Lots of prepper talk and information going around, along with some fiction! Huge news in the Ironsides household! You can read it if you join: www.freedompreppercommunity.com.
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.
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
This column is a combination of two separate items. The first part is a short revision of something I just came up with in regards to the stupidest part of the stupidest political discussion in modern history. The second part is short fiction(!) that I’ve been sitting on for a while and which underwent numerous revisions for … reasons. If one tries hard enough, one can make any two issues compatible. Or not, your choice.
White Supremacy? Really?
Something caught my eye while I skimmed through last week’s pointless “debate” between Tweets and Mike Wallace’s son. Russia(!), the Hoax, and … White supremacy? DHS is “officially” worried about the threat, but then again, we know what DHS is, who runs it, and whom it was created to serve.
It’s not White supremacists burning, looting, and destroying [insert any American city].
It’s not White supremacists committing 56% of all murders.
It’s not White supremacists transferring ever more power from the criminal government in DC to a criminal government abroad.
It’s not White supremacists behind all of America’s idiotic wars in the Middle East.
It’s not White supremacists telling us what music we can’t listen to.
It’s not White supremacists demanding we dishonor our God and rename our parks to suit their fickle whims.
There is a ton of supremacy on display in this dying country, none of it “White” in nature. But, I will condemn it. I hereby condemn all anti-Christian, anti-White, anti-Western, anti-American, and anti-civilizational supremacy! It is becoming harder to just “stand back” and “stand by.” Yet, ever in high trust and good faith, we do, and we will until we do not.
To that end, Dr. Ironsides has a colorful story of the semi-direct action variety that he relays, for no apparent purpose, at a wedding. Let’s check-in, shall we?
Up In Arms
A Tom Ironsides Tale
A Wedding Reception, More or Less Present Day, Kind of Late…
Having finally corralled his brother, his nephews, and his son, Tom fired up a Diamond Crown Maximus, savoring the smooth, full-flavored Corona smoke for a moment. Larry, Larry’s oldest boy, Larry, Jr., and Trey followed suit. Trey slipped Bert a beer wrapped up in a cloth napkin.
‘A toast,’ Tom said, without the slightest hint of gesture, ‘to Mister and Misses … Todd…’
‘To your daughter and son-in-law, Tom.’ Larry added with a faint tip of his cigar.
‘And to BEER!’ Bert exclaimed a little too loudly.
‘Shuddup, idiot…’ Trey growled as he kicked his young cousin’s shin.
‘So, uncle Tommy,’ Lawrence, Jr. said, ‘Now, do we hear about the clandestine armament methods of the…’
‘Ah, yes!’ Tom said, settling back in his chair. ‘Hang on a second…’
They waited until a group of chattering young women in rather suggestive dresses – all carefully if quietly studied by the younger men – made their noisy way back towards the center of the fun. The men again alone, Tom began,
‘So. This is just a story, true enough, but totally not suggestive of any recommendation. In the preface, I note that there are plenty of these – these stores scattered around the country. Mind you, just about every town has at least one Guard Armory. Not that that matters. Okay, it was around Christmas back in…’
A Kaolinite Quarry in Georgia, Sunday, December 26, 2010, 0745 Hours…
Immediately after the last drone landed on the F350’s hood, it was picked up and stowed by a trainee. Having commanded complete radio silence, Tom had a junior officer flag the team to move out. One by one, a short line of trucks turned North onto US 221. In his mirror, Tom observed the spotter jump in the bed of the last vehicle in the convoy. He accelerated to the speed limit.
‘If this goes south?’ the younger officer to Tom’s left asked.
‘Then, I’ll really wish…’
The Reception, Again, One Minute Later…
‘No. Hang on. Before that, juzz bufforp. Sorbrey.’ Tom held his cigar in his mouth while pouring a round of Ben Nevis’s MacDonalds Ten Year Single Malt. ‘Burthf… pff… Birch sent this bottle from his Scott’s vaca. From the highest peak to the lowest fen! Mmmm. Nice. No. It was just before, the part I’m almost comfortable with reciting. Gotta tell this in a grand jury-friendly manner. Ahem, it was…’
Hickory, NC, Friday, December 24, 2010, 1025 Hours…
Tom drove the bucket truck down the ramp off I-40, with the other vehicles following. A few loops later, his small convoy was parked in the truck and camper section of the lot at Cracker Barrel. Out in the cold air, Tom lit a cigar and motioned the entire team together under the shade of a large tree.
