Retreat, Part 5
The $600 Billion Defeat
Jews Jaws Ten Up
Shark America Zero Down
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 183 (5.2 Off Oregon Coast)
Virgil's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923
Expect a Profound Act of God Against USA & Israel on June 7, 2008
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 (5)
Today's code is "93rd Day, Last Year".
As the United States of America and Israel prepare to soon commit one of the most deceitful acts of all the nations of all the history of this Earth, one which will ruin America forever and wipe Israel from the face of this Earth, I am going to present to you a concept which has likely never to have crossed your mind.
My Old Pal God asked me to paint this picture for you.
Imagine if you can that God looks at the USA as being the villain in the story of the Vietnam War.
Imagine if you can that there was a particular Vietnamese child that God loved, an Angel of a child with a most beautiful soul and closeness to God.
Imagine if you can an American Navy pilot named John McCain, son of Cain, dropping a bomb on that child, breaking that child into a thousand pieces.
In that context, imagine if you can God arranging for the shooting down of McCain's child-murdering jet and the capture and cruel imprisonment of McCain by the Vietnamese, as partial...as partial...as partial punishment for his murder of that child.
God does not recognize the American concept of "collateral damage". God does not grant the right to anyone murder to anyone. in God's Space War, even yesterday is not safe.
In another brief item, the unfulfilled part of the Japanese language code I gave you recently has now been fulfilled, but I want to let this code ripen a little longer before I translate and explain. I want the necks securely in their nooses before I release the trap door.
That code, for the record, was: "Jibun no uchi kara kuru. Tegami no basho de."
We have seen that the second sentence concerned the US Postal Service's hostility toward me and refusal to deliver my mail. The first sentence, concerns a much greater evil.
I tell you, Dear Reader, reading the minds of Americans is like reading a Dick and Jane primer. Look, Dick, look! The assholes are up to no good again!
A word to the wise, if you want to get along with God do not cause others pain.
Now let's return to our serialized story, Retreat, where we begin to learn that to the truly great military mind retreat is prelude to attack and slaughter.
Retreat, Part 5
The Not-Forgetting Society had a sense of poetry when it came to revenge.
There had been another reoccurring code, "Chushingura", which Tea took to be the firing code of Wide Heart, Long Soul.
The code fit. Chushingura was one of Japan's classic theater dramas, based on a true story of vengeance usually referred to as, "The 47 Ronin".
The grave of the 47 samurai who carried out the vengeance was still a public shrine visited daily by Japanese. There had been many movies made of the event. It was an event which touched the Japanese soul.
The code indicated The Not-Forgetting Society intended to repeat the act of delayed vengeance carried out by the beloved 47 ronin.
The A-bombing of two American cities would, the Society members felt, make them legendary heroes in Japan for all time. If they somehow survived the act and its repercussions they might possibly be elevated to a position of leadership of their country. If they were required to die, honor beyond honor would be theirs.
The classic aspect of the revenge in Chushingua was the long wait between the wrong and its righting.
In the story of the 47 ronin, they were samurai whose lord had been goaded into a violent breach of etiquette which led to a judgment that he should be executed via his committing seppuku, the famous stomach cutting of the Japanese, more rudely called harakiri, and then decapitated by the executioner, the second, the kaishaku, standing by.
Seppuku, depending on its circumstances, could be either honorable or dishonorable, and in this case it was highly dishonorable, and the judgment included the confiscation of the lord's property and the ruination of his family.
The many samurai the lord retained then became ronin, "wave men", masterless samurai, forced to scatter in search of new employment.
The famed 47 of these ronin waited years, then killed the man who had goaded their lord. They were convicted and sentenced to die by the same means their lord had died. They remained for centuries 47 of the most honored and romanticized men in Japanese history.
This was an enviable strata to enter, and Tea had no doubt The Not-Forgetting Society wished to enter it. What he did not know was the timing of the timing code; he did not know what the Japanese were waiting for. They could apparently explode their two A-bombs at any time: but they most probably had a broader tactic, coordinated with other events.
There were many unknowns; but Tea knew the time was approaching when The Not-Forgetting Society must act because all its original members were deep into old age, and every passing month was bringing more and more of them to the ends of their membership in the living side of the organization.
And what of the dead side? Tea did not know. He'd had no contact with Praying Mantis since he'd been forced under threat of murder by the American naval intelligence service to leave Japan in 1969; but apparently the dead side had lost its influence over the living side relative to Tea's safety; and whether or not the dead side favored the A-bombing of L.A. and Frisco, Tea had no idea.
