#america has the blood of innocents on its hands

[news4dzhozhar]

The double standard is truly staggering

[sparklingmineraltequila]

American Wasteland

Note: Sorry this took so long. I moved city and pretty much have a new life. Still obsessed with Rust, though, so some shit sticks

Warnings: 18+, talk of war, alcohol, drugs, sex work, talks of past domestic violence, smut, just genuine misery between the two of them

America venerates suffering, that's what Travis had always told Rust. Sacrifice isn't pure if it isn't coated in a blood so red and so hot that your family can smear over their words, for centuries to come, excusing their comfort, their indulgence, their ignorance. They are afforded that comfort off of slaughter beyond their imagining. At least, that's what had happened after 'nam. A hero for his fucking country was the propaganda they had fed Travis; squash the bug of communism and, along with it, massacre millions of innocents, because what is America without its sons who are willing to fight for it.? Yeah, a fucking hero for a father, who's night terrors kept both of them up at night and who kept his engraved lighter saying High Speed Low Drag in his hunting jacket, always. That same lighter that Rust had used to light his first cigarette: rolled up flimsily in newspaper with the leftover tobacco and tufts of filter that he'd scraped from Travis' cigarette butts. The same lighter that Cassandra is now using to light her Marlboro Gold, hands shaking,

'Rust. That's all I get, huh? Not even a fucking surname?!' she spits, through a shaky exhale.

'I ain't gonna give you my surname. The less you know about me, the better,' Rust says back, his stoic demeanour attempting to mask that churning in his stomach. One that he has realised isn't for him but for Cassandra.

'Is Rust even your actual name?'

'You want a fuckin' social security number, too?' Rust drawls dryly.

'Don't you-Don't,' Cassandra's head shoots up from where it's been in her hands, her shaking tone now gaining a momentum of uncontrollable anger, 'Jesus-fuck. You men are all the fucking same. I-I ain't staying in this fucking place, anymore. Fuck it, fuck you, fuck every goddamn person in this wasteland of a place!'

Rust regards her with an even look,

'You ain't going anywhere. Not tonight. You ain't in the right state.'

'You ain't my daddy, motherfucker.'

'Goddamn right, I ain't but I'm also the only person you have who doesn't want to take advantage of you. So, hedge your bets tomorrow, baby, but tonight you're stayin' here,' Rust's voice is lapidary, stopping Cassandra in her tracks as she starts to shove clothes and books into her duffel bag.

'I said: you ain't my daddy and you sure as hell ain't keeping me in a place where I don't want to be,' Cassandra says in a tone equally as gelid, throwing her duffel bag over her shoulder. That elegant, fine-boned shoulder tinged with its bronzed hue; some of the love bites that Rust had left a few nights ago decorating Cassandra's collarbone. Rust fears that the sentiment festering under his skin is nostalgia. A nostalgia that scares him and, then, makes him cruel,

'No, Cassandra. I ain't your daddy cause all he did for you was get heavy handed with you and cut you up with his empty liquor bottles when he really wanted to teach you about mouthin' off at him.'

The colour drains from Cassandra's face,

'How the fuck do you know about that?' a sudden spark of spite reaches her as she sneers, 'Pull my file in your spare time, huh?'

Rust grabs her arm and yanks up her tank top, ignoring her yelp. He nods to the fine, white line along her ribcage,

'I ain't a fuckin' idiot, Cassandra. Skateboardin' fall, my ass,' Rust snarls, holding her ribcage with a calloused hand. Cassandra viciously claws at his hand, tears threatening to spill from her eyes,

'Get off! Get the fuck off!' and Rusts lets her go cause in that moment, the smooth, sultry cadence made slightly husky from after-sex cigarettes reverts back to the pleading of a little girl. Cassandra's words are devoid of any real bite, Rust notes. All that rage has been stripped away and all that she is left with is the panic of a little girl's voice turning into burning sobs in her throat; the stale cookies in her stomach turning sour from terror. There's that wide eyed looked, too. He can see it as Cassandra hastily covers herself back up and rearranges the duffel bag back onto her shoulder.

'Fuck you, Rust,' she says his name like it's a poison that she needs to spit from her mouth before it corrodes the flesh into a pulpy mess. Corrosion. Rust. That's what he is, it's what he does because sometimes corrosion is needed to get to the bone of things; to see what everyone else in too caught up in their delusions or affectations about fucking Natural Law to truly comprehend.

'Don't you fu-Cassandra!' Rust's voice boils up from his chest in a rough bark, watching Cassandra explode out of the trailer door, almost stumble down the rusted metal steps and collapse into the red dirt. He thinks he can't get any angrier until he realises that she's pocketed the keys to his Harley, on her way out, and sees her bolt over to where it's parked, behind the trailer. A cloud of dust rises up as the bike rumbles out of neutral and Cassandra desperately revs on the accelerator; her legs hardly off of the ground before the Harley tears away. In other circumstances, the dramatics of the exit would have made Rust scoff and chalk it up to youth's thirst for impact: the flurry of a scene. Not now. Not when this kid is tearing down a highway in a bike that doesn't have enough gas to make it to Liberty, let alone wherever the fuck Cassandra thinks she's headed. A kid, Rust thinks, A fuckin' kid that I've pulled into the abyss with me. Rust calls her a kid now but knows that when he finds her, he'll treat her like she's grown. A sentiment that propels him into his truck, cursing to himself as the engine splutters.

It doesn't take long to track Cassandra down; there's only one road from the trailer park that lead to the freeway. No doubt, where Cassandra is headed to. Ride fast and hard, and get the fuck out when the heat starts to sting: the classic cocktail of self-preservation cooked up by kids who've already been burned. There are too many of them down here, below that Mason-Dixie line. Rust would know. Fuck, if he hasn't spent his entire career on the force witnessing the aftermath. Drugs, abuses, assaults, homicides: you name it. The abuser becomes the abused; Nietzsche's infinite return has those poor kids falling flat on their faces into the nice shit storm of generational maladjustments that their parents left for them. Shattered dreams, skin sucked dry from mosquitos, teeth black and rotting from sweet tea, underneath that sticky southern sun. Rust wants to believe that it's an innate sense of duty towards these kids is why he's currently violating every Highway Code there is. And for part of him, it is. The other part, however, won't allow himself the comfort of what he knows is a lie. What started as pure sex appeal has started to morph into something deeper, messier.

The bike has even less gas than he thought as, the first Texaco that he sees, has Cassandra next to the pumps trying to wrench open the bike's gas lock. She wants to be caught, Rust knows, Wants me to chase after her, show her I give a shit. If she didn't, she would've gotten a hell of a lot more reckless. He watches her, almost with pity, as her pulls into the gas station and slows the truck to a halt, the breaks groaning with their lack of galvanisation. Rust shoves the car door open, his leather boots landing heavily on tepid asphalt,

'Get your ass over here,' his voice rough, as he strides over to Cassandra.