‘Alright, boys. A quick tutorial before Sunday’s main event.’
‘Are we going in to eat?’ asked a trainee.
‘No, son. Bathroom break, yes. Eating … well maybe. But, first a story.’
‘Is it about why we didn’t fly straight to Augusta?’ asked a young agent, newly transferred into the SAD.
‘Children, please!’ Tom puffed. ‘My mission, my methods. If I’m wasting another Christmas playing Goddamn Army C-I-D!, of all idiotic things, then I’ll make a road trip out of it. Easy to get the trucks if we’re already in them. Anyway,
‘Gordon, like Jackson, Lejune, et cetera, is a bigger job. Not impossible, you’ll see, but a little more … complicated. What we need is a little training exercise before the real exercise. Something easy – so easy a meth-head could pull it off. And, mind you, this is just a story, from the news – you can look it up – really happened. Not like we’re about to head north, just as soon as we get Larson his pancakes in a damned minute, immediately upon leaving this place, to a mile up the road and repeat it or anything…
‘Every town. Any town in America. Ten thousand people or more and there’s at least one Guard Armory. Small arms. Vehicles. Supplies. Usually a gen back but in decent order. Ready to go, so to speak. For the taking. And, that’s just what this fool down in South Carolina did.’
‘That the druggie that broke into the Armory and made off with the M-16s?’ Larson questioned.
‘The very one! Anyone can read about it. Army Times. J.D. Simkins’s article. The dude’s name was Brad, uh… Brandon. Brandon Shane Polston. Army National Guard Post in Lancaster, South Carolina. Thanksgiving of 2017.’
Larson thought he knew the calendar: ‘Wait. Isn’t that anachronistic? 2017, I mean? It’s just…’
‘Interrupt me again!’ Tom barked, moving into the younger man’s face, imparting a generous quantity of smoke. ‘And, I’ll have your ass up in public relations, lying to school kids, old people, and Congress-Critters!’ Larson coughed then remained otherwise quiet and attentive.
‘The Armories are physically, logistically almost all identical. Flat brick building. Set just off the road. Semi-residential or light industrial areas. Parking lot. Grass yard. Chain-link fence. The one down in Lancaster was, is no different.
‘So, Brad or whoever was walking passed the building and noticed a low spot in the fence. With nothing better to do, he hopped it. A short time later, he found a door that opened straight into the secure weapons storage. He was evidently the only soul in the building, so he just helped himself. Got some M-16s. A SAW or two. M-203. Et cetera. Nice little haul. I assume they had a shopping cart for his convenience.
‘Still totally alone and completely un-surveilled – no guards, no cameras, nothing – Bradley made his way outside. He stashed the arms and came back with a car and two idiot friends. They loaded up and went off to see the local deal-ah for some quick cash or a hit or God-knows-what. Would’ve got away scot-free but for a broken taillight and an observant local cop.
‘Ha! And, later, when the detectives toured the Armory, they also found it unlocked, unguarded, and open for business. Dollar to a grenade launcher it’s in the exact same shape as I speak. The one right up the street here too. The moral is: make sure your equipment is in good order. Traffic laws and so forth. Any questions?’
‘Didn’t the same thing happen at Gordon around the same time?’ Agent Tindal asked.
‘It did. Let’s not get into dates and confuse young Larson. But… Old uniform, an expired ID, and a smile, and they’ll help you load your car full. But, that was the up-front small-arms depot. The big one is in the pine woods off of 221. No fences, cameras, gates there. Only two, four, possibly six MPs on a holiday weekend. Wishing they were anywhere else doing anything else. The telephone company truck ruse… And, it’s much bigger. Bigger items. Hence, the trucks and the forklift. Trucks with working tail lights!’
