Genevieve; The Ninth Compound Dissonance by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Table of Contents

1 – The “New” Light............................................ 1

2 – ISIS-BLM-Antifa Types..................................... 13

3 - Awakening................................................. 23

4 - Dillon.................................................... 30

5 – CHUD in Seattle........................................... 35

5 - Revenge................................................... 53

6- More Stories.............................................. 70

7 – Silent Partner............................................ 80

8 - E-mail.................................................... 86

9 - Trip...................................................... 92

10 –Collars.................................................. 105

11 –Willy’s.................................................. 120

12 –Walking Hellos........................................... 132

13 –The POV’s Proliferate.................................... 144

14 -Experiential Doggedness.................................. 156

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1 – The “New” Light

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Kangaroos in uncontrolled fire and “Look What They Done to my Song” by Melanie Safka; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

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Genevieve’s eyes turned toward the mountains.

Denial Mountains over the Boggy Cleave River; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license; modified.

The difficult to pass Denial Mountains, and to a lesser extent the shallow Boggy Cleave River was all that separated

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Genevieve’s peaceful Poochville from the loud violence that was standard on in the other side, some forgotten hominid had named Rapidtown.

No matter the season, the Denials always maintained their snow cap. Since it never completely melted off, the pristine white covering got deeper and taller with each winter’s snow fall.

Genevieve could not recall having left her house. But here she was traipsing down Pacific Lane. Stranger than that, on this pleasant summery afternoon she was alone on the road where she had lived for so many years.

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Genevieve; property of the author.

The “strangeness” was not the least bit disconcerting to her. Well, maybe a little bit. This warm afternoon was the perfect time for pooches to be contentedly relaxing into it with a snooze.

With no hazards to block her path, Genevieve looked up at the gentle sky.

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Sky; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CCO license, very modified.

The firmament was pervasive, but posed no hazard to her eyes. The white clouds obscured just enough of the sun to present no ocular discomfort, while still allowing a generous level of light and warmth.

Fifty-eight tiny steps forward, Genevieve’s snout encountered an obstacle, necessitating four steps back. She looked at it to see that it was a dog; but not one she knew. The bespectacled dog was not smiling when he said; “You really should watch where you’re going.”

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Genevieve thought that was a bit rude for a collision which did no damage to either party. She refrained from saying that, and instead replied; “Are you all right?”

While adjusting his glasses, the other dog said; “Do I look alright to you?”

“I couldn’t possibly know. Since I’ve never seen you before, I have no idea of how your current appearance compares to the previous. That’s sort of why I asked.”

“In other words you admit to having had no consideration of or interest in my past.”

Annoyed, and perhaps taking some liberties with the other dog’s scholarly, thereby innocuous appearance, provided by its goggles and cantankerous attitude, she said; “Look. Likely slightly more than you have had in mine. ....... I’ve lived here a long time. You haven’t.”

The scholarly looking dog chuckled to itself, as if it had some insight it did not wish to currently convey: instead saying; “I’ve lived here as long as you.”

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Scholarly pooch; property of the author.

Based on her lengthy experience, Genevieve didn’t believe him, but not seeking a burgeoning confrontation over what she considered to have emanated from a petty incident, she shrugged the draw of a disinterested blank, during which time she noticed that he sported a loose, dark brown collar. She felt prompted to pragmatically say; “................. Bye.”

Her three letters were countered or not with a nearly identical; “.................,” though accompanied by that icy one-eyed stare commonly seen in tanked tropical fish.

Against her better judgement, rather than walking away, Genevieve said; “Let’s try to start over.” She pointed toward her house which was actually not in sight because of the

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blooming trees and bushes between it and the road, adding; “I’m Genevieve and I live over there. Pleased to meet you.”

It visibly sighed, that a clue to its level of pretense, and said; “I’m Rousseau. Please don’t be impressed. .......

Someone else who didn’t know me chose that name. Pleased to meet you, too.”

Genevieve wasn’t impressed, but considered that best kept under her hat for a few reasons, inclusive of Rousseau being ostensibly sufficiently impressed with himself, to render her impression inconsequential. “Good then. ...... More or less.”

Thinking that she had sized this Rousseau up, thereby not being interested in any further chit-chat, collisions, collusions, or elaborations he obviously and fatuously considered ‘impressive,’

Genevieve appended; “Shall we be on with it then?”

