A Sure Fire Recipe For a Visit From the Local SWAT Team

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The pogrom against creatives who aren’t members of the Borg Collective has begun. Joel Gilbert, documentary filmmaker, is being attacked by the FEC. “But despite giving the same exemption to liberal movie makers like Michael Moore and Daily Kos, the Democrats recently voted against Gilbert in a February action, reviving their bid to punish conservative media, a campaign initially targeting online news outlets like the Drudge Report.”(1) (2) The FEC wants speech like Gilbert’s completely put in a soundproof box during election cycles. Dinesh D’Sousa just did hard time in the slammer for a trumped up political financing charge. The real reason for his persecution was to chill his speech. Stop making those movies showing what government really is doing. That’s why “conservative” speech is of such concern. It is on the conservative or ‘right’ side of the political spectrum that the theory of government comes under its harshest scrutiny. It’s the liberty/libertarian wing of the right side of the fence which puts these control freaks into apoplectic fits of rage. The real libertarians (a real libertarian recognizes government and the State are what need to be abolished) question the need for government itself. Who really needs government? The only people that need government are the ones who make their living by confiscating the wealth of others through force and without fair renumeration. Think bankers, monopoly men, oligarchs, nobility, and all form of government employee. The rest of us would be in a far, far better place without this mafia of Mafias called government.

Remember that incorrigible fascist in government I mentioned a couple of posts ago — John Carlin? He’s some Homeland Insecurity clown in charge of turning free speech and the 1st Amendment into high crimes against the fictional State. He wants to make opinions voiced (and nothing more than that) turned into material support of a bogus enemy that is created, trained, financed, aided and abetted, by the very criminals in Homeland Insecurity that are now working so hard to turn poets and painters into Osama Bin Laden. That Carlin, he really hates any of us who question the utility of his bread and butter gravy train: the government. He thinks we “anarchists” are the most despicable of the despicable when it comes to political theorizers. Personally, I don’t answer to the label of “anarchist.” I do self-identify as a “voluntarist.”

John Carlin really thinks those of us who express things like this should be hurled into concentration camps for the good of the government.

John Carlin, meet the kind of prose that is going to give you explosive bowel syndrome immediately upon reading passages such as this:

For four and a half years, Luke Holland evaded the most intense global manhunt ever mounted in recorded history. He was always just ahead of his hunters, invisible until he chose to strike. When he struck, the targets were always left in one condition: dead. Holland was at war with the most insidious enemy of humanity ever devised: government itself.

The real Mafia wasn’t from Sicily. The real Mafia was ordained as necessary and unavoidable. Every civics class and political science major was taught the same bedrock lie: human order can’t be maintained without government. This doctrine was indispensable to the unbroken succession lines of rulers that have always ended up in control of governments. No one has ever stopped to question the question of the rulers themselves. Nobody ever questions what kind of people want to be rulers in the first place. In all his travels around the world with Special Forces and as the most wanted fugitive on the planet, Holland had seen the normal Janes and Joes of the world never seem to care a hoot about commanding people with absolute authority. Normal people just want to live their lives in relative peace, go along to get along, and prosper.

In Holland’s twilight world of spooks and black ops, he had found that only one universal type really wanted to have absolute authority over their fellow humans — the psychopathic control freak.

Research has demonstrated beyond all doubt that psychopaths are attracted to Power like sharks to blood. Chances are that the political candidate glad handing for votes and running their sucks about how much they have in common with the typical voter is really a human reptile. This creature will say anything to fool the typical voter into believing that it is just like everyone else. It cries about the same things voters cry about. It rages about the same things voters rage about. It wants the same opportunity for its kids that the voters had growing up. Lies, lies. lies. More damnable lies.

All it cares about is the power the voter can grant it by voting it into an office of the State. What happens when voters vote that critter into the hallowed halls of the Official Mafia? Does it not disappear from view? The commoner never sees this fiend until it comes time to vote it back into office again. These are the only times voters ever see it on the streets of common America, drinking in common bars and dining in common restaurants. The rest of the time, it will be busy making big-money deals, peddling its influence to the highest bidder, and selling the voters trust and future off in the name of its future, its survival, and the insurance that its progeny will enjoy unfair advantage over the commoners for as long as the State exists to guarantee the political parasite’s bloodline dominance with the force of law and the violence of cops and soldiers.

The above is an excerpt from my novel where I’m discussing the head space of one of the key characters, Luke Holland.

The ethos of this series is immensely anti-government. In fact, one of my objectives with this fictional exercise is to illustrate dramatically why government is the most evil human invention ever and must be abolished immediately for the good of humanity and fuck the good of government. As an axillary of this tact, I want to infect my readers with an appreciation for this head space as well.

