Prepare for Adversity
Our purpose is to build communities for mutual benefit
and survival, if not prosperity!
Journal:
France forced to postpone "Health Dictatorship" vaccine legislation
(French rebelling against mandatory vaccines)
(just a coincidence; next They will probably pull healing vitamins and supplements off the market.)
TV-Cucks! American silent majority: You're going to wait so long that violent Civil War is inevitable. Today turn off the TV and get out into the street. Talk to your neighbors. You need them. Go for a walk around the city, en masse!
Are you still living with a TV?
And giving it your time?
You should be getting strong,
preparing for adversity.
TV makes you fat, sick,
and oblivious to your deteriorating situation.
TV addiction is real. Studies have demonstrated your body responds with
pleasure to TV
screen pictures and accompanying electronic visceral sounds.
The brain directs the nervous system and the pituitary gland to release endorphins, those “feel good” neurotransmitters that are also released when people exercise.
But who
needs exercise when you can watch TV?
TV makes you passive, bypassing the logical, rational left hemisphere of the brain
to focus on the non-logical, emotional right hemisphere.
In other words, one’s logical, critical mind becomes disabled as the viewer is drawn into the blah-blah cranked out by the TV set. No wonder advertisers pay top dollar for TV exposure. Commercials sprinkled in with the entertainment hit viewers who have entered a trance of suggestibility after a few minutes of immersion in their favorite show, when their critical thinking is disabled and they are also enjoying the physical rush of feel-good endorphins, all of which binds itself in psychological association with the product they see dancing across their TV screen with a musical soundtrack to help rivet it deep in their cranial experience.
Articles:
Prepare for the next virus attack!
"Operation Wolf Cries Wolf"
CoronaVirus was no accident.
Perpetrators of covert operations frequently hide their crimes with
words such as “accident” or sometimes, “incompetence.” They want you to
believe our CoronaVirus (CV) “pandemic” was, at best, a natural
occurrence or, at worst, somebody’s accidental release. But it was
neither. It was planned by people who wanted certain economic,
political, and social results. And they got those results. Now they want
more. They want it all. The New World Order has begun the final moves of
their End-Game.
They will be kings, we will be slaves.
Wall Street “accidentally” made trillions of dollars when the economy
crashed. They will make trillions more when they buy up all the
businesses that failed because they were forced by the lockdowns to stay
closed.
It was just luck that Wall Street was on the right side of this “plandemic.”
Sure it was.
Rehearsal for their total Police State.
Wall Street is a little concerned that citizens might stop watching
television and wise up one of these days, then put an end to their
horrific profiteering at our expense, so under cover of the CV event,
they want to put the finishing touches on their planned communist-style
Police State to make sure that we don’t stand up to their greed.
Killing most of us will make it easier for them to rule with an iron
hand.
It is in their interest to hit us again, but this time, it will be with
the real thing.
The question is not “if,” but “when.” Before the election in November
would serve their purposes well.
Get ready to survive it!
The Serialized Novel:
Ernst Muller working Geneva for us.
Project War Lover
{Day 2: Campaign: The Tender Tank
Two Defenders brought Alain into the conference room.
“He had this Bullpup on ‘im,” the smaller Defender said, showing the pistol. “He thought he could sneak it past us. Says he works here.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Yes, he does work here. You can leave him with us.”
When the Defenders were gone I asked Alain why he had tried to smuggle the gun in.
“To prove to you that I could do it,” he said. “Stephanie told me you guys want a gunman. I wanted to prove to you that I can be tough and crafty.”
I let a long silence answer that joke and Clint also said nothing. Finally I said, “Stephanie is crazy, Alain. We’re not looking for gunmen. That’s just crazy. Stephanie is completely detached from reality. I thought everyone knew that.”
Alain was clouding up as if tears were going to spill out of his eyes. Then a tear actually did zip down his cheek and he broke into weeping openly. He pulled out a couple of big pastel handkerchiefs to mop up his fluids.
“I was stunned when I realized I was actually going to work for the complexe industrial militaire,” he declared, sniffing and wiping his nose. “That I was actually going to stoop that low just for money. I was so ashamed. But I wanted the money. I could do good things with it. Start an orphanage or make big food drops. And I resolved that I would do it. Then when I found out you wanted gunmen, I was crushed. That I would kill my fellow human beings for money.”
