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NatParUSA Contributing Authors
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Patriot Act By D.A. Hänks
Prelude to conflict Today I looked around, and saw my world was dark. The years of multiculturalism had finally made their mark. There are no more individuals to separate our lives. We are as one now; just drones within the hive.
There is no more pride in heritage or past. For that is now illegal, within this Zionist-led caste. The beauty of the Aryans, like the dinosaurs has died. Some had tried to tell us, oh my goodness how they tried!
A few fled from here years ago to parts unknown. To carry on in secret, and keep the pure seeds sown. How I wish I had listened to those who warned of this. But I was much too busy; for ignorance is bliss.
Now everywhere I look, I see an endless sea of mud. If only I’d stood bravely and sacrificed my blood! I am much too old now, it’s too late for me to fight. Too late, I have discovered who was wrong and who was right.
I accepted all the lies that were told to me, as truth. How was I to know; they indoctrinated me in my youth! Now it is too late, and there is nothing I can do. Except look around and wish that I had left this place with you!
From the poem, “The Wistful Old Man,” by D.A. Hänks © 2004
May 6, 2019 The cool night sky was clear and full of stars, as the small rebel force made its way toward the rendezvous location in the Sauraton Mountains outside of Danbury, North Carolina. They had encountered two wayward Army vehicles earlier that evening alongside a rural road in southern Virginia, and had successfully ambushed the occupants as they stopped to answer calls of nature. A silenced .22 short into the ear of one soldier, and into the left eye of the other as he turned at the sound of the first muffled “pop,” had dispatched two of the five troops. The ten members of the Resistance had then quietly approached the two vehicles from behind, and suddenly opened fire on the three remaining soldiers as they awaited their comrades’ returns. Their bodies were subsequently dragged into the brush alongside the road, and the vehicles commandeered. A quick search of the larger vehicle revealed several wooden crates. Upon opening them, the freedom fighters were elated to discover that the vehicle was an ammunition supply truck, apparently en route to restock the local concentration camp at the former Hanging Rock State Park outside of Danbury. Why else would it have been on a secondary road heading south? Tens of thousands of rounds of ammunition for their AR15 and M16 rifles, a case of grenades, an M60 machine gun with a crate of belted ammunition, and several LAWS rockets compiled the booty they had just successfully looted. In addition, they had five more M16 rifles from the dead soldiers, as well as their uniforms, credentials, and a collective one hundred, eighty-seven dollars. They also now had five sets of seventh-generation, color night vision goggles. “Looks like we hit the jackpot!” one of the fighters said jubilantly, as he jumped out of the back of the truck. “It’s probably headed to Hanging Rock. We can either take all this stuff, or keep some of it and take the rest to the camp ourselves posing as the guys we just popped. We might be able to do a little damage from the inside to coordinate with what the Commander has planned at the same time. Maybe even take out a bunch of troops before they get us.” “That’s pretty risky.” someone cut in. “We need all the help we have, plus more. We don’t need any martyrs on this one. Let’s take the stuff to the Commander and see what he has to say. He may agree, or he may have an even better idea. He didn’t reach his post in three months by being incompetent. We can try out this new night vision once we get off road too.” “Yeah,” the first man responded, “you’re right. Let’s head out then.” With that in agreement, the now heavily-armed guerilla unit continued on to their rendezvous location with the addition of the two military vehicles just outside the confines of the park, which had become a concentration camp for firearms owners and any who refused to follow the rules of the system. Like many other state parks during the Cold War, it too had housed NIKE missiles, and the underground silos and facility that had once caused it to be the target of a ten-kiloton nuclear missile, now served to imprison some of the greatest assets to the Resistance. The Hanging Rock Camp incarcerated prisoners from the Carolinas, Virginia, parts of West Virginia, and eastern Tennessee, as well as a few political prisoners from Washington, DC. It had been decided that a strike against the compound to release the prisoners would be crucial to not only adding to the size and strength of the Resistance, but in gaining valuable information from the political prisoners. The psychological affect on the Federation would be enormous too. The vehicles turned off the road, followed an old logging road through the rolling, forested hills of Stokes County, and emerged into a small clearing overlooking a small valley to the east. The sky suddenly illuminated with a brilliant white light as though a bolt of lightning had flashed, but instead of immediately flickering out, the blinding light remained steady for several seconds before slowly waning in brilliance. The small group of fighters came to an abrupt halt and exited their vehicles, staring at the eastern horizon in horrified fascination. Although too far distant to be audible, a glowing, grotesquely-shaped mushroom-shaped cloud was clearly visible, looming ominously into the sky above the horizon. The cloud rapidly lost its luminescence as it arose high into the atmosphere, until it became invisible in the night sky. “My god, a nuke!” someone exclaimed. “But where?” the man who had suggested they try and infiltrate the compound mused. “From that direction, it could have been DC, Baltimore, Richmond, or even Philly or New York. Too hard to tell.” “DC.” a voice responded from the darkness. “Right on schedule too. Hot damn, they pulled it off! Thank the Lord above, they did it!” It was the voice of the Supreme Commander; a thirty-five year old leader who had been successful in gathering all the loose factions of anti-government and racialist groups, and patriotic individuals to join the large, already-existing Resistance. If he knew about it in advance and was planning this operation to coincide with it, it must have had strategic importance, rather than being a random act of retaliation. “Was it ours then?” “It was. Most of the personnel at Hanging Rock Camp will be bugging out for the DC area now. So will a few others on the east coast. The camps will be operating under a skeleton crew, so we can hit them hard and fast. We’ll take out their communications, get the prisoners, and blow the mountain behind us if we need to. We have members at the local school, ready to head up there with buses as soon as we give them the word. I don’t see why we can’t get every one of them out of there and bring them home.” The Commander checked his watch. “We’ll wait until morning for them to get the essential personnel on the road, then we head in. Those two trucks will come in right handy too. Nice job! I’ll see to it that you all get recognition from Cheyenne for that. There’s no need to cut any fencing and try sneaking in now. We’ll just roll right through the gate and hit ‘em from the inside. By the time they realize who we are, it’ll be too late. “This, Ladies and Gents, is the beginning of the end for the reign of terror our government has been dishing out for the last fifty years. From here on out, it will be winner-takes-all. This is a full-scale war now, and if we lose, so does every other free man and woman in the world. Now, let’s go in there and bring our friends and families home! We must prevail, or we shall certainly perish!”
