Society, Part 4
The $564 Billion Defeat
Jews Jaws Three Down
Shark America Seven Up
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 205
Virgil Kret'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, Society (4)
Today's code is "78th Day, Last Year"
"Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys."--Waylon Jennings
We are running a little more than two days ahead in Time, and from this far ahead it's like seeing the curvature of the Earth, it's like the view of a plateau from a mountain top; it's like seeing years down the road.
We see what we always see when we get this far ahead, two nukes on the United States of America.
The peculiar thing about these nukes is that they are American nukes, not Russian, not Chinese, not Israeli, not Papuan; but American.
How this happens we cannot see from this distance; but that it happens is as plain as a mushroom cloud over Los Angeles.
The conjecture here at I.C. News is that God does it to America. Yes, God sets off two of America's own nukes. It's that old Do Unto Others bugaboo that Jesus talked about.
I can only say if a nation claims to High Heaven to be morally superior to all nations, it sure as Hell better be; and experience and history tell me America is not morally superior to any nation.
It has been suggested by my Old Pal God that I make note of some of the current torturing of my by morally superior Americans over the past two days; so, ok, its small potatoes, but ok.
I'm taking my daily walk, once around a four mile loop; then usually the same loop later in the day.
A car parks ahead of me, and the driver is one of those Americans whose gut covers his big belt buckle, and he opens the rear door of the car and it is immediately apparent that a young woman in a miniskirt with legs that go all the way up to Heaven is getting out of the car, meaning she is about to reveal her stuff.
You may find this strange, but in such a situation I always avert my eyes. It's a matter of moral philosophy with me; and I am not a Paparazzi Nazi taking upskirt photos for fun and profit.
For averting my eyes, the guy with the gut strikes me hard with that Coward's Cough Americans love so much. Dig it, he struck me for doing the morally correct thing. How American of him.
There were four women in that car, and all greeted me with kind eyes and kind words, because they knew what I had done; while the fat slob, encased in a universe of fat stupidity, had struck me.
I am in the supermarket and a couple of sodomite gentlemen strike me with the Coward's Cough. Queers have been that way since the start, and I am sure queers are all huffy now, calling me anti-queer, but they had the option...they had the option...they had the option of kindness or meanness, and they took meanness with a gleeful giggle.
The God's Space War action called Operation Queer, by the way, is still running.
I call up my home town post office, where I have had P.O. Box 43, Morro Bay, California, 93443, for about a quarter century, and my mail has not caught up with me at my new location within my constant, morally-superior-America-induced homelessness, and upon learning it is me on the line the first thing the post office employee does is cough the Coward's Cough hard into the phone.
For about the first 25 years of America's torture-enslavement of me Postal Service employees never participated in the torture, but eventually they got the torture bug, which Americans apparently cannot resist.
This postal torture began, I think, with a postmaster named Work at the Honeydew, California, Post Office.
Work, who is probably dead of old age and fatness by now, told the local pot growers I was sending letters to Naval Intelligence in Washington Deceit, creating the false rumor I was reporting on the marijuana growing business. Pot was king there as cotton was king in the South.
Actually, I was trying to warn Naval Intelligence of the truck bombing in Beirut, Lebanon, in October of 1983, which killed 241 US servicemen, and was not talking about pot at all; but I nearly had to shoot my way out of Honeydew thanks to the postmaster's breaking confidentiality and blabbing about my mail to the pot cartel.
And finally today--my last example--I was in the supermarket, right before bumping into the two sodomite gentlemen who could not pass up their opportunity to queer the Telepath, and I read the label on a ketchup bottle which went something like, Do you still want to be famous?, and upon reading it there was a great need all over the store for morally superior Americans to cough the Coward's Cough.
Apparently Americans torture me for being famous; which I for some reason known only to Americans and to Satan I have no right to be. That puts me in the such company as Britney Spears, Fidel Castro, and Heather Mills, which I don't mind at all.
How these morally superior Americans love to torture famous people who are vulnerable; no wonder the rich and famous live in enclaves.
Other than that--and other than a skilled assassin is moving on Hillary Clinton--it is a slow news day; so let's return to our story of The Not-Forgetting Society.
In our last episode, Tea, fresh back in Tokyo after having delivered Soldier Ghost to Arlington National Cemetery, finds a cryptic message waiting for him; it was a call to UPI from a man who mentioned Praying Mantis' name.