Clint rose from the table and went to the bar. “Let’s drink to your new account,” he said. “You like Campari, I think. Right?”
“Oui. With ginger beer,” Alain choked back tears.
Clint mixed three highballs and handed them to us. Alain, Compari. Us, scotch.
“To your new account and prosperity, Clint said. We clinked glasses and drank. Clint had made the drinks very strong.
Heading off the tears coming again as fast as I could, I said, “We have given you a very important account, Alain. Come to the window. Let me show you.” I waited for him to shuffle across the floor while he put away one of his handkerchiefs and the ice cubes in his cocktail tinkled.
When he was at the big plate glass window I pointed far down on the hangar floor. “You see that dark green tank down there? Next to the big missile patrol boat? See it? Next to that big orange boat?”
“The tank?” Alain sniffed incredulously.
“That’s the T8686 Tactical AutoTank,” I said. “Also called ‘The Happy Weasel.’ We want you to produce media campaigns for it. Give it a good face. Make people like it. The client has promised big bonuses if we can get the masses to actually love it. It’s one of our most important accounts, Alain. We chose you for it. We think you’re very a very talented man.”
I noticed Clint poured himself another drink and sat down at the table.
Alain’s face shriveled up around a upside down smile. “What do you take me for? A pimp? A pimp for tanks! Human slaughter machines? Merde!” He turned away from me and ejected a generous glob of spit onto the floor. I noticed it was pink and yellow from the cocktail.
I cleared my throat. “Alain, I need to remind you the client wants no profanity on the premises. He’s very strict about that and there are surveillance pods everywhere.”
Clint rose from the conference table with a large framed photo in his hand. “Alain,” he said softly, “this is a picture of your great-grandmother. It came up when we ran your background check. We thought you’d like to see it.” He held the big picture out in front of him so that Alain could see the picture of a pretty young girl sitting with four soldiers on top of the turret of a Sherman tank in Paris.
“Mon Dieu!” Alain exclaimed, taking the frame. “That’s her. I recognize her. She was just a girl. World War Two. I heard about her being part of the liberation of Paris. I never saw this photograph before.” He was getting emotional.
“You have tanks in your blood, buddy,” Clint said as he produced a big, gift-wrapped garment box. “This is for you. To help you with your new account.”
Alain put the photo down on the table and the box next to it as he ripped off the gold foil wrapping paper bound with black lacy ribbons. Clint gave me a look as we watched Alain open the box.
“It’s a custom made dress uniform for a French tank captain in the Second World War,” Clint said. “Made just for you.” He and I shared a look, then waited to see how Alain would react to the black uniform in the box. It was not really authentic. Clint had merely commissioned a spiffy looking pilot’s uniform tricked out nicely with red accents and five different ribboned dangling medals. It included a black dress peak hat cap and a broad black leather belt with attached cross-strap.
Alain picked up the peak hat cap with goldish eagled fluir de lui emblem and gazed at it a while.
“Why don’t you try it on,” Clint said. “You can change in the men’s locker room.”
Alain picked up the box and drifted in that direction.
When he was out of earshot, I called Support. “Send up the tank crew.”
“On their way, Sir!”
I hung up the phone and said to Clint, “You know, Stephanie’s hooked up with Ernst Muller.”
“Yes, I know,” Clint said. “That’s where the idea of being a gunman came from.”
“We’ll have to talk to her.”
The three-man tank crew arrived, attired in the same uniform that Alain was putting on, but lower rank. “It’s on,” Clint said. “Proceed as planned.”
“Yessir!” the lieutenant nodded.
When Alain strolled out, the team gave him a snappy salute, which he casually returned.
“Looks good!” I flattered Alain. “The crew is here to take you for a spin in the T8686 Tactical AutoTank. I think you’ll love it. And there are plenty of refreshments on board.”
“Follow me, Sir!” the lieutenant said. Alain followed them out of the office and down to the tank.