MELTING POINT CHAPTER 1 “The tree of Liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.” Thomas Jefferson; Declaration of Independence
August 17, 2000 The shadows lengthened across the quiet Mojave Desert, as the setting sun dipped behind the Carbon Mountains to the west. Fifteen-year-old Doug "Snark" Hauser trudged alongside Highway 14 dreading his arrival home. He had left the house earlier in the evening with some friends, who had had subsequently ditched him in town for a better time with some girls and a nickel bag. His expected return time of eleven o'clock was less than two hours away, and he still had over ten miles to go before he made it home. It would be at least midnight before he got in, and Snark knew he was going to be in serious trouble when he finally got home. His father’s German temper could sometimes act as a powerful deterrent for disobedience. Snark had hoped that a passing car would stop and give him a ride, but no one had driven by for over an hour, and the few cars that had passed had sported out of state license tags and had not responded to his thumb. He would never make the deadline now. Snark was your average teenager, with a slight build and short, light brown hair. At 5’10” tall, some would have considered him skinny, but his lightweight bones allowed him to pack more muscle on his frame without gaining noticeable pounds, and his relative light weight and strong upper body allowed him to climb rocks with ease. The sun dropped below the horizon beyond the mountains, and the desert became dark as Snark plodded onward. He checked the luminous dial on his watch and to his dismay, saw it was already eleven thirty. His shoulders sagged as he continued onward with two more miles to go. The sound of a car approaching from behind grew louder, and suddenly the entire area became bathed in flashing blue light. Snark looked over his left shoulder, as a Sheriff's Patrol car pulled alongside him and stopped. It was the new sheriff, with whom he had had a brief but benign encounter in Artesia a few days previously, and the sheriff recognized him. “It’s kind of dangerous to be out here by yourself at night, this time of year.” Sheriff Wilde remarked. “Rattlesnakes come out at night. You never know what you might walk into or step on out in the desert. Get in, and I’ll give you a ride home.” The boy’s face lit up “Thanks.” Snark replied as he climbed into the car. “I thought maybe you were going to give me a hard time or something.” “Did I give you one the other day?” the sheriff inquired, as Snark put his seatbelt on. “No Sir.”
“Then why should I start now? What’s your name?” “Snark Hauser.” “That’s kind of an odd name; ‘Snark’.” the sheriff commented, as he cut off the blue lights and accelerated down the desolate highway. “Is it a nickname? “Yes Sir. My real name is Doug, but when I was little, I used to like to watch Captain Bob on Saturday mornings. He would talk about the ocean, and draw pictures and stuff. I used to like him talking about the sharks, but I couldn’t say ‘sharkie’ properly. It always came out ‘snarkie’ instead. The name just kind of stuck. When I got older, it just shortened to ‘Snark.’” “Interesting.” the sheriff said. “Doug’s my name too. Which way to your house?” “I live off Yucca Road.” Snark answered, “I live right on it. We’re neighbors, apparently. Why were you walking home, anyway?” Sheriff Wilde inquired, changing the subject. “That’s a long hike from town.” “I was out with some friends of mine.” Snark said disgustedly. “At least I thought they were friends. We were supposed to spend the evening at the arcade, and that was fine with my parents so long as they brought me home. George was driving and he was supposed to drop me back at the house, but he and a couple of the guys met some girls there and they decided to do something else. Since there wasn’t a girl for me, and the something else also involved weed, I told them to drop me off at the house because I didn’t want to be around anyone smoking that crap. They wanted me to come with them and act as a lookout if I didn’t want to try it, but I said ‘no.’ Since they were going in the other direction to the old borax mine, they just left me behind. I didn’t want my parents to think I had bad judgment in friends, so I started hitch hiking. I thought I could get home in time, but now I’m really late. They probably won’t trust me again, now.” “Well,” the sheriff said, as he turned onto Yucca Road, “hitch hiking was using bad judgment, but your reason for doing it was completely understandable. You did the right thing by not going with them. I’m sure your parents will understand that.” “I hope so.” Snark said in a worried tone. “Make a right here. It’s the last house at the end of the drive.” The sheriff turned to the right, onto a dirt lane that wound slightly around and over several small hills. They passed a few houses and a trailer, before the drive ended at a house atop a scrub-covered knoll. Like the sheriff’s own yard, there were a few Mojave yuccas growing. In addition, a large Arizona-native Saguaro cactus grew near the front door. It obviously had been planted, but was doing well in a xenotropic habitat. Sheriff Wilde and Snark got out of the car, and the front door opened. A woman hurried over to them, as a man ambled out behind her. She rushed up to Snark, and threw her arms around him. “Where have you been?” she cried. “And why didn’t George bring you back? Is he okay? Are you okay?” She looked at thesheriff. “Oh my god! What have you done? Are you in trouble? Is he in trouble Sheriff” -- Sheriff Wilde smiled. “No Mrs. Hauser,” he assured her, “he isn’t in trouble.”