FRANK WELTNER
My Dead America
The Civil War Between Banks and Mankind
Dogtown Publishing Company
6937 Bruno Avenue
Saint Louis, Missouri 63139
Dedicated To...
The sixty-five million innocents slaughtered in the USSR.
The dead Americans murdered by criminal bankers in their useless war for profit.
To the corpses haunting middle eastern lands
And Finally...
To those brave enough to save us.
My Dead America
Chapter 1 - Checking Out the Hoover FBI Building
Chapter 2 - Chesapeake Bay
Chapter 3 - Homeland Security's Kiss of Death
Chapter 4 - The Lake of Fire
Chapter 5 - Ninja Force
Chapter 6 - Bilderberger, Rockefeller, Rothschild,
and other Rich Bitches
Chapter 7 - Why Am I Dying?
Chapter 8 - Center for Disease Control
Chapter 9 - Weeks Later...
Chapter 10 – Babies...
Chapter 11 - Insurrection Forever...
Chapter 12 - Philly...
Chapter 13 - Gotham City...
Chapter 14 - Capitol Re-Entry...
Chapter 15 - Death Knell
THOMAS JEFFERSON
I hope we shall crush in its birth the aristocracy of our monied corporations which dare already to challenge our government to a trial by strength, and bid defiance to the laws of our country.
HENRY KISSINGER, 2000
“Depopulation should be the highest priority of foreign policy towards the third world, because the US economy will require large and increasing amounts of minerals from abroad, especially from less developed countries.”
JOHN FOSTER DULLES, SECRETARY OF STATE
“I wouldn't attach too much importance to these student riots. I remember when I was a student at the Sorbonne in Paris, I used to go out and riot occasionally.”
DONALD RUMSFELD
I don't do quagmires.
Copyright 2012 by Frank Weltner
All Rights Reserved
Official Website
http://www.mydeadamerica.com
Chapter One
Checking Out The Hoover FBI Building
America's goose had been cooked.
The roasting thermometer had been inserted into that unfortunate bird's white meat for so long that its national temperature indicated it was ripe for the eating. Not only that, but the country was ready to be cut up into smaller regions, states, and counties befitting its new and quarreling populations of hate-filled immigrants, and the politicians who were always whipping them into a frenzy.
Sean Browne who was an undercover agent for the FBI had been studying reports on suspects for Homeland Security. He had arrived early at the J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building, not just to study reports, but to meet Agent Betty Rice whom he dated off-and-on and prayed would never report him for sexual harassment.
So far he'd been lucky.
She hadn't yet come back to bite him on the ass.
Not yet, anyway.
But who knows? She could change her mind. Broads do that, or hadn't you heard.
You can never tell when one of your girls is going to go rogue.
She might love you once, then write a book about it the next week. You could lose your job. It could destroy your pension, get you into hot water with your wife and kids, and even make you famous.
It isn't fun to be famous when you are living on the street.
On this particular afternoon in April, Homeland Security and its little pets in the FBI were busy making plans for more and more incursions into the once free people thousands of miles away and who had hoped to live there in peace forever.
Unfortunately, the American government had always had different ideas.
Decision-makers were interested not in the American people, and of them certainly not in protecting the majority, but of inciting them, insulting them, and killing them. Death to the Europeans had been the plan all along. That was the reason America had constant wars overseas. The government needed security on the North American Continent in order to keep the people employed so that profitable taxes could be extracted from them at their work. They had always enslaved poor Americans in the boonies since the Constitution had been passed, and it was written and passed in order to give the oligarchs like George Washington, who passed it, the right to rule over all of their subjects inside their growing empire of wealth.
And wealth was all they were interested in having.
Soon, bankers, lenders, swindlers, retail shops, and others bent on increasing their wealth at the expense of innocent farmers who didn't know any better, made certain that seeds, plows, horses, nails, hammers, and everything else a man might need to be free, were so expensive that nothing at all was left year to year for a poor guy on a dirt farm to live on. But the rich made off like bandits, and they ruled the roost in the county and state offices where they increased land taxes year by year until farmers needed to borrow to pay them. Then, with failed crops from year to year, the farms were foreclosed and the counties sent out the very sheriff that these farmers were employing with their taxes to move their furniture, cattle, and whatever else they owned out onto the street at gunpoint. It was here in the middle of the unprotected street where many animals and items were lost, and the families walked away with their shirts on their backs, a few saws, hammers, seeds, and plows, and made their way west to where they could find another little plot of unclaimed free land to clear of trees so they could start over again.