Clint and I watched from the big windows. After a few minutes of warming up the engine, The Happy Weasel growled out of the hangar and disappeared in the distance in a big cloud of dust doing around 100 miles an hour.
“So far, so good,” I said
Clint grunted and drank the rest of his third cocktail.
The previous day:
{Day 1
I cleared security at 3am, much earlier than usual, because today the rest of the team would arrive to work with me on our new account, and I would finish my preparations.
Money was rolling in and we hadn’t yet even put in an hour of time. I had a big package of fat checks in my case to distribute to the members of the team when they came in.
Our offices were in a quite giant airplane hangar with an assortment of expensive war weapons artistically arranged: fighter-bomber jets, fast tanks and personnel carriers, eclectic bins of tactical ordnance, and displays of small arms of the world with military uniformed male and female manikins in battle dioramas. Along the rear wall were naval combat ships totaling more than 70,000 tons displacement on cradles.
High up in the hanger walls were the offices of five other budget kings besides us. Their prayer groups included designations as Plans, Codes, Logistic QRTs, and Artificial Synaptic Constellations, but the biggest offices by far belonged to a private contractor who did God knew what.
Construction of this particular class of hangar had been discontinued because it was so big that, sometimes, weather patterns developed in the high steel rafters. Clouds would form under the ceiling and it would rain fairly hard inside for a few minutes before the fans and dryers could clear it away.
The management of this particular hangar just let it rain occasionally to create moody afternoons, and they brought in a beautiful little park with exotic trees, flowers, and tables with chairs and benches. They named it “Pompey Park” and installed an artsy sign. It was a nice place to have a picnic lunch and chat, surrounded by state-of-the-art armament. Sometimes, when it wasn’t raining, I liked to drink tea in the park because the dwarf jasmine trees made the place smell like heaven. According to Clint Stryker, our creative director of long-standing, management had already approved plans to enlarge the park and build an adjacent restaurant and bar capable of seating 300 and offering a five-star international cuisine menu. He said the cruiser in the back was going to be re-commissioned and put to sea and all the war toys would be re-arranged to make room for the new restaurant.
My pilot security team showed up at 4am. I shook hands with Biff and Chip. They also had just met each other. I asked them for a QRD on their protective methods in the field in cities and on highways as well as the full catalog of ingress and egress. Finally, I queried them on what are called “hopscotch methods of evasion.” They knew all the drills thoroughly and a lot more than I did about all that stuff. They went into their communications suite and began checking air shapes for destinations east or west, whichever might be needed, with north and south randoms occasionally thrown in just to round out the data.
Clint Stryker and Langue Green arrived around 6am. The three of us had worked together to land the account. Clint had the connections that got us in the door and Langue had put together the numbers that closed the deal, showing how everybody, especially the principle account owners, would derive galaxy profits, both public and, more importantly, private. My part had been relatively small, despite the fact that it was all packaged as my enterprise. Actually, the account principals had told us exactly how to gloss over our track record so that we could swing the deal. Cargoes of money began to fill our coffers even before the paperwork was done. We now had plenty of what customers usually wanted: money. Bank-loads of secret, untraceable tax-free money. Langue was occupied full-time just finding smart places to park the cash.
At a little after 7am, security called, asking me to come down to help because the rest of my team had arrived, but some of them, especially the old-timers from our “Electric Paper” days, were loudly and belligerently refusing to cooperate with the procedures necessary for admittance and the security post even felt compelled to request back-up action teams before they called me. I went down to a rather frightful scene of a line of screaming civilians (my team) pushing against a line of shouting military police (their team), with the line of conflict wavering back and forth with no clear winner until the military reinforcements arrived and matters went clearly in their favor just as two black helicopter gun-ships showed up and began circling.
I calmed everybody down and managed to get my team to cooperate with the requirements to get inside.
My team was still unruly, and loudly recounting to each other the violences they had almost committed on the poor soldiers down at the gate until we all sat down at the giant obsidian conference table and a swanky uniformed catering company offered everybody coffees, teas, and menus with a choice of five different breakfasts.
Midst the relative quiet, I said, “We’ll talk about all this after breakfast. Also, after breakfast, I have checks to distribute to you all. Sizable checks. I think you’ll like them. For now, it’s my pleasure to provide breakfast. Please enjoy!”