Then there is Special Agent Mallory Hammond. She’s constantly going against the grain of the Bureau mainstream with amazing investigations into agencies that might be extra-dimensional and therefore outside of the Bureau’s jurisdiction. She’s highly individualistic, insubordinate, and absolutely willing to bend the system to achieve the ends of her personal investigations. She is also an Adept after hours, following a specific path in the Western Esoteric Tradition that was pioneered by Aleister Crowley, the “Great Beast” and “wickedest man in the world.” Crowley’s ethos is that the human individual is literally their own law and their own God. In a world like this, there would be no room for government. Government couldn’t exist in a world of the kind of individual sovereigns Crowley was intent upon creating out of the despicable masses of humanity.

She’s another “bad example” for impressionable readers. John Carlin wants to make sure that all entertainment portrays the government as the greatest champion of the people ever erected, not as the very root of the cause of all humanity’s curses.

The Rasmussen kinfolk were put down in the time honored tradition of Old Yeller: with a bullet to the brainpan. There wasn’t a cure for their kind of rabies. Agent Hammond, still wearing nothing but her undies, directed the sealing of the crime scene and made sure that all the weird occult paraphernalia in the house and in the barn was tagged, bagged and loaded into her sedan. For many of the FBI men there that day, it was the first time they’d become aware that Special Agent Hammond was actually a woman as well. A damned attractive one, too. It was the first time that she was looked at as something other than a crackpot and the laughing stock of the FBI. SAC Fender couldn’t get a word in edgewise; the sight of her like that was just crashing his speech centers.

Fender got it together enough to start following her around while she went to find the HRT commander.

Her bra was forest green and her panties were red bikinis, but she didn’t look like a Christmas present with her disheveled hair, sweaty sheen and Glock pistol clutched in a tight fist at her side. Her gunslinger stance seemed very incongruent with her appearance.

She asked him, the HRT commander, “So what finally gave it away that I could use some of that back-up you were so jealously withholding?”

The HRT commander answered on the defensive. “I didn’t withhold anything. You said you were going to signal us for help.”

“You didn’t get my signal?”

“No. What was it?”

She answered his question with a knee snapped into the man’s groin with everything she could put into it.

“That was the signal. Did you get the goddamn signal now?”

She left the HRT commander in the dirt crying and started to head back to the barn. SAC Fender didn’t do anything about the assault on a federal agent he’d just witnessed. If it had been him, he’d have done the same thing.

Then there is the character who out Dirty Harrys Dirty Harry — Jack Carnahan. He knows that the federal government is behind the most brutal schoolyard massacre in history. And now they’re trying to cover it all up while silencing him in the fallout.

Estabrook was at the podium in the darkened auditorium. The overhead was projecting the PowerPoint presentation that Estabrook was briefing. Carnahan was watching and listening while another part of his mind was calculating the probability that this was a set-up engineered by the black ops agent Saracino. All the “intel” Estabrook was currently dislodging like verbal diarrhea had been supplied by Homeland Security and the conduit into the department was the black ops agent Saracino.

But Carnahan was invested.

Chances were that the targets really were the killers of Homer Ganz and his family. These types of assets were disposable, designed to absorb all the blame. It was clear Saracino was hoping to clean house by doing away with the patsies while insuring that the threat posed by Carnahan was dealt with in a way that protected the feds.

The only way to confirm or deny any of this while getting a real shot at the killers was to play along with the ruse.

Carnahan’s relationship with Estabrook was well known throughout the ranks. For him to sit there without once sarcastically calling into question something Estabrook was presenting would be considered very unusual. It would be noticed. And in the right eyes even telegraph that he was wise to the set up.

The slide that Estabrook was briefing was a wiring diagram describing who was in charge of this operation and how the shit would roll downhill. Carnahan was in operational charge with Estabrook in overall command. Adams County, Thornton PD, Denver PD, and observers from Homeland Security were packed into the briefing, nodding and scribbling, wolfing down every scrap Estabrook threw out there like it was straight off Mount Sinai, finger-fire etched in stone by God on High.

These dogs would bolt enthusiastically right into the steel bear trap.

“I’m curious, Lieutenant. Did you actually invest any time into confirming any of this hot information of yours? Or did you just jump right into the briefing phase without putting our own eyes on this objective?”

Carnahan knew exactly how to push Estabrook’s buttons right up front. No dick dancing around.

First, the Ben Franklin reading glasses came off.

That was always the sign.

Then the blistering, barking retort that always reminded Carnahan of his subordinate position in the room.

“Carnahan, for your information, this intelligence is triple confirmed by federal agencies starting with the NSA.”

Carnahan scowled at the attempted rebuttal.

“I’m sure that fact is swell and looks good in a PR memo. But the federal government is the chief suspect in these crimes and any information they give should be looked at with suspicion.”

“Carnahan, whose side are you on here?”

“The side of the Law, Lieutenant. Is that going to be a problem?”

“Is doing your job going to be a goddamn problem, detective?”

“Never has been.”

“That’s fantastic, Carnahan. Can I get back to the goddamn briefing now?”

“Don’t let me cramp your style, Lieutenant.”

The wiring diagram slide was replaced by the slide depicting the layout of the target area. The targets were occupying lot 156 in a mobile home park with about 160 units. Most of the units were dilapidated to the point of constituting a slum. It was the perfect scum breeding ground.