- “Well he is now!” Mr. Hauser rumbled. “He’s fine, thanks for asking.” the sheriff admonished. “Did it occur to you that maybe something happened to him? “Not after we saw you bring him here.” Mrs. Hauser stated. “You should be proud of your son.” Sheriff Wilde told them. “He made a choice tonight that will affect him for the rest of his life. Some of his friends were going to smoke some dope out at the old mine. They tried to persuade him to go along, but he wouldn’t do it, so they dumped him. He didn’t have any way to get home.” “Why didn’t you just call us?” Snark’s mother said, looking at him. “Your father or I would have come out there to get you.” “I didn’t want you to think I was hanging around with bad kids. I thought you would come down on me for that." “Look at how you’re treating him with me here.” the sheriff said to them. “How would you have handled the situation in town? Your son didn’t want to worry you, so he walked around for awhile looking for someone to take him home. When he couldn’t find anyone, he came over to my office.” Snark’s eyes widened as the sheriff covered for him, but he remained silent. “We met the other day in town, and he saw that I was working late. He knew I live nearby, so he asked me if I would bring him home. I suppose he should have let you know that, but fifteen-year-old boys don’t sometimes think about the same things that adults do. Would you rather he went with them, and made it home at a reasonable hour?” “No.” Mrs. Hauser answered, hugging Snark once more. “I’m sorry Son. I should have given you the benefit of the doubt.” “Me too.” his father added. He turned to the sheriff and put his hand out. “I’m Cliff Hauser, Sheriff. Thanks for bringing my boy home.” “You’re welcome.” Sheriff Wilde replied, shaking his outstretched hand. “I’m Doug Wilde.” Cliff Hauser looked at Snark. “Son, if you ever get in a situation like that again, call us. We might seem mad at the time, but we’ll realize soon enough that you did the right thing.” “Okay Dad, I will.” “Come on inside when you’re ready.” his father said, turning away. “And if I ever see that George Bernkie again, I’ll tear him a new-” “Come on Cliff.” Tina Hauser urged, cutting him off. Snark’s parents headed toward the house, as the sheriff looked out across the desert. He could clearly see the mercury vapor light mounted on the front of his garage, about three miles distant. To the left, the sky glowed faintly from the lights in Artesia. The front door shut, and Snark stood next to the sheriff in the quietness of the country night. “Thanks Sheriff.” he said appreciatively. “You really covered my butt. Why did you tell them I came to your office, instead of really happened?” “I was fifteen once.” Sheriff Wilde answered. “I got into a few tight spots myself.” “Anything like this?” “No, but if I had, my father would have picked me up. He would have understood, and he wouldn’t have given me a hard time about it so long as I was honest with him. I’m a pretty good judge of character and I believe what you told me, but if I find out that there was another reason that you were late, I’ll never believe you again.” “It’s true Sheriff, I swear.” “Then everything’s cool. I’ll see you around.” Sheriff Wilde remarked, as headed for his car and got in. “Good night Snark. Take care now.” “You too, Sheriff. Thanks again.” Sheriff Wilde started the car, and shut the door. He waved to Snark, as he drove away. “Jimmy was right.” Snark said to himself, remembering his friend’s comment about the sheriff’s character as he watched the sheriff’s taillights disappear over the rise. “That’s one cool guy.” Neither the sheriff nor Snark had any idea that this had been a momentous night for the youth. The sheriff had had a profound impact on Snark’s future. No longer would he waste away his afternoon hours, wanting to become a mechanic in his uncle’s service station after graduation. He would devote all his spare time to his books in the three remaining years of high school, to graduate with honors and pursue a career in law enforcement. Sheriff Wilde had unwittingly created a fateful set of circumstances, which would one day lead to a dramatic upheaval in the nation’s fate and help return America to her people. Snark would come a long way from Artesia, California. Snark shut the front door behind himself and locked it, before heading for his room. “Good night, Mom. Good night, Dad.” “Good night, Son.” his parents replied in unison. Seeds for the future had been sown tonight, under the magic light of the desert moon. Four-year-old Sallee Schoenbraun opened her eyes at the sound of crashing thunder, and hugged her teddy bear tightly. The vivid lightning and deafening thunderclaps terrified the little girl. Her ears were very sensitive, and the raging summer storm was directly overhead. Sallee pulled the covers tightly over her head and hugged the teddy bear once again. The thunder began to diminish in volume as the cell passed, and Sallee drifted off to sleep once more. When she awoke once again, sunlight was streaming in her bedroom window. Sallee stared up at the cartoon characters painted on her ceiling by her mother while she was pregnant with her. She smiled and rolled the covers back, climbing out of bed and looking for her bathrobe. She slipped it on over her pajamas, and trotted downstairs to the kitchen where her father was drinking a mug of coffee while reading the Sunday paper. “Hello Pumpkin,” he said with a smile, as she dragged a chair out from under the table and climbed up to hug her father. “Good morning Daddy.” Sallee replied, as she hugged her father tightly. Kurt Schoenbraun was proud of his baby girl. He had always dreamed of having a son, and although disappointed that his wife could no longer have children, Sallee more than made up for the space. Perhaps she would one day marry a wonderful young man that he would be proud to have for a son in law. That would still be okay, he decided. He had emigrated from Trier, Germany with his parents when he was seven, and had met Susan McCoy in high school, when she moved to Estes Park Colorado from Louisville, Kentucky. Half German, and half Irish, she had immediately captured his heart. Her long, auburn hair had attracted the attention of many young men, but Kurt had been the lucky winner of her affections. They had married soon after graduation when Kurt became a US citizen, and Sallee had been an answer to a prayer for both of them. Unfortunately, due to a fallopian tube pregnancy, Susan’s one good ovary was now useless. Sallee