'I told you to get the fuck away from me,' she whips around, her fury making her abandon her previous task.

'Get in the fuckin' truck, Cassandra. I ain't doing the whole scorned boyfriend act for these nosey fuckers,' Rust deadpans, his ice blue gaze conveying to her just how fucking pissed he is.

'Did you hear me, motherfucker? I said to go back to your junkie biker brothers, find some hooker so that you can fuck out your half-baked emotional needs and leave me the hell alone,' Cassandra says with such venom dripping from her mouth that she almost fully means it; warm milk out of hand, she resorts to spite. Not fully, though: Rust can see the tears glazing her eyes and that's enough for him. A firm hand comes to grasp Cassandra's arm and put her in what is practically a headlock as Rust drags her to the truck. Cassandra's duffel bag slips off of her shoulder as Rust holds her firmly against his chest, bicep right up against the column of her throat. Some old man up from his pump, spit collecting at the corners of his mouth as he calls over,

'Everything alright over there?' Not from the area, Rust notes. Not solely due to the licence plate and milky arms but the slight wariness of his expression. A man unacquainted with the imperatives that the arrid terrain commands. The violence. Cassandra takes it upon herself to drop the unwanted attention as she chokes out,

'They don't teach you to mind your own fucking business in Iowa?!' the rage in her voice stemming from a deep humiliation in how she must look, Rust's arm tight against her neck. Rust takes in the man's mortification and grits into her ear,

'Shut the fuck up.'

He opens the truck door and shoves her in, slamming the door and heading over to the driver's side to catch her as she climbs out. Rust concedes her a heavy slap to the face before getting in, essentially crowding her back to the passenger's side. As he starts the ignition and pulls out of the gas station, Cassandra is eerily quiet, tears leaving hot tracks of salt and mascara on her cheeks. Rust debates on whether it's shame at getting caught or just pure desolation at, once again, finding herself completely fucked over, until he feels his jeans' waistband go slack. He feels the air hit that sweaty patch of back where the barrel of his .38 S&W was pressed and licks the inside of his cheek in an almost smirk. There she is, Rust thinks, knowing full well Cassandra's loathing of acquiescence as she points the gun at his temple, sweat curling his caramel hairs.

'Pull over or, I swear to God, I'll put your brains all over your goddamn car windows,' Cassandra's voice is firm but Rust sees her fingers trembling. Red. Her nails are lacquered the same colour as a Shirley Temple, poised on cool gun metal of the safety.

'You don't want to shoot me, Cass,' Rust says, his tone flat.

'Oh, I don't?' Cassandra scoffs.

'Nah, you wanna make a fuckin' scene so that I'll burst into tears and beg for your fuckin' forgiveness or some shit. That ain't gonna work on me, baby. I'm around too many pussies who ain't man enough to pull a fuckin' trigger, as it is. I can tell when someone's bluffin'. And you, Cass, I can sure as hell tell when you're bluffin'.'

'How are you so sure?'

Rust looks at a small trail leading off of the main road before sparing a sideways glance,

'That gun ain't even cocked.'

Cassandra narrows her eyes and pulls the hammer back,

'Happy?'

Rust steers the truck off of the road, onto the rocky country road, before stopping and turning to her,

'You wanna go? Go.'

Cassandra's gaze falters before she contrives it into that practiced indifference,

'You're kicking me out?' she says, her voice so fragile that Rust almost feels bad for putting her in this situation but tough shit: wisdom comes hard.

'Nah, just callin' your bluff. You got 30 seconds to go, if you want to,' Rust says, not even facing her but staring straight out ahead.

Cassandra stares at him, lowering the gun, and looks around helplessly. The tears come back, not when she looks at Rust's stony expression or the destitute surroundings, but when she looks at her duffel bag. All her life fitting into some beat up gym bag and, now, she's about to throw away the one thing that can protect her. A gun isn't shit compared to his hand on her ass and his fingerprints bruising her thighs; not to these fucking animals. Rust gives her the mercy of two minutes of silence before speaking,

'You ain't movin',' he says more as a statement than a question.

'Don't mock me,' Cassandra murmurs out.

'I ain't mockin' you.'

'You know that I ain't gonna go. I don't think I'm ever gonna be able to.'

'You can and you will, eventually.'

'I ain't sure, Cra-Rust. You ain't either.'

'Use Crash. I don't need you gettin' confused and fuckin' this up,' Rust says, gruffly.

'You sure that's it?'

'Am I sure 'what's' it?' irritation starting to creep into his tone.

'That the reason you don't want me using your real name is cause I'll jeopardise your cover.'

'I thought you were smarter than that, Cass.'

'What the fuck's that supposed to mean?' Cassandra suddenly straightens, her voice hard but still slightly tremulous.

'I thought you were smarter than to get your emotions mixed up with what is gonna keep your ass outta the crossfire.'

It's a low blow but it hits home. Cassandra looks down at her scraped knees, gravel and raw skin, before looking up again; her voice now a whisper,

'Do you feel sorry for me?'

Rust clenches his jaw, the simple juvenility of the question making him feel sick. He knows neither of them will be able to bear whatever tidal wave of sentiment is about to breach their carefully instated distance. The partial revelation of his true identity has already been more of an unmasking than he can stomach; especially to someone he cares so deeply for as Cassandra. Her knowledge of 'Rust' throws whatever the fuck they are doing with each other into something that goes beyond sex and protection, and Rust can begin to feel everything veering off track. He won't allow her to expose herself to him like this, not when he's already emotionally fucked her over so much, today. So, Rust finally turns to her and says,

'Take off your top.'

Cassandra falters, her voice still that hoarse whisper as she ask,

'What?'

Rust wills himself to turn his pity into scorn,

'Did I fuckin' stutter? Take off your top. Those shorts, too,' he says, his tone unnervingly even and made rough from his Camels. Cassandra stares at him for a moment before indulging him: shirt discarded first before she lifts her hips and awkwardly shimmies out of them. Rust notices her holding her side, her hand cradling the scar; something she's never really done until now. Not until Rust had forced her shame into the searing white light of recognition. He knows what Cassandra must be thinking, grouping him into that homogenous, male blob of ill-intent: her next job, her next dance, her next humiliation. He tries to pretend that it doesn't slightly tear him the fuck up when she looks at him with those eyes, now cold.

'What now?' Cassandra asks, sitting up with her spine long and upright, shoulders terse.

Rust pats his lap,

'Come here.'

'Rust, I-'

'I ain't ever remember sayin' you could call me Rust, Cass,' he says harshly, completely disregarding whatever appeal Cassandra's about to make over how to treat her. Pretty words that don't mean shit to Rust nor to this godforsaken part of the country. A place where women bring guns in their purses to hookups and there are wards for the babies born hooked onto opioids, has no use for floral, storybook sex. Here, it's fast and it's hard and it's painful and it's often paid for. Cassandra knows this type of sex, or rather its corruption. So, she shuts up and sits in Rust's lap; swallowing the bitter pill of docility.