Thereby effectively denied the opportunity to babble, Rousseau was reticent to break away without having done the entirety of his spiel. He was in a quandary produced through the misunderstanding of his own desire. He didn’t consider himself to be a bad guy ......... the majority of the time. It was not any more his fault than the many “expertly” conditioned to abandon common sense, as he had been trained to be the teacher of non-elective courses. His mother had made a good recommendation and this proved to be a wise decision as it

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ensured a continual flow of students, whether they liked it or not, ensuring him of a continual captive audience.

Rousseau’s snout was directed toward what seemed to be Pacific Lane’s culmination/fruition/cul de sac woods; while Genevieve’s was pointed toward Pacific Lane’s entrance/exit/intersection at Poochville Road. They both continued on their paths just fine, but each now the slightest bit uncertain of their destinations.

As might seem odd to the uninitiated, from opposite directions, they both heard the same song.

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Diner jukebox and “Stella Blue” by the Grateful Dead; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

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2 – ISIS-BLM-Antifa Types

Genevieve continued in her direction, vaguely relieved that Rousseau continued in the opposite one. But she was also uneasy in realizing that she might have to pass by him again on her return home, if he turned back where Pacific Lane’s path ended.

She tried to forget that to enjoy the moment, and mostly did.

The moment ended when she saw two more strangers. One looked very dissatisfied (VD); the other fierce (OF).

OF rudely yelled; “Where is your collar?”

Genevieve noticed that both OF and VD wore identical, tight black collars. She quickly supposed that in this situation it was better not to tell the truth; that being that she had never worn a collar and had no intention of ever doing so. Instead she said; “Oh, I forgot it at home,” accidentally making that sound something like a slight question; comparable to an un-professional kid answering a teacher who has asked why they don’t have their homework, through responding that the dog ate it, while thinking; “You’re not dumb enough to buy that one. Are you?”

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OF didn’t buy that any more than the teacher did. VD

approached and went in a slightly different and more combative direction, saying; “It’s not supposed to be taken off, even when in the privacy of your own home.”

Genevieve was perplexed. Worse, she had no further answers.

The best reply she could think of was to say that someone had stolen it during her walk, but thought better of it. Much worse, she was frightened, and said; “I’ve never been much of a follower of fashion.”

VD sounded incensed when he said; “It’s not a matter of fashion, Whitey. It’s a matter of being on the right side.”

Genevieve thought that she was precariously on the edge of something these two considered deep, and attempted a last gasp bluster when she responded with the truth; “Look here. First of all, my name is not Whitey. Secondly, collared dogs have always had my full support. It’s just that I was not born collared, never have been collared, and have no good reason to try to become so. It would be an un-natural, ridiculous farce for me.”

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Fierce looking collared dog (OF); property of the author.

OF turned to VD. He was silent with his eyebrows raised and furled.

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Strange and wide looking collared dog (VD); property of the author.

A harmonious warning of sorts took a final stand.

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Thugs blocking road, burning car and “Crosstown Traffic” by Jimi Hendrix; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

The attempted stand fell like Richmond ’65 and two more tightly, black collared dogs came running out of somewhere not in Genevieve’s recent purview. They were yapping in tandem; the

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net result being that each one’s words if any, rendered incoherent the words of the other, if any. It was like one of those hip-hop acts, wherein the audience is supposed to get into the “energy.”

Further fierce collared intruders in tandem; property of the author.

The four surrounded her, their “jockeying” for position

“accidentally” knocking tiny Genevieve over on her back.

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Genevieve knocked to the ground by a pack of menacing dogs; property of the author.

They were all now yelling something which was not indecipherable, while making their ostensible points through demonstrative paw kicking, reminiscent of a Haitian great-grandfather who is still unable and is frustrated by his inability to speak English. Genevieve was hit by some of the paw kicks and decided that it was not the best of ideas for her to remain in her currently prostrate, pummeled, place.

She mustered all of her energy, got up and bolted away from the group, making room for her exit through banging into and

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brushing by OF’s front left paw, causing him to take a knee, while stumbling over one of his finer points.

Genevieve ran, though fearing that the larger, longer-legged four would overtake her before she could get back home.

She was elated to see a Police car, siren on full blast, screaming her way. But rather than arrest the collared dogs which had knocked her down and had been kicking her, they arrested her for assault and a hate crime. They had witnessed her brushing by OF’s front left paw, doing almost as much damage as a paint ball from ninety feet away.

At first she was glad to be gone from her assailants and tucked away in the back of the police car, but then she realized that something was very wrong. She said; “You didn’t arrest any of them.”

“Right,” said the driver.

“Am I really under arrest?”