had brought the young couple much joy in her four years of life, and the setting of mountainous Colorado made a perfect compliment to their lives. They had decided to stay in the area after graduation, as Denver had a large gang problem and a corresponding crime rate. Kurt worked in a machine shop, and commuted to Denver to attend a community college, where he was learning to become an architect. He had one year left to go, and already his employer’s brother who owned a respected architectural firm in the area, had expressed in interest in hiring the young man when he graduated. He looked at his little daughter, with her straight auburn hair, and saw his wife in her. She would grow up to be a beautiful woman just like Susan, he decided. “Mommy!” Sallee exclaimed, as she spied her mother emerging from the basement of the house they shared with Kurt’s parents. “Hi Precious.” her mother replied. “Did you hear the storm last night?” “Yes Mommy, but I wanted to be brave like you said I should be, so I didn’t go in to see you.” “That’s my girl!” Kurt exclaimed. “I’m proud of you Honey. Give Daddy a Big Girl kiss.” Sallee planted a large kiss on her father’s cheek and smiled broadly at the compliment. “Just for that, I’ll take you for ice cream this afternoon.” Kurt informed her. “One day you’ll learn not to be afraid of anything, if you learn to face your fears.” Sallee’s eyes grew wide. “Really?” “Yep. You can do anything you set your mind to do.” Her mother assured her in a pleasant Kentucky drawl. “Can I be a warrior princess like Xena?” “Well, there isn’t too much need for warrior princesses anymore,” her father mused, “but with the way things are going in Washington, you never know.” He looked up to catch a sharp look from his wife. “What?” he protested. “Not yet, Kurt. Wait until she’s older.” “By then it may be too late. We discussed this before, Susan. She needs to know while she’s still young. I don’t want her corrupted by any ZOG school! She’s starting kindergarten in a few weeks, and she needs to know some things before she starts. ” Susan sighed, as Sallee looked at her father inquisitively. “Know what, Daddy? And what’s a zog?” Kurt placed his index finger vertically against his chin and pursed his lips. He had elected to open a complex issue, and now had to decide how to go about informing his daughter of certain things without telling her too much. She was a very intelligent little girl, and had been accepted into kindergarten a year early, so he felt confident that she was old enough to comprehend what he was about to tell her. “Well Pumpkin,” he started, “you know how when we go to Denver, you see people that look different from us?” Sallee nodded. “You mean the niggers?” Kurt had let the word slip from his lips two months earlier when a Negro asked him for money while they waited at an intersection just outside of Denver. He had half expected little Sallee, who was always the polite and friendly one, to walk up to a random Negro on the sidewalk the next time they were in Denver, and not knowing any better, greet him or her with an enthusiastic, “Hi Nigger!” “Yes.” he replied, “but don’t use that word, except around us, until you get older. Call them Blacks for now. There are others too. Your mother and I will show you how to tell them apart; Mexicans, Asians, Jews, Arabs. They are all different races from us.” Sallee looked puzzled. “Races? Like when you and I run out to the barn and back?” Susan smiled, as she began to wash Kurt’s breakfast plate in the kitchen sink. “This is going to be a lot harder than I realized,” The native Deutschlander thought to himself, as he fumbled for the right words, “but she’ll learn. She’ll learn that it’s okay to be White, and more so, to be proud of her skin color; not ashamed or brainwashed into imitating a jungle savage.”
September 11, 2001 “Is the sheriff around?” Snark inquired of the receptionist at the Sheriff’s Office. Fourteen months had passed since Sheriff Wilde had given him a ride home, and his interest in law enforcement had behooved the sheriff to offer him a junior position, similar to the Boy Scouts Explorer program. Although he had no law enforcement powers, Snark participated in ride-alongs, and sometimes answered the phone or dispatched in Communications. He was just as much a member of the Sheriff’s Office as any sworn deputy or communications officer, in the eyes of the Department. The receptionist nodded; her face grim. “He’s in the break room, along with everyone else. They’re all watching the news.” “What’s wrong?” Snark asked in bewilderment. He had never seen Debbie act that way before, and he became slightly concerned. “Two planes flew into the World Trade Center around nine o’clock.” Debbie explained. “Another hit the Pentagon awhile ago. Not little ones either; they’re saying they’re commercial airliners. One of the twin towers is gone. When the first tower was hit, they thought it was an accident. Then another one flew into the other tower. That’s when they knew it was no accident. Then a third plane crashed into the Pentagon. They’re saying it’s terrorists. People are jumping out of windows to avoid being burned.” Snark rushed past Debbie to the break room, where at least a dozen officers and non-emergency personnel had gathered to watch the communal TV. An aerial view was showing the two magnificent towers of the World Trade Center on fire, and huge columns of smoke billowed into the sky. “She must have heard that wrong.” Snark thought. “They’re both still standing.” Sheriff Wilde turned to face the youth as he entered the room; his lips pressed together grimly. A voice on the television was recounting the scene of horror, and then added, “all this just moments ago. We now return to live coverage.” Suddenly, the screen showed only one tower, and a massive cloud of dust and smoke enveloping the area. The sheriff placed his hand on Snark’s shoulder as he stood next to him, watching the events unfold. The female voice on the television was quivering, as she said, “and once again, those horrible images of the south tower collapsing.” Once