Retreat, Part 2
The $597 Billion Defeat
Jews Jaws Seven Up
Shark America Three Down
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 189
Virgil's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923
Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World
Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event
Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: The Secret Story, Retreat (2)
Today's code is "88th Day, Last Year".
I smell a great wickedness; I smell a great evil coming my way.
If my nose for news is right, and if I am still alive and I.C. News is still intact after this evil cloud passes over my torture chamber here in the God-damned (literally) United States of America, I will report on it for you.
Monday seems to be the day. Me, I always like a good fight. Hurry, Monday!
I thought I would put down something of what I know about this approaching evil.
Since the attackers are typical American cowards, if I say too much about this it could block the attack; and in that case I would miss out on the fun; so therefore I will encode a description of what I expect to take place.
Since only a few thousand of my Dear Readers read Japanese, I will use that language for the code. Bad Japanese, certainly, but what do you expect from a nearly 69 year old man whose prescription for long life is booze and pot and wild, wild women in copious amounts, with a touch of courage and luck on the battlefield.
The attack, then, "Jibun no uchi kara kuru. Tegami no basho de".
I know the cowardly weasels who are planning this attack read this work (hardly understanding a word of it so blinded by hatred for me are they) so this mention of this attack and this accurate naming of the date of the attack might send them scurrying back into their dark places. Damn, I hope not; I so do want to fight them.
Now let's return to our third story in our series, Retreat, where we find Tea, some 15 years older than he was at the time of the seance, deep in the American wilderness, waiting for the Not-Forgetting Society to attempt to kill him.
How much like real life is this work of fiction; how much like the rockets' red glare of God's Space War seen over the distance of Time is the coincidences it contains.
The writer's protagonist in a story written some 15 years ago is in the exact same situation the writer is in today. You American Dear Readers, too, are in the same situation as the Americans in the story, hated profoundly and targeted for atomic revenge.
When we get to The Secret Story, the next story after this story, Retreat, which I have not yet written and will write fresh every day, the coincidence factor will become as thick as soup, and hot as soup served too hot to slurp.
Retreat, Part 2
It was like Spring in the Marble Mountains of northern California, though it was July.
Passes to the high lakes were still closed by snow,
The deer were ragged and hurting for food. Coyotes were having their way with them.
Militarily, Tea favored the draw play; and he was working out such a play as he moved through his morning camping activities.
It was an easy morning. He cooked and ate his remaining trout slowly, hunkered by the fire, his arms set on his knees nearly to his armpits, his buttocks hovering just above the ground, his back to the snow-blocked mountains, his eyes traversing the wide, granite slope he had climbed the night before.
A half mile below him was the little lake he had fished the previous evening, though it could not be seen because of a forty foot hump of granite just before it, and the pines that surrounded it, and the stunted little pines that grew out of cracks and spaces in the granite.
Tea's mind was going over the algebra of the fight he thought would come as surely as yesterday had come and gone. Tea was the winter-ravaged deer. Matsushita, the master fencer, and the men with him, were the coyotes.
Matsushita was old now. What a laugh. Tea was no spring chicken.
Tea had set up this battle because he, not Matsushita, was getting weaker, getting more punchy with each year of abuse the Americans dished to him.
If Tea were 20 and Matsushita 90, Matsushita would still win any sword, stick or fist fight with Tea unless Tea waylaid him, and Tea couldn't make that stoop.
Tea's cover, that of being the Golden Ass, had suited the Americans superbly, too superbly, and by the time Tea had figured out what the Not-Forgetting Society was up to the cover had frozen over. Once the American public had tasted legalized torture there was no turning it back from the trough of public sadism.
Tea's troubles with his own country were not trouble enough as far as Matsushita was a concerned.
While Matsushita liked the idea of the hated Tea suffering at the hands of the hated Americans (they were shitbirds of the same feather pecking away at one of their own who was down); and while he knew how improbable it was that Tea would ever escape from the American altitude toward him and its ritual torture-murder of him, Matsushita did not want to miss out on his own vengeance on Tea.
Sure, Matsushita liked the cruelty of the American attitude toward Tea. It fit that keen edge of cruelty the Japanese had historically appreciated.
And, sure, it was funny watching the Americans torment and slowly murder the only American who knew about those A-bombs in the San Francisco and Los Angeles harbors; but, there were times when Matsushita worried that Tea would die in the gutter, die some typically American death, death to robber, death to despair, death to meaningless murder; and when wondering about this he would feel a pang because while there was satisfaction in envisioning the miserable death America had planned for Tea, that was Western satisfaction, and Matsushita wanted to decapitate Tea; Matsushita wanted Japanese satisfaction.
Also, as the time for what was called the "Great Revenge" got closer Matsushita started wondering again of Tea wasn't a mole, wondering if the whole bizarre American captivity of Tea wasn't some kind of U.S. intelligence ruse. Had it been too easy, putting those A-bombs in those harbors, dropping them from the keels of Japanese freighters owned by Mastushita, held in place by strong electromagnets until released, to settle into the harbor mud?
Were the Americans really totally unaware of the existence of the Not-Forgetting Society?
It was past time, though, for second guessing. The sword was in motion. Revenge against Tea was most desirable; and reason enough for the taking of a "Kill Vote" among the living members of the Not-Forgetting Society. Kill won. Kill won easily. The dead members' representatives had not been seanced in for the vote.
It was a deadly game now. Damn deadly game, Tea mused in his aloneness in the wilderness, where he was waiting for the inevitable duel with Matsushita and his martial arts bodyguards to take place. Damn. Damn. Hot Damn!
(To be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 88th day of its last year.