'Move 'em to the side,' Rust taps the waistband of her panties with his knuckles. For a moment, a light tinge comes across Cassandra's collarbones at the crassness of the act. She hooks her fingers into the waistband, moving to pull them down, before Rust grabs her wrist,

'I say to take 'em off, Cass?'

'No,' Cassandra murmurs, trying to asses if Rust is pissed beyond belief or on some pretty loopy downers.

'So, you can hear me. I was thinkin' otherwise, given some of the shit you've managed to pull,' that dangerous mix of anger and worry begins to seep into Rust's tone. He can feel her wet heat through the lace of her panties; almost disappointed that she can get turned on by this shit. Old habits die hard, Rust thinks, lighting a cigarette and leaning back into his seat,

'Undo my belt.'

Cassandra stares at him, holding unflinching eye contact as she unbuckles him and unzips his fly. It's like a game of fucking chicken: which of them is willing to degrade the other more, for the sake of self-preservation. Rust exhales a slow stream of smoke watching Cassandra's thighs tremble from the exertion of holding her position. He quirks an eyebrow,

'You gonna tap out on me, baby?'

'No.'

'You wanted this shit that bad, didn't you, Cass?' Rust says, the forcefulness in his tone coming out of the pit in his stomach when he thinks what he's done to her.

'I did. I wanted this shit. Don't paint me out to be some dumbass little girl who opened her legs to the first man who reminded her of her daddy. That ain't what this is. I'm tougher than that, you know I am,' her voice starting to tremble again. Her hands absentmindedly wrapped around her midsection., as if to protect herself from the next laceration.

'You want it? Then move those fuckin' panties to the side.'

Cassandra stares at Rust with that fucking stupid bravado of rapacity, before gripping the crotch of them to the side; the tepid truck air mixing with the heady scent of her arousal and Rust's cigarette smoke,

'Go on. Fuck me like a man.'

Rust looks up at her while he pulls down his boxers, before grabbing her bruised hips and slamming her onto him. Not giving a fuck about the sharp, shuddering inhale. The lamb must learn to run with the wolves and Cassandra is far from a lamb. Especially as she is now, gulping down her whimpers of pain, desperately rocking her hips against his coarse hair to stimulate her little nub. She buries her head into the crook of his neck, nose rubbing against his jugular as Rust lands a firm slap on her ass,

'Don't get sentimental on me now, Cass,' he manages to grit out, feeling her arousal literally drip down him, 'Fuck am I gonna do with a weak lil' thing, huh?'

Cassandra tries to nod, her eyes squeezed shut and her groans muffled into the leather of Rust's jacket. Rust wraps his arms around her, holding her in a vice grip for the third time today, all of which have been some form of degradation or excavation of the dirty, nasty shit that Cassandra keeps hidden under sultry, bedroom eyes and that cutthroat tongue. At least this time, the aggression of the act is more tangible; neither of them are allowed any delusions. Not with how Cassandra's spit smears against Rust's stubble when he fucks into her especially hard or the cutting of taught lace on her hipbone or Rust's still lit cigarette burning dangerously close to Cassandra's dark waves. Apt symbolism, Rust thinks, as she angles her head to inhale from the tip; eyes starting to roll slightly at the mixture of in adverted friction of her bundle of nerves, and Rust's angry, frantic pace. She turns to look him right, as she leans her head in him, exhaling the smoke right into his mouth. Rust catches some powdery grey wisps, shoving Cassandra down once more onto him. As she groans, her hands never loosening, Rust leans in to mutter into her ear,

'You never fuckin' learn. Do you, baby?'

[yantalia545]

Yandere America with a serial killer darling

The news has heard a lot about a mysterious man killer lately. You were notorious for luring innocent men to their fates in the dead of night. Time and time again you would strike. Leaving nothing to go on but your trademark heart carved into the victim's cheek. Giving you the infamous name; Cupid's Fallen Angel.

For the first time in a long time, America was entertained. He was determined to finally catch this sweet little killer and bring you to the light of justice.

He was hooked from your first story when your kill was broadcast on the morning news. Cupid's Fallen Angel had left a corrupt banker in a pool of his own blood behind a floozy bar. A heart caved into his cheek and a red lipstick kiss planted on the right side of his neck. Articles of his misdeeds left behind for all to discover spread out over his body.

Three weeks later Cupid's Fallen Angel strikes again. An insurance company CEO was poisoned with hydrofluoric acid. America could only grimace in sympathized pain for the poor man. It must have been an agonizing death as he read over your second kill. That was until he caught why you had targeted this man.

The insurance CEO was responsible for sleazy deals that left millions without coverage when they needed it most. Basically throwing them out to their financial deaths.

As time went on, his own police were left astray time and time again as you slipped right through their fingers and seized more victims. America could only read in awe as one after another you would slay these rotten demons. Each kill was unique in its own way from stabbings to arson. All left with your signature mark.

It wasn't uncommon. There were plenty of killers in the world who had pure-hearted motives that he could somewhat sympathize with. They, like him, were just trying to bring justice to a world full of corruption. America understood your cause and slowly began to see you as the antihero you were. His beautiful little angel of judgment. He just needed to show you the path to righteousness.

There were so many nights where America would find a stay hand unbuttoning his pants as he read over your latest marks. So many nights he would dream of you under him. In his bed. He'd fight but endeavor in the end to dominate you. The nights would be everlasting, but passionate.

He needed you. He had to have you.

So, how does one catch a killer? String yourself as the killer's next victim of course. And so, here he was, playing as if you were the one having their way with him. America even got you to lead him to his apartment.

His heart couldn't have been beating any harder than when he finally had you under him. In his bed of all places. Just as he's dreamed. America could feel his heart racing as he trailed hungry kisses over your tender body. You were finally here, in the flesh.

Time seemed to have moved slowly as he could feel you reach down to pull out the dagger you had strapped to your thigh. You were about to make your strike upon him. That was until America pulled out a trick of his own.

A syringe was quickly pricked into your neck and his serum was pushed through your veins. His own sickening laugh ruptured through the apartment suite as he watched your helpless body squirm underneath him. His free hand cupped your cheek as he watched the fight slowly leave your eyes as you fell unconscious.

America's first step was complete and now your reconditioning could begin.

[zahri-melitor]

Recent Reads:

I haven’t done a round up of stuff I’ve picked up randomly for a while so let’s have one:-

Exit Stage Left: The Snagglepuss Chronicles: I tried this, on the back of the fact I do enjoy Mark Russell’s satire. After one issue I rapidly realised I simply don’t know enough about the Hanna-Barbera characters in this to care about the adaption going on. The premise is interesting, it’s just Not For Me.