“Yes, ma’am. You may have hurt one of their front legs. The Medics are on the way and will make that determination.”

“What is the approved procedure when under assault?”

“KCA.”

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“KCA?”

“Yes, KCA. Where have you been, lady?. KCA rules. Kiss collared ass or you’re in a whole heap of deep doo doo. Could even lose your jobby.”

For the first time Genevieve noticed that somewhat hidden under the folds in the two portly officers necks in front were thin black collars. She started screaming louder than the vehicle’s siren.

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3 - Awakening

“Genevieve!! Genevieve!! It’s okay. You’re here with me.

Bad dream. Bad dream.” Hubby Dillon stroked her quivering and perspiring mane.

Genevieve and Dillon; property of the author.

Not certain where she was, Genevieve’s eyes did a wary one eighty. When she had determined that she was no longer in the back of a collared police car, she did one more certainty check, this one a tad playful, saying; “Am I really under arrest?”

“Not unless you want to be.”

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Genevieve said; “Wise ass,” and continued by recounting her

“dream” experience with the collared dogs “right here on Pacific Lane.”

Dillon said; “I see that you’ve been spending much too much time on that hominid internet. It can be more falsely detrimental than a Chinese virus aided and abetted by the head monkey at the WHO.”

“Tell me about it. Please feel free to leave out the subsequent, ideologically managed fol de rol.”

“It’s good to see that you’re again feeling feisty this quickly.”

“Your opinion might soon change. No offense intended.”

“Sure, but take my word. Pacific Lane has not changed.

Everyone who was here, still is. ..... except Willy. The old handyman took off to Dove Lane to be with that Abigail who may have picked up something serious from ticks. Old Willy is compelled to try fixing everything.”

“Ah. ........ Did someone else move into his house here?”

“Not yet. Everyone figured that it was best to keep it open for a while, as new relationships can be quite volatile. Rushing to a rebound can be worse than an empty house.”

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Jimi Hendrix and “If 6 Was 9” by The Jimi Hendrix Experience; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

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Again thinking of Genevieve’s bad dream, Dillon continued;

“The belligerent always find an issue to argue about. That’s how they become seen as belligerent. It’s a tautology of sorts.”

In a belligerent tone, Genevieve replied; “That’s not the core issue. Whether they know it or not, they’re on the same side, doing the bidding of the only one which benefits.”

“Who is that one?”

“It’s more of a committee.”

“Name one member.”

“Gyorgy Cretinhound.”

“I don’t know him.”

“Neither do I. The cretin family does their best to remain anonymous, facilitating their perverse wish to make everyone think there are two sides at odds. Stimulus-reaction-remedy. One supposed side provides the stimulus. The populace makes their predictable reaction; usually; ‘Protect me! Protect me! Then the other supposed side ‘protects’ them; the net result the populace’ loss of another freedom. Repeat. Repeat.”

“Neither do I. The cretin family does their best ....... “

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“You’re playing the idiot so well, that I absolutely refuse to react.”

“We’re talking dog; not pooch. Gotcha anyway.”

“Six IS nine.”

“My bottom line question is are there any places left for us to go where the collared dogs, their benefactors, their dupes, their puppet masters, and the vocal, ignorant/jealous foreigners have not yet successfully conspired to try to convince everyone to have a bug up their ass about US based, non-collared pooches?”

“Our Poochville, of course. In Hominidville, if this was not just a brief hominid bad dream, I’d be thinking about Tibet.”

“The Chinese messed that up already. Besides, you’d be dinner there.”

The sky turned a fire red.

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Fire sky; property of the author.

It seemed to be a potential big deal when reflected upon the earth, even bigger than Greta Thornberg’s prescient revelations. ........ Well, only if you listened down or looked up.

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4 - Dillon

Dillon was holding back. He had been having a series of the same type of dream, but didn’t want to tell Genevieve, for fear of enraging and/or depressing her. His were actually worse, as they added another dimension or two to her story.

Dillon; property of the author.

In his he was not only accosted, assaulted, and arrested for the “crime” of not being collared, but the collared Yellow chow chows which had somehow managed to remain un-eaten in the East had co-operated with the un-credentialed, collared, black basenji from the Horn, who ran the World Health Obstruction Organization (WHOO), to spread an extremely contagious disease

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worldwide. This disease was used by various international power schemers in various ways to give everything to the collared. The schemes varied by hominid state and were regularly adjusted within each based on “expert” and political shifts, but all had some things in common. They took away the freedoms and resources, while providing a path for the deletion and incarceration of those un-collared pooches who had not chosen to exploit the “sad,” angry, loser, “justified” position so effective amongst the inexperienced many who confuse their brain with their heart; but simultaneously provided a free ticket to those who would openly and regularly “protest,” assault, burn, and loot, intimidating the un-collared.