more, there were two towers visible against the Manhattan skyline, when one of the skyscrapers began to disintegrate, crashing down upon itself; floor-by-floor. Snark stood speechless as watched the monolith implode. Debris and dust rolled toward the camera like a tidal wave, as the cameraman turned to flee. He ducked behind a car to shield himself, as the cloud enveloped him and day turned into night. “Jesus Christ.” Snark muttered quietly. “What happened?” “They’re saying four planes have been hijacked.” Sheriff Wilde explained quietly. “Two hit the World Trade center, one hit the Pentagon, and they don’t know where the third one is. What are you doing home from school, anyway?” “I have a doctor’s appointment at eleven.” Snark replied. “Not anymore.” one of the deputies remarked. “I think the whole country is about to shut down.” The news was interrupted by a studio shot of a newscaster. “We’ve just received word on that missing plane.” he stated. “It apparently crashed southeast of Pittsburgh, just south of Shanksville, Pennsylvania. There is no word yet on whether it was shot down or if it crashed on its own.” Snark ran his fingers through his hair, trying to collect his thoughts, when an attractive woman with long, light brown hair pulled into a high ponytail rushed into the break room and threw her arms around the sheriff. It was Tammy Peterson, sister of the sheriff’s chief deputy, and the fiancée of the sheriff himself. “Tommy called me.” she said to Sheriff Wilde, referring to her brother. “My god, this is horrible! Hello Snark.” “Hi, Miss Peterson.” Snark responded. His eyes returned to the television, and as he watched intently at the telephoto shot of the tall antenna atop the remaining tower, he thought he saw it vibrating. The camera appeared to pan upwards, as the antenna slid down the screen. “It’s going too!” Snark burst out in disbelief, as a cloud of dust arose where the aerial had stood only seconds before. The north tower collapsed in much the same manner as the south tower; from the top down, showering nearby buildings with debris as it fell to Earth. An enormous cloud of dust and ash billowed out from the area, mimicking the collapse of the first tower. This time, it was live action unfolding, and none of those present had seen the first tower fall until after they had heard about it. The sheriff’s thoughts dashed back to 1986, when he too, had stayed home from school one day. He had turned the television on just in time to catch the final countdown of a space shuttle launch. Having never seen one before, he stared fascinated at the television, as the Challenger lifted off the newly completed Pad B and thundered toward the heavens. He was perplexed as the flaming contrail suddenly split in half. After several minutes of confusion and live camera shots of various locations at Cape Canaveral, a young Doug Wilde had watched as family members were informed via loudspeaker, that the Challenger had exploded. His heart wept for those who dropped to their knees, some fainting, at the news. Snark was now experiencing the same feelings that the sheriff had felt in 1986, and now again at the senseless loss of so many lives. Snark felt lightheaded, and sat down heavily in a chair, as Tammy and the sheriff embraced tightly; their eyes full of tears. No eyes were any longer dry in the break room, including Snark’s, and several people held their faces in their hands. “How many people were in those two buildings?” Tammy asked softly, her voice trembling. “My god, how many people just died?” “Thousands. This is the beginning of the end for this country.” Sheriff Wilde said quietly, as he loosened his hold on his fiancée and sat down numbly. It was fairly well known that he had no love for the Federal government, and had in fact even incarcerated two FBI agents for their role in a drug smuggling operation into the heart of Mojave County, via a remote location known as The Badlands, the year before. The sheriff was extremely pro gun, and most of Snark’s passion for not only law enforcement, but also for the second Amendment, had been inspired by him. The sheriff seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to sniffing out cover-ups and conspiracy theories. “What do you mean?” Tammy asked, sniffing and wiping the tears from her eyes. “The end of what?” “They’ve been looking for an excuse to seize our Constitutional liberties.” the sheriff explained. “It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if they vote some haphazard law into effect to ‘protect us,’ that doesn’t end up violating every amendment to the Constitution. They could snoop on us, take our guns; who knows what else. Big Brother has already become a reality but now, if they take off with this, we’ll be worse off than the Soviets ever were. It’ll be the same kind of governmental control over the people, but with all kinds of modern technology to back it up. This country will never be what it once was, unless the people stand and fight to get it back. This is all just too convenient.” He looked up at the television, where they were broadcasting a live shot of the Pentagon in flames. “Look at that! A commercial jet did that? Bullshit! Where’s all the burning aviation fuel? Where’s the wreckage? And where the hell did the wings go? There’s no gashes on either side of that hole. If they tore off, they’d be laying on the ground. “They found unexploded military ordnance strapped to the piers under the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, after Tim McVeigh supposedly blew it up. That episode just happened to coincide with Clinton’s battle against the gun owners and militias. Blame the militias for it, and use it as an excuse to burn the Constitution to fight them. I don’t know who they’ll try and pin this one on, but I can almost guarantee you, whoever it is, we’ll be at war with ‘them’ soon. “I’ll bet a brand new Beretta they already know who’s behind it. That cowboy we’ve got running things in Washington now, is in bed with Israel. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if they’re even behind it themselves.”
