Bob cut his way into a large petroleum storage field and began opening pipes that he and Shirley had connected to underground lines that took the petroleum distillates far out into the bay. Eventually, they would wash up all along the shores and when fire was placed on hundreds of burning pleasure boats, cut from their moorings, dowsed, set afire, and allowed to drift through the huge bay, everywhere along the line, along the shores and piers, everything within the Chesapeake Bay would catch afire and burn for many hours, pushing the flames into more boat docks, bay side factories, ports, towns, and every type of building along the way, so that the bay would be aflame from shore to shore. The TV News would have a field day.
Bob had noticed that thousands of birds were acting sick up and down the bay even as they worked. Wherever they went, they saw bird corpses and pelicans three feet high moving about erratically, drool flowing from their bills and eyes. Many were falling down with each wave, then getting up and falling again.
Shirley said it was from the petroleum they were pumping into the Chesapeake, and that it wouldn't make any difference, because the birds would be dying off from the petrol fumes, oiled feathers, and oil filled marshes burning in flames.
“There's nothing we can do about it, Bob,” she said. “We are causing this, so just keep working.”
Of course, soon they would find that they were not causing it. Something else far larger than their conspiracy to upset the entire framework of government and the infrastructure, all in the name of overturning the Washington DC hegemony's destruction of America's freedoms and returning the nation to a secure and freedom-loving state was in operation and all on schedule. Right now the nation was purely terrorist, and Homeland Security was the main source of pain and annoyance, including the deprivation of civil rights, groping of breasts, vagina's, and dicks at the airports, and infiltration of police up and down the coasts, teaching them that the only suspects to watch were the people themselves and to be prepared for riots, fighting, gunshots, and arrests.
“These bastards have got to die for what they've done,” Frank O’Neill had said several weeks ago at a secret training camp out at Montauk Point. Frank was a graduate of UCLA with a major in political science. He used his master's degree to secure teaching and lecture opportunities which he used to eke out a living without having to do much work. It also allowed him to author books and publish clandestine web sites on the Internet which taught the people in the country how dastardly the United States was and how it was going down due to its intransigence in trying to destroy most of the guarantees of freedom for its people.
“It's like this. Either we destroy their conspiratorial web of satellites, computers, electrical grids, and FEMA prisons, or we all go down without even fighting. It's better to die with a gun in your hand than to die like dummies, disarmed and tied to a bed post and fucked in the ass until dead.” The speech Frank gave did wonders for feelings of patriotism and well-being among the attending dissidents. He had turned a boring and sour puss meeting into a screaming tribe of willing hyenas all hungry for dead and dying flesh, especially if it was the flesh of policemen, Homeland Security Agents, airport TSA ball gropers, and those sadistic FBI fuck ups. Shirley had said that the agents who were on hand, having infiltrated their meeting as they always did, must have been about to shit a cow, not a mean feat and a very painful one. Once the crap started, heads would roll.
The FBI wouldn't be arresting anyone at the conference or elsewhere, because all of the volunteers wore masks, making it impossible to identify anyone. In addition, they wore plastic gloves, plastic shoe coverings, and other stealth products designed to keep their identities totally beneath the federal scope. They had learned their lessons from the past not to be stupid, not to show their faces to the enemy forces, and not to leave prints, heel and toe marks, or any other identifiable traces in the soils, on the floors, door knobs, or anywhere else. And, with covered faces, hands, and feet, there was no way to know who anyone was, and that was exactly the way they had planned it.
By now the bay was seething in more than seven million gallons of oil, petrol, volatile liquids, and flammable insecticides. In addition, thousands of liquid petroleum tanks had been punctured by silent rifle fire so as to lay out entire disks of floating vapors ready to explode at a moment's notice.
“We've done our damage,” O'Neill said. “Now it's time to go home and wait for someone else to accidentally light up the night.”
They got into their dingy, raised the sail and made their way silently to their car. Once there, they washed in the bay, removing the stench of combustibles, changed into new clothes and lit the old ones on the shore to destroy all of the evidence. Having breathed all of the distillates and being in their early twenties, each of them was now horny as hell which they would have been anyway, but with the distillates exciting their cellular and glandular systems, they would have fucked an armadillo had they been stuck in the desert.
“Anyone see a pelican?” Helen asked.
“No. Why?”
“Because if you do, I'll fuck it. That's how horny I am about now,” Helen said.
“If it's a female, it's mine,” Frank said.
“No way!” Helen yelled. “I'll fuck it no matter what its sex.”
Horny is as horny does.