The disease itself was the constant subject of the customarily changing “expert” debate. Typically, the debate was not inclusive of any cure, but rather calls for more study-testing, sold to the highest bidder. That which favored the lockdown of the non-collared was featured in the main stream media. That it attempted to use the identical “logic” to absolve the lawless breakout of the constantly complaining collards’

pyrotechnics and larceny was indicative of the side chosen in cowardice or stupidity, not worthy of any serious comment. The old story fooled only those who timidly implored the authorities for protection from that which the authorities had bestowed upon

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them. The best news was that gun sales went through the roof; and this time the purchasers were not the timid or collared.

Let it be.

Prepared kitten; property of the author.

The worst thing was that young kittens and puppies were forced to grow up early, in order to take up the slack left by their equivocating elders. They had boldly decided that there was nothing wrong with protecting themselves, their families, their pets, their property, and their very way of life from those collared thugs who showed no respect for anything, thereby fully deserving of standard reciprocity, no matter the phony backup whine. This was quite heroic, as the youngsters had been

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made well aware of the possible repercussions which could be inflicted upon them. Under the contradictory rules of the new world regime, it was a capital crime for a non-collared to even

“threaten” to defend themselves against the real damages inflicted by the “brave,” collared gangs. The operative slogan was; “Enough B***S***, F*** It. Deal with this, failure a**h****.”

Their phrase summed it up. The collared contingent had been the beneficiary of special enforced legislation which had promoted their interests, to the detriment of the non-collared interest, for more than half a century. That they still needed to blame the non-collared for their personal failings was a pathetic joke. That they now threatened to take it to the max was cause for the drawing of the line of battle.

When a tolerated bug begins to act as if they own the place, they invariably get squashed. So sad, as so many inept

“murals” placed on property not their own say that “Stink Bug Lives Matter,” it becomes difficult to differentiate the artiste’s need to convince others from their need to convince themselves.

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On another more interesting, and perhaps less obviously discordant note, Dillon said to Genevieve; “Just look at this.”

“I really shouldn’t, but okay.”

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5 – CHUD in Seattle

Genevieve at her laptop; property of the author.

Reuters. CHAZ, CHOP, CHIT, CHUD.

We have been informed of yet another name change to Seattle’s

“autonomous district.” The fourth entry is CHUD. Since no one has been shot in the “peaceful” district for the first time in seven days, and there has been no further looting or arson, though the vandalism the occupiers describe as “art” persisted, the attention seekers seek to remain in the news with this. It

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would be deemed “racist” to take no note; so here is the obligatory.

A “normal” evening in CHAZ-CHOP-CHIT-CHUD; property of the author.

A “normal” afternoon in CHAZ-CHOP-CHIT-CHUD. White hominid being beaten senseless by eight brave, ostensibly similarly senseless black hominids; property of the author.

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Depending on which resident “revolutionary” one speaks with, the latest acronym utilized for the zone may stand for; 1) Cannibalistic Hominid Underground Dwellers 2) Claptrap Humid Underpants Demonstration 3) Crackpot Homeless Unpopular Derelicts 4) Capitol Hill Undesirable District 5) Clinton Hooey Underwritten by the Deepstate 6) Communist Hogwash of the Unprincipled Democrats 7) Creepy Hooligan Unwanted Development 8) Curdled Herrgårdsost Undeserving Dips 9) Chordal Harshness for Uppity Discordance 10) Chocolate Hoodlums in the Ugly Dump 11) Comrade Ho’s Unmasked Disaster

12) Chaotic Hoonies Underpinning Destruction 13) Choppa Hoodie Urban Dudes

Whichever is the “correct” term, a myriad of mixes are also utilized. It has quickly become popular among non-occupiers seeking to insult someone to say; “You’re a CHUD.” Phasebook reports that Joe Biden is the most frequent recipient of the moniker on their site; apparently #5 the working definition in Johannesburg Joe’s case.

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By way of op-ed background, this writer believes that #1 is the true source, as the words would seem to be appealing to marginally educated, “cool” hominid “youth,” still living with and trying to shock mom and dad. Ostensibly, this is the totes humongous thrill enjoyed by thirty-eight year old, protesting and rebellious fries managers, demanding social justice.