Madame Xanadu 2008 #1-10: this is Matt Wagner with Amy Reeder on art. Reeder's art is ADORABLE and she has such fun drawing elaborate clothing all the way through this. I really enjoy Matt Wagner's ability to take old stories or concepts and breathe a modern comics approach into them, making them a lot more accessible. This is Wagner telling the backstory of Nimue Inwudu, stopping in with her at 5 points in her history (Camelot, the court of Kublai Khan, the French Revolution, Jack the Ripper London, and America WWII) and her interactions with a bunch of characters from the Magic side of DC (Merlin, Etrigan, Death of the Endless, the Phantom Stranger, Giovanni Zatara, and Jim Corrigan as the Spectre). Nimue has a MASSIVE beef with the Phantom Stranger. She does not like him at all, because he keeps turning up at some of the worst points in her life and won't help her try to evade terribly fated things. Come for the Amy Reeder art, stay for the story.

The Demon: Hell is Earth 2018: I enjoyed this. Because I don’t clean read Etrigan stuff in order I cannot remember if Etrigan is officially a Rhymer again as of Rebirth (he appears to be rhyming for fun and because he enjoys it, but isn’t bound to do so, but he’s also getting mocked by his demon uncle for using rhymes). In any case, Jason Blood and Etrigan get separated for hell-related reasons, and they’re running around with Madame Xanadu and Merlin to prevent Belial taking over Earth by invading from Hell. Good times. Lots of people die. Etrigan potentially ends up King of Hell at the end of this story.

Swamp Thing: I was going to make this its own post but heck let’s put everything in together.

Len Wein (Swamp Thing #1-13 1972): Wein's work is absolutely solid magical horror. He sets up an intriguing premise to build from and he can spin a good story. It's exactly the sort of amusing writing that keeps me coming back to, say, Warlord. Worthwhile to see the starting premise.

David Michelinie (Swamp Thing #14-18, 21-22 1972): Not as good at Wein, but definitely can tell a story. You can tell he spent time on House of Mystery given the episodic horror nature of his storytelling.

Gerry Conway (Swamp #19-20, 23-24 1972 plus Challengers of the Unknown #81-87 1977): Conway I think is the first writer who actually gets some of the specific horror you can imbue in this concept, especially around identity. I can see how his ideas could contribute to the later concepts Moore will introduce. I don't think his execution is fantastic but the hand regeneration? Yeah. Yeah that is playing with the ideas available.

Martin Pasko (Brave and the Bold #176 1955, Saga of the Swamp Thing #1-19 1982): Pasko is definitely processing things. Like, the man has an entire story that's just him responding to the Atlanta Child Murders of 1979-1981. He is very much a cynic about the innocence of childhood (or innocence in general, actually) and wants to explore the dark side of humanity.

The Phantom Stranger: these have been backups to the Martin Pasko Swamp Thing issues. Mostly I’ve found them pretty trite and a bit overly religious in places. Yes I know his entire concept is rooted in religious myth (as the Wandering Jew) but I mean more in a 'this tale has an Overt Christian Moral' way. The concept of the character is fascinating. The execution seems to be very across the shop.

Outsiders #1-33 2003: oh boy. Uh. Tomasi's fill using the original Batman & The Outsiders characters was a WELCOME reprieve to this. Okay, in terms of the main run: I tend to find Judd Winick a writer that either I'm fully enjoying or decidedly not to my taste. Outsiders falls into the 'not to my taste' category. I can see what Winick is going for in terms of 'let's make this Gritty! And Mature!' except for it's really not that gritty and his idea of making it mature is just having everyone hooking up a lot on panel, whether or not said hookup makes characterisation sense. And then he'll turn around every 10 issues or so and have some quite interestingly interrogative storytelling about Dick and Roy. (literally: you want issues #1, 11 and 21). I see what a bunch of the DickRoy shippers enjoy in this, but there's a lot of cantilevered cloud structures required to extract the Shippy Goodness out of the rest of this run.

[lotus-flower-writes-history]

The Unofficial Black History Book

The 16th Street Baptist Bombing (September 15th, 1963)

In the 1960s, Racial tension was at an all-time high. Many African Americans were doing their part in the fight for equal rights. A fight that claimed many innocent black lives.

Even the lives of four little girls.

This is the story.

The 16th Street Baptist Church was organized in 1873 as the first colored Baptist church in Birmingham, Alabama.

Many civil rights protest marches took place on the steps of the 16th Street Baptist Church. It has long been a significant religious center for the Black population and was a meeting place for civil rights organizers such as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

In the 1960s, Birmingham, Alabama, was one of America's most racially discriminatory and segregated cities and had one of the strongest and most violent chapters of the KKK. The city's police commissioner, Eugene "Bull" Connor, was known for his willingness to use brutality in combating radical union members, demonstrators, and innocent black citizens. Alabama's governor, George Wallace, was the leading opponent of desegregation.

By 1963, homemade bombs being set off in black homes and churches were such common occurrences that the city was given the nickname “Bombingham."

On September 15th, 1963, at 10:22 a.m., some 200 church members were in the building; most were attending Sunday school classes before the 11 a.m. service that morning.

A dynamite bomb was set off in the back stairwell, and mortar and bricks were thrown from the front of the church, caving in its walls. The violent blast ripped through the wall, killing four young African-American girls and injuring more than 20 others. 

14-year-old Addie Mae Collins, 14-year-old Denise McNair, 14-year-old Carole Robertson, and 11-year-old Cynthia Wesley were in the basement of the church's ladies' restroom when they were crushed by the rubble.

Addie's sister, Sarah Collins, survived but lost her right eye.

The bombing of 16th Street Baptist Church was the third bombing in 11 days after a federal court order mandated the integration of Alabama's school system. 

Upon learning of the attack, Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. sent a telegram to Alabama Governor George Wallace. He stated bluntly: "The blood of our little children is on your hands."

In the aftermath of the bombing, thousands of angry black protesters gathered at the scene of the bombing that same evening, and violence broke out across the city. Governor Wallace sent police and state troopers to break up the protesters. A handful of protesters were arrested, and two African-American youths were killed.

One at the hands of the police. And the other was murdered by a mob of white men. 

This all happened before the National Guard was called to restore order.

The deaths of the four girls and the brutal attack shocked the nation and drew international attention to the violent struggle for civil rights in Birmingham. 

Many whites were as outraged by the bombing as blacks and offered condolences to the families.

Over 8,000 people attended the girls' funeral services at Reverend John Porter's Sixth Avenue Baptist Church. The family of the fourth held a smaller private service. Dr. King spoke before the 8,000 people at the service. 

It was a clear act of racial hatred, -- as the church was a key Civil Rights meeting place and had been a frequent target of bomb threats. KKK members routinely called in bomb threats intended to disrupt civil rights meetings and services. 