Page 9
Chapter Five
Ninja Force
Brad Pelly and his girlfriend, Dotty Stevens, had been dating off and on since high school. Brad was the school's European student answer to the best black players in the league. His small form was just high enough to allow his huge hands to grab the ball from the worst possible toss, dip at the knees, and come up with enough three pointers to turn many a game for the Columbia, Missouri high school kids. They considered him to be one of the most talked about players on their team, and they were the ones doing most of the talking. His girlfriend, Dotty Stevens, was a cheer leader. She performed most of the sexiest splits on the cheer leading team, each time with a smile that was visible all over the gymnasium. Needless to say, high school was a charm for both of them. Nothing else in life would ever match it.
Shortly after graduation, they cohabited in a small student room at the University of Missouri not far from their high school. They could have lived at home, but with Dotty's parents being old-fashioned Southern Baptists, that was out of the question, because they weren't going to spend college driving back and forth and making out in a car. Columbia, Missouri got as cold as a commercial freezer in the winter, and in the summer it was not only warm, it was downright hot. In addition, the mosquitoes in summer were the midwest's equivalent of Alaskan giants. It wasn't so much their wingspan, but the persistent biting that left welts all over their arms and legs.
They were avid rifle buffs, owning seven of them including browning 50's which could shoot a dude in the middle of a tank, and nothing any military engineer had yet found could stop its 50 caliber bullets from turning a tank's armor plates into soft Happy Cow cheese. They both loved the accuracy of their rifles and how they could do more damage than a dormitory of drunken Mizzou freshmen.
That summer, the two of them had collaborated with other college friends who, like them, were independent marksmen. They had taken sniper training from several dudes who had figured out that the only way to escape their parents' dictatorships was to sign up for the U.S. Army, fly to Fort Bragg, and hunker down to sniper training with the best and most accurate army brats in the Ranger program. Their sniper instructor had lived on danger in Iraq, plugged hundreds of holes into important Iraqi and Afghan government officials who stupidly refused to knuckle down to the American hegemony's dictatorial and fascist occupation and thereby placed themselves in sniper gunsights. He obliged them as ordered and moved on to the next, and then another and another. The splatter of blood from a target was the sweetest thing in the world to him now, and that's how he taught Brad and Dotty the gun ropes.
“If you shoot, be sure you hit them,” he said. “You are not doing this for practi
ce. You are learning from me. I'm the best. I'm going to make the two of you the most experienced and disciplined gunny team in the world. Why? Because you were trained by a graduate of the 82nd airborne. That's where I came in, and that's how I went out. I'm giving you everything I know. Now, you know it. I'm doing it so it isn't wasted. So, don't even ask me why. Now, let's get those rifles up and Swiss cheese these targets. Only, I want only one hole in the cheese, and that's at the kill me places on each target.”
They got it. Together, they had expended more than 2,500 shells, and those babies were worth a couple of bucks each, so it was costing $5,000-$7,000 to practice shoot. It was not money to be wasted, but to be well spent.
The shootist's name was Durango Wilson, he was a Mizzou grad just like Brad and Dotty. They had met all over campus for years. The three of them were concerned about the track that America was following, how the Constitution had been destroyed by both parties and freedoms were collapsing daily with more and more repressive Congressional Laws, most of them passed at the whim of AIPAC, the American Israeli Political Action Committee which had seduced ninety-nine-percent of the Congress and Senate with its fast and easy money that its banking and corporate stooges had gotten free, because they had the only access to the free phoney money printed on Treasury presses and handed to these banksters at zero interest cost to them almost forever. In fact, the banks literally owned the Treasury, so the Bureau of Printing and Engraving printed and even emailed them whatever funds they so desired. These people were the top echelon of the successful American coup they had pulled off years ago when the Federal Reserve was given to them as a surprise Christmas gift in old time 1913 style.
“It's easy to be a tough guy when you have enough money to buy any shill in government you want,” Durango Wilson reminded them. “That may be good for AIPAC and Israel and the bankers, but as a decorated Iraq vet, I can tell you that it's nothing but horse shit when your best friend is on the line and a hajji blows his brains out, because Israel is not considered respectable by ninety-nine-percent of the world.”
“Israel's a turd, you mean,” Bradley said.
“I didn't say that. You did.”
“And?”
“Duh.”
All three laughed, put their guns to their shoulders and commenced bull's eyeing their kill points. They were good. Most of their shots, at least 9 out of 10 were dead center where they were aimed. The rest were not important and only millimeters off target. They were collateral damage representing dead babies and mothers who were down target and would get wasted no matter who was shooting. War is a bitch.