The CHUD story began with reports of a woman walking her dog down an empty darkened CHIT city street. As she passed by a manhole, a creature jumped out and attacked, dragging her and her dog into the sewers, neither ever to be seen again.

Razberry Simon, more or less; mostly less a once semi-marginal rapper, now and then disputed Warlord of “peaceful” CHAZ-CHOP-CHIT-CHUD, had been photographing the homeless population, specifically those known as "under-grounders," or people who have taken up residence within the six square, police “free”

blocks, previously called Capitol Hill among other things in

“normal” times.

Seattle’s Police Captain Botsch had a personal interest in the recent flood of missing persons being reported, as Candida (Candy), his thirteen year old daughter, remained missing for the second week. Botsch interviewed “Sleepy Joe,” a surreptitious police co-operative informant. “Sleepy Joe” was a subordinate of untouchable billionaire, popular povertician

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extraordinaire, the “Reverend” Alphonse Dullton. He was not considered totally reliable, but could sometimes be accidentally so.

Le Grande Orange and Alphonse Dullton; property of the author.

Le Grande Orange is a shifty real estate developer continually on the edge of the law. His political ambitions were recently realized when he won the race for Seattle’s Mayor. He was thereby able to freely extract variances from his appointed

“Planning Board,” as well as obtain approvals from town building inspectors for chump change. His supporters said; “So, big wet raspberry. The building is 42 floors instead of 30, and a few of the all too many BS building codes are rendered mute. Fazool.”

Though he ran as a Republican in the heavily Democratic city, he won by a landslide as the Democrats ran a female Muslim communist with a platform of “governmental confiscation of all

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property.” It is rumored that the parents of 42 year old Kashama al-Khondakar, sometimes still known as Barbie Millicent Roberts, with whom she has resided and bickered with her entire life, voted for Le Grande Orange.

Dullton was still currently running his Democrat supported, multi-faceted money laundering business through his heavily militia guarded, waterfront mansion. The tax free property was this year’s uptown Seattle headquarters for his increasingly popular money magnet, “The BLM Foundation.” A “Newsday” article contended that Dullton was an FBI, Deepstate informant, displaying specialties in organized crime, public figures, and black civic leaders. He was once charged with 67 felony counts of tax evasion, larceny and fraud. He was acquitted on all counts and plead guilty to one misdemeanor charge of failure to file state income taxes. This man is as connected as Siamese twins.

On the other hand, “Sleepy Joe” was very reachable either in his basement, in the Ukraine boardroom of Burisma, or with his lips lovingly planted on Obama’s badonkadonk. It had become obvious that he had acquired dementia a few years back, and because of that was liable to blurt out anything, no matter the implications. Accessible and potentially useful to Botsch, the need to fact check whatever he would say was the only issue.

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Making things just the least bit difficult in the sense of overbearing annoyance, “Sleepy Joe” seemed to really believe that he had served time in jail with Nelson Mandela in Johannesburg, Delaware decades prior; and that it had some sort of importance now. Smiling and congratulatory back pats worked for as long as the smiley-back patter could tolerate the process. It is reasonably well-known that judicial “success” has always had the pre-requisites of a high tolerance for boredom married to both patience and the ability to use an acquired taste which suspends not reality, but the gagging instinct.

Lacking that, things can get as messy as another overpaid basketballer’s rendition of which lesser talent messed up at crunch time.

“Sleepy Joe pondering”; property of the author.

For his part, Botsch believed that the recent events were part of a massive Democrat Deepstate operation, but had no evidence

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to prove it beyond the discredited information posted and quickly removed from Phasebook. Botsch's superiors seemed to know more than they were letting on, but Botsch also knew that this was a common tactic of all clueless “superiors.” They did seem to be taking their cues from a Dullton subordinate named Watson, who did black ops for the CHUD accommodating Equal Employment Commission (EEOC.)

For decades, the EEOC had openly investigated breaches of their toxic directives, enforcing them through co-operation with the Deepstate segment of the federal Justice Department. All private business and governmental had been required to employ CHUDs, in the very least, at least at their overstated percentage of the hominid population. Further, they were given preferences for government jobs by having extra points added to their tests, the tests regularly so easy that a low-functioning retard could get 100; the job thereby going to the CHUD through a non-CHUD

reachable score of 120. They were also given a rotted leg up on the receipt of government contracts. Thereby, CHUD governmental representation became disproportionate to their numbers and abilities. However, if a non-CHUD used the same rationales to decry grossly deficient under-representation in the NBA and other forms of entertainment, that was ipso facto considered punishable racist hate speech.