Tea had never spoken of Praying Mantis, the ghost of a Japanese soldier killed during World War Two, to anyone; so now another living person apparently knows the same ghost.
Prodded by the message, Tea headed for the Japanese tourist town of Ama-No-Hashidate, Bridge to Heaven, where the Sun Goddess is said to have first established the Japanese race; and where The Secret Story (which we will get to soon) tells of how God's Space Sailors delivered the early Japanese there after rescuing them from extinction in Africa.
Society, Part 4
A storm was hitting the Bridge to Heaven.
The rain was drumming and thick and blown by seemingly typhoon winds.
Tea could hardly struggle against the force of it all as he made his way from the station door to the line of waiting taxis.
He went to a mid-priced inn, having chosen it at random from a list of inns and their rates at the station.
It was a beautiful, traditional inn.
The tatami mats which made up the floor of his room were new and still smelling like new-mown grass.
The street outside his window was narrow and twisting, and looked much like it must have in feudal times. It was lined with inns, their lighted and beautifully caligraphed hanging signs being buffeted by the raging wind and the driving, warm, rain.
There were few people on the darkening street as Tea looked down from his second story window, and those who were there were struggling to stand and move, most of them carrying large varnished paper umbrellas with the names of inns caligraphed on there upper surfaces.
Tea was thinking he might enjoy going out into the weather, and had just decided to ask for an umbrella when an electric chill went up his spine. He turned from the window to see Praying Mantis standing just inside the sliding paper and wood door.
Tea had known the ghost who called himself Praying Mantis for five years, but never before had he been chilled by him.
Praying Mantis was wearing what he had been wearing when he died fighting US Marines in the South Pacific, the tropical uniform of a Japanese junior officer. His presence was barely holding.
"I introduce you Mr. Matsushita," he said quickly, nervously. Then he bowed, and was gone.
Tea had a feeling things were about to get hot.
Of all the ghosts Tea had met, Praying Mantis had been the most open and expansive, but this time there was a change in him. Stiff and formal. Praying Mantis had visited Tea and then left as the dutiful, subordinate emissary.
Lightning flashed, momentarily overpowering the low floor lamp which lighted the room. Within a second, thunder cracked.
It was approaching 5 o'clock. The setting sun had no chance against the storm, and a heavy, gray darkness preceded nightfall.
There was a pot of tea on a low table. There were four cups; white, fragile, without handles, each like a newly arrived soul, neatly set around it.
Four cups. Four was an unlucky number to the Japanese, pronounced the same as the word for "death", "shi". Tea had never seen four cups set by a Japanese.
Tea sat formally on a cushion at the low Japanese table, back straight, toes crossed slightly under his rump, knees in front of him, about the width of his fist apart.
He poured a cup of the tea; deep, rich and green. He savored its aroma, holding the cup under his nose with both hands.
The traditional little alcove of the Japanese room was directly behind him. A hanging scroll there depicted a white crane standing in water, one leg up and tucked under its breast, foot artfully curved down, neck beautifully bent to one side.
In front of the alcove, inches from Tea's back, on a brown-
In front of the alcove, inches from Tea's back, on a brown-orange lacquered stand about six inches high, was a small white vase holding a simple flower arrangement.
Tea tipped the tea three times. A long established tradition within his school of reincarnation.
There was a faint rap on the paper and wood sliding door. Without Tea answering, a formally kneeling maid slid it open. She bowed her head toward the floor, nearly nodding to the level of her knees.
"Please excuse me," she said in elaborately formal Japanese. "but Mr. Matsushita has arrived."
To Tea's surprise, the famous Matsushita Kenji was standing at the door, dressed comfortably in an expensive Western style suit, shoes left outside as was custom; and though apparently in his sixties, strong, with the straight back of a life-long Japanese style fencer.
Living people had at times introduced Tea to dead people, but this was the first time a dead man had introduced him to a living man; that was something, and that the living man's face had been on the covers of magazines all around the world was something else. Miracle industrialist. Rags to riches out of the rubble of war.
The maid bowed as Matsushita stepped past her into the room. He thanked her for her courtesy, and then bowed to Tea from the waist. Tea had already risen, and returned the bow. The maid silently slid the door shut as she exited.