The smell of powder was everywhere this trio went, and they weren't doing it for mere practice. They already had their orders. As lone wolves they didn't meet any other people, never talked about their political views, kept off Facebook, and led a very narrow and bookish life at the University. They were tens of thousands of dollars in debt, had no way to discharge what they owed, except to rob banks wearing full face black hoods with nasty eye-holes, because the Congressional dirt dogs had passed every law that AIPAC and Goldman Sachs told them to. It was to keep the money coming into their pockets for campaign expenses, and America be damned. That was the least of the concerns of America's Congressmen, Senators, Presidents, and Cabinet Members. This was the big time, and money controlled everything in the American oligarchy. In fact, the Washington hegemony was owned lock, stock, and barrel by the rich and greediest of one-percenters, and the three of them knew that the American people were chumps. The only reason anyone should ever vote for those immoral pigs was to hide from government the fact that they had a well-placed hatred for the hegemony's bull shit and voting was a perfect cover. It made them seem patriotic if not down right goof ball like all of the other American people who voted in the controlled and well financed elections. And these three were cool and savvy, so they voted in each and every election and even attended neighborhood meetings quietly just to be seen as normals knowing full well that each candidate that won had been pre-selected by America's worst traitors.
“The nation is a scum-bag nation,” Dotty said at home as they tore into green beans, cornbread, bologna, and greens. “We are going to use our skills, by God, to clean this pig stye. Whenever we start, it won't be soon enough for me and Brad.”
Nor for Durango. To him, every buddy that was dead owed that death to these Congressional scumbags who should have passed laws restricting the ability of the rich cats to bribe them. Instead, they passed laws to butter the slick money paths leading directly into their wallets, to allow the traitors to convert them into being even bigger traitors, even to the point of demonstrating their vileness by passing the Constitutional Destruction Act which they had misnamed The Patriot Act just for that purpose. The bull shit was so thick that a self-respecting bull would have to open a door to leave the halls of Congress before finding an unused place to defecate where it hadn't already been done and done in total excess by the Congressmen themselves.
“The floors and stairs of Congress including the Capitol building's stairs, the White House's stairs, and the Supreme Court's stairs are flowing with the red blood of America's soldiers and of the poor little innocent bastards in the Middle East that they are ordering our soldiers to murder,” Durango told them. “Every soldier knows that when they squeeze their triggers and blow some innocent little Arab away. Guys who never did anything wrong except to be born in Baghdad or Fallujah and who believe in following the orders of an ancient sky god named Allah are targets in the American cross hairs. The ones who need murdering are the traitors in Congress and the rich cats in New York City who are paying them to destroy our homelands and not the Arabs.”
“Here, here,” Brad and Dotty would chime in. They knew the truth of it, and things were far, far worse than many would even believe.
“I fucking hate it,” Dotty said. “I absolutely detest it, and if I could, I'd move the hell out of America and be done with these bastards. We don't want our children having to do what you did, and not for America, but for some lousy banking criminals with ties to their relatives who founded and ran the Soviet Union in 1917, Israel in 1947, and the Pentagon's military production corporatists. God can kiss my ass, if I'm not telling the honest truth.”
That night as Brad and Dotty made love, they relaxed into the sheets and slept amid the radio shows hosted by Alex Jones, Jeff Rense, Deanna Spingola, and several others with the gift of knowledge about how the United States was being suckered into doing the work of its traitors, the same people, the bankers, who murdered the Christian Tzar of Russia and manned the high posts in the USSR so they could destroy the mother church and murder all of the priests they could get their bolshevik bankster hands on until they had murdered 65 million citizens there, before turning on Germany and chewing it up with their World War Two tanks, until the Russian bankster clones met the advance of America's bankster clones just west of Berlin, driving their own heavy assed tanks. That's when the Cold War dance between the two masters of the world started, and the American and Russian USSR's had the rest of the world by the throat. They ran the oil whores, the oceans, outer space, the fake money business, and every other scumbag crime they could handle including the mafia, drugs, booze, pharmaceutical scams, and the vaccines that were getting everyone sick each year, while injecting autism and over-activity syndromes of various sorts into the children. Each thing they did brought them more and more money to corrupt the government, to purchase and maintain all of the media, and allow them to brainwash everyone within ten thousand miles.
Continuing their enlightening sleep, they listened to Alex Jones long into the night on their mp3 player which was plugged into a Bose radio which they redeemed for pennies from Craig's List, so that night by night, day by day, they kept tabs on the imperfections of the American failed experiment and its corruption by the tiny minority that ran the banks, the oil companies, Wall Street, Madison Avenue, TV, radio, movies, bomb manufacturing, rifle bullets, uniforms, B'nai B'rith, and everythi
ng else they could fondle with their nasty hands including child adoptions for profit, the harvesting of hundreds of teenagers' organs in Israel, and the conspiracy to circumcise every boy in the world they could get their corrupt hands on and lying about how it is only to prevent infection when every male in every species of animal in the world is born uncircumcised, remains uncircumcised, and was never once infected with anything because of it. If that lie about the filthiness of the uncircumcised male were true, all animals would have died out long ago and the dicks of half the males in the world would have killed the very men that dangled them between their legs their entire lives. But they didn't, did they? No. So the lie was false. Such an easy argument to win and without any effort at all.
My Dead America Page 4