper, burst a foursome of now babbling and chortling women. He saw more than heard the collective roar of “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” before they were on him. Vicky hit him high and left, while Carmyn went low and right. Ariana and Maddie completed the vicious gang tackle, driving from behind the other two and forcing them all onto the readied sofa. Jessica piled on the heap for good measure. 

   The hugs, kisses, squeezes, hair- tussing, poking, and a pinch(!), accompanied by various calls of “happy birthday,” “daddy,” “Tommy,” “lover,” and “old man,” gave way to a jumbled silliness, with sighing chuckles and obligatory head-patting. No man anywhere was fonder of the opposite sex, but given the sheer mass and weight of the situation, he could only manage a rather muffled and labored ‘thankfs.’ Mercifully, the top three girls removed their addition to the burden, as if peeled back by referees after a heroic goal-line stand. His girlfriend and his daughter weren’t quite as courteous, still latched tightly. 

   Forcibly twisting and turning, he gained the pivotal advantage and wrested his way upright, carrying the armloads of fun with him. Following another minute of fussing and teasing, they parted and clung one to each of his sides. The others pressed in from the outside. Aright and once again breathing properly, he saw two large balloon number fives attempting to float on ribbon strings from the remains of the box. The women repeated the praise of his birth. Jessica returned to him his java.

   ‘Wow, girls, wow!’ he exclaimed upon partaking of another healthy swig. ‘What a way to start a new year. Love you all!’

   More hugs and congratulatory talk followed. Ariana and Maddie explained how they raced over to Charlotte, picked up Vicky, and hightailed it to Highlands in the dark. A partial, if confused, explanation of the box was provided. The ribbing about someone getting older was generous. Contrary to reality, Tom felt more like five than fifty-five. But that ominously repeating number was the subject of jokes aplenty. One of the lovelies, probably Ariana, mocked, ‘Now he’s gotta drive fifty-five.’ The rest found in mightily amusing if plausibly unrealistic. 

   Presently, along with a few gifts of ordinary stature and some more coffee (which one of the vixens saw fit to adulterate with Bailey’s), a short stack of birthday cards was given to the man of the morning. They opened each one and presented it to him. At last, there was but one left – one that none of his gift-wrapped captors could properly identify. Ari delved into its origins: ‘This came to you in the mail the other day in Blowing Rock. Knowing what we had planned, we thought to hide it until now. So, dear OLD Uncle Tommy, who’s Velina??’

   ‘Velina?’ Tom replied with mild confusion. ‘Huh?’

   ‘Well – hope this isn’t another special someone – let’s just see,’ Carmyn said, taking the card. ‘Velina Walker, Sealy, Texas! So, he’s got him a cowgirl!’

   Through their snickers, Tom uttered, ‘Oh! Sealy. That’s got to be-’

   ‘Hush, boy,’ Maddie said. ‘Please continue, sweet Adrestia.’

   Carmyn opened the card and read its short message aloud: ‘Dear Tom – DEAR Tom! – Thank you so very much and we welcome our partnership. Ooo, so formal, girls. As you know, this will be our first … new … mid-engine Z(?) … and we are beyond excited that it will be yours. I spoke to Mr. Hennessey and he assures you and I that twelve-hundred horsepower … will not be a problem, in fact, likely being the lower bound of what’s possible. What tha?? The CIA-connected armorer has already been in touch regarding those special modifications you mentioned. Oh, Lord. We now only await your shipment from Chevrolet. Huh? You’re going to be very pleased. So, Happy Birthday, Tom! Sincerely, Velina Walker, Hennessey Performance Corvettes.’

   With blank faces and open mouths, the women passed the card around amongst themselves, along with the enclosed 2020/1 Corvette mini brochure previously enclosed. And the purchase order from Chevy marked “pre-paid.” Several mumbled either ‘oh my’ or, possibly, ‘oh shit.’

    Drinking deep of the Irish-French concoction, Tom smirked, ‘Yeah. Happy birthday, me! This old man don’t drive fifty-five.’ He really don’t.

A very happy birthday to Dr. Thomas “Fast Tom” Ironsides!

 

 

← Older posts
Newer posts →

Perrin Lovett

From Green Altar Books, an imprint of Shotwell Publishing

From Green Altar Books, an imprint of Shotwell Publishing

Perrin Lovett at:

Perrin on Geopolitical Affairs:

Archives

  • March 2026
  • February 2026
  • January 2026
  • December 2025
  • November 2025
  • October 2025
  • September 2025
  • August 2025
  • July 2025
  • June 2025
  • May 2025
  • April 2025
  • March 2025
  • February 2025
  • January 2025
  • December 2024
  • November 2024
  • October 2024
  • September 2024
  • August 2024
  • July 2024
  • June 2024
  • May 2024
  • April 2024
  • March 2024
  • February 2024
  • January 2024
  • December 2023
  • November 2023
  • October 2023
  • September 2023
  • August 2023
  • July 2023
  • June 2023
  • May 2023
  • April 2023
  • March 2023
  • February 2023
  • January 2023
  • December 2022
  • November 2022
  • October 2022
  • September 2022
  • August 2022
  • July 2022
  • June 2022
  • May 2022
  • April 2022
  • March 2022
  • February 2022
  • January 2022
  • December 2021
  • November 2021
  • October 2021
  • September 2021
  • August 2021
  • July 2021
  • June 2021
  • May 2021
  • April 2021
  • March 2021
  • February 2021
  • January 2021
  • December 2020
  • November 2020
  • October 2020
  • September 2020
  • August 2020
  • July 2020
  • June 2020
  • May 2020
  • April 2020
  • March 2020
  • February 2020
  • January 2020
  • December 2019
  • November 2019
  • October 2019
  • September 2019
  • August 2019
  • July 2019
  • June 2019
  • May 2019
  • April 2019
  • March 2019
  • February 2019
  • January 2019
  • December 2018
  • November 2018
  • October 2018
  • September 2018
  • August 2018
  • July 2018
  • June 2018
  • May 2018
  • April 2018
  • March 2018
  • February 2018
  • January 2018
  • December 2017
  • November 2017
  • October 2017
  • September 2017
  • August 2017
  • July 2017
  • June 2017
  • May 2017
  • April 2017
  • March 2017
  • February 2017
  • January 2017
  • December 2016
  • November 2016
  • October 2016
  • September 2016
  • August 2016
  • July 2016
  • June 2016
  • May 2016
  • April 2016
  • March 2016
  • February 2016
  • January 2016
  • December 2015
  • November 2015
  • October 2015
  • September 2015
  • August 2015
  • July 2015
  • June 2015
  • May 2015
  • April 2015
  • March 2015
  • February 2015
  • January 2015
  • July 2014
  • June 2014
  • September 2013
  • August 2013
  • July 2013
  • June 2013
  • May 2013
  • April 2013
  • March 2013
  • February 2013
  • June 2012

Prepper Post News Podcast by Freedom Prepper (sadly concluded, but still archived!)

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

  • Subscribe Subscribed
    • PERRIN LOVETT
    • Join 42 other subscribers
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • PERRIN LOVETT
    • Subscribe Subscribed
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar
 

Loading Comments...
 

You must be logged in to post a comment.