The $268 Billion Defeat

Jews Jaws Seven

Shark America Three

Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 173 (Expect a major quake in the 120s)

Note: Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2007
Looking for the Peru-Chile Event

Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle--Counterattack-in-Place

Today's Code: "Approach"

The Battle of Smallville is now well engaged, and what do we see?

First, the cowardly American psycho-fascist at 316 Second Street has at least for the time being reined in his attacks on me. I attribute this to the good sense of his wife, who wants only to live in peace and care for her beautiful farm animals, and to my subduing his pack of vicious dogs with a pitchfork.

However...however...however, he remains an accessory to attempted murder.

Second, the cowardly American psycho-fascist at 302 Third Street, who threatened to burn my home down with me in it and who took a shot at me last Saturday, demonstrates what I would call a "fearfulness" at my slightest response. I will go into this in some detail today.

Third, the deputy sheriff remains as useless as tits on a boar, and if I were to depend on him or his judgement or his policing skills I would sooner or later be murdered by the cowardly American psycho-fascist at 302 Third Street.

This would not so nice for me, but would give the deputy a homicide conviction as a very young age. A feather in his cap; a flower on my grave; no thanks.

So, yesterday I began my current tactic, which I call Counterattack-In-Place, with very interesting results.

One of the things the cowardly psycho-fascist American "man" at 302 Third Street likes to do is stare at me and smirk, his way of bragging that, yes, it is he who torments me and there is nothing I can do about it.

So yesterday, in the cool of the evening when my day's work was done. I poured myself a teacup of merlot (which I assure you I did not transform from water but which I got out of a five liter box with a spout on the bottom) and set myself down on an aluminum folding chair, put my feet up on some rounds of wood drying for use this winter, and wearing my cool shades and baseball cap, stared at the cowardly American.

Within ten minutes his response was panic, and he bundled up his family and drove off with them.

"Hmmm?" The general said, looking at this battle map, "This cowardly American has no stomach for the slightest tit for tat. Interesting."

One sword God, the other sword Time Travel.

And here is another interesting thing, the son of a bitch called the sheriff to report I was staring at him from my yard, from 30-40 yards away.

And here is yet another interesting thing, the Sheriff's Department, which took some 17 hours to get to my place after the psycho-fascist took a shot at me, arrived at the scene within perhaps fifteen minutes from the time I sat down to sip my merlot out of a teacup.

My wine finished, I returned to my desk to continue writing The Obituary of the World, writing the report I filed yesterday; with the deputy parked nearby; likely more interested in arresting me for staring than the cowardly American at 302 Third Street for shooting..

Night fell, and did not pick itself up again until about 4:30 a.m.

Night is the time the cowardly American psycho-fascist at 302 Third Street likes to attack me, but only when I am sleeping, of course. He tends to stay up all night, doing dope I am told, and whenever the mood strikes him he likes to walk across 40 yards of private property and bang on my bedroom wall and awaken me. Once a night, six times a night, depending on his high.

Good American fun; a cowardly act acceptable to a cowardly nation; a favorite American form of Telepath torture.

So last night I stood at a window that looks upon the dope den at 302 Third Street, not a light on in my home, and I began to intermittently blink a flashlight at him.

There was the same response as earlier in the evening, near-immediate panic. Telephone calls were made. Soon a fellow doper arrived to back him up, and soon someone drove into my driveway, and soon from his house a spotlight was shown on my home.

"Blink, blink," said my flashlight, until he went inside to hide from it.

A coward is a coward is a coward.

This is what I mean by Counterattack-In-Place. From within my home a flashlight intermittently blinking; from just in front of my home, a long shaded stare over a teacup of merlot out of a box, only my eyes penetrating his space, and he panics and calls the cops and calls his hoodlum friends.

This the cowardly American who has attacked my home at least 100 times in the past three months, creeping up in the night, threatening murder, attempting murder; and my blinking flashlight panics him, and a long hard stare panics him.

And, Dear Reader, I have not yet begun to fight. Wait until he sees his balls shredded; therein lies true panic...but excuse me, I am getting ahead of the story of the Battle of Smallville.