A cold wind made its way through the sunlight from the snowy south ridge. Tea built up his campfire. A jay had been squawking in a tree to his left and had flown down to land about ten yards in front of him. Taking big, bounding hops on its two stiff legs, it was moving back and forth in front of him, raking him with its hash song.
The Not-Forgetting Society was of the old school. Death was better than surrender. Patriotism was everything.
It's living members had never numbered more than 100 people. This included a second layer composed exclusively of some of the sons and daughters of its original membership, generally born between 1939 and 1955. If there was a third generation,Tea was unaware of it; but he assumed it probable the third generation would not be considered trustworthy because the code of the warrior, bushi, seemed to have evaporated in Japan to a point a which a follower of bushi was considered an antique freak.
Tea poured another cup of breakfast tea, sweetened it and added powdered milk.
The jay squawked for food but Tea had nothing on hand he thought it would eat. He looked around and threw it a trout head, but the jay rejected it angrily and flew back up into the tree, there to sit and announce to the world what a cheap camper Tea was.
One of the men with Mastushita would be Takahara Masami. He had hated Tea since the first time he'd met him, when he'd been the driver that stormy night Tea'd been taken to the seance.
The man Tea killed was Matsushita Masao, who had not only been Matsushita's son but Takahara's best friend. Masao had been the third Japanese in the car, the one Tea had taken to be a bodyguard. They had been a tight team, the three of them.
Takahara Masami approached being a second son to Matsushita Kenji. He and Matsushita Masao had been kendo (Japanese fencing) teammates in college. They had married about the same time; and their children were about the same ages.
When the elder Matsushita had informed them of the Society's decision to kill Tea, the two of them had drawn lots for the honor. Masami had taken Masao, the winner, to the airport when Masao had flown to San Francisco to kill Tea.
That Masao had died, and not Tea, was unbelievable.
Tea, the master of the draw play, looked so weak.
Tea slipped the oiled and loaded .357 into its holster. He had made the holster. He had hand stitched it with an awl, improving on it gradually over the past year so that is was sleek, the leather rubbed to a shine.
It had a metal belt clip and it fit tight to his body, and though the Ruger was a big gun, a policeman's gun, it was undetectable when he wore it in the small of his back under a bulky jacket.
In the mountains Tea generally wore the .357 showing, clipped to his belt on his left waist, butt forward, for cross-body drawing. He never practiced fast drawing, one of the great accident-causers of 20th Century would-be shootists.
When Tea was six he could put a bullet through a bullet hole with a .22 rifle, thanks to the training of his mountainman father. He had never aimed a gun at a human being. If it ever went that far, he would most likely shoot the human being. His gun was his weapon of last resort, its legal use strictly proscribed in the United States, and he didn't want to use it to save his life only to spend his life in prison for having used it.
He felt the weight of the gun in its holster. This was his gunfighting gun all right. It felt as good as a tit in his hand.
Tea had killed Masao with a bokken, not a gun.
Know they enemy. Know thyself.
Tea walked a few yards out of his camp, urinated and returned to pour another cup of tea. The sun was high now. It might have been ten o'clock. Tea never wore a watch.
The next cup of tea would finish the quart, then he would cook a brunch of some sort in the same pot, generally oatmeal heavily laced with dried fruit and brown sugar.
That day he would do a long circling hike after his mid-morning meal to check out the ridges which flanked him.
On the south ridge he would follow the Forest Service trail until the snow blocked him. This would take him about four hours. He would mark out emergency escape routes and try to locate better campsites.
In addition to his handgun he would carry his breakdown .22 rifle. It's barrel and its workings fit snugly into its black plastic stock, and he would carry it unassembled in the quiver-like soft leather case he had fashioned for it.
It was his lifesaver gun relative to the the elements, as his Ruger was his lifesaver gun relative to man. Were he to break a leg he would use it to signal for help, slowly firing in groups of three the hundred or so .22 rounds he carried, a standard distress signal. If he needed meat he would hunt with it. In a gunfight it would be a suitable backup weapon.
Tea cooked and ate a quart of oatmeal, then spent a few minutes tucking in the corners of his camp.
When he left on his patrol everything would be under the dark green plastic groundcloth.
Just before leaving he took off the cheap tennis shoes he wore around camp and when fording streams, and put on the cheap work boots he was using on this trip as hiking boots.
It had been this poverty of equipment as much as learning about the placing of the A-bombs which had prompted Tea to start mixing it up with The Not-Forgetting Society. He had felt himself getting older and poorer. The fortune he was to make as an entrepreneurial spy was yet years in the future, and soon he would have been too poor and too nailed down by the Americans for the Society to worry about; he would not be able to draw the Japanese into a fight.