October 25, 2001 “Sheriff Wilde was right!” Snark exclaimed, as he watched the Thursday evening news. “Damn!” His father overheard the outburst, and ambled into the living room to see what Snark was commenting on. “About what?” he inquired. “They passed something called the Patriot Act yesterday. Sheriff Wilde said they would shove some new legislation at us last month when those planes hit the towers. He was right.” “What is it?” Cliff asked, as he sat to watch the rest of the news story. “They gave the government all kinds of sweeping new powers to go after terrorists, but a lot of people are saying it’s all just a cover to take away more of our rights. They’re saying almost anyone can be designated a terrorist under the new laws, and that all their rights can be taken away. They can be held indefinitely without even being charged with anything! Someone was saying that they can even deny you a lawyer, and keep you from seeing your family; that they don’t even have to tell your family they have you in custody!” “It may be.” Cliff replied. “A whole lot’s changed in this country since I was your age. Hell, they give the Blacks everything but the White House back in ‘64, and it’s all been going downhill ever since. Then they passed the Gun Control Act in ‘68 which started most of the modern gun grabbing bullshit. I don’t know that much about it, but your friend the sheriff sure does, I’ll bet. If there’s anyone that can tell you about gun laws, it’s him. He’s really on top of that, for some reason.” “The sheriff knows his guns all right.” Snark acknowledged. “He’s taught me a lot, that’s for sure.” “I can tell you plenty about all the problems desegregation has caused, and why the Civil War was really fought, but I never was one to get interested in guns. I guess maybe I should have. With this new law they just passed, maybe I ought to learn before it’s too late. Hell, it may already be too late.” “What does desegregation have to do with the Civil War?” Snark inquired, directing his attention away from the TV for a second. “Other than the fact that the war was fought to free the slaves, and the Civil Rights Act was passed to keep them free?” Cliff Hauser snorted. “The Civil War had nothing to do with slavery!” he exclaimed. “They’d have you believe that crap, the way they teach you things in school, but the Civil War was fought over power; power that the Union wanted, but couldn’t have according to the Constitution. They wanted a federation and they got it. What do you call the government in Washington?” “Uh, the Federal government?” Snark guessed. “Yup. This country was founded as a democratic republic, not a democracy or a federation. Lincoln wanted a federation, and all the power to tax that went along with it. Johnny Reb told him to fuck off, and the South seceded from the United States, as they had every right to do under the Constitution. That traitor knew they were right, and that the public would never support a war over States’ rights, so he made slavery the issue instead, to throw everyone off track. It’s worked too. That’s all they teach you in school nowadays about the war; that it was fought over slavery and emancipation of the niggers. Bullshit! He sent thousands of them back to Africa before John Wilkes Booth put a hole in his head. “Did you know that several Northern newspaper reporters were banished to the South for the duration of the war for reporting the truth? How’s that for muzzling the Press?” “I never heard that before.” Snark said somewhat incredulously. “Why don’t they teach us that in school if it’s the truth?” “Because truth is knowledge, and knowledge is power.” his father replied. “Go up in the attic and go through the old encyclopedias that are boxed up. They were my Uncle Fritz’s. They were printed before the Second World War. They’re long since obsolete, but they were printed before the Jews made a mockery of our history. You’ll find a lot of what I just told you in there.” Snark was surprised to hear his father speak of the Jewish people in that manner. It was almost as though he were speaking in contempt about them. His thoughts drifted back to Sheriff Wilde’s comments the day of the World Trade Center attacks. He had made a rather seemingly callous remark about Israel, and now his father’s comments about the Jews puzzled him. “I’ve been hearing a lot about Jews and Israel since this all started.” Snark remarked. “What’s it all about?” Cliff Hauser looked at his son for a few moments before replying. Unlike Kurt Schoenbraun, he had elected to let his son discover the ways of the world on his own; to judge people by his own experiences with them, not the by the words of others. Due to a combination of recent circumstances and now his son’s inquiry, Cliff decided it was time to have a father to son talk entirely different from the kind most adolescents get. * “Mrs. Petrillo, would you send Sallee Schoenbraun to my office please?” The words of Frank Carlson, principal at Sallee’s elementary school, interrupted the class’s discussion on the Revolutionary War. A chorus of “oooooooh,” filled the classroom, as Sallee stood and left the room. “Hello Sallee.” Mr. Carlson said with a smile, as he closed the door and sat back down behind his desk. “Hello Mr. Carlson.” Sallee replied politely. “Am I in trouble for something?” “Oh no, Sallee. It’s just that I wanted to talk to you about something. How do you like the first grade so far?” “Oh, I really like it, Mr. Carlson!” Sallee exclaimed. “Mrs. Petrillo says you like to read, and that you are very advanced for your age. She says you read better than any other student in her class does, even though you’re a year younger than everyone else.” Sallee looked blankly at her principal. “What I’m trying to say, is that we have special classes for boys and girls such as yourself. I talked to your parents, and they agreed with my assessment of your abilities. Would you like to attend a special class for a few hours each day, where you would be able to read books and stories that were more at your level?” Sallee brightened. “Oh yes, Mr. Carlson!” “Your math and writing skills are advanced also.” Mr. Carlson continued. “It’s possible that you may be able to go directly into the third grade next year, if you keep your marks up. Do you remember that strange test you were given last week?”