In the investigation of the bombing, many of Birmingham's white supremacists and even certain individuals were immediately suspected. Repeated calls for the perpetrators to be brought to justice went unanswered for more than a decade.

It was revealed later that the FBI had information concerning the identity of the bombers in 1965 but did nothing.

The head of the FBI at the time was J. Edgar Hoover. He disapproved of the civil rights movement. It was rumored and claimed that Hoover held back evidence from prosecutors and even tried to block prosecution. He later died in 1972.

In 1977, Alabama Attorney General Bob Baxley reopened the investigation. 

Klan leader Robert E. Chambliss was brought to trial for the bombings and was convicted of murder. He died in prison in 1985, still maintaining his innocence.

Later in 1980, 1988, and 1997, the case reopened again when two other former Klan members, Thomas Blanton, and Bobby Frank Cherry, were finally brought to trial. Blanton was convicted in 2001, and Cherry in 2002.

A fourth suspect, Herman Frank Cash, died in 1994 before he could be brought to trial. 

The legal system was slow to provide justice, but the effect of the bombing was immediate and significant. 

The outrage over the deaths of the four young girls helped build support for the struggle to end segregation. Support that would lead to the passage of both the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965.

But even so, it couldn't bring back four young lives that were lost in an act of hatred.

Painting: The 16th Street Baptist Chruch, By Mack Stanley - Asheville Art Museum

Prev

Phillis Wheatley

Next

Janet Collins

_____

My Resources

[yurisorcerer]

You find yourself grocery shopping and all of a sudden a french gentleman with a rapier approaches and throws one of his glove at you. "Have at thee" As you look around you, a crowd of eager onlookers have completely surrounded you two in ring made of peoples. What do you do in this situation?

I smirk. He smirks back.

"Pierre." I say. "It's been a long time."

He adjusts his cap with the tip of his sword looking very elegant and french as he does so. This, of course, is Pierre Le Franchgais, the legendary Eiffel Swordsman and one of the 27 Great Sword Lords of Europe. As one of the Great Sword Lords of North America, I am of course unable to decline his challenge, and I raise my arms to the sky, and begin the sacred chant to summon my own sword.

"Ihre Übersetzungssoftware ist nicht korrekt installiert!" I intone, as black rainclouds begin gathering within the grocery store itself, and rain begins to fall, drenching the fresh produce. "Bitte kontaktieren Sie so schnell wie möglich einen Techniker."

In my hand, in a flash of black lightning appears the magical zweihander known as The Owl-Killing Sword, so called for its ability to slay an owl, even if the owl is at rest or sleeping. It is a blade black as the night itself, as tall as I am, and covered in glowing blue runes from a forgotten tongue once spoken by the Headbanger Giants of Nebulous-13.

"The battle is joined." I say to Pierre.

"Hon hon hon." He responds.

We step forward toward each other at almost the exact same moment, a beautifully synchronized dance of singular super-sonic motion---so super-sonic one might mistake either of us for hedgehogs at a glance---and as we pass by each other, one of us cuts the other. For a moment, no one is sure who has cut whom, but in a single midnight-black flash of thunder, and with the sound of a clap of lightning, a massive split opens on Pierre's chest. He coughs up a glob of a deep red substance. Not blood, of course, as a true Frenchman, his bodily fluids are 100% pure wine.

"Sacre bleu." He chokes out. "You have come far from our last bat-tel in the War of le Sun Lords."

I grin. It's cocky and I know it is, but when you've bested a swordsman who challenged you in a single stroke and he doesn't know that you've been fucking his wife on the regular for 3 years, it's hard not to be. Still, better to let the man die with dignity.

"You've improved too, Pierre. Don't be hard on yourself."

The crowd begins to hoot and holler at my display of vast basedness and humility, but then, Pierre grins again.

"Indeed, mademoiselle….I have!"

Suddenly, the gushing wound running up the length of his chest explodes into four nimble tentacles of pure elemental wine-energy.

"Mon dieu!" I exclaim, for there is no other response to such an overwhelming display of Frenchness.

Thinking fast, I parry the first of the wine-tentacles, but a second lashes me on the shoulder as I deflect the third and fourth with my body, diving in front of an innocent bystander who happens to be an almost ontologically sexy older woman. I grin through the pain and she swoons in gratitude.

Turning back to Pierre, I regard him with disgust. "So, you too have sold your soul to Marshall Macron and his Vested Order. What did he offer you? Just this paltry command of wineblood? Did he promise you a share of France once he's fully conquered it? WHAT DROVE YOU DOWN THIS DARK PATH, PIERRE?"

"MON CHERIE....IT WAS YOU!" He points, accusingly, in my direction, both with his finger and with one of the wine-tentacles. "I know that you have slept with Bella-Marie all these years! I know that my child is not my own! What else would drive a man to such depths? You think I care for Monsieur Macron? NON! I care only for your HEAD, on a SILVER PLATTER!"

With fury, he wraps one of his wine-tentacles around his rapier, and wildly hurls it at me. I deflect only barely by invoking my Pennsylvania Dutch Golden Finch Technique---drawing a hex sign in the air to repel the blade---but this leaves him an opening to lunge at me with all four tentacles.

He has me pinned down! I'm on the ropes! But of course, fury is its own weakness, and I invoke the Ancient Southeast Pennsylvania High School Self-Defense Stance, and knee him in the balls, which causes him to reel back in pain.

This opening is enough. I invoke my ancestors; the great Keenich Amos Amos, the witchy swordmistress Lady Iron-fig, and call out to the spirits of the Headbanger Giants of Nebulos-13. I throw my sword; it impales Pierre through the throat and vintage Brunello floods the produce section, mixing with the thund'rous rain. Disgusting; he wasn't even honorable enough to replace his blood with a French wine.

As Pierre lay defeated, many beautiful women in the crowd including but not limited to the one I saved earlier swoon over me. I have defeated one foe, but know many more battles lay ahead....

[bracketsoffear]

The Full, Unabridged Director Oswald Propaganda

[LENGTH AND SPOILER WARNING]

In The Department of Truth, the protagonist’s boss (and director of the titular secret federal department) is a much older Lee Harvey Oswald, though it’s not explicitly known which version of him he is. As in, what story of the assassination is true? Is he the CIA stooge? The innocent patsy? The lone gunman? Our protagonist muses this question in the second issue and can only conclude: “He’s probably not the one killed by Jack Ruby.” And looking at the picture the comic paints of who he is now, he seems much more the type to spend his time in Howard Hunt’s circles than Kerry Thornley’s, if you know what I mean. He has become the image of the perfect Cold War-era fed with his browline glasses, dark suit, quips about a new generation gone soft, and an ever-present cigarette. And that’s because he always has been that. He joined the Department as an agent when he was 19, working to counter the Soviets and gain information on their country’s equivalent of the D.o.T. And we, the reader, do not know what happened on November day in Dallas, but neither does he, it seems. Kennedy stood against the Department and it was his job to take him out, but in that book depository, he saw the Scarlet Woman (a sentient thoughtform who is very personification of violent societal change and conspiracies, her summoning literally bringing about the Cold War itself against the intentions of those who designed the ritual à la the Manhattan Project scientists) holding a sniper rifle, ready to tear apart the country’s sense of truth with a bullet. (Well, three.) But as the story of the assassination spread, so did the idea of Lee Harvey Oswald, the concept of the shadowy assassin that was seen on the front pages—the conflicting theories and paranoias made manifest. To quote Hawk Harrison (another character), “the living embodiment of every horrible thing people think the government is capable of, filled up into a man-shaped thing.” 