Indeed, he was so hammered down by the Americans already that but for the general dislike of him within The Not-Forgetting Society, and but for the outside chance he might convince he Americans something was up, the Society would not have sent Masao to kill Tea in the first place.
The living members of The Not-Forgetting Society truly hated Tea. Even with that Tea had had to goad the Society into trying to kill him.
Then, when Matsushita's son had arrived to kill Tea,Tea had goaded him to his death in that San Francisco park.
Know thy enemy. Know how to goad thy enemy into the valley of the shadow of death.
And that in turn had goaded Matsushita Kenji himself to enter into the forest and hike up to the edge of breaking his cover, into coming after Tea along a trail carefully left byTea deep into an American wilderness, where, if need be, Matsushita's body and those of his companions, armed not only with rifles and handguns but also with hardwood bokkens and a very valuable samurai sword (with which to ritualistically decapitate Tea) in a totally out-of-place place, would hit the headlines, and The Not-Forgetting Society would be vulnerable to media exposure.
If it came down to Matsushita's death there in the forest, one of the richest and most famous Japanese entrepreneurs, a man whose son had been recently killed in an unsolved incident in San Francisco, it would be news and mystery too delicious for the media not to pounce on like a glutton on a meal of fried chicken and beer.
Tea thought the news of it might be enough to free him from America's oppression.
Tea hoped it wouldn't come to Matsushita's death; but he would rather see Matsushita than himself end up dead on the forest floor,Tea's death being an event of no news value at all by mutual, international agreement.
Know thy enemy. Know thyself.
Boots on,Tea made one last brief inspection of his camp, then picked up the Chinese fencing stave he was using as a walking stick and set out to tour his perimeter.
Tea walked north across the broad granite slope, through a stand of about 30 pines, and then across a little stream. He had gone about 200 yards when an afterthought struck him and he returned to his camp.
There he lifted the groundcloth from atop his pack and rummaged through a pocket of the pack where he kept odds and ends, including coins. There were several pennies. He took four of the duller pennies and replaced the groundcloth.
He then began flipping the pennies and putting them in scattered locations on the ground cloth.
Heads, head, heads, tails. Then Tea resumed his walk.
(To be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 93rd day of its last year.
Jews Jaws Ten Up
Shark America Zero Down
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 183 (5.2 Off Oregon Coast)
Virgil's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923
Expect a Profound Act of God Against USA & Israel on June 7, 2008
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 (5)
Today's code is "93rd Day, Last Year".
As the United States of America and Israel prepare to soon commit one of the most deceitful acts of all the nations of all the history of this Earth, one which will ruin America forever and wipe Israel from the face of this Earth, I am going to present to you a concept which has likely never to have crossed your mind.
My Old Pal God asked me to paint this picture for you.
Imagine if you can that God looks at the USA as being the villain in the story of the Vietnam War.
Imagine if you can that there was a particular Vietnamese child that God loved, an Angel of a child with a most beautiful soul and closeness to God.
Imagine if you can an American Navy pilot named John McCain, son of Cain, dropping a bomb on that child, breaking that child into a thousand pieces.
In that context, imagine if you can God arranging for the shooting down of McCain's child-murdering jet and the capture and cruel imprisonment of McCain by the Vietnamese, as partial...as partial...as partial punishment for his murder of that child.
God does not recognize the American concept of "collateral damage". God does not grant the right to anyone murder to anyone. in God's Space War, even yesterday is not safe.
In another brief item, the unfulfilled part of the Japanese language code I gave you recently has now been fulfilled, but I want to let this code ripen a little longer before I translate and explain. I want the necks securely in their nooses before I release the trap door.
That code, for the record, was: "Jibun no uchi kara kuru. Tegami no basho de."
We have seen that the second sentence concerned the US Postal Service's hostility toward me and refusal to deliver my mail. The first sentence, concerns a much greater evil.
I tell you, Dear Reader, reading the minds of Americans is like reading a Dick and Jane primer. Look, Dick, look! The assholes are up to no good again!
A word to the wise, if you want to get along with God do not cause others pain.
Now let's return to our serialized story, Retreat, where we begin to learn that to the truly great military mind retreat is prelude to attack and slaughter.
Retreat, Part 5
The Not-Forgetting Society had a sense of poetry when it came to revenge.
There had been another reoccurring code, "Chushingura", which Tea took to be the firing code of Wide Heart, Long Soul.
The code fit. Chushingura was one of Japan's classic theater dramas, based on a true story of vengeance usually referred to as, "The 47 Ronin".
