In using statistics, the government now has the road map to switch from knowledge to deeds.
—Friedrich Zahn, German Statistical Archive (1936)
Theoretically, the collection of data for each person can be so abundant and complete, that we can finally speak of a paper human representing the natural human. (op. cit., p.304)
—1936 journal of the German Statistical Society
We are no longer dealing with general censuses, but we are really following individuals. (op. cit., p.323)
—Rene Carmille of the National Statistical Service of 1941 Occupied France
It possessed the technology to scrutinize an entire nation.
...No one would escape. This was something new for mankind. Never before had so many people been identified so precisely, so silently, so quickly, and with such far-reaching consequences.
The dawn of the Information Age began at the sunset of human decency. (op. cit., p.104)
—regarding IBM in Nazi Germany (Dehomag)
A special envelope containing a so-called Supplemental Card was created. This all-important card recorded the individual's bloodline data and functioned as the racial linchpin of the operation. Each head of household was to fill out his name and address and then document his family's ancestral lines. Jews understandably feared the newest identification. Census takers were cautioned to overcome any distrust by assuring families that the information would not be released to the financial authorities. (op. cit., p.170)
—regarding Nazi Germany's 1939 census
Another sign that bodes ill: Today, notices informed the Jewish population of Warsaw that next Saturday there will be a census of the Jewish inhabitants . . . Our hearts tell us of evil; some catastrophe for the Jews of Warsaw lies in this census. Otherwise there would be no need for it.
The order for the census stated that it is being held to gather data for administrative purposes. That's a neat phrase, but it contains catastrophe . . . We are certain that this census is being taken for the purpose of expelling "nonproductive elements" . . . We are all caught in a net, doomed to destruction.
—October 1939 diary of Warsaw Jew Chaim Kaplan
The evacuation (i.e., deportation to concentration camps for disposal) of Poles and Jews in the new Eastern Provinces will be conducted by Security Police . . . The census documents provide the basis for evacuation.
—Reinhard Heydrich's 1939 memo
Evacuation of the New Eastern Provinces
Without the intimate collaboration between IBM and the Nazi government, the Holocaust could never have happened. If the Jews had not obeyed the command to register themselves during the census process, the Nazis simply would not have known whom to roundup, or where.
The Census of 2010 is of an unconstitutional scope, and with an evil purpose to register the characteristics, assets, and habits of Americans for the purpose of selection, ostracization, and confiscation. We are told that the information collected will not be shared or misused, that our privacy will be protected.
This is a lie!
This has always been a lie!
Ask the Japanese-Americans of the 1940s. Ask the Jews under Hitler.
We are poised for a Holocaust to rid America of "extremists" and "religious fanatics" and "survivalists" and "gun nuts" and other groups of concerned peaceable folk.
The Jews of 20th century Europe may not have had any warning of what was in store for them. It had never before happened, and to contemplate systematic genocide was unimaginable.
But, 21st century Americans will have no excuse to be surprised.
Registering yourself during the 2010 Census is like sending a list of your household valuables to a burglars' guild. Do not invite no, guarantee trouble for yourself. Do not participate with oppression!
Tyranny cannot succeed without its victims' cooperation.
Tyranny cannot succeed without your cooperation.
2011
North Carolina
8 February 2011
It has been two years since the man's op in Maryland. Not to his surprise, the remains of Judge Gray have not been found. Even if they had, the FBI would not be able to identify them after all this time. The investigation of Gray's disappearance had quickly stalled for utter lack of evidence, leaving the FBI with no choice but to move on to newer cases.
The man was keen to oblige. A new case is exactly what he is about to give them. He had taken a year to decompress from the Gray op as he chose his next subject, and then another year to plan for the second op. Although he knew he could still likely succeed within a narrower time window, the man believed in giving himself every possible advantage before action.