And we don’t know which one was saved and which one was killed. And neither does he. He’s left contemplating whether or not he’s truly real or simply another fiction, but at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. Reality is relative, he’s no less real than this country is. No matter how human he may or may not be, he might as well be American paranoia personified in function. He’s a man desperate to do whatever it takes to uphold the ideal of what America is supposed to be, that Shining City on a Hill; a man fighting in a war of propaganda and information and disinformation, a war of stories and ideas. To quote Indrid Cold, he’s simply a “dream this country is having.” 

For a brief moment though, he tried to escape from what he is in the way so many privileged young people of the 1960s did: growing his hair out and running away to San Francisco in search of drugs, free love, and an answer to his problems and existential malaise. He found the first two, the last is debatable. He finds himself in bed with an unnamed woman with whom he shares his fears about his nonexistence, about the country's nonexistence, only to pull a gun on her when he realizes that she laced his blunt with LSD. ‘Who the hell are you, and who do you work for?’ He asks, pointing the weapon in her face. “Do you know who I am?” She simply answers: “You’re not going to hurt me. I’m just a pawn in a bigger game. A patsy.” She knows. Of course, she does, she’s Company, a CIA agent involved with MKULTA, the agency’s infamous failed attempt at brainwashing its own citizens. “Was it you?” he asks, “Did you pull the trigger?” She tells him that they’re not the ones in control, that “Everyone misses the real conspiracy, don’t they? We’re the little shadow puppets they control. We do what they tell us to do. Some very smart, very dumb people thought they could control what America was without getting blood on their hands. They thought they were storytellers. They thought they were selling Coca-Cola and Chevrolet and hot dogs. They wanted to tell America that “It’s a Wonderful Life,” and they wanted America to believe it. Isn’t that right, Lee? But it’s not a wonderful life. People know that. People don’t want to get along. They want to fuck and feel good and feel righteous. The Department of Truth is selling America its own version of The Truth. Telling everyone Why We Fight. Why We Buy. Why We Believe. But it’s not working, is it? You know it’s not working. You can see the cracks forming all around us. You can see the fracturing. The Counterculture… It’s such a perfect little weapon. These kids think they’re fighting against some big war in Asia, but they’re on the front lines right here in Haight-Ashbury. They eat the lotus flower and they see themselves as little gods, and see their desires as something larger than they are. They sing their little protest songs, but they’ll be voting Republican before their first grays come in. I’m just a pawn. A patsy. I feed the kids the drugs and my bosses tell me that it’s to wash their minds, to see if we can push them, control who they are and what they think. It’s not working… This whole MKULTRA thing… Not how the men in suits want it to work, but me and the kids on the ground, we’ve been seeing it. They do it all on their own. They brainwash themselves. They become rancid, and bloodthirsty, and we have to feed them the blood they want.” 

“I don’t understand,” asks Lee. “Who killed Kennedy?”

 “You’re so fucked up that you can’t even how funny that is…” she continues, “Is it my bosses in Langley? Eisenhower’s military-industrial complex? The big bad commie-hating war machine, not willing to back down in the fight against the hammer and sickle, even if means having to kill our best and brightest? Is it Queen J. Edgar Hoover and his black-suited goon squad terrified that the kids are going to rise up and shoot their parents in their sleep? Is it the Italian mob, and Hoffa, and all their mobsters and teamsters angry that they’re losing their foothold,” No, she says. “It’s the same as it was in ‘63. It wasn’t any of them. It was you. It was me. It was all those kids smoking reefer on the street and thinking about free love. You can’t just tell them that things are going to be better forever like your idiot bosses thought. The kids want to fight for themselves. They want to own it for themselves. You need to let them taste glory.” 

Lee wakes up with a campaign button in his hand: “NIXON’S THE ONE!” The next time we see him, he’s meeting the new president in the oval office, once again wearing a suit with his hair cut short. He has become almost exactly what the unnamed agent described, with one major difference. He succeeds. 

History is, of course, written by the victors, and facts can be rewritten by them as well. After Lee’s “death”, the previous Director (Frank Capra, director of It’s a Wonderful Life) put him in the Department’s archives to try and figure out who the Scarlet Woman was, only for him to use the research to find a new way of doing things, a way to shift reality through manipulating what people believe to be true on a large scale through media, and symbolic imagery, and simple lies that serve to reinforce what the public wants to believe about this country, and for that, Richard Nixon appointed him to the job we know him in, Director of the D.o.T. Director Capra was a naïve idealist who truly believed that the American Dream was not only real but could be achieved through hard work. Lee knows that the American Dream is a lie, but my god, he will do what it takes to make it real, no matter how underhanded the tactics. If you can control the narrative, you can control The Truth. 

For most of his tenure, it was the height of the Cold War, there was a distinct enemy to push against. It was a conflict of countries, of ideologies, of two superpowers trying to keep their way of life at the expense of the other, and it was the U.S. that won out. There is another version of the 20th century, the one that was once real, where the founding ideals of the USSR were much closer to being realized within its border, it was something better than what it became, but the U.S. won the propaganda war and what was once simply a fact had become a hazy fiction that never happened. And so the victor rewrites history. 

And how does one become the victor? Through whatever means necessary, from fabricating events that later became real, to assassinations, to media manipulation, to the creation of the Satanic Panic itself, playing off paranoia and Christian nationalism to strengthen the idea that America is something that exists, that the American Dream is worth fighting for. (And of course, in the case of the latter, to deflect media attention from the whole Iran-Contra Deal.)

And what did this victory get him? A hell of a lot of guilt and a shattered, post-truth society that he’s left trying to clean up the pieces of. The Department is no longer fighting an ideological battle against an equally matched enemy, they’re floundering against the misinformation and conspiracies they once spread, desperately trying to keep reality from falling into the hands of far-right reactionaries using their own methods (and in Lee’s case, his own stories) to try and rewrite reality in their favor. The D.o.T. is rotten to its core, an organization founded to uphold American hegemony, but now, they’re the closest thing to the heroes of this story simply because the other side is so, so much worse. Like Pandora desperately trying to stuff the evils she released back into the box, they’re trying to contain the lies they wrought upon society. 

