Tag Archives: Tom Ironsides

COLUMN: Fiction for Factions

05 Tuesday Jul 2022

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Fiction for Factions

 

*A day early! And this almost ran yesterday. 

Well, hello. Happy Independence Week to one of the least independent populations in the world! I had thought to write something else about the unfolding collapse and the coming, necessary fun. Again. For about the fifty-seventh time. What can I say? Prepare for battle? And, by that I, of course, mean prepare to vote and so forth.

Who has time for all that? Not me, not this week. Instead, I have something much better! Breathing new life into THE SUBSTITUTE, I thought to give you a glimpse of an outtake from the original 2019 cobbling. It’s the side story of how Tom bought the Dodge Demon, originally planned as either a stand-alone or as the opening of chapter three. It failed to make the cut, but it still warrants a little interest. So, here she is! Enjoy.

***

“Southbound and Down”

Charlotte, North Carolina, June 13, 2018, mid-day…

‘You don’t want to trade that Rover? We’d love to make you an offer on it, my friend! Those things sell here. Based on looking at it, we could probably do Blue Book plus.’ Another overly-friendly man wearing a tie and a wide, cheap grin had appeared at the cubicle doorway. Tom began to answer (again), ‘oh, no. I need something to tow the—’

   ‘Not a problem, my man,’ Mr. Whoever cut in; ‘I had to come ask.’ He extended his hand, the smile a little more genuine now, saying, ‘my name is David Fierce. I’m the sales manager here at Hamrick CDJR. I had to drop by and say hello. Is Ms. Francinia treating you right?’ He almost seemed like a nice guy at that point.

   ‘She’s doing a heck of a job, Mr. Fierce,’ Tom said as he, for a second, shifted into his version of cheap salesman’s mode: ‘She was just telling me about the, everything is 50% off sale, today only. I’d have never known. Really nice of you guys.’

   Fierce was a veteran of the car business, knowing a joke (and a real non-nonsense buyer) when he heard or saw one. ‘Shhh! Mr. Hamrick will fire me if he finds out.’

   Tom and Francinia laughed it off as the manager continued, ‘I just wanted you to know how much we appreciate your business, sir. Mr. Ironsides, is it?’

   ‘It is.’

   ‘Thank you, again, sir. It’s not everyday we sell a Demon. That is some car, huh?!’

   ‘I’ll think she’ll do, until I can find something fast,’ Tom joked.

   ‘Hey! Dodge’s brochure literally says the thing is too damn fast!’ Fierce said. ‘Maybe you can trade it in on an F-18!’ He turned to go but looked back in, adding, ‘and, do let us know if you consider selling the Rover.’

   ‘Will do,’ answered Tom.

   Fierce stopped again. ‘Couldn’t help but notice your hat inside the windshield. Semper fi, brother!’

   ‘Oorah!’ Tom concluded Fierce was all-right and the real deal.

   He’d left New England that Monday on his trek south. This deal was something he’d actually worked out on the phone days earlier, on his other trip back from the Yukon. As he rolled down I-81, the extremely attractive Ms. Francinia Santarosa, his personal buying assistant and product specialist, had called several times to assure him about options, make sure he as coming, and to tell him that a Mr. Kreight had approved his wire transfer payment ability, but he still recommended Chrysler financing. Tom said he’d think about that last part.

   He also had to think about getting his new muscle car down to New Augusta. In Concord, he’d rented a U-Haul car carrier. Hamrick had a padded professional transport cover rushed in after he declined their offer to specially ship the car to his new home.

   When he arrived, an older salesman had rushed out to meet him, becoming slightly dejected when he asked for Francinia by name. He had gotten a slight rush when she first appeared, twenty-eightish, long dark hair, perfect Latin skin, and almost a better build than the Demon. Powerful and fun as Dodge’s supercar was, during the test drive he’d had trouble taking his focus off of her. Now, they sat together, making small talk, and waiting on Mr. Kreight, Tom’s finance manager, to finish whatever it was he was doing. 

   ‘Do you get a commission off of financing?’ Tom was direct. ‘I want you to make money off me.’

   ‘We do. Off of the back end. The finance office. Yes,’ she answered directly.

   ‘Then, I’ll think about it. He said I could pay off the loan as soon as the paperwork came in.’

   ‘Don’t worry about me, Tom,’ she said with a smile. ‘I do alright. Top sales four months in a row.’