‘Not even a chain-link? With a lock?’ Larson unwisely put in.
‘Nope, time-traveler.’ Tom smirked. ‘They only reserve those for going around MIM-104 batteries. Those, one can sometimes find – otherwise unguarded – in remote areas overlooking nuclear plants and other high-value assets. Hmmm. Bolt-cutters… Shame we don’t have a flatbed with a big tarp or just a semi-tractor. Maybe some Raytheon codes. Ah, well. And, hey, my new tag-a-long wingman, Freddie D, can tell you about some concerns the Air Force has – or should have – about the wings at Barksdale and Minot. You’se kids can go shopping again after I retire.’
‘Grab n’ go. We turn this stuff over to real C-I-D, or…’ someone began to ask.
‘I was thinking black budget counter arms. For the enemies of our ene… Well, we’ll see. Yeah. A country breakfast is starting to sound good, now. Checkers, anyone?’
The Reception, Even Later…
Tom continued to hit the bottle and the tobacco, regaling his audience with operational details. The more he drank, the harder it was to follow (or believe) everything he was slurring. Big Larry casually tapped away at his phone, finally exclaiming: ‘Holy Shit! It’s true. Just looked up those stories, those articles. Anyone of them is like a how-to guide for anyone with even a room-temperature IQ. This kind of thing really happens? And, doesn’t require a paramilitary strike-team to pull off?’
‘No. Of course not. Literally, any druggie or loon can arm up, easily, and for free. Let ‘em ban the B-guns. The good stuff will always be around. Especially, if or when other things start happening. You’ll see. How do you think the martial underdog arms up initially?’
‘Kind of makes me feel silly about burying that vault you sent up.’ Larry, Jr. said.
‘Nah. Always have a backup for the backup.’ Tom rejoined. ‘Like this bottle. Dammit, but Birch should have sent two!’
‘Well,’ Said Trey, standing up. ‘I’m going to go see if Romona is still giggling about catching the bouquet.’
‘Careful, boy,’ Larry admonished. ‘That’s a really dangerous business.’
Tom laughed and then turned away and spoke to no-one in particular, almost like he was giving a public service announcement right through digital paper to some unseen reader:
‘Friends, what you’ve just heard is two things. One, it’s plain, old-fashioned fiction about some family men at a wedding party. Two, it was just some old news stories about very real events that have already really happened, multiple times, and as reported in the government’s pet media. It’s like what Aquinas wrote: Unjust law is no law at all. Despite the examples, there is no lesson to learn here. Except, maybe, that’s it is always a good idea to check your taillights, along with your oil level, and tire pressure. Safe motoring. I’m Tom Ironsides, and I approve this ninety-two-proof whisky.’
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.
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
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.
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?
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:
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.
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.
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.
[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.
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:
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!
Imagine this: you “create” a fictional character, writing about him sometimes. Then, the next thing you know, he’s writing on his own:
12 April 2020
A Letter to the Editor by Tom Ironsides: Celebrate Life & Hug Your Children
Dear Mr. McCart:
Greetings. I do not think we have ever met, such are my strange interactions with the “real” world. I was asked to write something for you publication by our mutual friend, Perrin Lovett, whom I have cc’d if for no other reason than to stem his incessant pestering. It is my understanding that he is working on another of his usual columns for next week (and, for that, I am blameless). The attached submission (DOC and PDF) is not what I gather he was interested in. However, as noted in the letter, it kind of sprang into my heart more than my mind. While it is admittedly a little out of my character as some know it, I hope it is sufficiently interesting. If so, then I concluded it with a brief bio, lifted from my college faculty page (my apologies, but the picture would not transfer). The title, while provided by me, is ultimately your call. I ask only that my email address or other direct contact information NOT be included with the letter.
As an aside, Mrs. Tuggle’s weekly work is always interesting and delightful. Please pass that message along to her. The rest is certainly … something. Thank you.
PS: Go Cavs!
