Retreat, Part 3
The $598 Billion Defeat
Jews Jaws Eight Up
Shark America Two Down
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 173 (Watching for a Rapid Fall)
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 (3)
Today's code is "89th Day, Last Year".
At the top of the news today, the faux-president of the United States of America, George W. Bush, was booed when he threw the first ceremonial pitch from the mound of a new baseball field.
It is a comfort to know so many American baseball fans do not appreciate fascism wearing their democracy's colors.
The confrontation I expected today and reported on yesterday took place. You may recall, "I smell a great wickedness; I smell a great evil coming my way".
It will continue tomorrow...and likely further on.
Unfortunately the attacking factor thus far is only the American government, which always attacks in cowardly ways and has legions of bureaucrats, government pigs and citizen volunteers to do its evil bidding.
"Our name is Legion: for we are many", as the evil spirit said to Jesus; and as American psycho-fascism says to me.
This is hardly worth boring you with, since attacks on me by the American government have been constant since at least 1967; and it is like I am a mouse being sat on by the fattest man in the world; it stinks, it oppresses, and there are no vital organs within reach.
Since this attack is likely to continue into tomorrow and beyond, I will not fully translate the code I gave you in Japanese yesterday. That code was: "Jibun no uchi kara kuru. Tegami no basho de".
I will translate only the second sentence, "Tegami no basho de". It means "At the place of the letters"; not the real Japanese word for "post office", but clear enough for encoding purposes; and that is where the fat man who is the American government sat on me today.
To fill you in on a sub-tedious level, of the thousands of knives with which America cuts God's One True Telepath one of them involves tampering with my mail.
I have not received a personal letter in over four years, but until recently bills were allowed through. Now I receive nothing; and important mail, such as my car insurance and registration is "taking the scenic" route, as one of the Morro Bay, California, post office jokesters told me over the phone two weeks ago when I tried to get them to stop playing this game.
Now it seems that bemused-hostile attitude has moved from Moro Bay to the current city I am attempting to establish a home in; at least that was the indication the government fat man in the local post office gave me today.
But you know, Dear Reader, as the only audibly telepathic human being in history, I do not have the right to have a home; I do not have the right to have a wife; I do not have the right to father children; I do not have the right to work in journalism; I do not have the right to attend a movie or a church service or a baseball game without being constantly harassed; so, relatively, how important is the loss of the right to receive censored mail?
Oh, yes, when I am not too homeless to be able to register, I do still have the right to vote for some politician who does not give a damn about my human and constitutional rights.
Looking at the iron blanket of American evil under which I live; and understanding as I do that the back of that evil will be broken by July 15; I wonder, how is God going to pull this one off?
Tomorrow, unless something bigger is breaking, I would like to talk to you about the insanity of American Christianity.
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 preparing for an attack by The Not-Forgetting Society.
Retreat, Part 3
Tea finished eating the last salty, scorched, juicy trout.
His morning quart of English breakfast tea was steaming on a cookie sheet set on rocks and weighted by rocks so that it formed a stove top over his campfire.
Tea loved mornings in the mountains. Waiting for the sun to crest a ridge was compounded pleasure upon compounded pleasure as he watched the sunlight moving down the western hills, eastward along the valley floor, and finally touching him, warming him, as the sun peeked through the hilltop trees to the east.
Tea poured his first cup of tea into his large West German surplus army canteen cup. He added heaps of brown sugar and turned the tea light brown with powered milk.
His algebra of terrain and possibilities was telling him this was no place to wait for Matsushita's move. The little lake was over-camped during the best of seasons, it being the first lake after the trail head parking lot, but all the other lakes would be blocked by snow for at least another two weeks, and every backpacker coming in would be stalled here unless prepared for deep snow trekking.
The inevitable campers would keep Matsusiita away. He and his men would want either no people or a city of people. Murder was easier in cities because self defense in most cases was illegal in cities. Tea could pack a piece in the wilderness, but not in a city. That was one reason Tea loved the mountains. He could fight well in them; and if he came out alive he need not answer police questions unless he opted to.