   I can believe that! he thought. He imagined that her looks and charm (and considerable car knowledge) made a big difference. He was more direct: ‘Do you ever date customers?’

   ‘I’m open to the idea,’ she said as she batted her eyes.

   ‘Okay. Good. I’ve got a few days. Now, I don’t usually date older women, but I might make an exception for you. [The cheap line worked before…] What time do you get off today?’

   ‘I’m at double my weekly quota already. They’ll let me leave anytime I want. Let me go change and I’ll be yours at—’

   ‘You’re perfect, right now. Already too good for this old man,’ he said.

   ‘Ha! Okay. Four work? I could drop by your hotel.’

   ‘That’ll be perfect!’ Tom thought for a second. ‘Where’s a nice hotel around here?’

   ‘Come back here at four,’ she said. ‘I’ll lead you.’

   ‘I’ll be happy to follow…’

   Mr. Kreight interrupted the match-making. ‘Ookay, Mr. Ir, uh, Ironsides. I’ve got everything set up. Here’s your license back. Oh, and I made you a paper copy of what USAA emailed me. New card. If you’ll come with me. This shouldn’t take too long.’

   Kreight was actually efficient. First he rattled off the car information from a brochure or dealer sheet:

    • 2019 Challenger SRT Demon
    • Pitch Black (Tom had wanted Maximum Steel but this color was satisfactory)
    • Leather interior
    • No backseat
    • 840 HP! (running racing fuel)
    • 203 MPH top speed

   There was the matter of titling in South Carolina versus New Hampshire. Neither state, Tom learned, had a percentage sales tax on car purchases. Because he technically had an address in Derry, and as he technically did not own a home in New Augusta, just yet, they opted for the Granite State’s paperwork. As optioned and with Tom’s cover, the price came to $95,745. To this, Tom agreed. In the end, he paid cash. Not having any debts was great for him, but not so great for his credit score (that he never cared about) nor for Chrysler financing (which he really didn’t care about). To make it up to Kreight and Francinia, and to boost any future effort to offload a collector’s item, he bought a transferable protection and service plan. Kreight insisted on working in a discount on something, which rounded down the overall cost; as such, his bank transfer was for exactly $99,999, out the door. When he approved the wire, he thought: Hey! You’re first new car, ever. A hundred grand car! Holy moly!

   Francinia met him with his new car cover and an extra-large, tall Hamrick’s Racing polo shirt, compliments of the house. After she made sure he was comfortable in the new driver’s seat, and after Mr. Fierce thanked him several more times and pleaded for a good buyer’s survey, they had a surprise for him. Fierce, without knowing more details, understood that Tom was spending the night somewhere. Tom gratefully accepted the kind offer for help trailering the race car and being allowed to store the rig overnight in an enclosed, secure bay in the back of the shop. Fierce also reminded him about the Rover. Tom made him a deal of sorts: Hamrick Auto Group also sold Chevy’s. Fierce agreed to get in touch with that sales manager and to keep an eye out for the new 2019 Corvette, rumored to have 1,000 HP – and some structural issues that stalled availability. That was a trade Tom would consider.

   Back to the Rover, and the rest of the day, Francinia thought it was a nice old truck, faint cigar smoke smell and all. He’d followed her home at four. Ms. Santarosa did very well for herself, having just purchased a new house in a fashionable neighborhood off I-85, north of town. After several hours of fun there, they went out for dinner. He never did find a nice hotel that night.

   …

***

If one was really keeping score, then Francinia was at least Tom’s number three by chapter three. He, of course, has or had his ways. If you’ve not read the novel, then wait; the revised edition, so much better, is coming soon. I’ll tell you all about it when it happens. -P

Always Trust Ironsides

07 Wednesday Jul 2021

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The Hoax and other matters have taken a slight toll on the fiction, it’s true. Fear not! Dr. Ironsides and friends are making slow, steady progress. As you’ll see in a moment, the CIA’s former best was in action recently and was astoundingly accurate in his assessments of matters straddling the real and fictional worlds.

Readers know or guess that this blog now doubles as a Gal Gadot fan club. In May, I explained why as part of my exploration of GG’s sweet tweet and the organized cyberwarfare response against her.