There was nothing bigger than the tiny things, but the dozens of tiny things always took months to tease out. Traffic and weather patterns, security cameras, garbage pickups, store business hours, personal habits and schedule of the subject, etc. He envisioned a balance scale with the police and the FBI and Murphy on one side, and his planning on the other. Each tiny thing he anticipated and neutralized was like a grain of sand on his side. Only when they had accumulated into an overwhelming disparity of weight would the man even consider committing to an op.
At that point he would query his most reliable implement: his gut hunch. Scientists approximated it with a branch of mathematics called "fuzzy logic" which very accurately measured hitherto subconscious intangibles. If the man's gut hunch said "Go" then he finally went into action.
That moment had come last week after a good night's sleep.
Privy to a great secret, only he knows what is in store for a thoroughly depraved and perfidious public figure. He signals left as he enters northbound I-95 — an arrow in flight towards its unsuspecting target.
Washington, D.C.
Senator Clayton Hengel (D-CA) hangs up the phone, smug and satisfied. His wife had just bought yet another "Honey-I'll-be-quite-late-tonight-so-don't-wait-up" call, and at 6:25PM no less. Did she even care anymore? Well, who could blame her?
D.C. was hard on marriages, even when spouses were faithful.
He pours himself a generous bourbon, slopping over the rim of the rocks glass. Yes, he would be quite late tonight. He reaches for his hybrid wireless PDA with its own IP address. The small, powerful device replaced his cell phone a few years back. As he punches in a familiar number his groin begins to tingle. The call answers on its fourth ring, "Is that you, darling?"
Hengel chuckles merrily. "Either you're a mind reader or you looked at the Caller ID."
A lusty giggle. "Oh, I'm a mind reader all right, and I know just what's on your mind!"
Hengel takes a quick gulp of bourbon and blurts, "How can I help it? You give me the naughtiest thoughts."
Another giggle. "When will you be over? I just bought some new lingerie, but you'd better hurry."
"Be there at seven," Hengel says. "Oh, I'll bring our favorite Shiraz."
"Sweetie, you think of everything. I love you, Claytie."
The Senator smiles. "I love you too, Brian. See you soon."
Months ago the man learned the IP address of Hengel's PDA and regularly accessed its billing history. From there he discovered the Senator's lobbyist lover in Georgetown. Nearly every member of Congress had a dirty secret or two. Hengel's would do nicely.
Several blocks away from the Hart Senate Office Building, the man listens in on the two lovebirds over his customized scanner. Its many features included a frequency sniffer, digital decryption module, and voiceprint analysis. For the past two hours it had dutifully searched several hundred nearby active PDA frequencies per second for Hengel's voiceprint. Tuesday evenings Hengel usually went to Brian's condo for two or three hours.
The man starts up the black Lexus and smoothly enters the winter evening traffic. Yes, Senator — you're going to be quite late tonight.
Senator Hengel parks a block away from Brian Ostergaard's condo two minutes before seven. He used to be nervous almost to the point of paranoia during such rendezvous, even
wearing a wig and glasses from his car to the condo. Fourteen months of the affair without being "outed" have pretty much eliminated his earlier anxiety. He is United States Senator Clayton Douglas Hengel, a powerful and important man.
And an excited one, at that. Energized with anticipation, he springs out with a bottle of wine in hand, and clicks the automatic lock on his keychain. The alarm chirp of his Mercedes seems abnormally loud, startling Hengel. The sidewalk has patches of ice so he steps carefully.
He looks up from the icy concrete and he sees walking toward him a man in a beautifully cut Armani. Hengel grows nervous. As they close distance the stranger's face brightens with apparent recognition and friendliness.
"Senator Hengel! How are you tonight?"
The paranoia returns instantly. Fear flutters inside his chest like a trapped bat. Then he remembers that he is a powerful and important man. The stranger seems friendly, respectful, and wealthy. Just another admirer. Nice looking, too.
Hengel forces himself to relax. "Fine, fine! Mister . . . ?"
"West, Senator. Please call me Victor."
"How are you this evening, Victor?" Hengel asks in a smooth baritone.