The Japanese would be ritualistic in their planned murder of him. That was the way of the Not-Forgetting Society. Matsushita would present himself, hardwood bokken in hand, planning to say whatever speech he'd have prepared, wanting very much to kill Tea hard with that hardwood samurai practice sword he was master of.
Only one line of thought would occupy Matsushita's mind as he walked slowly along the mountain trail leading to Tea's lake. His son had also been a master of the bokken, and had intended to kill Tea with it, but somehow Tea had instead killed him, apparently with a bokken. It didn't seem possible. Tea must have been hiding in the bushes in that little park where the body was found, and hit his son from behind, or maybe he had help.
All the Japanese with Matsushita would be carrying guns, but most likely no one would shoot Tea. They would want to force Tea to duel Matsushita, just to teach him one last lesson.
That wasn't a situation Tea wanted to find himself in.
The sweet, brown tea made Tea a little high. He was facing nearly due east, still in the morning's cool shadow. With pleasure, he knew the sun line was moving down the mountain behind him toward his back. Mountain mornings were a warm sandwich of anticipation.
Tea had enjoyed killing Mastushita's son.
The sun crested, warming Tea's face. Tea smiled. He closed his eyes to add to the absorption.
Pouring his second big cup of tea, Tea looked around his camp. Its disarray told him how punchy he was. Tea was a born mountain man, the son of a born mountain man. His Irish-side ancestors had been fur trappers with the Hudson Bay Company six generations back. He was an expert camper; yet his camp that morning was a scattered jumble of equipment.
It had dewed heavily that night and all his clothing except for his emergency, plastic-bagged thermal underwear was too damp to wear, so he was hunkering before his fire in the long johns he had slept in. His backpack had been left uncovered and was soaked with dew. His mess kit had been left out; and he had been awakened by a doe in the middle of the night licking out the salty reside of last night's soup.
Tea's mood, too, told him how punchy he was as he prepared for battle. He was by nature a happy person, but these days aching blue spasms of sadness tormented him. He had piled up too many days on the slag heap of spying's mining, and he had too many more days slated for the same.
Sometimes Tea loved this profession which had chosen him like a lonely dog looking for a man; sometimes it got him down.
(To be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 89th day of its last year.
Jews Jaws Eight Up
Shark America Two Down
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 173 (Watching for a Rapid Fall)
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 (3)
Today's code is "89th Day, Last Year".
At the top of the news today, the faux-president of the United States of America, George W. Bush, was booed when he threw the first ceremonial pitch from the mound of a new baseball field.
It is a comfort to know so many American baseball fans do not appreciate fascism wearing their democracy's colors.
The confrontation I expected today and reported on yesterday took place. You may recall, "I smell a great wickedness; I smell a great evil coming my way".
It will continue tomorrow...and likely further on.
Unfortunately the attacking factor thus far is only the American government, which always attacks in cowardly ways and has legions of bureaucrats, government pigs and citizen volunteers to do its evil bidding.
"Our name is Legion: for we are many", as the evil spirit said to Jesus; and as American psycho-fascism says to me.
This is hardly worth boring you with, since attacks on me by the American government have been constant since at least 1967; and it is like I am a mouse being sat on by the fattest man in the world; it stinks, it oppresses, and there are no vital organs within reach.
Since this attack is likely to continue into tomorrow and beyond, I will not fully translate the code I gave you in Japanese yesterday. That code was: "Jibun no uchi kara kuru. Tegami no basho de".
I will translate only the second sentence, "Tegami no basho de". It means "At the place of the letters"; not the real Japanese word for "post office", but clear enough for encoding purposes; and that is where the fat man who is the American government sat on me today.
To fill you in on a sub-tedious level, of the thousands of knives with which America cuts God's One True Telepath one of them involves tampering with my mail.
I have not received a personal letter in over four years, but until recently bills were allowed through. Now I receive nothing; and important mail, such as my car insurance and registration is "taking the scenic" route, as one of the Morro Bay, California, post office jokesters told me over the phone two weeks ago when I tried to get them to stop playing this game.
Now it seems that bemused-hostile attitude has moved from Moro Bay to the current city I am attempting to establish a home in; at least that was the indication the government fat man in the local post office gave me today.
