- When I awoke to a new day at the dawn of the year 2011
and gazed out of my window toward the coppice at the far end of a field,
upon which the edifice of a building under construction was barely discernible
under a frosty whiteness airbrushed by winter's artistically icy hand,
the strangest, most inexplicably surprising sight met my vacant expression
of bewildered incomprehension.
-
- Something was missing from the trees. The "missing"
were not swinging gently, as they should have been, from the end of lovingly
greased ropes in the breeze of the happier new year that the fiercely merry
tax slaves had promised themselves.
-
- I saw no dead bankers.
-
- I gasped in disbelief, and then my heart fell in its
despairing realisation that it had all been yet but a dream. An exquisitely
beautiful dream. A pageant of glorious justice, all lit up by fireworks
and sparklers and the bright and beaming smiles of ruddy-faced toddlers
screaming with Yuletide joy as we tugged at the feet of Armani-suited criminals
to ensure that all life had left their predatory limbs.
-
- How we frolicked in the snow beneath the cadavers of
the thieves and life-snatchers we had spontaneously arraigned in a whimsical
fit of patriotic, national revolutionary high-spiritedness; and how we
had laughed as they pleaded with us to leave their cocktail bars, their
private parties, their cosy family gatherings.
-
- At first, they had threatened us with the police. I shall
never forget the look on the face of the infamous local property speculator,
David Bronstein, when the tallest among us, Herr Becker, stepped forward
and unsheathed his Sig-Sauer-P225 pistol.
-
- "Herr Bronstein," he had announced authoritatively.
"I am the police."
-
- Bronstein chortled nervously and let slip the champagne
glass he had been holding protectively against his chest and, if I remember
correctly, two of his guests fainted in the spacious, marbled parlour room
that had been graced with priceless renaissance treasures, which the parasite
Bronstein had acquired following his hostile takeover and closure of the
local food-processing factory that had once gainfully employed almost seven
hundred men.
-
- "I'll take him," said Jens, stepping forward.
-
- Jens Reiner Hertling, a 56-year-old former line engineer
whose wife had left him following the loss of his job and subsequent nervous
breakdown, wore the look of a fellow haunted by five years of unemployment
and his consignment to the paltry Grundsicherung, Germany's "fuck
off and die" hunger payment for those deemed surplus to requirement
by the Zionist and financier-controlled Merkel government in Berlin.
-
- "One moment, Herr Hertling. There are rules to which
you must adhere," said Becker. "Now, Herr Bronstein!"
-
- Bronstein smartened and stiffened somewhat as the New
Year's Eve throng hushed itself to a respectful silence.
-
- "Sergeant Becker, there must be some .."
-
- "David Bronstein, Managing Director of Kramer-Ingnatz-Pyramid
Holdings, I arrest you in the name of the German People, a culturally distinct
folk comprised of sovereign individuals to which such God-given Rights
and Liberties accrue in accordance with Natural Law, and in the name of
all Humanity, for economic crimes that manifest in the wholesale theft
of property and monies from the Common Weal, resulting in the economic
destabilization of small businesses and genuine free enterprise, the impoverishment
and destitution of a large section of the local community, the destruction
of the lives of human beings as evidenced in increased rates of malnutrition,
depression, divorce, suicide, physical illness.."
-
- "But Sergeant .."
-
- "The People being sovereign not only in name but
also in deed, I deliver you into their hands for judgment and any subsequent
punishment commensurate to the aforementioned crimes."
-
- Katrina, a half-Irish girl with a pert, peculiarly upturned
nose and an intriguing, suggestive smile behind which she concealed a certain
unleashed femininity, tugged at my elbow and I heard a bustle at the window
that overlooked the main street.
-
- "They executed Ackermann!" she exclaimed, grinning.
-
- "Josef Ackermann?" I whistled quizzically.
"The Thief-in-Chief of Deutsche Bank?"