“Pay attention to the routes marked in blue. These are the most direct routes into surrounding the suspects’ lair. We don’t need the dipshit in the lead” — he looked murderously at Carnahan to point out who would be the lead — “turning wrong and then trying to correct his fuckup while 29 other police vehicles play follow the leader. Pay attention to these slides, gentlemen!”

Estabrook had the strike force divided into three swarms: the lead swarm, the rear swarm and the flank swarm. Provided everyone turned down the right street at the right time, it would lock down the suspects’ trailer trash residence without a hitch.

Then they would liberally apply flash bangs and SWAT teams and call it Miller Time.

Carnahan was impressed by the sheer size of the arrest force.

Thirty cars. Four jurisdictions. Somebody really wanted this locked down tight, so that whatever was really transpiring could be quickly neutralized and contained in the aftermath.

Carnahan was way off the reservation now, sure.

And here’s the scene that will really put Blue Falcon on the Hit Parade over there in John Carlin’s Department of Government Scum:

“I’m not going to argue with you, Detective. What I am going to say is that another official reprimand is going on your permanent record. The only reason you’re not going on suspended leave without pay is that the parents of that girl happen to be politically connected. They put in a very good word for you to the governor’s office. So it’s your lucky day, Carnahan.”

“Marvelous.”

Lt. Estabrook closed the file folder in front of him and moved it to the right. He removed his Ben Franklin reading glasses and folded his hands on the desk.

He stared at Carnahan with that look of expectancy.

Carnahan’s eyes narrowed.

“Is that all, Lieutenant?”

“No, that’s not all, Carnahan. I want to know what the name of this game is you’re playing. Because I’ve got a name for it. It’s called tampering with evidence. Obstruction of Justice.”

The MIB in the corner added, “Aiding and abetting a terrorist cell. We can come up with a lot more creative interpretations and charges under the Patriot Act as well.”

Carnahan glanced over at the Fed.

“And just which alphabet soup agency is it this week? Or is that classified?”

“I’m with Homeland Security.”

“You work for or you’re attached to?”

“That’s classified.”

“And that’s a load of shit.”

“Detective Carnahan, perhaps you’re unaware of the seriousness of the predicament you will find yourself in should the federal government decide that your legal classification should be terrorist and no longer solid citizen.”

Estabrook barked, “Cut the crap, Carnahan. What did you do with that hard drive?”

Carnahan looked at his superior.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lieutenant. I’m a vice man now, remember?”

The MIB continued speaking in an inflective monotone, his flat delivery making the message all the more ominous.

“Did you know, Detective, that once you are classified as a terrorist in the eyes of the federal government that I can have you arrested and this afternoon put you on a plane that doesn’t exist and have you flown to an…interrogation facility that also doesn’t exist in a country that doesn’t respect the rights of the accused like this one does. Of course, we don’t condone torture but we respect a sovereign nation’s right to conduct their internal affairs as they see fit.”

Carnahan said, “I don’t know anything about a hard drive.”

“I think that’s a load of crap, Carnahan. I’m going to get everything I need to get rid of you forever. Unless you cooperate right now. You walk out that door without coming clean and then I get what I need to prove what I already know – you’re finished. As a cop or anything else in this life.”

“Then we know exactly what’s at stake, don’t we, Lieutenant?”

“You’re playing in the big leagues, Carnahan. This isn’t about the local mob boss ordering a hit.”

“No, it’s probably more like the federal government ordering a hit that they now want to cover up.”

“Detective that is an opinion that we don’t like to see coming from people in public service. I am compelled to question your loyalties.”

“My loyalties are with the law. Murder is still against the law. No matter who commits it.”

“Detective, what you are not aware of is that the law is evolving.”

“Yeah, I can tell that just by looking at your uniform there.”

“What’s your angle, Carnahan? Is this some kind of hare brained scheme you’ve cooked up to get yourself put back on violent crimes?”

“No. I’m fishing. Just like you are.”

“You might end up feeding the fish, Carnahan, if you don’t watch your ass.”

“Speaking of the food chain, why is Homeland Security even interested in Homer Ganz?”

“Because he is involved in what is shaping up to be an extensive terrorist conspiracy.”

“How extensive?”

“Extremely. They are well financed. Highly efficient with technical means we haven’t encountered before.”

“So far, you’ve said a whole lot of nothing.”

The MIB shifted in his seat, crossed and uncrossed his legs. Weighing. Measuring. Gauging a response without giving away the whole applecart.

“Very well, Detective. We are very concerned about the prospect that somebody can turn American school girls into suicide juggernauts.”

So what do you think? Blue Falcon Press is the POSTER CHILD for being the Next In Line for silencing by the criminals of government. I’m sorry, punks. I didn’t spend the last 15 years cooking this story line and sacrifice 20 years of my life in the Army researching the material so I could write it just so you fucks could turn off free speech when I’m ready to unleash my greatest triumph.

Go pound sand, Carlin. You’re not taking GREEN MAJIK.

Coming May 1st: Pretty Hate Machine — THE PAPERBACK NOVEL.

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