These farmers had absolutely no use for counties and cities, yet these political entities had use of the farmer for taxes, and the lawyers who sold their bankrupted farms made off like bandits with the profit from it. For them, the suffering of the majority of these small, independent farmers and the defenseless shopkeepers who sold goods to them was a seedy business which allowed them a meager success and more money to spend than anyone else in those parts, so that soon they bought up the homes, stores, and whatever else was there to be had at good prices as the owners bankrupted just the same way and moved out. When the new people arrived on foot, they were sold these buildings and farms at high prices for improved land and at interest rates that assured the lawyers that they'd soon foreclose on them again and the process would start over.
America the Beautiful. Home of the Brave and Free.
That had been the history of farms, city homes, and other structures. Each of them had their own title which the bankers could sue to get a hold of and use them to sell these products of banking evil any time they wanted to.
But now, after several hundreds of years in America, people were figuring these things out. Some Americans had even arisen to tell the FBI and every other bank licking thug working for the U.S. hegemony in Washington, DC to get lost, go hide, put away its guns, leave the real Americans alone.
They'd had enough. Period.
Bob Winkler was one such American. Disenfranchised, foreclosed, and impoverished, Mr. Winkler polished his improvised explosive devices, dusted them off, rubbed his gloved hands across them to insure that his fingerprints never touched them. Any fingerprints would be enough clues to set off computer matches leading to Bob, and Bob didn't want that to happen. There would be no fingerprints left on his bombs, neither before nor after he set them off.
Mr. Winkler was a wanted man. Not that anyone knew for sure exactly whom this fellow was. At least, they didn't know who he was as of yet. However, you can be certain that he was a person of interest. The only trouble was that no one had one inkling of an idea of exactly who Winkler was, much less know his fingerprints or his name or the girls he messed with in his sp
are time. As of yet, these were his own secrets, or as he put it inside his always working mind, his private things.
So be it.
The ID’s in Winkler's hiding place were mostly from discarded military shells. He had been working in Iraq and Afghanistan as a bomb specialist. What that meant was that Bob walked up to bombs and carefully disarmed them.
He had been lucky.
He was not blind. He had all of his limbs. Even his dick was undamaged. For a bomb disarming specialist, this is a very good deal. He felt himself as lucky.
His girlfriend was Sparky. She had been a radio communications specialist. Her real name was Specialist Donna Clayton. She earned the monicker of “Sparky”, because of her interest in radios, especially the old Morse code which had fallen by the wayside. Trained at Fort Bragg, same as Bob Winkler, she was a special forces expert who knew how and when to kill, capture, and torture along with the best of them.
Sparky feared no one, man or woman. She had even stood up to incoming missiles and wired improvised devices which she referred to demunitively as little toads, even if they weighed seven pounds or better, as in, “Well, looky here! Hi there, guy. Look's like we got us a new little toad. Did you get kicked out of your house, little feller? We'll help ya, kiddo.”
Sparky had fallen in love with Winkler as soon as she saw him. He was a gangly young soldier with an energetic gait who loved to run laps, hit baseballs, take potshots, and act bad-ass when the time was absolutely right for it. He had a smile like a diamond on an engagement ring, always fresh, sparkly, and ready to be seen whenever you wanted to look into his eyes. And, yes. They sparkled all right. At least everyone said they did. From his mother to his girlfriends, even his men who worked gladly for him, all of them agreed that Winkler’s eyes had a sparkle to them. They said he was magnetic in an attractive way. It was not a bad thing. And, they all agreed.
“We need to get a home for these babies,” Winkler said of the IED's.
“Where at?” Sparky asked. She was not sure he'd want her to know.
“You don't need me to answer that one,” he said.
“Right on.”
He lifted the one he wanted, and he knew exactly where it was going.
In a few minutes, the explosive device was painted black inside a faked muffler and was being attached under the bottom of a government car at a franchised muffler shop. The mechanic had no idea the muffler was a bomb, although it did seem a few pounds heavier than most, but not unusually so.
Hours later the driver showed up to get his repaired automobile. He was classified as a top agent of the FBI with the right to inspect secret materials in the line of duty, but the girl at the counter who handed him the invoice and the car keys had no idea of his business. All she knew was that he was young, handsome, and she would love to sleep with him.
“Here's my card,” she said. She winked as she said it. “If you want to have it adjusted just call the shop number.”
“What if I want to call you instead,” he asked?
She pulled out another business card.
“Here's my cell number,” she said. “I was afraid you wouldn't ask.”
“My dad told me to flirt with all the waitresses.”
She laughed.
He looked at her name. “Shirley L. Mandell, Shop Specialist.”
“Okay, Shirley. I'll be in touch.”
“You be sure you do that, Mr. Christian,” she said.
“Michael,” he told her.
“Michael. What a nice name.”
He smiled.
She watched his furtive body in that nice suit he wore as he shambled out the door. A sweeter pair of legs on a man, Shirley swore, she'd never seen. The fact was she really wanted him to call. She wondered why he wouldn't give her his card. Was he in the mafia or some crooked business? She'd probably never know.
