Retreat, Part 6
The $601 Billion Defeat
Jews Jaws Nine Down
Shark America One Up
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 189
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 (6)
Today's code is "94th Day, Last Year".
Let's look at our Time Map today, let's see how we get from here to there, past the fire in between.
As already reported, I have been looking at the short-term future, and when my light shines on July 15 I see me somehow freed from America's torture-enslavement, now a shade over 40 long years long.
When I look about me during the present time I don't see how that takes place; but I have faith in God and God has faith in me so I will ride this rapids of Time expecting God has something up God's sleeve relative to my peace and freedom.
At this time I see two points of interest between now and July 15, and I expect to see more over the coming days.
First, I see the high probability that the United States of America and Israel will jointly A-bomb Islam by April 15. In that case, a blackout of information can be expected, and a cancellation of the November election, and an end to the Internet.
Second, then I see the high probability that God will wreak havoc on the United States of America and Israel on June 7. Note I say on June 7, not by or about June 7. The only variable in this calculation seems to be the International Date Line.
That's all I have for you today, so now let's return to our story, where we observe Tea as he sets up a draw play.
Retreat, Part 6
But for Tea, nothing stood between The Not-Forgetting Society and Pearl Harbor Number Two.
Things were getting hot and Tea was wishing the CIA wasn't so goddamn stupid. What the hell, he might as well try.
The USA center of secret Japanese military activity against the United States in the late 70s and early 80s of the 20th Century was a restaurant called the Bush Gardens, located on Bush Street, near Chinatown, in San Francisco.
It was at the corner of Monroe and Bush, where Stockton Street was in fact a double-decked street, passing right under Monroe through a tunnel leading from the downtown shopping district to upper Chinatown. Monroe was a brief camel hump of a street arching over the hill through which Stockton ran.
Diagonally across and a few yards up from the Bush Gardens was the little alley in which Sam Spades's partner lost his life in The Maltese Falcon; but that was fiction and this was fact.
The large revolving sign of the Bush Gardens contained a play on words few Americans knew of, but many Japanese though amusing. One side of the sign was in English, the other side Japanese, but the name in Japanese was much, much different than the name in English.
The English word "bush" was pronounced "bushi" in Japanese; but the character used on the sign was not of a plant, a bush, but "bushi", the way of warrior. It was an innocent enough play on words, perhaps, but it was that play on words which had inspired The Not-Forgetting Society to use the restaurant as its San Francisco haunt.
The inside "bushi" joke was a quiet taunting, something that would look good in the history books, a little bit of fun in the long, slow process of getting ready for revenge.
Tea had set his bait in the Bush Gardens, the bait that had sent Matsushita's son on his ill-fated mission of murder.
Tea'd telepathically learned that two members of the Society would be there on the second Monday of March for an early evening supper.
Counting on his having learned something of the Japanese personality in five years of residence in Japan, he made his entrance to the restaurant a few minutes after they'd been seated. He crossed over the little arched bridge just inside the door and, not waiting to be seated, took a small table next to theirs.
The restaurant's owner huffed at him a little, not returning Tea's overly friendly grin. It was rare for a Japanese restaurateur to be openly hostile to a guest, which told Tea he was strumming the banjo he wanted to be strumming.
Tea was dressed in what he called his Good Will outfit, although he had actually purchased it at the Salvation Army's thrift shop. It was a gold-brown corduroy suit and vest two sizes too large for him. It made him look like a well-dressed rabbit in a Walt Disney move. His shirt, too, was too large. No part of its collar touched his neck unless he leaned his head toward it. The sleeves, if left alone, sent their cuffs over the mounds of his thumbs, and he would not leave them alone, frequently reaching inside his coat to his upper arms, first the right, then the left, to pull the cuffs back into the jacket's sleeves, from which they would again slowly slide out. The shirt was brown. He wore a brown tie, also much too large, the knot at his neck being huge, though well formed, and the pointed tip of the tie peeked out from under his loose vest and slightly covered his big brass belt buckle, which bore the legend, "Jack-in-the-Box", which Tea liked to say meant "Good-in-the-Vagina". His shoes were black, high-topped, polished, and worn at the heels.
The serious student of the art of space war may already know that when Tea found himself cut off, found himself kicked out of journalism, found himself with the Statue of Liberty's torch up his ass, he looked to history to see who he might emulate in order to pass through the public torture chamber alive and functioning. He chose two early movies stars, Stan Laurel and Charlie Chaplin.
Being a comic fool gave Tea resilience to the abuse, with an option of disguised brilliance.
The first principle in the art of space war is "adapt".