I ordered two breakfasts for myself: Michigan deer and lieberfruffen cheese omelet with mashed sweet potatoes fused with chopped bokchoi topped with white gravy with a side of tempura parsley for one breakfast, and deep-fried breaded filet mignon nibbles a la godfather with dragon-fruit pancakes served with virgin maple syrup in its own flaming maple tree container and a small fire extinguisher. And I ordered a thermos of Philippines coffee from Mount Apo. And a large carafe of mango-peach-pineapple nectar to wash it all down.
The breakfasts were served almost instantly, and eating made the room quiet.
Eventually, Alain, chewing, drank almost the full goblet of white wine that was served with his dish named “Guerre des homard” posed by two cooked lobsters fighting.
“Boss,” Alain sniffed. “Mon dieu! Why are we here? What are we doing here? What are you doing here? Zees is zee infestation of warmongairs. Zee very complexe industriel militaire!
His words catalyzed the others in the room to start shouting similar objections.
Rita was indignant. “Surely, boss, you didn’t bring us here to work for the military industrial complex. I think you know I would never in any way help the MIC.”
Alain just shook his head and spit on the floor. “Nevair!”
Then there was a loud, angry general outpouring of hatred for anything even remotely linked to the military industrial complex. Among the cacophonous negative chatter, I heard one of the new people say, “Every shade of green is okay except olive.”
The righteous indignation went on for a while.
I kept quiet, eating wedges of my dragon-fruit pancakes and sipping coffee. Same with Clint and Langue, oblivious to the uproar. When it had gone on long enough I tinked my water goblet with the butt of a butter knife to get them to stop vociferating.
“Now I am going to pass out signing bonuses to each of you. Please wait to open your envelopes together on my cue.”
When they opened them, they were astonished and let out a mixture of astonishment and profanity, obviously very pleased. The smallest checks were for a million each, but some of the biggest hopefuls got a dozen million or two.
Nick Adams the reporter was quick to say, “Damn! That’s a big check!”
“Please Nick, let that be your last profanity for as long as you work here. The new client wants no profanity.”
“Damn?” Nick said.
“Listen up” I said. “Now you need to know that our new client is not the military industrial complex.”
Their scattered applause interrupted the rest of my sentence, “but it might as well be. Part of our job is to sell the general population on the good side of war and the delights of military equipment.”
That was when the crowd exploded. Some of the old employees from the Electric Paper kicked back their chairs and came after me. I quickly slipped under the table and almost got away, but they caught my ankles and pulled me out from under the there.
There was a gunshot and everything stopped. Clint waved his 1911 non-threateningly toward the ceiling and told everybody to sit down in the most polite voice he could muster.
There was grumbling and profanity as the mob drifted back to their seats, but I was eventually able to get their attention.
“If you want the money, sign the agreement. If you don’t, you might as well be on your way.”
Everyone signed.
{Day 3 Morning
Action Team Assembly
Ernst Muller strolled in, smiling.
“Good to see you, Clint,” he went to Clint’s desk first to shake hands, necessitating Clint’s placing his whisky glass down, his other hand smoking a cigar.
Then Ernst came to me with his hand out. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said. “What should I call you?”
“Call me Desperate.” I shook his hand.
He sat in the chair at my desk. “Thanks for getting me out, Desperate,” he said with a sincere tone.
“The military got you out.”
“I know. But you guys were behind it.” He glanced from me to Clint.
“You’re welcome,” I said. “We want you to work for us now.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“We want you to be a rich playboy flying to beautiful places around the globe and meeting other rich people. Making friends.”
“And lovers?” Ernst queried.
“Why not?”
“Sounds good. And thanks for the big money. Very generous.”
“We work for a big interest. First class all the way.
“So I’m a rich playboy now. Nice cover. What will I actually be doing?”
“Intelligence operations. Create teams and networks. You’ll be under our European associate, Chance Kirk, who’ll be in a different orbit from you. You’ll meet him tomorrow in Geneva.”
“No blood work?” Ernst asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Anything could happen.”
“Okay. I understand.”