The grave of the 47 samurai who carried out the vengeance was still a public shrine visited daily by Japanese. There had been many movies made of the event. It was an event which touched the Japanese soul.
The code indicated The Not-Forgetting Society intended to repeat the act of delayed vengeance carried out by the beloved 47 ronin.
The A-bombing of two American cities would, the Society members felt, make them legendary heroes in Japan for all time. If they somehow survived the act and its repercussions they might possibly be elevated to a position of leadership of their country. If they were required to die, honor beyond honor would be theirs.
The classic aspect of the revenge in Chushingua was the long wait between the wrong and its righting.
In the story of the 47 ronin, they were samurai whose lord had been goaded into a violent breach of etiquette which led to a judgment that he should be executed via his committing seppuku, the famous stomach cutting of the Japanese, more rudely called harakiri, and then decapitated by the executioner, the second, the kaishaku, standing by.
Seppuku, depending on its circumstances, could be either honorable or dishonorable, and in this case it was highly dishonorable, and the judgment included the confiscation of the lord's property and the ruination of his family.
The many samurai the lord retained then became ronin, "wave men", masterless samurai, forced to scatter in search of new employment.
The famed 47 of these ronin waited years, then killed the man who had goaded their lord. They were convicted and sentenced to die by the same means their lord had died. They remained for centuries 47 of the most honored and romanticized men in Japanese history.
This was an enviable strata to enter, and Tea had no doubt The Not-Forgetting Society wished to enter it. What he did not know was the timing of the timing code; he did not know what the Japanese were waiting for. They could apparently explode their two A-bombs at any time: but they most probably had a broader tactic, coordinated with other events.
There were many unknowns; but Tea knew the time was approaching when The Not-Forgetting Society must act because all its original members were deep into old age, and every passing month was bringing more and more of them to the ends of their membership in the living side of the organization.
And what of the dead side? Tea did not know. He'd had no contact with Praying Mantis since he'd been forced under threat of murder by the American naval intelligence service to leave Japan in 1969; but apparently the dead side had lost its influence over the living side relative to Tea's safety; and whether or not the dead side favored the A-bombing of L.A. and Frisco, Tea had no idea.
A cold wind made its way through the sunlight from the snowy south ridge. Tea built up his campfire. A jay had been squawking in a tree to his left and had flown down to land about ten yards in front of him. Taking big, bounding hops on its two stiff legs, it was moving back and forth in front of him, raking him with its hash song.
The Not-Forgetting Society was of the old school. Death was better than surrender. Patriotism was everything.
It's living members had never numbered more than 100 people. This included a second layer composed exclusively of some of the sons and daughters of its original membership, generally born between 1939 and 1955. If there was a third generation,Tea was unaware of it; but he assumed it probable the third generation would not be considered trustworthy because the code of the warrior, bushi, seemed to have evaporated in Japan to a point a which a follower of bushi was considered an antique freak.
Tea poured another cup of breakfast tea, sweetened it and added powdered milk.
The jay squawked for food but Tea had nothing on hand he thought it would eat. He looked around and threw it a trout head, but the jay rejected it angrily and flew back up into the tree, there to sit and announce to the world what a cheap camper Tea was.
One of the men with Mastushita would be Takahara Masami. He had hated Tea since the first time he'd met him, when he'd been the driver that stormy night Tea'd been taken to the seance.
The man Tea killed was Matsushita Masao, who had not only been Matsushita's son but Takahara's best friend. Masao had been the third Japanese in the car, the one Tea had taken to be a bodyguard. They had been a tight team, the three of them.
Takahara Masami approached being a second son to Matsushita Kenji. He and Matsushita Masao had been kendo (Japanese fencing) teammates in college. They had married about the same time; and their children were about the same ages.
When the elder Matsushita had informed them of the Society's decision to kill Tea, the two of them had drawn lots for the honor. Masami had taken Masao, the winner, to the airport when Masao had flown to San Francisco to kill Tea.
That Masao had died, and not Tea, was unbelievable.
Tea, the master of the draw play, looked so weak.
Tea slipped the oiled and loaded .357 into its holster. He had made the holster. He had hand stitched it with an awl, improving on it gradually over the past year so that is was sleek, the leather rubbed to a shine.
It had a metal belt clip and it fit tight to his body, and though the Ruger was a big gun, a policeman's gun, it was undetectable when he wore it in the small of his back under a bulky jacket.
In the mountains Tea generally wore the .357 showing, clipped to his belt on his left waist, butt forward, for cross-body drawing. He never practiced fast drawing, one of the great accident-causers of 20th Century would-be shootists.