Matsushita spoke politely, but Tea knew immediately the politeness was form over honesty, that Matsushita did not really like being polite to him.
"Please excuse my abrupt interruption; and thank you for coming all the way from Tokyo," he said in formal Japanese. "I called your office because I have known Praying Mantis since the war and he suggested we invite you to a seance."
Tea had met ghosts in every country he had visited all around the world, but he had never been to a seance.
Tea understood as Matsushita spoke that Praying Mantis had had to persuade the Not-Forgetting Society to invite him to the seance, that the Society would rather have murdered him.
The impact of the Soldier Ghost episode on the Society had been profound. A cloud of anxiety now hung over it because it should never have allowed Soldier Ghost to go home.
There was now a crack in security. At least one living American and one dead American knew of the Society's existence; and by now most likely the American equivalent of the Society in the American Land of the Dead--and there had to be one, logic dictated--also knew of the Society's existence.
This image appeared in Tea's mind: Matsushita, samurai sword in hand, coming at him with intent to decapitate. Tea was interested in the image and its meaning; and deeper down he was wondering who sent the image.
Tea's telepathy had never been this finely tuned. Someone, somewhere, somehow was giving him a play by play of Matsushita's feelings and intentions.
"We are the Wasureinai-Kai, the Not-Forgetting Society, Tea-san, will you please attend our seance? These events are very important to us, and you may find the experience worth your while."
Tea started to speak, to say he would, to ask when, but suddenly he understood Matsushita meant now, with no hesitation and no questions.
That chill rose up again. Something was a little bit off. An inner voice told Tea to say no; but not all inner voices know what they are talking about.
If Tea backed out now the Japanese would shoot him in the back, metaphorically speaking. Actually they would probably hit and run him on a dark Tokyo street a few days down the line.
There was only one way to go, and that was forward.
Tea responded with a broad smile. "Do not ask what is it? Let us go and make our visit."
"Tea-san?"
"A line from one of the more famous English languish poems, T.S. Elliot's Prufrock, Mr. Matsushita. I'll get my coat."
Tea's mind was swept with formless images and breezes from an unknown past.
(To Be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 78th day of its last year.
Jews Jaws Three Down
Shark America Seven Up
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 205
Virgil Kret'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, Society (4)
Today's code is "78th Day, Last Year"
"Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys."--Waylon Jennings
We are running a little more than two days ahead in Time, and from this far ahead it's like seeing the curvature of the Earth, it's like the view of a plateau from a mountain top; it's like seeing years down the road.
We see what we always see when we get this far ahead, two nukes on the United States of America.
The peculiar thing about these nukes is that they are American nukes, not Russian, not Chinese, not Israeli, not Papuan; but American.
How this happens we cannot see from this distance; but that it happens is as plain as a mushroom cloud over Los Angeles.
The conjecture here at I.C. News is that God does it to America. Yes, God sets off two of America's own nukes. It's that old Do Unto Others bugaboo that Jesus talked about.
I can only say if a nation claims to High Heaven to be morally superior to all nations, it sure as Hell better be; and experience and history tell me America is not morally superior to any nation.
It has been suggested by my Old Pal God that I make note of some of the current torturing of my by morally superior Americans over the past two days; so, ok, its small potatoes, but ok.
I'm taking my daily walk, once around a four mile loop; then usually the same loop later in the day.
A car parks ahead of me, and the driver is one of those Americans whose gut covers his big belt buckle, and he opens the rear door of the car and it is immediately apparent that a young woman in a miniskirt with legs that go all the way up to Heaven is getting out of the car, meaning she is about to reveal her stuff.
You may find this strange, but in such a situation I always avert my eyes. It's a matter of moral philosophy with me; and I am not a Paparazzi Nazi taking upskirt photos for fun and profit.
For averting my eyes, the guy with the gut strikes me hard with that Coward's Cough Americans love so much. Dig it, he struck me for doing the morally correct thing. How American of him.
There were four women in that car, and all greeted me with kind eyes and kind words, because they knew what I had done; while the fat slob, encased in a universe of fat stupidity, had struck me.
I am in the supermarket and a couple of sodomite gentlemen strike me with the Coward's Cough. Queers have been that way since the start, and I am sure queers are all huffy now, calling me anti-queer, but they had the option...they had the option...they had the option of kindness or meanness, and they took meanness with a gleeful giggle.