I nodded. Clint drank some whiskey.
“We know they furloughed you a couple of times to do heavy work for hard
clients. You had no choice. And then, they sent you back to prison
anyway.
“Ernst, we want to invest in you and keep you in a more
positive environment than you’ve been having. You can build a life.”
“Good. I really need a life. I don’t even know what it
would be like.”
I shifted in my chair. “We heard that Stephanie Price was talking about us hiring gun men. You know anything about that?”
“Yeah. She told me you want gun men. I wondered why she knew, then I figured maybe you sent her to test my discretion. So I said nothing.”
“So, she didn’t hear that from you? You didn’t tell her about yourself?”
“No. She already knew everything. She knows you’re bringing in gun men.”
I looked over at Clint, who was thoughtfully puffing on his cigar.
“Ernst, are you romantically involved with Stephanie?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Good. Stay away from her. Maybe she’s doubling. We’ll deal with her.”
I stood up. “See my secretary for your arrangements. You’ll fly to Geneva tonight. We’ve put you in the Ritz-Carlton. Maybe you’ll meet some rich young women tonight in the casino.”
Ernst stood up and we shook hands. “Sounds good,” he said.
“Good luck,” I said.
He shook with Clint. “Take care,” Clint said.
When Ernst was gone, I said to Clint, “Stephanie must be working for someone else.”
“Looks like it.”
{Day 3 Afternoon
War Lover Day 1
“Stephanie, what’s this I hear that you’re telling people that we’re bringing in gun men?”
“Well, you are, aren’t you.”
“No, we’re not, Stephanie,” I said. “That’s crazy. Where did you get such an idea?”
“I heard it somewhere.”
“Are you taking money from some other interest?”
“No. Of course not.”
“You know, that would be very dangerous.”
“I’m not a fool,” she said.
“Well, if you don’t tell me where you heard such a crazy idea, I’m going to have to send you home. And take back our money.”
“Ernst told me about it.”
“Ernst told you we’re hiring gunmen?”
“He told me you hired him for that. That’s what he does. Wet work.”
“Stephanie, don’t ever use those words here again. The client won’t stand for that language. Surveillance everywhere here. Everywhere. Anyway, that’s not why we brought him in.”
I got up and poured myself a shot of B & B and topped off the glass with cognac. Poured the same for Stephanie. Clint sipped whiskey.
“Stephanie, we’re giving you a very important account.”
“I’m kind of busy,” she quickly said. “Will I get more money?”
“Of course. We calling the new campaign ‘War Lover.”
“Imagine loving war,” Stephanie chuckled.
“You’ll step in as director of one of our production groups to create a regular distribution of production among broadcast, print and the net. Also there’ll be two movies.”
“Explain the War Lover concept to me,” Stephanie said. “Is it like soldiers that love the violence and danger of war? Wanting to die?”
“Very possibly,” I said. “If you can do it right that way.”
I leaned back in my chair. “We want the consumer masses to feel good about the prospect of going to war. We want the people to be glad that we’re going to war, to want war.”
“I see.”
“The campaign will address every viable theme. Themes such as glory for young men and women who prove themselves in battle. Classic themes. Such as deadly warfare and the prospect of imminent death make each moment of life sweet and succulent to those people at risk. We encourage you to develop every theme you can. Even far-fetched ones. Spending money freely is never an issue now.”
“So, do I get another check now?”
“See my secretary outside.”
When she was out of the room I said, intuitively, to Clint, “She is working for other interests. I’m sure now.”
Clint smiled vaguely. “Yes. It’s a good thing we’ve promoted her.”
{Day 3 Night
Clint was old friends with quite a few high-ranking military men. His friend, General Smith called and informed Clint that embedded deep in our charter of operation was maintaining a zombie factory in south Florida designated Army 2nd Special Intelligence Detachment, known informally as “The Vision Group.” It was a holdover from StarGate days. Psychic operations.
“My girlfriend is interned there,” General Smith said. “She asked me to look into it. Corrupt CO’s been abusing the interns like it’s MK OK Ultra time again. Also running unauthorized operations. Embezzlement. RICO. You name it. I want you to go down there and take a look at it. Actually, it’s part of your job anyway. It’s one of your budgeted outflows. You ought to at least find out what you’re paying for.”