-
- "A detachment of the army tried to grab him as he
attempted a getaway in his private helicopter," she continued, the
intensity of her features coquettishly crimping into that of an awkward
teenage lass. "But he failed to surrender. They shot him right between
the eyes. The marksman was a deserter from the Afghanistan front."
-
- "They've arrested Angela Merkel too!" Briscoe,
an Australian journalist on vacation, and purportedly with the Resistance,
exclaimed. "Westerwelle committed suicide an hour ago. Anarchy in
London, England. It's catching fire."
-
- I was suddenly beside myself with elation. Never in my
wildest of imaginings did I believe that any of my local pamphleteering
would make the slightest difference, yet I had persisted in the knowledge
that others, unknown to me, and necessarily so, had also engaged in anti-federal,
anti-Crown, anti-bankster activities, many resorting to assassination,
to form an invincible Leaderless Resistance that had culminated in an unstoppable
popular uprising.
-
- The commotion below had excited my interest beyond the
immediate and inevitable fate of Bronstein.
-
- I hit the snow running, with Katrina, diminutive in her
oversized red ski jacket, but yet ever so effortlessly nimble, leaping
ahead of me like a Wagnerian sprite. There were no end of us: men, women
and children of all ages, jogging shoulder-to-shoulder, some drunk, others
intently and dispassionately sober, others quite clearly afraid, perhaps
of themselves.
-
- "Hamburg we took Hamburg!" Katrina blustered.
"But Munich's under curfew."
-
- "How do you know?" I asked, almost out of breath.
"I thought the Net was down."
-
- "No, it's just very slow," Briscoe rejoindered,
close behind me. "They took down Vodaphone and the O2 networks though."
-
- "Who?" I demanded.
-
- "Your buddies."
-
- "What do you mean, 'My buddies'?"
-
- "The Israelis, Zionists . Call them what you want.
You've called them worse."
-
- I'd only known Briscoe for a few days. He'd arrived like
loose flotsam on a windswept shore; and the undertow, I perceived, had
a hold on him, forever teasing him back to ship. There was something in
his voice that rang a distant line home.
-
- The "shoreline", though yonder by a great stretch
of living waters, was mine. I had counted every pebble, every shell, every
dimple in the sand. I'm a child of the sea. No matter how landlocked I
am, and no matter how far removed from the British Isles, I can tell you
straight by the thrust of my prominent Celtic nose from whence the wind
doth tend and caress each wave that breaks upon the coasts that lie prostrate
and malleable before the unfathomable designs of both the Irish and the
North Seas.
-
- Briscoe seemed to know a lot about me, for that was the
assumptive tone in which he addressed me. He spoke on terms far too familiar
for my liking.
-
- I paused for breath by the Lutheran church at the top
of the hill, and Briscoe sidled up to me with a knowing wink.
-
- "Too many Sheilas, huh?"
-
- "No," I replied with some disdain. "Just
one. And she's English."
-
- "Just testing, Cobber," Briscoe returned with
a jocular grin.
-
- "And you?" I asked, breaking code. "Do
you dance with your lady by moonlight or in the mists of an autumnal morn?"
-
- "I .. er. I dance with her ." Briscoe stuttered.
"What the fucking hell, I'm drunk, mate. Forgotten, you know?"
-
- I eyed him peevishly before waving off my doubts. "Too
much excitement, Briscoe. I understand, pal. Einheit 26, Feldhausen-Nanchet-Elf.
And you?"
-
- Briscoe cheered quite immeasurably and, with his left
hand, casually revealed the Glock ensconced in the holster beneath his
Barbour jacket. "Struktur-Ostbach, A-92."
-
- I indicated my satisfaction with a broad chummy smile
and gave him a hearty pat on the back. "Okay, you bastard of a roo-shagger,
welcome to one almighty bugger of a revolution."
-
- "You Englishman!"