Many Gadot-bashers are, I deduce, robots and paid shills. There’s just too much homogeneity and synchronization across many of the comments on multiple platforms. That made me realize something; this isn’t really about Gaza and it’s certainly not about Gal Gadot. It has the signature of the Unrestricted Warfare described by PLA Cols. Liang and Xiangsui in 1999. There are multiple fifth-generation conflicts being waged around the world by multiple parties for multiple reasons. Some of them concern Israel, the Arab-Muslim Middle East, and the United States. Who and why? I have no definitive idea. However, a popular movie star provides an attractive vehicle for spreading the overwhelming chatter. Strange things do happen – more frequently than one imagines.

Last month, I went ahead and gave her credit for ridiculously grand things. My suspicions about the 5GW elements were also confirmed.

As I noted then, I immediately sensed something nefarious behind the vicious attacks on our Wonder Woman. Immediately. I mentioned some obvious signs of SJW attack, 5GW, a book people won’t read, and the existence of various wars most wouldn’t understand or even acknowledge. About a week later, I was backed up by some Israeli publications, the engineers at Twitter, and a consulting company in France.

Again: It’s me, immediately, or the “experts,” later.

However, Big Tom delivers instantly and more accurately than I could ever hope for. At the end of May, in an unpublished short story to which only a select few were privy, he met a young fictional actress suspiciously like the real GG. It turns out that she had just experienced the exact same kind of backlash over a peace Tweet. She asked and he answered:

‘Who, if you had to guess, doctor, do you think is behind the ruse?’ she pressed.

‘That,’ he said while thinking, ‘could be anyone. One or more factions of your people – within or without. Could be Hamas. Iran. My old employer. China. Bank for International Settlements. It could be some loose collection of malcontents in southeast Asia or somewhere. Facegram or Twithead could, if they cared, try to run down some IPs. …’

That doubly awkward moment when your character creation meets a fictional dead-ringer for your celebrity crush and hits the speculative nail on the head. Malaysia is somewhere in southeast Asia.

Malaysian groups waged cyber warfare against Israeli and pro-Israel social media accounts during May’s conflict between the Jewish state and Gaza-based terrorist organizations, according to a new report from the Israel-based Meir Amit Intelligence and Terrorism Information Center.

The report found that during Operation Guardian of the Walls from May 10 to May 21, a network of anti-Israel groups emanating from the southeastern Asian Muslim nation massively attacked mainstream social media and messaging platforms against Israelis and supporters of Israel.

The attacks took the form of harassing and trolling pro-Israel accounts and suspending and blocking the accounts, according to the report.

The targets included former prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu, Hollywood actress Gal Gadot…

Rather than say I was right about anything, let me just warn certain Malaysian trolls to pray Tom Ironsides stays confined within the pages of novels.

And a Pardon in a Pear Tree – Christmas Fiction from Somewhat Current Events

23 Wednesday Dec 2020

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And a Pardon in a Pear Tree

 

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!

Of Supremacy And Arms – Weekly Column WITH Ironsides Fiction!

07 Wednesday Oct 2020

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Of Supremacy And Arms

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

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.’

Last Week and This Week

05 Monday Oct 2020

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Howdy, friends!

So, last week was the busiest we’ve seen around this Highly Respected Web Log in more than a few years! I mean, it was like a return to the old days when we had real visitation around here. Thanks. Wow. Much of the interest, as best I can tell, came from those of you who wanted my take on the Presidential “debate.” And I regret that what you got was about all you’ll get this year. And, going forward. Let’s be honest: this whole thing is just about shot. Still, I’ll do what I can.

Uh…

There’s Biden being replaced with Mike Wallace’s son… With Trump a victim of the Black Plague, does the GOP turn directly to Putin for orders? Bout all I can come up with at the moment.

But! Tomorrow, or maybe Wednesday, I’ve got a new column loosely related to something gleaned from that second-rate circus act and shouting match. And, better still, I believe Dr. Ironsides will be back with a purely fictional tale – one he’s been revising for nearly a year and which kind of touches on, if anything at all, what’s eventually coming after this election is in the rearview.

You’ll know it when you see it. Thanks, again. P

It Was Not Tom Ironsides

15 Tuesday Sep 2020

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In Venezuela…

VENEZUELA’S President says authorities caught a U.S. Marine-turned-CIA spy with ‘special weapons’ meant to target the nation’s oil refineries

President Nicolás Maduro said the U.S. spy was caught targeting a pair of refineries on the north Caribbean coast as the country is in the grips of a deep gasoline shortage.

Tom wouldn’t have gotten caught.

Better Late Than Never: Summer 2020 With Tom Ironsides

10 Thursday Sep 2020

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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

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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!