When I gave my pilot/bodyguard Biff the destination, he sat down with me and told me that the Vision Group was not a good place to go at this time because it was very likely to come under armed attack from high-profile kidnappers that were after some of the clients that come to Vision Group, and the attack might be tomorrow or the day after.
“How do you know this?” I asked.
“Well,” he swallowed, “a good friend of mine, another Defender like me is the one leading the attackers to kidnap these evil muck-a-mucks.”
I was shocked. Nothing in the manual about this kind of administrative problem. I called Clint to consult.
“Yes,” Clint said. “Chip informed me also of this threatened armed kidnapping attack on the compound. All the more reason to go down there immediately to see what’s going on.”
“If there’s a threat of armed attack, maybe we should wait until Support has a chance to resolve it.”
“Wait? Why wait?”
“An armed attack is generally not a good time to take care of administrative tasks.”
“You worried about the possible gun play?” Clint asked.
“Well, yes, it is somewhere on my list of concerns. Even a small gun battle can be very bad for business.”
“Chip says these are very evil principals. Might be a chance to do something good.”
“Too much action too soon,” I said.
“I’m not worried about it,” Clint said. I could hear the cigar moving around in his mouth as he spoke. “Anyway, it’s unlikely this attack will be in the next 24 hours and probably it will never be at all. I’m going down there tonight.”
“Well, I’m not going tonight,” I said. “Maybe next week.”
Clint hung up on me. Then he called Chip to arrange for a fighter jet to fly to Vision Group near Homestead as soon as possible. Chip rustled up an F-14 and had them at homestead well before dark and pivoted into a big Sikorsky to run Clint on out to the Army 2nd Special Intelligence Detachment compound before dark.
I called Biff. He sourced an F-14 and threw on board a weapons kit for me. When we were in the air, I asked him if there was any way we could get to Homestead before Chip and Clint.
“No way,” he laughed. “They’re already there and gone!”
Homestead steered us to a Bell Jet Ranger, and we landed at the 2nd Special Intelligence Detachment compound around 10pm.
I was directed to the officer’s club where I found Clint sitting at a table having cocktails with an attractive woman probably in her late twenties.
Clint introduced us. She was “Janice.”
I asked her, “Are you General Smith’s girlfriend?”
“No, that’s Kina. She’s in Washington now. Meeting with clients.”
Clint said to me, “Talking with Janice, now I think chances are good that we’ll be hit tomorrow by this Robert E. Lee dude,” Clint told me.
“Robert E. Lee?” I said.
“That’s the name of the Defender leading the attack. You do know that Biff and Chip support this attack on the Vision Group, don’t you?”
“That follows.”
“Should be an interesting show. I want to see it,” he said.
“Great,” I said. “So there’ll be shooting?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he answered. “Worry is a waste of time. Usually.”
{Day 4
At breakfast, Clint told me that some private group’s avant garde AI forecasters new pronouncements were still insisting Lee would attack today.
“I got the military police to release your weapons kit for you,” he said.
“Yes, they took it last night when I arrived. It was an insult.”
“The team at the gate is new. Just let it go.”
I changed the subject. “I stayed up last night examining our financial transactions with Vision Group. “There were thousands of them,” I said, “maybe millions of them, even just this month. We need to put a task force of accountants on it right away. Anyway, even at a glance I could see hundreds of millions of dollars coming straight to us just this month from Vision Group.
“And Vision Group had hundreds of other accounts like ours, with hundreds of millions coming in and going out. I was able to find one annual payment last January from us to Vision Group for $500 million. So it looks like we’re doing some kind of business with Vision Group that is fantastically profitable for us.”
That discussion was kiboshed by the unexpected entry of Colonel Bird, the suspect CO who showed up to introduce himself to us and to escort us to the auditorium where the morning meetings of Vision Group were conducted.
He was a talkative character, chattering non-stop about inconsequential matters. I tried a few times, unsuccessfully, to interject words of my own but was unable to get beyond vocal starting sounds. Clint was sipping a big mug of whisky and coffee.
# # #