-
- An elderly man, almost toothless and with cane in hand,
approached me tentatively, his face disfigured by hardship and hunger.
-
- "Tell me, my friend," he implored, his frail
voice wracked by the urgency of the moment. "Shall we live in dignity
once more? Shall we eat?"
-
- I was unable to answer, but nonetheless took the old
man in my arms and hugged him. I pulled away, yet he remained fastened
upon me.
-
- "My son killed himself," he said in a whisper.
"He couldn't live on the Grundsicherung, Hartz IV. How can any human
being feed himself and buy medicines on such peanuts? He needed painkillers,
but the bastards raised the prices so that he had to choose between food
or sleepless nights."
-
- "I'm still mainstream," Briscoe said peremptorily,
his cell-phone switched to interview mode. "I have to catch this."
-
- "I'm not a politician," I told the wizened
fellow, tears coursing down his cheeks. "I'm not a leader."
-
- I'd heard of many suicides since the treasonous Socialist-Green
government, led by Gerhardt Schroeder, had slashed welfare payments to
the unemployed, the elderly and the chronically ill just months before
they spent two billion euros on fashioning new nuclear-powered Dolphin
submarines for the state of Israel.
-
- For years, those suicides had gone unreported, with only
one national newspaper stating that the government had requested coroners
to file the cause of death under such circumstances as the outcome, not
of suicide, but of organic failure caused by such fatalities. Overdoses
of lethal pharmaceuticals, handed out like free candy to the depressed
and anxious, almost invariably led to kidney or respiratory failure. Subsequently,
statistics had evidenced a dramatic increase in deaths by means of organic
insufficiency since the introduction of the pro-Banking attacks on the
poor and vulnerable.
-
- "He didn't take his own life," I assured the
old man. "They did. It was cold-blooded state murder. And now they
shall pay for their crimes."
-
- "I got a Skype connection. This is going on the
wire, Cobber," Briscoe announced, his cell-phone close to my chin.
"The American people equate revolution with communism. Are we seeing
a socialist uprising this evening?"
-
- I bristled.
-
- "We're neither Left nor Right, but for the People,"
I snapped back. "The Left-Right paradigm is history. It was always
a trick to con folks into believing in the scam of democracy: an illusion
designed to create a false, wholly vacuous feel-good social atmosphere
within which the usurious, debt-based fractional reserve banking system
and its parasitic lobbies would hold sway over government."
-
- "So who's leading the revolution?" Briscoe
enquired officiously.
-
- "The People," I replied. "Only they have
the right to lead themselves."
-
- "Seriously?" Briscoe returned. "Don't
people need leaders, political parties?"
-
- "No!" I shot back. "Only children require
psychopaths, for that is what all politicians are by nature, to lead them,
and inevitably betray them."
-
- "So what are you? A libertarian?"
-
- "Don't label me. Call me a National Libertarian
if you will, but remember that I am more than the composite aspects of
my Weltanschauung," I replied. "In the spirit of the American
Revolution, now betrayed by the Zionists and the Wall street money men
who subverted the leadership of the Tea Party, I'm an egalitarian to the
core, and one who believes that social justice is best achieved by means
of minimum central government mandated only to regulate monopolies and
mint a national currency backed by a resource-based economy."
-
- "You're English," Briscoe continued. "London,
Birmingham and Manchester are in flames. The BNP and EDL are attacking
Muslims."
-
- "Then they're only doing what their Zionist overlords
and the Parasitic Elites desire," I replied angrily.
-
- "You mean Miliband's 'Jew Labour'?"
-
- "It's a cornerstone of the anti-English Fifth Column,
no doubt about it. But I'm specifically referring to the treasonous British
Crown, a constitutionally illegal system of unitary government established
to serve only the interests of the financial mafia state, the City of London.
Under Admiralty Law, the United States remains a colony, not of the British
people, but of the City of London."
-
- "May I quote you, using your name?"