Celebrate Life And Hug Your Children
Dr. Thomas H. Ironsides, II
Dear Mr. McCart and Friends:
My acquaintance and your colleague, Mr. Lovett, asked or begged me to write something regarding late events, both biological and geo-political. Some of my experience and opinion I understand he has recently relayed, and more of which I believe he is currently imagining. Personally, I have just about had it with my house arrest, which to my great credit, I have been breaking on a regular basis. No apologies to Sheriff Hagaman. So, of that, I have little more to say or to think. Instead, as I was instructed to write “from the heart,” I will tell you a story. It’s a little late in coming back to my mind, however, it is perfectly fitting for this Easter Season.
On the afternoon of Friday, February the 14th, I was entertaining myself in the quaint downtown of my adopted Blowing Rock. Happening upon the wonderful Art and History Museum, and having never ventured therein, I decided to peruse the galleries. Immediately, I stumbled upon what I at first took for a community party. Soon, I realized it was a public wake for a local dignitary. Someone informed me that it was not, in fact, a funeral; rather, it was a celebration. And so, I would like to share some of that experience and brave spirit with you.
The woman of the hour, of the day, was a little girl. Her name was Bexley Svana Moffat and she was only a few months into the ripe young age of two years when she unexpectedly succumbed to leukemia. Please read her unusual and heartening obituary, as linked, courtesy of the Austin and Barnes Funeral Home:
According to Saint Jude Children’s Research Hospital, approximately American 3,000 children are diagnosed with leukemia every year. Around ninety percent enter into remission and are effectively cured within ten years of the onset of aggressive treatment. Why is the minority taken by this accursed disease? Most can imagine the horror of losing a precious baby. Some of us, unfortunately, know the shock and lasting pain, first-hand. In dread times such as these, we do well to remember our temporal existence in and on the physical Earth. As hard as it is to fathom, sometimes the little ones are more needed elsewhere. Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, said, “Let the little children come to Me, and do not hinder them, for the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as these.” Matthew 19:14.
Well, from the very little I know, and as you may readily gather from that infectious photograph, it is a much brighter day in Heaven. That face and especially those big, blue eyes say, “Hello! I’m sweet though a bundle of fun trouble!” The parting message left for us first-person by Bexley, notes that among the things she loved the most were her mommy and daddy, her grandparents, and her puppies. You just know each was the world among the others.
It’s fascinating, to me, that I write about this brief encounter, particularly as I consider its context in my life. Why am I still here? For decades, I walked hand-in-hand, as a partner, with death. My own demise could have easily found me a hundred times over and yet it did not. I surmise the Almighty must require bubbly sweethearts more urgently than gruff, stubborn jarheads. (Who could blame Him?) And I could have told you a similar story about Gloria, but after thirty years, my words still fail me. I trust Bexley understands both my ponderings and my discourse.
This adorable little stranger-friend whom I never knew has given me the strength and the joy to look upon otherwise unspeakable tragedy as the celebration of the eternal. For this Miracle, I might deem her Saint Bexley (though I think she is not one for formal pretense).
I leave you with the following thoughts: our days, currently, have about them a bleak disposition. Some of us are sick. Some are scared. Some are unemployed. We lack a certain direction or purpose. Yet, it is all but temporary tribulation. Just as the Mightiest Son rose for us, so the smallest daughter helps us to raise our darkened spirits. So, right now, go on and hug your children – of any age. Leave a social distance between you that you couldn’t slip a piece of paper through.
Thank you and may God bless you,
[dthi/fac.jpg] Dr. Thomas H. Ironsides, II (Ph.D., Harvard) is Professor of Classics at Saint Thomas of Aquino College. When not teaching Roman philosophy and culture, he is also President of the American Classical Education (ACE) Center. He previously retired as a Paramilitary Operations Officer and Acting Deputy Director of the Special Activities Division, National Clandestine Service, United States Central Intelligence Agency and as a Colonel with the United States Marine Corps. Given his experiences, he is adamantly opposed to gratuitous warfare and attendant international usury. Currently, with an aching back and sore thumbs, he attempts to build by hand a small cabin.
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.’