There were only six guests in the restaurant other than Tea, all business-suited Japanese men. Prior to Tea's "Fool's Entry", as Tea called it in his log, the environment had been 100% Japanese, the only environment Japanese were truly comfortable in. Tea was by intent an ugly frog splashing into a tranquil pond of golden koi.
That was Tea, he knew how to strum a banjo.
A kimonoed waitress approached, and Tea spoke to her in what he called his Occupation G.I. Japanese, full of the American country twangs and mispronunciations the Japanese had learned to loathe during the Occupation. It was only because of his inner respect for the waitress that he refrained from calling her "Mama-san", with a screeching "san" rhyming with sand rather than a soft "san" rhyming with wand, (which was like a fingernail scraped across a blackboard to the Japanese).
From the corner of his eye Tea saw a shudder of repulsion pass through one of his marks. The mark, Tea knew, was a veteran of the Pacific War, as the Japanese called World War Two, and still, nearly forty years after it was over, at times wished he could have banzaied himself into the Land of the Dead for the pleasure of taking some hated American men like Tea with him. He hated Americans down to the last spark of his fiber. He was a fanatic, and vengeance as his religion. He was still a war with the United States. He would have loved to step across the three yards separating him from Tea and ram one of his chopsticks into Tea's eye, into Tea's brain, into Tea's soul if he could.
This Japanese knew about the bomb in the mud of the bay. He would be happy to stand on the Golden Gate Bridge at the moment of detonation for the joy the explosion would give the final seconds of his life, for the description of it he could give his dead comrades when he joined them in the Heaven of the Bushi Way.
He looked at Tea. A flaw to have done that. Tea caught his eye. Tea smiled his G.I. smile and winked his G.I. wink. Tea wanted to irritate the motherfucker.
The Japanese flushed like a man being caught with his fly open at the Emperor's annual poetry reading. He knew who Tea was, certainly, but the American government had convinced just about everyone in the electro-technological world, including The Not-Forgetting Society, that Tea was a lunatic being punished for dangerous lunacy.
Adapt. The first rule. Tea found it useful to be considered a lunatic. It allowed for a certain zone of secrecy since know one wanted to know what he knew.
Tea decided to order. "Oi!", he called to the waitress. The word was beyond rudeness. It was like saying, "Hey, you, Knucklehead!"
Of course the bomb in the mud in the bay would fry her when it went off; but The Not-Forgetting Society would be socially appropriate toward her until then. Rudeness was relative. Tea was an asshole, but he was out to save her life.
She approached his table immediately, cheeks red with embarrassment.
The manager was pacing and huffing, wishing Tea were drunk so he could throw him out, thinking seriously of shaking some of his dandruff onto Tea's rice, (the Japanese like secret revenge, very often finding fulfillment in secretly adulterating food. Let him eat just a little of my shit, but no so much that he can taste it, but so I will know he ate it).
Tea ordered sashimi and sake', his favorite combination; and the order was brought quickly, everyone wanting him out as soon as possible; but it was good red tuna, and beautifully arranged, and the sake' was good and heated just right.
In a Chinese restaurant staff displeasure with a guest would be shown in staff impoliteness; but it was important to the Japanese not to lose their veneer of politeness, one of the things they felt made them porcelain in a terra cotta world.
Insertion having been accomplished, the harpoon having been set in The Not-Forgetting Society's back,Tea spoke quietly to the waitress as she poured his first cup of sake', and in elaborately polite Japanese, the twang utterly gone, said, "Please excuse me, but sometimes I forget the polite words."
The waitress was startled, and looked at him. The banjo was a violin. She forgave him with her eyes. For a moment she understood something had taken place, that the American and the two Japanese at the next table somehow knew one another; then she stepped out of the knowledge and went back to her work.
"Oi!", Tea called out to the two men across from him, his country bumpkin smile back in place. They looked despite themselves. It was too rude. Tea was a grotesqueness whose presence had captured them.
Tea raised his sake' cup to them. The sat dreading his toast, which they knew would be a G.I.-accented "Kampai!", but despite what they knew, something more dreadful came out of Tea's mouth; in beautifully articulated Japanese he toasted to, "Wide Heart, Long Soul".
Tea then turned to his meal and ate it with quiet dignity, Charlie Chaplin in the Gold Rush, savoring each piece of fish and each sip of rice wine, not once looking at the two apoplectic Japanese, as if he were not even aware of their suddenly disturbed existence, not even concerned about the saliva he knew the owner of the Bush Gardens had put on his raw, red tuna.
Know they enemy. Know thyself. What would Charlie Chaplin have done? That was espionage in the early days of space war.
Just over a week later Matsushita Masao landed at San Francisco International Airport bent on murder, but bound for death.`
(To be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 94th day of its last year.