-
- "You may quote me. But names are for gravestones,
buddy. I'm a Lone Wolf. You heard me howl."
-
- The sound of gunshot ahead of us punched holes through
whatever it was Briscoe said next.
-
- "I thought they were hanging them," the old
man wheezed. "In an orderly fashion."
-
- We made haste in the direction of the coppice close to
the train station and the omnipresent Katrina was back at my side.
-
- "I heard that Bronstein and four lawyers made a
dash for it. Becker shot two of them," she panted excitedly.
-
- "A class action," Briscoe quipped.
-
- "It wouldn't have hurt," I retorted. "Lawyers
feel no pain."
-
- We took a short-cut along an embankment that ran close
to a gated community. Outside a small electronics store, a group of revellers
had established an impromptu barbecue grill and my nostrils filled with
the aroma of succulent Bratwurst. Across the way, the limp form of a de-trousered
man hung from a lamppost at the end of a makeshift rope.
-
- "Michael Klein," Katrina told me. "Nice
guy, but a speculator. Screwed thousands by betting against the district
pension scheme and then shorting in some kind of weird insider trading
scam."
-
- "Good," I murmured.
-
- "But the communists, not the army, are claiming
Berlin."
-
- "The Resistance will cut a deal," I assured
her. "Berlin has always been different. If not, they're listed. Every
potential traitor has a profile neatly captured within the infrared imaging
of an assault rifle. They would do well to bear that in mind."
-
- "We all kept lists," interjected the old man.
Much to my astonishment, the old codger had somehow managed to keep apace.
"Everyone keeps lists."
-
- I was delighted to hear that ordinary folks had heeded
Rule No. 1, which states that, barring an inability to participate in any
form of Lone Wolf activity, it was incumbent upon all resistors to list
as many local politicians, bankers, speculators, establishment lawyers
and corporate lobbyists as possible. Rule No. 2 was tougher to fulfill,
but eminently doable with some creative thinking and a few pals in the
right place: Keep a gun, preferably at least a six-shooter, and learn how
to use it expeditiously prior to pulling that list out of your top drawer
the moment the shit hits the fan.
-
- I asked Katrina to put some extra mustard on my Bratwurst
and gestured to Briscoe.
-
- "We've got to talk," I told him.
-
- I took Briscoe to one side at the apex of the high street
that ended sacrificially upon the cross-roads to a magnificent vista of
the Taunus mountain range, and he instinctively reached for a cigarette.
Katrina, now lost as a pixel of red within an expressionist array of revolutionary
fervour, turned to me and waved. When she disappeared from sight, I faced
Briscoe and made as if to study the inquisitive glint in his eye.
-
- Then I punched him hard directly and with full lethal
force in the throat. That's all I knew. An old tramp, a one-time prison
bird I'd once met in Scotland during a time when I hitchhiked the length
and breadth of my native country at an age most youngsters would want to
forget, and who had afforded me his last dry cracker before I ventured
upon the eighty miles that would take me home, alone and angry, defeated
by nature and the need to eat, once told me that a punch to the pharynx
was a last resort.
-
- "Aye, 'til kill, laddie."
-
- Briscoe went down gagging, his arms flailing, making
swirly-birds in the snow. I yanked the Glock from his inside holster and
pressed the nozzle close up against the nape of his neck.
-
- He was still for a while, not choking. I rolled over
his prostate form and onto my side, facing him squarely. He had blue-green
Manchester eyes. I read the signposts in his reddened canthi.
-
- "Why?" I asked him. "MI6?"
-
- I knew that he wished, if only he could, to tell me one
last Mancunian joke. I gripped him gently by the shoulder and said, "I
know, mate. I'm telepathic. It was a good one, but I heard it before."
-
- Then he mumbled something. Perhaps he was attempting
an apology for the fact that he had incorrectly named a semi-autonomous
unit, which was, in any case, a well-known 'honey pot' created by the intelligence
services working under the auspices of NATO.