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From his dark basement, “Sleepy Joe” told Botsch that monsters were lurking in Seattle. They were once human, but had been mutated by toxic EEOC directives, engineered by Watson, falsely rumored to have been under the direction of Le Grande Orange.

Watson was actually a rogue operator with his own agenda, that with a goal of uniting the world under an equal zombie apocalypse. Dullton didn’t know anything about that, but knew that the cannibalistic hominid underground dwellers (CHUD) exist and allegedly along with Le Grande Orange, was trying to use them for undisclosed political gain. While they formerly roamed all of Seattle, for some reason “Sleepy Joe” didn’t know, the CHUD were now centered in the six square, police “free” blocks, formerly called Capitol Hill, now semi-established as a

“permanent” protest against racism, poverty, discrimination, capitalism, and the heartbreak of psoriasis, until the bikers come to visit on Independence Day.

The CHUD are nocturnal, hideous, flesh eating creatures that prey on the homeless. With the consistent homeless population declines registered, no hominids were doing any complaining, attributing the improvement to their state subsidized, electrified tent program. Experts theorized that the homeless were aesthetically appalled at the sameness excepting color, like that in an “affordable” suburban housing development, which

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compelled them to rather than mope and dwell, gave them an incentive to move out as soon as possible.

But with the decline in the CHUDs food source, the creatures had expanded their culinary tastes to those demonstrably diligent and mentally balanced; those who had been living in more or less normal Republican homes and were only visiting Capitol Hill in a last ditch, desperate attempt to get their promised mail-in voting ballots, only to be told that they were already in the mail.

A CHUD; property of the author.

Although “Sleepy Joe’s testimony proved spotty and uncomfortably reminiscent of one who has been glued to the Horror channel

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since before the infectious disease was officially recognized, Botsch found that the EEOC was directly involved in the slaughter that has been going on, through chatty Deepstate plants loosely affiliated with Watson. Although the political bureaucracy has forbidden the EEOC to impose further “toxic”

edicts in or around the “free” CHUD zone, dumbed down Millennial teens have found it “cool” to volunteer themselves for EEOC

toxicity, thereby becoming CHUD food or monsters, depending on their personal rapidity of decline. Population growth had become exponential, though it is recognized that is not all that difficult to do when starting with a base of less than 5,000.

Pre-“Sleepy Joe,” fact checking, Botsch wore plain clothes to explore the CHUD “free” zone. He wasn’t there long when his daughter came running and jumped into his arms, saying; “I’ve seen enough of the cannibal bums, daddy. It was a serious mistake.” Overwhelmingly happy, Botsch carried her out with a loaded revolver openly displayed in his right hand. He drove her home, fully intent upon concluding his investigation right there, in fear of being dismissed from the force and charged with wrongful intimidation of marauding killers, at least until the cowardly powers that be gave some indication of paying some attention to obvious truth.

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Later that evening at a CHUD diner, two police officers and a waitress were killed and carried off by the deranged mutants.

The viral Phasebook post of the filmed event may have finally drawn the public's attention to the situation, though the pro-CHUD contingent filled the social media sites with claims that this was fake news, authorized by Le Grande Orange, utilizing a doctored tape.

The world is besieged by organized, vicious and internet proficient enemies who are doing whatever the techie nerds can to destroy everything in the name of One World Communism.

They’ve been able to dupe many people who are fools into supporting their fake-kindly policies. No matter the dumb excuse, these people are traitors. They are aiding and abetting the enemy, and no form of punishment is too harsh for them. Le Grande Orange talks tough, but accomplishes nothing. In the absence of Joe McCarthy, we need someone else who will stop the nonsense detrimental to the vast majority. All it takes is a few head shots. For now this is what it is.

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Gangstas and “Colors” by Ice - T; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use”

and “transformative” doctrines.

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In a nutshell; no pun intended; what has happened here is that the violent, angry, stupid losers have been allowed to get out of hand by their Democrat enablers, with the help of the main stream media monopolies. This reporter is stopping here, both in disgust as well as in fear of being dismissed from his job by the lily-livered, CHUD accommodating vampires.

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5 - Revenge

“Progresssive protestors”; property of the author.