“Yes.” “I don’t like math.” Sallee said frankly. “I don’t see why I need to learn it. It won’t do me any good.” “You use math in almost everything, Sallee.” her principal explained. “Almost every job requires the use of arithmetic.” “Not for what I want to do.” Sallee assured him. “What do you want to be when you grow up then, Sallee?” Mr. Carlson inquired. “A warrior. Like Xena.” Frank Carlson scratched his head. “Well, I suppose you could go into the military, but they don’t allow women in combat. Besides, your IQ is 147. You could be anything you wanted.” “I want to be a warrior.” Sallee insisted. “My daddy said I could do anything I put my mind to.” Her principal sighed. “Okay Sallee, but if you change your mind, I have a whole list of things that would better suit your talents.” “Okay then, I’ll become a doctor.” “Well now, that’s more realistic!” Mr. Carlson said enthusiastically. “What made you change your mind?” “Nothing,” Sallee replied, “but I guess it would be helpful to know how to help people that will get hurt fighting.” “You’re still wanting to be in the military, huh? Well, I suppose our soldiers could use a smart lady doctor.” “I don’t want to be in the Army.” Sallee stated emphatically. “I’m going to be a mercenary.” “A mercenary!” her principal burst out. “As in killing people? Where in the world did you ever come up with that idea? Where did a five-year-old girl come up with the idea to make that kind of a living?” “I read it in the newspaper. Mrs. Petrillo gave me an assignment to read about Israel for extra credit, and I read about them hiring mercenaries to go into some place called Palestine. I didn’t know what the word was, so I looked it up in the dictionary.” “Sallee,” Mr. Carlson said quietly, leaning forward in his chair, “you must not talk about things like that to people; especially grownups. There are rules that certain people like police officers or school principals, are supposed to report certain things. They would want to know where you got the idea, and immediately suspect your parents. The Department of Social Services would go to your house and talk to your parents. If they thought your parents were teaching you things like that, they could take you away.” “No!” Sallee exclaimed vehemently. “I wouldn’t go!” “You wouldn’t have a choice. It’s the law.” “The law is wrong!” Sallee said tearfully, as she thought about not seeing her parents again if she were taken from them. The thought terrified her. Why would someone want to take her away from her parents? They were the most wonderful people in the world. Surely, Mr. Carlson was wrong about this, but Sallee decided to listen to him since he was an adult. “I agree, but you mustn’t talk about things like this again, until you are older, okay?” “Okay.” “By the way, what did you learn about Israel?” “No one seems to like them very much. Daddy helped me find information on the computer. It looks like it’s their own fault though.” “I see. Why don’t we keep this little chat to ourselves, Sallee?” the principal suggested. “No sense in getting some of the other kids jealous of you by taking a special class. And remember, no more talk about being a soldier for hire, okay?” “Okay.” Sallee responded. Frank Carlson dismissed the girl back to class, and thought for a moment. He hadn’t really gleaned enough from her to determine exactly where her interest for battle came from, but he decided to call her parents and set up a meeting. Maybe that would shed some light on the subject. He had never before run across a child as young as Sallee Schoenbraun that was as intelligent as she was and exhibited signs of anti-Israeli perception. Some it had to be coming from the parents, he decided. Sallee’s principal picked up the telephone and dialed a long distance number. After several rings, a male voice on the other end picked up. “Yes?” “It’s Frank Carlson. I’m an elementary school principal in Colorado. I’m with the local group here in Estes Park. There’s a little girl here with some very interesting views on Israel, and wanting to become a mercenary. I’ll keep an eye on her and interview her parents, but I think we may have found one worth watching.”
February 17, 2002 “You’ve got mail.” Snark’s computer greeted him as he signed on. There was the usual spam, and an email from his friend Jimmy titled, “The real Saddam; you need a strong stomach.” Snark clicked on it with interest, as Jimmy didn’t usually send him junk. “These are from tapes smuggled out of Iraq.” the foreword stated. “This is real. It takes awhile to download, and do not do so unless you have a strong stomach. It may also cause nightmares if you are watching this in the evening. Part of this video shows a machine normally used for shredding plastic, converted to a torture device. Men were thrown into it, while others were forced to watch. The lucky ones landed head first, but some of the more unfortunate ones were pulled into the shredder feet first. Their screams would wake the dead.” Jimmy’s comment was also typed in, “This will make you cry. And maybe puke.” “What?” Snark thought, as he clicked on the download button. “That sure doesn’t sound like Jimmy.” After fifteen minutes, the “file complete” icon displayed, and the video began playing. Snark watched in horror, at an Iraqi man’s tongue being cut out and thrown on the ground. A woman found guilty of waving in greeting to US soldiers, was stripped naked and dragged into a public market, where she was hanged in front of her family, her nude body twisting in the air as she strangled. Another clip showed several screaming men thrown to their deaths from a rooftop by Iraqi soldiers, who then danced and waved at the camera. Then, the most horrifying scene of all unfolded, as a man was dragged kicking and screaming, by members of Saddam’s elite Republican Guard along a catwalk suspended over a machine of some sort. There was a lot of noise apparently emanating from the machine, but the man’s terrified screams could clearly be heard over it. A group of perhaps seven terrified men was being forced at gunpoint to watch the scene unfold before their eyes. The struggling man was thrown into a hopper on one end of the machine, and his shrieking erupted into guttural screams of pain and terror, as Snark realized this was the plastic shredder, and the prisoner was being consumed by the machine feet first. The hapless man was showered in his own blood, as first his feet, then his legs were sliced off an inch at a time in the razor-sharp blades of the machine. Several drops of blood spattered the camera lens, leaving unfocused crimson dots on the screen. Snark shrank back in repulsion as the man slowly disappeared into the whirling blades, his screams clearly audible over the roar of the machine. They stopped only when his lungs entered the shredder. Snark felt sick to his stomach, and turned to see his father standing in the doorway to his room, his lips pulled into a tight grimace. He had heard the Iraqi man’s screams of agony on the computer and recognizing them as genuine, had decided to investigate. Cliff stared silently at his son for several seconds before speaking. “Unbelievable what some ‘people’ will do to others, isn’t it?” he inquired of his son. “Are you a little more willing to listen to what I have to tell you now?” Snark nodded. “That’s not even the bad guys in the Middle East.” his father continued. “That’s peanuts compared to what the fucking Jews do to their prisoners. They shove wires up their ass or clamp them to their nuts and turn the voltage on. They cut off their fingers one joint at a time, slowly dismembering them until they either talk or die. I’ve heard they even shoved a red-hot rod up one guy’s ass trying to get him to turn over on someone. “After the Second World War, they got hold of some of the Nazis we captured. Jesus, the stuff I heard your Uncle Fritz talk about! They’d lay some poor bastard’s balls on a block of steel and whack them one at a time with a hammer. Sometimes just hard enough to make them puke or pass out from the pain, or sometimes they’d smash ‘em so hard they’d pop. I mean literally explode with a popping noise like a paper bag makes when you blow it up and smash it with your fist. The guys would actually beg the sadistic fuckers to cut their balls off to stop the pain. Then, they’d beg to die. The Jews would just laugh at them and do something else equally gory or agonizing. All the things they accused the Germans of doing to them, came right out of their