-
- And then he died.
-
- I trudged back through the snow with my head hung low,
hardly aware of the crowds pushing their way toward the coppice. It was
the first time I'd killed anyone, and it had been a fellow Englishman,
a northerner: my brother of sorts.
-
- "Cameron's under house arrest at Chequers,"
Katrina managed to say while chomping on a hot dog, the ketchup adding
colour to her lips.
-
- "You're suddenly looking quite erotic, Kat."
-
- "Fuck off."
-
- "And?"
-
- "Well," she continued, wiping ketchup from
her jeans with a serviette, "some of your army people, the Lancashire
Fusiliers, I think, occupied Westminster and ."
-
- "Uh, huh?"
-
- "God, I hate ketchup. I asked for mayonnaise."
-
- "Well spit it out!"
-
- "Some guy on the Beeb, Asian looking, said England
may secede from the United Kingdom and Billy Windsor is in exile in Sydney.
So you get your republic, no?"
-
- "Well, I ."
-
- "And they lynched the war criminal Tony Blair in
Chelsea. Cut his throat and turned him to pulp with baseball bats."
-
- "You're giving me a stiffy, Kat," I mused,
feeling for the Glock I had removed from Briscoe's holster.
-
- "Where you going?" Katrina asked. "Don't
you want your Bratwurst?"
-
- "I've got business to settle," I replied, already
at a brisk pace toward the railway tracks. "I think I know where Bronstein
may be nesting."
-
- I put my face hard against the chill of the northerly
breeze and stamped virgin snow along an alley that sidled, unmarked on
the map, close to an industrial estate that had seen its best days some
twenty years ago, long before the successively vicious spates of offshoring.
I caught a glimpse of the tooling factory that had 'gone China' and wondered
how it was that the German people had accepted, without question, the government's
official statistics that had downwardly and cynically revised the unemployment
figure from almost ten million to just two million jobless human beings.
I was working on a hunch and hoped I could reach my destination before
temperatures dropped to minus fifteen Celsius.
-
- I clambered over the shoddy fencing on the south side
of the railway tracks that took weary commuters to Frankfurt and allowed
myself to descend effortlessly, ass-wards, down the embankment before striking
out toward the temporary maintenance shed that lay close to the gulley
adjoining the forest.
-
- I hate hunches because I'm compelled to follow them.
They've gotten me into no end of trouble because they invariably prove
to be correct, and they always buddy-up with a huge neon sign that descends
from the sky, emblazoned with an amber arrow, above which flashing red
lettering reads: Act On It, Asshole!
-
- I surprised myself by reaching the shed in less than
ten minutes or so. The cold had numbed all of my extremities and I was
half-hoping that Bronstein would make a no-show, but yet I removed my gloves
and let loose one NATO-issue full metal-jacket round into the lattice framework,
which shattered like crispbread under a hammer blow.
-
- "Bronstein," I yelled. "You're surrounded.
Surrender and you have a chance!"
-
- My words hung in the air, frozen in time stood still.
I spied no foot-tracks either to the left or right of the shed and I began
to think of Katrina and the way she had sensually taken that Bratwurst
into her mouth like an insatiably hungry gannet.
-
- Then a figure, clad in black, phantom-like, scrambled
from the shed and took the sharp, unforgiving incline of the northern embankment.
I let loose another round, intended to miss, and the man crumpled and slid
back, prostrate and half-hidden into a snowdrift piled high beyond the
outer track. He let out a yelp, like an injured dog, and began to whimper.
-
- I was fast upon him and saw before me a man torn and
exhausted, his sullen, glassy eyes bespeaking resignation.
-
- "Where are your friends?" I demanded.
-
- "Gone," he said promptly.
-
- I believed him. He had no reason to lie. He wanted it
over.
-
- "You were meant to hang, you bastard," I said.
-
- "Do it."
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