Jews Jaws Seven Up
Shark America Three Down
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 189
Virgil's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923
Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World
Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event
Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: The Secret Story, Retreat (2)
Today's code is "88th Day, Last Year".
I smell a great wickedness; I smell a great evil coming my way.
If my nose for news is right, and if I am still alive and I.C. News is still intact after this evil cloud passes over my torture chamber here in the God-damned (literally) United States of America, I will report on it for you.
Monday seems to be the day. Me, I always like a good fight. Hurry, Monday!
I thought I would put down something of what I know about this approaching evil.
Since the attackers are typical American cowards, if I say too much about this it could block the attack; and in that case I would miss out on the fun; so therefore I will encode a description of what I expect to take place.
Since only a few thousand of my Dear Readers read Japanese, I will use that language for the code. Bad Japanese, certainly, but what do you expect from a nearly 69 year old man whose prescription for long life is booze and pot and wild, wild women in copious amounts, with a touch of courage and luck on the battlefield.
The attack, then, "Jibun no uchi kara kuru. Tegami no basho de".
I know the cowardly weasels who are planning this attack read this work (hardly understanding a word of it so blinded by hatred for me are they) so this mention of this attack and this accurate naming of the date of the attack might send them scurrying back into their dark places. Damn, I hope not; I so do want to fight them.
Now let's return to our third story in our series, Retreat, where we find Tea, some 15 years older than he was at the time of the seance, deep in the American wilderness, waiting for the Not-Forgetting Society to attempt to kill him.
How much like real life is this work of fiction; how much like the rockets' red glare of God's Space War seen over the distance of Time is the coincidences it contains.
The writer's protagonist in a story written some 15 years ago is in the exact same situation the writer is in today. You American Dear Readers, too, are in the same situation as the Americans in the story, hated profoundly and targeted for atomic revenge.
When we get to The Secret Story, the next story after this story, Retreat, which I have not yet written and will write fresh every day, the coincidence factor will become as thick as soup, and hot as soup served too hot to slurp.
Retreat, Part 2
It was like Spring in the Marble Mountains of northern California, though it was July.
Passes to the high lakes were still closed by snow,
The deer were ragged and hurting for food. Coyotes were having their way with them.
Militarily, Tea favored the draw play; and he was working out such a play as he moved through his morning camping activities.
It was an easy morning. He cooked and ate his remaining trout slowly, hunkered by the fire, his arms set on his knees nearly to his armpits, his buttocks hovering just above the ground, his back to the snow-blocked mountains, his eyes traversing the wide, granite slope he had climbed the night before.
A half mile below him was the little lake he had fished the previous evening, though it could not be seen because of a forty foot hump of granite just before it, and the pines that surrounded it, and the stunted little pines that grew out of cracks and spaces in the granite.
Tea's mind was going over the algebra of the fight he thought would come as surely as yesterday had come and gone. Tea was the winter-ravaged deer. Matsushita, the master fencer, and the men with him, were the coyotes.
Matsushita was old now. What a laugh. Tea was no spring chicken.
Tea had set up this battle because he, not Matsushita, was getting weaker, getting more punchy with each year of abuse the Americans dished to him.
If Tea were 20 and Matsushita 90, Matsushita would still win any sword, stick or fist fight with Tea unless Tea waylaid him, and Tea couldn't make that stoop.
Tea's cover, that of being the Golden Ass, had suited the Americans superbly, too superbly, and by the time Tea had figured out what the Not-Forgetting Society was up to the cover had frozen over. Once the American public had tasted legalized torture there was no turning it back from the trough of public sadism.
Tea's troubles with his own country were not trouble enough as far as Matsushita was a concerned.
While Matsushita liked the idea of the hated Tea suffering at the hands of the hated Americans (they were shitbirds of the same feather pecking away at one of their own who was down); and while he knew how improbable it was that Tea would ever escape from the American altitude toward him and its ritual torture-murder of him, Matsushita did not want to miss out on his own vengeance on Tea.
Sure, Matsushita liked the cruelty of the American attitude toward Tea. It fit that keen edge of cruelty the Japanese had historically appreciated.
And, sure, it was funny watching the Americans torment and slowly murder the only American who knew about those A-bombs in the San Francisco and Los Angeles harbors; but, there were times when Matsushita worried that Tea would die in the gutter, die some typically American death, death to robber, death to despair, death to meaningless murder; and when wondering about this he would feel a pang because while there was satisfaction in envisioning the miserable death America had planned for Tea, that was Western satisfaction, and Matsushita wanted to decapitate Tea; Matsushita wanted Japanese satisfaction.
Also, as the time for what was called the "Great Revenge" got closer Matsushita started wondering again of Tea wasn't a mole, wondering if the whole bizarre American captivity of Tea wasn't some kind of U.S. intelligence ruse. Had it been too easy, putting those A-bombs in those harbors, dropping them from the keels of Japanese freighters owned by Mastushita, held in place by strong electromagnets until released, to settle into the harbor mud?
Were the Americans really totally unaware of the existence of the Not-Forgetting Society?
It was past time, though, for second guessing. The sword was in motion. Revenge against Tea was most desirable; and reason enough for the taking of a "Kill Vote" among the living members of the Not-Forgetting Society. Kill won. Kill won easily. The dead members' representatives had not been seanced in for the vote.
It was a deadly game now. Damn deadly game, Tea mused in his aloneness in the wilderness, where he was waiting for the inevitable duel with Matsushita and his martial arts bodyguards to take place. Damn. Damn. Hot Damn!
(To be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 88th day of its last year.
posted by Virgil Kret at 5:31 PM
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