The phrase “post-truth society” is often thrown around concerning the present political moment, but the comic posits that this isn’t new. There has never been a unified societal truth. But it sure as hell is worse now when any internet fascist can go and rant about whatever fucking bigoted conspiracy they stake their brand on and sway thousands to their side. And we need to fight that at all costs. But preserving the status quo is not the way; I mean, look where trying to do that left us. No, there’s another way. And that’s coming clean about everything. No more secrets, no more attempts to shape the narrative towards your ideal, the public needs to know. (And that’s the power of government transparency and the Fourth Estate, babey!)

Finally, I leave you with this monologue:

“I know you don’t trust me. I don’t care. I’ve done enough bad shit, and spent the last sixty years of my life lying through my teeth every goddamn day. I don’t need you to trust me. But I need to trust you to know that the ends justify the means. You’re sour over your star-faced man. Hawk told you that he stoked the fire there, tried to make it seem realer than it was. That we had a vested interest in people believing that Satan was lurking behind every corner. I was younger then. I was stepping boldly. I was trying to defend the dream of what America was supposed to be. Not let those Russian fucks dictate our future. I’ve done many things that haunt me, more than you can imagine.”

Bonus Propaganda via @mx-information:

.

[the-plantman-is-queer]

Here's some real material consequences of Biden being president: Palestinians are being slaughtered indiscriminately.

The United States of America is a war-mongering imperialist superpower that has spent every year of its existence indiscriminately slaughtering innocent people for monetary gain. Blood oils the gears that grind this terrorist state ever forward, and I am furious about it. Palestinians are in my thoughts constantly, and the unspeakable horrors they are forced to endure.

I don't want Biden for a president, and I sure as hell didn't want him for a president four years ago. There isn't a single politician who doesn't have blood on their hands from the sacrifices they make, and you seem the sort to extend that culpability to the people who vote for them judging by how many people you've sent this exact ask to. So if voting makes you guilty, what does not voting do?

Will you weep for the people you condemn with your inaction? Will you look down and see there's blood on your hands too?

We are in an era of concurrent genocides happening all over the world. There is no ideologically pure candidate with whom I can absolve myself of all guilt by voting for. There is no one I can put in power of a murder machine for which the result won't be more deaths. But by not voting you are doing less than nothing. Politics are not a business you can boycott. Your inaction comes with the consequences of more and more people left for dead. You have to play the bloody fucking game, as distasteful as it is.

Put pressure on your politicians. Boycott *actual* businesses. Protest campaign events. Scream your dissent. Answer the stupid telephone surveys about voting issues. Go to town hall meetings. And when it comes time, vote for the people who will result in the least amount of people dead. The United States as a "democracy" is dangerous enough. Letting it descend into an authortarian fascist regime isn't going to help anyone.

[aggravateddurian]

OC Interview: Wolverine Commander

I was tagged by @luvwich. I decided to go with something novel and interview the commander of the rebel army known as the Wolverines, as featured in The President's Lady, my Myers x V fanfic. This is technically his first appearance in The President's Lady canon.

Interviewer: The commander of the anti-NUSA militia known as 'The Wolverines' rarely agrees to going in front of the media. He agreed to this exclusive interview on the condition that his identity was obscured. For this meeting, we were scanned, our cyberware was disabled, and we were bagged, before being driven to an unknown location.

This is what he shared with us.

Interviewer: Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Commander. Commander: Thank you for coming. I was half-expecting you to flake out when you heard my conditions to agreeing to this interview. Interviewer: The truth isn't scared of being bundled into the back of a van blindfolded, Commander. Commander: Hmph...

Name?

You can call me 'Commander.'

Nickname?

I don't know you well enough for you to know that... yet.

Gender?

Male. Cis.

Star sign?

Orion. The hunter. Fitting, considering our line of work is hunting those who would destroy what little freedom Night City has left.

Height?

Helping the FIA build a physiological profile on me? Also want the size of my cock?

Interviewer: Uh... I don't think that'll be necessary. Next question? Commander: Please.

Orientation?

Upright.

Interviewer: No, sir, I meant... which way do you swing? Commander:...

Next question.

Nationality/ethnicity?

Helping the FIA figure out my life story?

Interviewer: No, I assure you we have no... Commander: If you were FIA, we wouldn't be having this conversation... and you'd be dead. Interviewer: *gulp*

Night City, born and raised. My father bled red, white and blue for the NUSA. He eventually died for it. His blood is on the hands of every politician and corpo fuck who let us bleed in the name of ever higher profits.

Next question.

Favourite fruit?

Pineapple.

Favourite season?

Spring. The dawn of new life. One day, Night City will have its spring. It will be the dawn of a new age for America, one closer to the ideals we were taught America stood for. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

Favourite flower?

The Sampaguita.

Coffee, tea, or hot chocolate?

Coffee. Easier to put whiskey in coffee than hot chocolate.

Average hours of sleep?

Depends on a number of factors.

Interviewer: such as?

I reckon between 6-8 hours. I tend to sleep better when I hear that the NUSA has tripped on its own cock... so I sleep well pretty much every night.

Dog or cat person?

Cats. Cats choose their humans, they're independent-minded and they don't blindly follow orders. We could do with more cats in this world and fewer lapdogs.

Dream trip?

Have we invented interdimensional travel yet? Love to visit an Earth that isn't being actively gangbanged by the worst possible examples of humanity.

Favourite fictional character?

Captain America. Cap'n Rogers would see Myers for the fascist she is and sock her with that shield of his. He'd be appalled at the state of America today.

Number of blankets you sleep with?

My troops make do with one, so I do as well.

Fun fact?

Since we started this interview, about twenty innocent people have died on the streets of Night City...

Not very fun, is it?

Interviewer: N-no sir.

How do we stop it?

Interviewer: I don't know...

Have to stop it at the source. Myers is just a symptom of the disease. The disease is the inhumane system we live in, it's antithetical to life... but you're not here for the recruiting speech.

Any other questions?

Interviewer: No, that's all. Thank you for your time, Commander.

[gatekeeper-watchman]

Daily Devotionals for September 14, 2023 

Proverbs: God's Wisdom for the Day

Devotional Scripture:

Proverbs 24:23 (KJV): 23 These things also belong to the wise. It is not good to have respect for persons in judgment. Proverbs 24:23 (AMP): 23 These also are sayings of the wise. To discriminate and be partial, having respect for persons in judging, is not good.

Thought for the Day

This verse is addressed to the wise, who are told not to discriminate or show partiality when sitting in a position of judgment. To make a fair judgment about anything, there first must be laws that are considered the standard in a situation. The standard for Christians consists of God's laws that are recorded in the Bible. These rules and commandments were given so that people could live blessed and peaceable lives. God's laws preserve order on earth and also show man his sin and need for a Savior. Those who walk in the Spirit, fulfill the law by loving others. They reap the blessings that come from walking in God's ways.