Jews Jaws Nine Down
Shark America One Up
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 189
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 (6)
Today's code is "94th Day, Last Year".
Let's look at our Time Map today, let's see how we get from here to there, past the fire in between.
As already reported, I have been looking at the short-term future, and when my light shines on July 15 I see me somehow freed from America's torture-enslavement, now a shade over 40 long years long.
When I look about me during the present time I don't see how that takes place; but I have faith in God and God has faith in me so I will ride this rapids of Time expecting God has something up God's sleeve relative to my peace and freedom.
At this time I see two points of interest between now and July 15, and I expect to see more over the coming days.
First, I see the high probability that the United States of America and Israel will jointly A-bomb Islam by April 15. In that case, a blackout of information can be expected, and a cancellation of the November election, and an end to the Internet.
Second, then I see the high probability that God will wreak havoc on the United States of America and Israel on June 7. Note I say on June 7, not by or about June 7. The only variable in this calculation seems to be the International Date Line.
That's all I have for you today, so now let's return to our story, where we observe Tea as he sets up a draw play.
Retreat, Part 6
But for Tea, nothing stood between The Not-Forgetting Society and Pearl Harbor Number Two.
Things were getting hot and Tea was wishing the CIA wasn't so goddamn stupid. What the hell, he might as well try.
The USA center of secret Japanese military activity against the United States in the late 70s and early 80s of the 20th Century was a restaurant called the Bush Gardens, located on Bush Street, near Chinatown, in San Francisco.
It was at the corner of Monroe and Bush, where Stockton Street was in fact a double-decked street, passing right under Monroe through a tunnel leading from the downtown shopping district to upper Chinatown. Monroe was a brief camel hump of a street arching over the hill through which Stockton ran.
Diagonally across and a few yards up from the Bush Gardens was the little alley in which Sam Spades's partner lost his life in The Maltese Falcon; but that was fiction and this was fact.
The large revolving sign of the Bush Gardens contained a play on words few Americans knew of, but many Japanese though amusing. One side of the sign was in English, the other side Japanese, but the name in Japanese was much, much different than the name in English.
The English word "bush" was pronounced "bushi" in Japanese; but the character used on the sign was not of a plant, a bush, but "bushi", the way of warrior. It was an innocent enough play on words, perhaps, but it was that play on words which had inspired The Not-Forgetting Society to use the restaurant as its San Francisco haunt.
The inside "bushi" joke was a quiet taunting, something that would look good in the history books, a little bit of fun in the long, slow process of getting ready for revenge.
Tea had set his bait in the Bush Gardens, the bait that had sent Matsushita's son on his ill-fated mission of murder.
Tea'd telepathically learned that two members of the Society would be there on the second Monday of March for an early evening supper.
Counting on his having learned something of the Japanese personality in five years of residence in Japan, he made his entrance to the restaurant a few minutes after they'd been seated. He crossed over the little arched bridge just inside the door and, not waiting to be seated, took a small table next to theirs.
The restaurant's owner huffed at him a little, not returning Tea's overly friendly grin. It was rare for a Japanese restaurateur to be openly hostile to a guest, which told Tea he was strumming the banjo he wanted to be strumming.
Tea was dressed in what he called his Good Will outfit, although he had actually purchased it at the Salvation Army's thrift shop. It was a gold-brown corduroy suit and vest two sizes too large for him. It made him look like a well-dressed rabbit in a Walt Disney move. His shirt, too, was too large. No part of its collar touched his neck unless he leaned his head toward it. The sleeves, if left alone, sent their cuffs over the mounds of his thumbs, and he would not leave them alone, frequently reaching inside his coat to his upper arms, first the right, then the left, to pull the cuffs back into the jacket's sleeves, from which they would again slowly slide out. The shirt was brown. He wore a brown tie, also much too large, the knot at his neck being huge, though well formed, and the pointed tip of the tie peeked out from under his loose vest and slightly covered his big brass belt buckle, which bore the legend, "Jack-in-the-Box", which Tea liked to say meant "Good-in-the-Vagina". His shoes were black, high-topped, polished, and worn at the heels.
The serious student of the art of space war may already know that when Tea found himself cut off, found himself kicked out of journalism, found himself with the Statue of Liberty's torch up his ass, he looked to history to see who he might emulate in order to pass through the public torture chamber alive and functioning. He chose two early movies stars, Stan Laurel and Charlie Chaplin.
Being a comic fool gave Tea resilience to the abuse, with an option of disguised brilliance.
The first principle in the art of space war is "adapt".