own torture chambers. They’re animals. They aren’t human. They aren’t fit to exist on this planet with us. They’re nothing but users and destroyers. “The White race is the only civilized race on this planet, Son. All the mud races are violent beyond your imagination. You’ve had a few dealings with niggers in town when they’ve stopped for something on the way to L.A. or Phoenix, so you know how they are. Listening to that subhuman jungle music and threatening people for looking at them the wrong way. They think they can intimidate everyone.” “That’s only some of them.” Snark protested. “They can’t all be like that.” “They are, trust me. And we wouldn’t have the problem with them in this country, and in the world for that matter, if it wasn’t for the Jew-boy businessmen, judges, and politicians that control this country. They’re deliberately elevating the niggers to our level to take our jobs away and cause strife. They’re bent on dumbing us down to their level so that they can control us easier. And now, here we are losing even more good men to the sand niggers in Camel Land, in Bush’s war for Israel.” “It’s a war on terror.” Snark informed his father. “No it’s not.” his father corrected. “It’s the fucking Israelis getting us to do their dirty work for them. Just like they tried to do when they were at war with Egypt. Blew up US ships and tried to make it look like the Egyptians did it so we’d go after Egypt ourselves and fight their war for them. Yellow-ass bastards. They’re no good, Son. “They’re a mongrel race that stole the identity from you and me, and go around claiming that they’re the Chosen Ones. The true Israelites were White. The Jews are nothing but a race of liars and thieves. A tribe of murderers and thieves that killed anyone who wasn’t one of them, until they were all that was left of the religion. “When their new king took the throne, he converted to Judaism. His subjects were then forced to take on his religion, so they all became Jews. He did it to trick the rest of the world into believing his tribe of subhuman trash was special. He killed off the true Children of God and led the rest of the planet to believe that his people were they. We could just as easily be calling those same people Buddhists, Christians, Hindus, or Muslims today had he taken their faith, but the power was in the stealing of the Israelite faith. Those people are no more Jews, than you or I are Negroes. It would be like the niggers becoming Odinists a thousand years ago, and then killing all the Norse people off and calling themselves Vikings. “Most of the Jews don’t even believe in God; they’re atheists. That’s like a White atheist calling himself a Christian, simply because most Christians are White, and most Whites are Christians. They’re cunning all right. I’ll give them that, but they want us all dead. They use us to give them more, but one day, they’ll have everything, and we’ll be of no more use to them. Then you’ll see a real Holocaust, Son. Not like the Holohoax they purported happened in Germany. “Once they have total control of this country, they’ll put us all in concentration camps, or kill us all outright. They know that can never happen as long as we are armed, which is why you have all those Jewish politicians in New York, New Jersey, Maryland, and here in California trying to disarm us. “Take away a country’s ability to defend itself, and by country I mean the citizens, and the government has complete and total control over them. In states where concealed weapons carry is legal, it’s a proven fact that crime rates plummet. Muggers are less likely to stick someone up if there’s a chance they’ll get shot for their trouble. “The same thing holds true for a country’s citizens. An armed citizenry is free, and a country with guns has citizens, whereas a country without guns has subjects. A government agent is a lot less likely to kick in your door and try to enforce some illegal bullshit if they know you’re waiting on the other side with an AR15 to shoot them for it. “The politicians know this, and they see guns as a threat to their master control plan; a plan that involves doing worldwide, what their Jewish brethren in Israel have done to Palestine. They want to disarm us so we can’t fight back. They take away more and more of our liberties and tell us and every other country in the world, what to do. “They’re slowly succeeding too. That’s why all those countries over there hate us, Snark. They see us helping Israel; a country that murdered and stole it’s existence. Therefore, in their eyes, we are Israel, and as long as we help those cowardly bastards in their agenda, we’ll be targets of terrorist attacks. The Israelis marched into Palestine and slew forty thousand people. They killed women and children, while their fathers and husbands were away. They slit the bellies of pregnant women open, and eviscerated the fetuses, leaving both to die long, drawn-out deaths. They raped thousands of women in front of their families and then killed them, or stripped them and forced them to walk naked through the town streets while others raped them, urinated on them, or tortured them with bayonets. Some were then publicly hanged or run over. A few were allowed to live after their breasts were cut off. “They took their “Promised Land” by force. They stole it from the Palestinians, and we’re supposed to feel sorry for those Jews when they get ambushed and get what’s coming to them. They stole the whole country of Israel like that. They’re like Blacks; they want your Nikes, so they kill you for them, only with the Israelis, it’s killing for land while claiming to be God’s Chosen People. They want it, so they kill the Palestinians and simply take it. Where’s the civility in that, for Christ’s sake? “They kill Palestinians by the dozens daily, in the West Bank. Someone kills an Israeli soldier though, and they’ll massacre ten Palestinians in reprisal. All you see on the news though, are the weepy Jews when one of theirs gets taken out. They never show the bastards dragging people from their cars at random roadblocks, robbing them, and then shooting them in the head. “They still shoot Palestinian children for fun, and laugh as they lie screaming and bleeding in the street, then they shoot them in the head to kill them when the fun is all over. I’m not making this up, Snark. I’ve seen pictures of it; photographs of parents holding their child to shield him, while the Israeli soldiers keep firing, then pictures of all of them laying lifeless in the street, while the Jews rifle through their pockets. Then they go about their merry ways, laughing and smoking cigarettes as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and you know what? To them, I guess it really isn’t out of the ordinary. “It’s no wonder the Palestinians blow them up in retaliation every chance they can. I don’t blame them at all. Hell, I’m on their side in all this, truth be known. If the Canadians invaded the West coast and killed you and your mother for fun, you bet I’d be the first one to strap a bomb on my ass and drive straight into the heart of Ottawa and take as many of the bastards with me as I could.” Snark was still having a hard time believing all this, but he knew that number one; his father wouldn’t lie to him, and number two, after what he has just watched on the tape, anything was possible.
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