But you know, Dear Reader, as the only audibly telepathic human being in history, I do not have the right to have a home; I do not have the right to have a wife; I do not have the right to father children; I do not have the right to work in journalism; I do not have the right to attend a movie or a church service or a baseball game without being constantly harassed; so, relatively, how important is the loss of the right to receive censored mail?
Oh, yes, when I am not too homeless to be able to register, I do still have the right to vote for some politician who does not give a damn about my human and constitutional rights.
Looking at the iron blanket of American evil under which I live; and understanding as I do that the back of that evil will be broken by July 15; I wonder, how is God going to pull this one off?
Tomorrow, unless something bigger is breaking, I would like to talk to you about the insanity of American Christianity.
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 preparing for an attack by The Not-Forgetting Society.
Retreat, Part 3
Tea finished eating the last salty, scorched, juicy trout.
His morning quart of English breakfast tea was steaming on a cookie sheet set on rocks and weighted by rocks so that it formed a stove top over his campfire.
Tea loved mornings in the mountains. Waiting for the sun to crest a ridge was compounded pleasure upon compounded pleasure as he watched the sunlight moving down the western hills, eastward along the valley floor, and finally touching him, warming him, as the sun peeked through the hilltop trees to the east.
Tea poured his first cup of tea into his large West German surplus army canteen cup. He added heaps of brown sugar and turned the tea light brown with powered milk.
His algebra of terrain and possibilities was telling him this was no place to wait for Matsushita's move. The little lake was over-camped during the best of seasons, it being the first lake after the trail head parking lot, but all the other lakes would be blocked by snow for at least another two weeks, and every backpacker coming in would be stalled here unless prepared for deep snow trekking.
The inevitable campers would keep Matsusiita away. He and his men would want either no people or a city of people. Murder was easier in cities because self defense in most cases was illegal in cities. Tea could pack a piece in the wilderness, but not in a city. That was one reason Tea loved the mountains. He could fight well in them; and if he came out alive he need not answer police questions unless he opted to.
The Japanese would be ritualistic in their planned murder of him. That was the way of the Not-Forgetting Society. Matsushita would present himself, hardwood bokken in hand, planning to say whatever speech he'd have prepared, wanting very much to kill Tea hard with that hardwood samurai practice sword he was master of.
Only one line of thought would occupy Matsushita's mind as he walked slowly along the mountain trail leading to Tea's lake. His son had also been a master of the bokken, and had intended to kill Tea with it, but somehow Tea had instead killed him, apparently with a bokken. It didn't seem possible. Tea must have been hiding in the bushes in that little park where the body was found, and hit his son from behind, or maybe he had help.
All the Japanese with Matsushita would be carrying guns, but most likely no one would shoot Tea. They would want to force Tea to duel Matsushita, just to teach him one last lesson.
That wasn't a situation Tea wanted to find himself in.
The sweet, brown tea made Tea a little high. He was facing nearly due east, still in the morning's cool shadow. With pleasure, he knew the sun line was moving down the mountain behind him toward his back. Mountain mornings were a warm sandwich of anticipation.
Tea had enjoyed killing Mastushita's son.
The sun crested, warming Tea's face. Tea smiled. He closed his eyes to add to the absorption.
Pouring his second big cup of tea, Tea looked around his camp. Its disarray told him how punchy he was. Tea was a born mountain man, the son of a born mountain man. His Irish-side ancestors had been fur trappers with the Hudson Bay Company six generations back. He was an expert camper; yet his camp that morning was a scattered jumble of equipment.
It had dewed heavily that night and all his clothing except for his emergency, plastic-bagged thermal underwear was too damp to wear, so he was hunkering before his fire in the long johns he had slept in. His backpack had been left uncovered and was soaked with dew. His mess kit had been left out; and he had been awakened by a doe in the middle of the night licking out the salty reside of last night's soup.
Tea's mood, too, told him how punchy he was as he prepared for battle. He was by nature a happy person, but these days aching blue spasms of sadness tormented him. He had piled up too many days on the slag heap of spying's mining, and he had too many more days slated for the same.
Sometimes Tea loved this profession which had chosen him like a lonely dog looking for a man; sometimes it got him down.
(To be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 89th day of its last year.
posted by Virgil Kret at 7:23 PM
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