When Tea was six he could put a bullet through a bullet hole with a .22 rifle, thanks to the training of his mountainman father. He had never aimed a gun at a human being. If it ever went that far, he would most likely shoot the human being. His gun was his weapon of last resort, its legal use strictly proscribed in the United States, and he didn't want to use it to save his life only to spend his life in prison for having used it.
He felt the weight of the gun in its holster. This was his gunfighting gun all right. It felt as good as a tit in his hand.
Tea had killed Masao with a bokken, not a gun.
Know they enemy. Know thyself.
Tea walked a few yards out of his camp, urinated and returned to pour another cup of tea. The sun was high now. It might have been ten o'clock. Tea never wore a watch.
The next cup of tea would finish the quart, then he would cook a brunch of some sort in the same pot, generally oatmeal heavily laced with dried fruit and brown sugar.
That day he would do a long circling hike after his mid-morning meal to check out the ridges which flanked him.
On the south ridge he would follow the Forest Service trail until the snow blocked him. This would take him about four hours. He would mark out emergency escape routes and try to locate better campsites.
In addition to his handgun he would carry his breakdown .22 rifle. It's barrel and its workings fit snugly into its black plastic stock, and he would carry it unassembled in the quiver-like soft leather case he had fashioned for it.
It was his lifesaver gun relative to the the elements, as his Ruger was his lifesaver gun relative to man. Were he to break a leg he would use it to signal for help, slowly firing in groups of three the hundred or so .22 rounds he carried, a standard distress signal. If he needed meat he would hunt with it. In a gunfight it would be a suitable backup weapon.
Tea cooked and ate a quart of oatmeal, then spent a few minutes tucking in the corners of his camp.
When he left on his patrol everything would be under the dark green plastic groundcloth.
Just before leaving he took off the cheap tennis shoes he wore around camp and when fording streams, and put on the cheap work boots he was using on this trip as hiking boots.
It had been this poverty of equipment as much as learning about the placing of the A-bombs which had prompted Tea to start mixing it up with The Not-Forgetting Society. He had felt himself getting older and poorer. The fortune he was to make as an entrepreneurial spy was yet years in the future, and soon he would have been too poor and too nailed down by the Americans for the Society to worry about; he would not be able to draw the Japanese into a fight.
Indeed, he was so hammered down by the Americans already that but for the general dislike of him within The Not-Forgetting Society, and but for the outside chance he might convince he Americans something was up, the Society would not have sent Masao to kill Tea in the first place.
The living members of The Not-Forgetting Society truly hated Tea. Even with that Tea had had to goad the Society into trying to kill him.
Then, when Matsushita's son had arrived to kill Tea,Tea had goaded him to his death in that San Francisco park.
Know thy enemy. Know how to goad thy enemy into the valley of the shadow of death.
And that in turn had goaded Matsushita Kenji himself to enter into the forest and hike up to the edge of breaking his cover, into coming after Tea along a trail carefully left byTea deep into an American wilderness, where, if need be, Matsushita's body and those of his companions, armed not only with rifles and handguns but also with hardwood bokkens and a very valuable samurai sword (with which to ritualistically decapitate Tea) in a totally out-of-place place, would hit the headlines, and The Not-Forgetting Society would be vulnerable to media exposure.
If it came down to Matsushita's death there in the forest, one of the richest and most famous Japanese entrepreneurs, a man whose son had been recently killed in an unsolved incident in San Francisco, it would be news and mystery too delicious for the media not to pounce on like a glutton on a meal of fried chicken and beer.
Tea thought the news of it might be enough to free him from America's oppression.
Tea hoped it wouldn't come to Matsushita's death; but he would rather see Matsushita than himself end up dead on the forest floor,Tea's death being an event of no news value at all by mutual, international agreement.
Know thy enemy. Know thyself.
Boots on,Tea made one last brief inspection of his camp, then picked up the Chinese fencing stave he was using as a walking stick and set out to tour his perimeter.
Tea walked north across the broad granite slope, through a stand of about 30 pines, and then across a little stream. He had gone about 200 yards when an afterthought struck him and he returned to his camp.
There he lifted the groundcloth from atop his pack and rummaged through a pocket of the pack where he kept odds and ends, including coins. There were several pennies. He took four of the duller pennies and replaced the groundcloth.
He then began flipping the pennies and putting them in scattered locations on the ground cloth.
Heads, head, heads, tails. Then Tea resumed his walk.
(To be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 93rd day of its last year.
posted by Virgil Kret at 6:24 PM
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