The God's Space War action called Operation Queer, by the way, is still running.
I call up my home town post office, where I have had P.O. Box 43, Morro Bay, California, 93443, for about a quarter century, and my mail has not caught up with me at my new location within my constant, morally-superior-America-induced homelessness, and upon learning it is me on the line the first thing the post office employee does is cough the Coward's Cough hard into the phone.
For about the first 25 years of America's torture-enslavement of me Postal Service employees never participated in the torture, but eventually they got the torture bug, which Americans apparently cannot resist.
This postal torture began, I think, with a postmaster named Work at the Honeydew, California, Post Office.
Work, who is probably dead of old age and fatness by now, told the local pot growers I was sending letters to Naval Intelligence in Washington Deceit, creating the false rumor I was reporting on the marijuana growing business. Pot was king there as cotton was king in the South.
Actually, I was trying to warn Naval Intelligence of the truck bombing in Beirut, Lebanon, in October of 1983, which killed 241 US servicemen, and was not talking about pot at all; but I nearly had to shoot my way out of Honeydew thanks to the postmaster's breaking confidentiality and blabbing about my mail to the pot cartel.
And finally today--my last example--I was in the supermarket, right before bumping into the two sodomite gentlemen who could not pass up their opportunity to queer the Telepath, and I read the label on a ketchup bottle which went something like, Do you still want to be famous?, and upon reading it there was a great need all over the store for morally superior Americans to cough the Coward's Cough.
Apparently Americans torture me for being famous; which I for some reason known only to Americans and to Satan I have no right to be. That puts me in the such company as Britney Spears, Fidel Castro, and Heather Mills, which I don't mind at all.
How these morally superior Americans love to torture famous people who are vulnerable; no wonder the rich and famous live in enclaves.
Other than that--and other than a skilled assassin is moving on Hillary Clinton--it is a slow news day; so let's return to our story of The Not-Forgetting Society.
In our last episode, Tea, fresh back in Tokyo after having delivered Soldier Ghost to Arlington National Cemetery, finds a cryptic message waiting for him; it was a call to UPI from a man who mentioned Praying Mantis' name.
Tea had never spoken of Praying Mantis, the ghost of a Japanese soldier killed during World War Two, to anyone; so now another living person apparently knows the same ghost.
Prodded by the message, Tea headed for the Japanese tourist town of Ama-No-Hashidate, Bridge to Heaven, where the Sun Goddess is said to have first established the Japanese race; and where The Secret Story (which we will get to soon) tells of how God's Space Sailors delivered the early Japanese there after rescuing them from extinction in Africa.
Society, Part 4
A storm was hitting the Bridge to Heaven.
The rain was drumming and thick and blown by seemingly typhoon winds.
Tea could hardly struggle against the force of it all as he made his way from the station door to the line of waiting taxis.
He went to a mid-priced inn, having chosen it at random from a list of inns and their rates at the station.
It was a beautiful, traditional inn.
The tatami mats which made up the floor of his room were new and still smelling like new-mown grass.
The street outside his window was narrow and twisting, and looked much like it must have in feudal times. It was lined with inns, their lighted and beautifully caligraphed hanging signs being buffeted by the raging wind and the driving, warm, rain.
There were few people on the darkening street as Tea looked down from his second story window, and those who were there were struggling to stand and move, most of them carrying large varnished paper umbrellas with the names of inns caligraphed on there upper surfaces.
Tea was thinking he might enjoy going out into the weather, and had just decided to ask for an umbrella when an electric chill went up his spine. He turned from the window to see Praying Mantis standing just inside the sliding paper and wood door.
Tea had known the ghost who called himself Praying Mantis for five years, but never before had he been chilled by him.
Praying Mantis was wearing what he had been wearing when he died fighting US Marines in the South Pacific, the tropical uniform of a Japanese junior officer. His presence was barely holding.
"I introduce you Mr. Matsushita," he said quickly, nervously. Then he bowed, and was gone.
Tea had a feeling things were about to get hot.
Of all the ghosts Tea had met, Praying Mantis had been the most open and expansive, but this time there was a change in him. Stiff and formal. Praying Mantis had visited Tea and then left as the dutiful, subordinate emissary.