There were only six guests in the restaurant other than Tea, all business-suited Japanese men. Prior to Tea's "Fool's Entry", as Tea called it in his log, the environment had been 100% Japanese, the only environment Japanese were truly comfortable in. Tea was by intent an ugly frog splashing into a tranquil pond of golden koi.
That was Tea, he knew how to strum a banjo.
A kimonoed waitress approached, and Tea spoke to her in what he called his Occupation G.I. Japanese, full of the American country twangs and mispronunciations the Japanese had learned to loathe during the Occupation. It was only because of his inner respect for the waitress that he refrained from calling her "Mama-san", with a screeching "san" rhyming with sand rather than a soft "san" rhyming with wand, (which was like a fingernail scraped across a blackboard to the Japanese).
From the corner of his eye Tea saw a shudder of repulsion pass through one of his marks. The mark, Tea knew, was a veteran of the Pacific War, as the Japanese called World War Two, and still, nearly forty years after it was over, at times wished he could have banzaied himself into the Land of the Dead for the pleasure of taking some hated American men like Tea with him. He hated Americans down to the last spark of his fiber. He was a fanatic, and vengeance as his religion. He was still a war with the United States. He would have loved to step across the three yards separating him from Tea and ram one of his chopsticks into Tea's eye, into Tea's brain, into Tea's soul if he could.
This Japanese knew about the bomb in the mud of the bay. He would be happy to stand on the Golden Gate Bridge at the moment of detonation for the joy the explosion would give the final seconds of his life, for the description of it he could give his dead comrades when he joined them in the Heaven of the Bushi Way.
He looked at Tea. A flaw to have done that. Tea caught his eye. Tea smiled his G.I. smile and winked his G.I. wink. Tea wanted to irritate the motherfucker.
The Japanese flushed like a man being caught with his fly open at the Emperor's annual poetry reading. He knew who Tea was, certainly, but the American government had convinced just about everyone in the electro-technological world, including The Not-Forgetting Society, that Tea was a lunatic being punished for dangerous lunacy.
Adapt. The first rule. Tea found it useful to be considered a lunatic. It allowed for a certain zone of secrecy since know one wanted to know what he knew.
Tea decided to order. "Oi!", he called to the waitress. The word was beyond rudeness. It was like saying, "Hey, you, Knucklehead!"
Of course the bomb in the mud in the bay would fry her when it went off; but The Not-Forgetting Society would be socially appropriate toward her until then. Rudeness was relative. Tea was an asshole, but he was out to save her life.
She approached his table immediately, cheeks red with embarrassment.
The manager was pacing and huffing, wishing Tea were drunk so he could throw him out, thinking seriously of shaking some of his dandruff onto Tea's rice, (the Japanese like secret revenge, very often finding fulfillment in secretly adulterating food. Let him eat just a little of my shit, but no so much that he can taste it, but so I will know he ate it).
Tea ordered sashimi and sake', his favorite combination; and the order was brought quickly, everyone wanting him out as soon as possible; but it was good red tuna, and beautifully arranged, and the sake' was good and heated just right.
In a Chinese restaurant staff displeasure with a guest would be shown in staff impoliteness; but it was important to the Japanese not to lose their veneer of politeness, one of the things they felt made them porcelain in a terra cotta world.
Insertion having been accomplished, the harpoon having been set in The Not-Forgetting Society's back,Tea spoke quietly to the waitress as she poured his first cup of sake', and in elaborately polite Japanese, the twang utterly gone, said, "Please excuse me, but sometimes I forget the polite words."
The waitress was startled, and looked at him. The banjo was a violin. She forgave him with her eyes. For a moment she understood something had taken place, that the American and the two Japanese at the next table somehow knew one another; then she stepped out of the knowledge and went back to her work.
"Oi!", Tea called out to the two men across from him, his country bumpkin smile back in place. They looked despite themselves. It was too rude. Tea was a grotesqueness whose presence had captured them.
Tea raised his sake' cup to them. The sat dreading his toast, which they knew would be a G.I.-accented "Kampai!", but despite what they knew, something more dreadful came out of Tea's mouth; in beautifully articulated Japanese he toasted to, "Wide Heart, Long Soul".
Tea then turned to his meal and ate it with quiet dignity, Charlie Chaplin in the Gold Rush, savoring each piece of fish and each sip of rice wine, not once looking at the two apoplectic Japanese, as if he were not even aware of their suddenly disturbed existence, not even concerned about the saliva he knew the owner of the Bush Gardens had put on his raw, red tuna.
Know they enemy. Know thyself. What would Charlie Chaplin have done? That was espionage in the early days of space war.
Just over a week later Matsushita Masao landed at San Francisco International Airport bent on murder, but bound for death.`
(To be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 94th day of its last year.
posted by Virgil Kret at 6:40 PM
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