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”Protestor” and “Revenge” by Patti Smith; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

Helter Skelter (Revenge Wish)

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Kyle R. Keep was a burgeoning, young architect and family man, who enjoyed a happy home in Manhattan with his wife Wave. One day, Wave and their two-year-old daughter Melody were followed home from a food market by three black thugs, who invaded their apartment by posing as deliverymen. Upon finding that Wave and Melody only have $7 with them, the thugs rape Wave and brutally beat Melody before fleeing. Upon arriving at the hospital, Kyle is devastated to learn that Wave has died from her injuries.

Shortly after attending his wife's funeral, Kyle had an encounter with a black mugger in a darkened street. Kyle fought back with a homemade weapon, an improvised blackjack made from a sock with dead flashlight batteries in it. The mugger took a few head shots before collapsing unconscious with blood streaming from his open mouth. Kyle decided to give him more head shots out of a wish not to leave the potentially vindictive mugger alive. Kyle is shaken, but not only is he re-energized by the un-reported encounter, he is exhilarated for the first time since learning of Wave’s death. He discarded the sock and batteries in the nearest sewer. The following day he went to an upstate gun show and upgraded his defense arsenal to an unregistered, snub-nosed, home-made sten gun and a holster which allowed it to be carried concealed under a loose shirt, paying in cash. It was a bit difficult to use at the outset, but once Kyle quickly learned to make use of the pro two hand grip while

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discharging, the low-tech machine was more than sufficient for its intended use.

Snub nosed, home-made equalizer; property of the author.

The “outraged,” liberal news sources continually publicized the crime, suggesting that it was of a “hate” nature, the corpse being still primarily black, though with a touch of convenient blue, when finally found; never bothering to mention that the bludgeoned body was previously inhabited by a person with a street crime rap sheet long enough to wipe a morbidly obese ass for six warm weather months.

The New York Police Department publicly sought information about the incident, but none was forthcoming. They further investigated recent victims of thug violence, coming up with Kyle’s name. Their investigation seemed rather cursory, being easily satisfied with Kyle’s unsubstantiated claim that he was at his wife’s funeral at the time.

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The prior echoes Friedrich Nietzsche’s theory about national decline, though not explanatory of front line police behavior.

Kyle's boss sent him to Minneapolis, Minnesota, to see James Fraychill, a billionaire client currently with a residential development project in exurban Carver named “Golden Dawn.”

Carver is where James also kept his primary residence. Kyle is invited to dinner by James at his Carver gun club. James was impressed with Kyle's borrowed pistol marksmanship at the target range; so much so that Kyle began to purposely do much less well, not wanting to advertise his familiarity with gun proficiency. It had the opposite effect on James, who now saw Kyle as a respected secret comrade.

James revealed that he was once a “peace-nik,” though he had been taught to handle firearms by his father, a hunter. Kyle was successful in helping James plan his residential housing development. James drove Kyle back to the airport and presented Kyle with a gift for his work on the development, which he placed into Kyle's checked luggage.

Back in Manhattan, Kyle learned from his aunt Madeline that his daughter, Melody, was severely depressed and now catatonic. They have Melody placed in a mental hospital. Kyle learns that James has given him a bullet proof vest. He put it on over his undershirt and took a late-night walk during which he was mugged

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at gunpoint. Unafraid, Kyle shoots the black mugger, and again experienced that exhilaration while he put two more shots into the downed mugger’s head.

Developing an addiction, the next night, Kyle walked through the city. He was again looking for violent street criminals. He found one, another black and fleeing mugger who had just snatched the purse on an elderly woman. The mugger had also needlessly punched the woman to the ground. The mugger never saw the two shots which took part of his head off coming, ostensibly a peaceful ending.

His exhilarating addiction now raging, Kyle even began taking days off work to indulge his desire. Over the next few weeks, Kyle killed a dozen criminals, some of whom he lured into attacking him by presenting himself as a foppish, affluent potential victim, and others when he saw them attacking innocent people.

NYPD Inspector Tom S. Snoop and his crack staff were assigned to investigate the killings full time and to use everything in the department’s repertoire and then some. The liberal newspapers, black groups, fascist Antifa, Muslims, and white criminal loving watchers of CNN and MSNBC were demanding a stepped-up effort to find the source of what they had guessed correctly for a change to be the work of a “White Vigilante.”

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“There comes a time in a culture’s history when it becomes so pathologically soft and weak that it even takes the side of its worst enemy; the criminal; and calls it “Progress.”