Lightning flashed, momentarily overpowering the low floor lamp which lighted the room. Within a second, thunder cracked.
It was approaching 5 o'clock. The setting sun had no chance against the storm, and a heavy, gray darkness preceded nightfall.
There was a pot of tea on a low table. There were four cups; white, fragile, without handles, each like a newly arrived soul, neatly set around it.
Four cups. Four was an unlucky number to the Japanese, pronounced the same as the word for "death", "shi". Tea had never seen four cups set by a Japanese.
Tea sat formally on a cushion at the low Japanese table, back straight, toes crossed slightly under his rump, knees in front of him, about the width of his fist apart.
He poured a cup of the tea; deep, rich and green. He savored its aroma, holding the cup under his nose with both hands.
The traditional little alcove of the Japanese room was directly behind him. A hanging scroll there depicted a white crane standing in water, one leg up and tucked under its breast, foot artfully curved down, neck beautifully bent to one side.
In front of the alcove, inches from Tea's back, on a brown-
In front of the alcove, inches from Tea's back, on a brown-orange lacquered stand about six inches high, was a small white vase holding a simple flower arrangement.
Tea tipped the tea three times. A long established tradition within his school of reincarnation.
There was a faint rap on the paper and wood sliding door. Without Tea answering, a formally kneeling maid slid it open. She bowed her head toward the floor, nearly nodding to the level of her knees.
"Please excuse me," she said in elaborately formal Japanese. "but Mr. Matsushita has arrived."
To Tea's surprise, the famous Matsushita Kenji was standing at the door, dressed comfortably in an expensive Western style suit, shoes left outside as was custom; and though apparently in his sixties, strong, with the straight back of a life-long Japanese style fencer.
Living people had at times introduced Tea to dead people, but this was the first time a dead man had introduced him to a living man; that was something, and that the living man's face had been on the covers of magazines all around the world was something else. Miracle industrialist. Rags to riches out of the rubble of war.
The maid bowed as Matsushita stepped past her into the room. He thanked her for her courtesy, and then bowed to Tea from the waist. Tea had already risen, and returned the bow. The maid silently slid the door shut as she exited.
Matsushita spoke politely, but Tea knew immediately the politeness was form over honesty, that Matsushita did not really like being polite to him.
"Please excuse my abrupt interruption; and thank you for coming all the way from Tokyo," he said in formal Japanese. "I called your office because I have known Praying Mantis since the war and he suggested we invite you to a seance."
Tea had met ghosts in every country he had visited all around the world, but he had never been to a seance.
Tea understood as Matsushita spoke that Praying Mantis had had to persuade the Not-Forgetting Society to invite him to the seance, that the Society would rather have murdered him.
The impact of the Soldier Ghost episode on the Society had been profound. A cloud of anxiety now hung over it because it should never have allowed Soldier Ghost to go home.
There was now a crack in security. At least one living American and one dead American knew of the Society's existence; and by now most likely the American equivalent of the Society in the American Land of the Dead--and there had to be one, logic dictated--also knew of the Society's existence.
This image appeared in Tea's mind: Matsushita, samurai sword in hand, coming at him with intent to decapitate. Tea was interested in the image and its meaning; and deeper down he was wondering who sent the image.
Tea's telepathy had never been this finely tuned. Someone, somewhere, somehow was giving him a play by play of Matsushita's feelings and intentions.
"We are the Wasureinai-Kai, the Not-Forgetting Society, Tea-san, will you please attend our seance? These events are very important to us, and you may find the experience worth your while."
Tea started to speak, to say he would, to ask when, but suddenly he understood Matsushita meant now, with no hesitation and no questions.
That chill rose up again. Something was a little bit off. An inner voice told Tea to say no; but not all inner voices know what they are talking about.
If Tea backed out now the Japanese would shoot him in the back, metaphorically speaking. Actually they would probably hit and run him on a dark Tokyo street a few days down the line.
There was only one way to go, and that was forward.
Tea responded with a broad smile. "Do not ask what is it? Let us go and make our visit."
"Tea-san?"
"A line from one of the more famous English languish poems, T.S. Elliot's Prufrock, Mr. Matsushita. I'll get my coat."
Tea's mind was swept with formless images and breezes from an unknown past.
(To Be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 78th day of its last year.
posted by Virgil Kret at 7:42 PM
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