Outside, Michael found his car. He opened the trunk and pulled out an under-car inspection mirror which he used to check for bombs, geo-locating chips, and anything else an FBI agent worried about. He especially checked the new muffler. And there it was. Nothing looked out of place. No extra pipes were strapped under the car. He went to the back, the other side and the engine compartment. The underside was totally clean. Under the hood, everything seemed in perfect order. No bombs. No frayed control straps. He closed it.
The key slid like candy into the slot of the Crown Vic's super cool dashboard. The edges of the control panel and radio stereo insets were neatly curved like the legs of a beautiful woman. Michael loved it. This was one of the best benefits of being an agent for the government. The cars were always clean and impeccably furnished on the inside. It was everything a grown kid like FBI Agent Michael B. Christian would ever want. A graduate of Princeton, Michael had dreamed of being an agent in the FBI. His father had been one, and he wanted very much to be a chip off the old man's block. He majored in law enforcement with a minor in political science. All in all, it was the least he could do for a good job such as this one.
He started the car. Shifted into reverse. So far, so good. No explosions, no clicks.
He knew how paranoid he was about that, but he'd been working on several Homeland Security gigs, and he knew that blow backs were a bitch. They were more frequent than most agents wanted to even admit. However, as his time went on in the FBI, Michael had seen more than fifteen agents blown away doing exactly what he had just done. Starting an FBI car.
He spun the wheel as he entered the street and shoved the pedal to the floor to secure a spot for the car right behind the next one to come along. It was a Ford Focus with Maryland plates like so many in the Washington DC area. Most of the dudes came from Maryland, West Virginia, and Virginia. He memorized the license plate. You never knew when you might need to recall it. Out there somewhere were thousands of plates driven by people who right now had warrants, and, besides, with so many terrorists and FBI spies out there trying to hit on him and his buddies, you had to keep your eyes open.
A dog ran in front of him, and he slammed on the brakes. He barely missed the mutt. The poor cur was frightened. Michael had a thing for dogs. He had grown up with them, and just the other weekend he had watched the National Dog Show in New York City, intently watching each breed as the little darlings strutted and did their thing for the judges. He loved them all, and he loved the mutt that ran in front of his car. In Michael's mind, all dogs were God's children, and he felt very close to them spiritually.
He pulled to the side and entered the basement of the FBI building. Above the doorway, it proudly stated, J. Edgar Hoover, a source of discovery and pride that was designed by some hidden historian-fetishist as a symbol of everything that was good and holy in America today, yesterday, and forever. He loved it. He loved everything about the FBI. His badge nestled against him from its strap. It was a heavy little sucker with bright gold and silver. He had to love it.
He pulled up to the inspection area. Mirrors came out and scanned the underside of the car. They were retracted rapidly. He popped the hood and several sets of eyes inspected everything under a bright spotlight, reaching each nook and cranny for bombs and frayed materials, each of which were warning signs of someone tampering who was up to no good. Everything was in order. The hood slammed down, and the inspector smiled and waved him on into the garage.
Michael Christian parked the car. Pulled the key loose and rested a moment to catch his breath. He was on his way to his office which was several stories above his garage space.
He locked his door and headed for the elevator. Once upstairs, he entered his office and looked through his mail. Michael returned all of his calls, then relaxed. He had no orders for the day, but he did have things to do. He was assigned to Homeland Security. There were a lot of loose ends he had been following up on bombings, etc. In fact, just the other day, he had actually placed bombs in special locations. These were black flag operations which he used to excite the peasants, keep them in line, make them afraid to be Americans, make them feel hunted down.
It was most manipulative and cool. This took covert activities to a new low, activities that FBI agents regularly planted around Washington DC and other cities. They were meant to be killers, and they were. After all, it took bombs and deaths, to keep the populace fearful and loyal to the Washington DC government.
God bless us all.
So, he'd killed people yesterday. One was a mother with children. So what? Michael wasn't worried, and he wasn't ashamed. It was orders. So he did it without question. He was an official of the FBI. Screw everyone else. If they didn't like it, that was just tough.
He had no date for this evening. He remembered the card in his pocket.
He looked at her name. Yep, there it was.
“Shirley L. Mandell, Shop Specialist.”
He dialed her number. After several seconds of personally programmed music, she answered.
“Shirley Mandell. How may I help make you a satisfied customer today?”
She was slick.
“Shirley, this is Michael Christian. We met early today at your company.”
“Oh, Michael! How nice.”
“I'll just make this short and sweet. I was wondering if we could get together this evening? My calendar is open, and I know a nice restaurant we can eat at. I'm treating. We can rent a video at Red Box and watch it at my place. Free drinks and snacks, of course. I hope I'm not being too forward with you, Shirley.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
“Meet me at the restaurant,” and he gave her the name and address. “How does 7 p.m. sound?”
“Perfect.”
“So are you in your office now,” she asked?
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