"Quite well, Senator, thank you. I know you're a very busy man but I'd just like to shake the hand that sponsored the Deadly Weapons Act. I appreciate your clear stand on the gun issue. It can be hard to distinguish between one's true friends and enemies on the Hill."
Hengel's relief is complete. He removes his leather glove and happily obliges West with a hearty handshake. "It was my pleasure. Anything to make America's streets safer. And what do you do here in Washington, Victor?" So handsome! I wonder if he's . . .
"Oh, I work at Justice," West says with a steady gaze.
"Really?" What luck! He actually works in the Beltway!
"Yes. Field assignments, mainly."
Field assignments! A man of action! Bestill my beating heart! He slyly appraises West's obvious fitness. Even if Brian still went to Bally's, he'd never look this good! Oh, right — Brian is upstairs, waiting.
"Glad to hear it, Victor. Keep up the fine work! I'm expected at a conference shortly, but it was a pleasure meeting you. Please call my office if I can ever be of help. I'm always happy to hear from my friends at Justice."
"Thank you, Senator. I'll keep that in mind. Good night, sir."
"Yes, you too, Victor."
Hengel walks away with that happy glow about him whenever he meets an enthusiastic member of the public, especially one who also happens to be such a beautiful guy. He shook my hand with such care! And the way he stared into my eyes! Too bad he doesn't work at State. He'd be gay for sure!
Hengel sneaks an over-the-shoulder look at West in his butch stride, evidently unconcerned with the ice. I must conjure a way to meet him again sometime. Under the guise of government business, of course!
His musings are interrupted as he feels a cool sensation on the back of his right hand. He stops underneath the lighted alcove, looks at his hand and sees some kind of clear residue. Did that come from Victor? He sniffs at it. Vaguely medicinal. Muttering, he wipes it off on the wine bottle's brown paper bag. The cool sensation — though not unpleasant — remains, like an invigorating conditioner on the scalp.
He looks down the sidewalk but West is gone. As Hengel goes through the building's front door, he wonders how such a clean-cut and gorgeous man could be so untidy.
"Victor West" turns the corner at a steady walk, smiling. The puns of his alias and employment were surely lost on the Senator. He carefully peels off his rubber thumb sachet, satisfied that most of its liquid is gone — smeared on Hengel's hand. He bags it in a little ZipLoc containing an ounce of powdered charcoal. To further protect himself he had coated most of his hand with NuSkin, which was tested for impermeability with a harmless compound. During and after Hengel the man had to concentrate on not touching himself with his own right thumb.
The NuSkin he would peel off later. The man could have easily poisoned Hengel from a distance with a dart, but then he wouldn't have had the satisfaction of meeting the treacherous old bastard face-to-face.
He also wouldn't have gotten the creeps from Hengel checking him out like a side of beef, either. And what do you do here in Washington, Victor?
In retrospect he wishes he'd replied "Sanitation."
To sponsor congressional legislation which plainly violated the Bill of Rights was traitorous. By deputing the use of force to disarm peaceable citizens, Hengel had initiated aggression and could — even under libertarian principles — be resisted with force. Although many libertarians would disagree with this strict scrutiny, he had no time for intellectual pantywaists. This was a war and too few Americans realized it. That's why they were losing their freedom. The war wasn't really even about politics, but for the right of individuals to enjoy sovereign and productive lives. It had been a unilateral war for decades, the government "shooting fish in a barrel" and the fish not even sensing that they were in a barrel, much less being shot.
No longer, however, thanks to the example of Krassny. Freedom may not survive this generation, but at least it would not expire without a fight.
The USG is astonished by the Krassnyite phenomenon, just as the Nazis were astonished by the Warsaw ghetto uprising of April 1943, and just as the Romans were astonished by the slave revolt under gladiator Spartacus. Bullies are always amazed when their victims resist.
Their first thought is No fair! They actually believe their violent control is a right. When aggression is left unchecked — challenged evil is indignant. Serial murderers winking at bereaved families during trial is what happens when good people, out of cowardice, refuse to defend themselves against street punks. SS death camp commandants shouting Heil Hitler! before their execution is what happens when citizens, out of cowardice, refuse to resist thugs hiding behind uniforms and politicians.