- Friedrich Nietzsche -

At the same time the “White Vigilante” moniker became more popular than the Knicks, Giants, and Mets, combined, inspiring t-shirts with white fist logos, the “Take back our streets”

phrase, and many other artful designs, many home made, suggestive of zero tolerance for violent bums. Unknown Kyle copies proliferated, adding some un-deserved numbers to his accomplishments. When the New York Black Times accused him or them of being racist, Kyle risked sending them an e-mail which said; “Present me with a low life, street criminal who is white or yellow, and I’ll be glad to kill them too.” None were forthcoming.

Snoop and his crew again utilized the list of recent victims of street crime, further refining it to a list of men who have had a family member recently killed by muggers. Tom S. soon suspected Kyle, and though somewhat doubtful due to Kyle’s proper background including the lack of any gun history, was about to make an arrest, if for no other reason to placate the venomous complaint brigade. But, District Attorney Neva Indite intervened and told Snoop that "We don't want him."

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The District Attorney, the Police Commissioner, and the Mayor did not want the fact to get out that Kyle’s vigilantism had led to a forty-eight percent decrease in street crime. Unaware that the process was already well underway, they feared that if that information became public knowledge, the whole city would descend into vigilante chaos. They did not want Kyle to be arrested because they did not want to be seen as having created a hero-martyr and encouraging a return to “crime as usual.”

Snoop did not like the idea but relented and agreed to only try to "scare him off."

That night, Kyle shot two more black muggers before being wounded in the leg by a third mugger, whom he pursued to an empty warehouse in Soho. When Kyle cornered him, Kyle sought to up his thrill level, by challenging the bum to a fast draw, only to faint because of blood loss, with the last of the mugger-bum’s escaping. His gun was discovered by a veteran patrolman, Jackie Numbers, who handed it to Snoop and is told to forget he ever saw it. The press was informed that Kyle was just another mugging victim; the press’ corps competence evident through their inability to find it strange and openly question why Kyle was hanging around an empty Soho warehouse.

Hospitalized, Kyle is told by Snoop to leave New York permanently. In exchange, Snoop will dispose of Kyle's revolver.

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The deal was done, and each party kept their promise, not only because the fun part of Kyle’s addiction was waning. Kyle called James Fraychill in Minnesota, saying that his efforts had hit the fan in New York, and that he was looking for a new job elsewhere. James Fraychill may have read between the lines, and without any hesitation, on the spot offered Kyle the job of managing the construction of his “Golden Dawn” development in exurban Carver. Kyle was elated and said that he could be there a few days after leaving the hospital; needing to get a few details in order in New York.

The slayings of street criminals continued while Kyle was hospitalized. They had expanded in a way to now include the discovery of dead crack dealers in Bed-Stuy reportedly killed by black assailants fed up with the garbage. Detective Snoop didn’t for one moment think that he had gotten the wrong man, but it was not before his man had inspired a growing popular movement.

With street crime now down fifty-eight percent, Tom S. was less than surprised to find that his marching orders became; “We want quick arrests,” which he knew from lengthy experience to be synonymous with “Round up the usual suspects,” a comfortable, personal specialty. He and his crew did just that, while the pile of bullet riddled criminals piled up further.

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Kyle found that the condition of his daughter Melody had greatly improved, and he was allowed to remove her from the mental hospital. They arrived at the Minneapolis - St. Paul International Airport to be greeted by a “Golden Dawn” company representative, Snowy Cloutier. She gave him a wrapped gift from James Fraychill, while Melody is presented with an unwrapped kangaroo plush doll, which she immediately cuddles with joyful abandon. Kyle unwrapped enough of his package to see that it contained a presumably unregistered Ruger Super Redhawk snub nose; compact though super powerful and easy to conceal in the harness he had retained. It was a nickel plated beauty.

Ruger Super Redhawk; property of the author.

Kyle noticed a group of black hoodlums harassing a single young woman wearing a red MAGA hat. He excused himself and helped the woman by asking her permission to borrow her hat which he put on his own head. To the hoods, now not as bravely in numeric

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command as a moment prior, Kyle, feeling the exhilarating relapse of his addiction, said; “Got some kind of problem with that, monkey ass?” The hoodlums made obscene finger gestures and spouted the customary choice “badass” words as they performed a poor rendition of Michael Jackson’s moon walk. But Kyle smiled as he saw their quick back-off, which they continued to attempt masking through their “threatening’ displays of skinny black fingers. Holding his still wrapped gift in his left hand, he used his right to make his own fingers at them; an index and thumb imitative of a gun. Kyle grinned quite broadly while slowly saying “Go ahead. Make my day.”

Unfortunately, the hoodies didn’t. But Snowy Cloutier and the now safe young woman seemed most approving.

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6- More Stories