The man reaches his car parked two blocks over. I wonder how the Senator is feeling right about now he muses as he drives off into the frigid February night.
By the time Hengel steps out of the elevator, his sudden wheezing frightens him. He tells himself it's just chemical sensitivity to the freshly painted hallway, but he's never had a reaction this severe. The tightening of his chest worsens with each passing second. Heart attack? Impossible! Not after a lifetime of jogging and healthy diet!
Down the hall from Ostergaard's door Hengel staggers, dropping the wine bottle and vomiting onto his Gucci loafers. He can see nothing but the fuzzy-edged door . . . suddenly hard and reassuring beneath his pounding fists.
"Br — Brian!"
The secondhand chair squeaks noisily as Louella Davis leans forward to place the black Jack on the red Queen. She should be reading that lovely new mystery novel instead of playing — Canfield, but she can't concentrate.
If only the Senior Center were open tonight! She could play Bridge with her girlfriends, nattering about their lost youth — anything to forget about her cramped condo and a widow's loneliness. She knew that her nights at the Senior Center were just a temporary fix, but as she completed her "final lap" they sufficed to push away the drabs.
A hallway noise makes her jump. Someone yelling for help outside?
Heart pounding, Louella pushes herself stiffly upright. Though she lived in a comparatively safe Georgetown, violent crime often seeped in from outside. Damn politicians! Can't keep the Center open, or the streets safe in the nation's capital . . .
The shriek sounds like it's right outside.
Louella scurries to the door and peers through the peephole. Through her milky cataracts she can make out a man crumpled in the hallway. Heart attack, or maybe a stroke like Jerry, dying in the bathroom without so much as a chance to say good-bye after 46 years of marriage.
She takes a deep breath, unlocks the door, and flings it open, her mouth agape in shock. She sees her creepy-nice neighbor in whorey Marlene Dietrich drag. At first, Louella thinks that Mr. Ostergaard is kissing the fallen man, but then she realizes tha
t it's lugubrious CPR.
"Ms. Davis, the Senator's stopped breathing! Call 9-1-1!" screeches Ostergaard, his mint-green nightgown splayed open.
Dear God! Louella bolts back inside her apartment for the phone. As she dials the three-digit number for the second time in her life, she somehow knows that it's a waste of time. Death she has seen before.
Junior EMT Nick Booker quickly ascertains that their unresponsive DOA with the Hill haircut and expensive shoes is an important senator.
They'd arrived within minutes of the call to find pupils fixed and dilated. Defibbed him three times anyway with the screaming queen boyfriend in full freakout mode, and for what? Damn doc tells them to hang a bag of lido and keep him on Code A on their way back to the hospital.
Even the D.C. Metro cops, who have seen it all, are pretty stunned by the senator's lousy timing. Dying on the doorstep of your lingerie-clad gay lover was no way to go.
Being on cash retainer with National Enquirer hardly makes up for the worry about accidental needle sticks from these patients. Still, the call Booker was about to make was worth an easy two or three grand.
The man switches his scanner to the EMT frequencies and soon hears the DOA call on Hengel. Cardiac arrest, a paramedic says. Barring a detailed toxicology screen, his death will be ruled as natural causes.
He signals right and pulls over. Leaving the engine running, he gets out and walks around to the rear passenger side. A storm grate is next to the curb. The man squats down and reaches inside his shirt pocket. From a little metal tin he produces something about the size of a marble.
It is a clear capsule full of purple crystals. Potassium permanganate (KMnO4) makes a mildly astringent antiseptic when dissolved in water, sometimes used by hospitals as a douche for fungal conditions. The capsule is tightly nested in a half capsule filled with clear liquid — glycerine (C3H8O3).The half capsule is secured by a piece of tape around the circumference. Sticking halfway through the purple capsule is a straight pin.
Molon Labe! Page 27