The Bible outlines various penalties for breaking God's laws. The ultimate penalty for sinners is that they will go to hell. I want to repeat what has been included in previous verses, because of its utmost importance. The good news is that Jesus, the son of God, came to the earth and died on the cross, giving Himself as the only sacrifice that could make atonement for our sins. He was raised from the dead and is now seated at the right hand of God. As the ultimate Judge, He is not a respecter of persons. What He will do for one, He will do for another. All who come to God through Jesus will be pardoned, no matter what sin they have committed. "But God commandeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. Much more than, being now justified by his blood, we shall be saved from wrath through him. For if, when we were enemies, we were reconciled to God by the death of his Son, much more, being reconciled, we shall be saved by his life" (Romans 5:8-10).

America's founding fathers were Christians and based much of their legal structure on the Bible's moral laws. Many laws in the U.S. are based directly on laws found in Deuteronomy. To our detriment, many sound laws have been altered or abandoned. Scripture describes times such as ours: "And he shall speak great words against the most High, and shall wear out the saints of the most High, and think to change times and laws: and they shall be given into his hand until a time and times and the dividing of time" (Daniel 7:25).

Our present-day judicial system has drifted from its original intent of protecting the innocent and convicting the wicked. Today, the law is being exploited by some people who want to use it for gain. Many are seeking outlandish settlements, that in the end, all people will pay for. Through unfair settlements such as these, lawyers are the ones most rewarded. Of course, not all lawyers are greedy. Many good lawyers seek to help and serve their clients. However, due to a faulty legal system, the protection of the innocent has often been overruled, while criminals are not justly dealt with. We need to return to Biblical principles and shape our laws accordingly if we desire to see justice in our land. "The God of Israel said...He that ruleth over men must be just, ruling in the fear of God" (2 Samuel 23:3). "Shall not the Judge of all the earth do, right?" (Genesis 18:25b).

Prayer Devotional for the Day

Dear heavenly Father, I am eternally grateful that You have forgiven me of my sins and that You paid the price for them on the cross. Lord, I now want to serve You faithfully every day. I am also thankful that You are a righteous judge and I can always commit my case to You, and You will treat me fairly in everything. Since You are no respecter of persons, You will do this for all who look to You. Lord, I pray that as a nation, we will be given righteous judges so that all people will receive justice in the courts of our land. I ask this in the name of the Lord, Jesus Christ. Amen.

From: Steven P. Miller @ParkermillerQ,  gatekeeperwatchman.org Founder of Gatekeeper-Watchman International Groups Wednesday, September 13, 2023, Jacksonville, Florida., Duval County, USA. Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/groups/Sparkermiller.JAX.FL.USA, https://www.facebook.com/StevenParkerMillerQ Instagram: steven_parker_miller_1956 Twitter: @GatekeeperWatchman1, @ParkermillerQ, https://twitter.com/StevenPMiller6 Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gatekeeperwatchman, https://www.tumblr.com/gatekeeper-watchman https://www.pinterest.com/GatekeeperWatchman1/ #GWIG, #GWIN, #GWINGO, #Ephraim1, #IAM, #Sparkermiller, #Eldermiller1981

[wutbju]

You gotta sit down for this one. Bob III makes no sense.

"The Bible does speak about a man loving his enemies; it says nothing about a man loving his country's enemies," according to Dr. Bob Jones III, president of fundamentalist Bob Jones University.

DR. JONES made the comment in a letter to the president of WSPA Radio and Television in Spartanburg after expressing his disgust at a Franciscan public service announcement the station was using which urged listeners to love Richard Nixon, Soviet Premier Alexie Kosygin and Mao Tse-tung.

Calling the announcement "treason," Dr. Jones said the philosophy behind the radio spot was "typical of the brainwashing pouring out of our colleges and universities, with students believing our enemies should be our friends and that we can coexist with them."

THE ANNOUNCEMENT consisted of a man asking a little girl what she thought love was. "Sharing my toys," the girl said. The man then asked what she thought of Nixon, Kosygin and Mao. The girl asked who they were and was told they are people who need love.

"They can play at my house if they want to," the girl said.

"Really, now," said Jones in his letter, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself for contributing to the breakdown in love for our country and in the promotion of love for those who hate the free enterprise system and everything this country stands for."

Jones said he believes "that the enemies (of America) should be called enemies, identified as such, and that our young people should be indoctrinated accordingly."

IN REPLY by letter, C. R. Sanders, vice president and general manager of WSPA, said, "It is our understanding that that Christian love includes everybody regardless of race, creed, color, etc."

"You make a noble, though misguided, attempt to be theological," Jones said to Sanders in a second letter. "Your misunderstanding of the Scripture causes you to reason logically to the wrong conclusion…. Even if that passage did say to love your country's enemies, it doesn't say to promote them or to stop considering them as enemies. The Franciscan spots urge your listeners to do both."

"I love what God loves and hate what He hates," Jones said in a telephone interview Friday. "There are plenty of people that God hates. The Bible says that God hates the hand that sheds innocent blood and that means that his hate is directed toward Mao and Kosygin.'

"PLEAS FOR understanding and sympathy and love for those who are killing our boys and seeking to bring this nation to its knees in surrender ARE traitorous," Jones said.

Sanders said the announcement is no longer on the air because "it has run its course. It ran two weeks after Bob wrote the letter. We didn't fall and tremble "as he spoke."

Sanders called the episode a "pile of foolishness" in a telephone interview.

It was reported that Cullen Schippe of the Franciscan Center said fundamentalists have consistently criticized his group since it began producing radio and TV public service announcements in 1966.

RESPONDING to Jones' criticism, Schippe said: "Please tell Jones that I still love him dearly."

Pastor Ron Brooks of Southside Baptist Church was one of the few Greenville ministers contacted who would agree with any aspect of Dr. Jones' opinion.

"I believe God would require us, and any Christian, to love the souls of any man and not necessarily love them as individuals," Brooks said.

Rev. Brooks said he would not "pray for the health and continued prosperity of someone like Kosygin, but I would pray that their souls would be saved. I feel like Dr. Jones that that would be unpatriotic."

"I WOULD have a difficult time urging people to pray other than for the conversion of a person such as Mao"

Rev. Brooks said. "Yes, I would love their souls, for this is the mission of the church, but, as far as praying for them in their position of power and authority, I wouldn't."

Several other area religious leaders and ministers disagreed strongly with Jones' statements.

"I don't know how you could call an unloving kind of faith Christianity," said Rev. Thomas Carson of Christ Episcopal Church. "I think our enemies need our prayers more than our friends. For a Christian to limit his prayers only to Christian rulers would limit his prayers to no rulers, in most cases."

CARSON SAID he was "infuriated" that "he (Jones) would be infuriated over that," referring to the radio spot.

"I think our Lord put it pretty straight when he told us to love our neighbor as ourselves. He didn't limit that love to only our friends."

"Oh, mercy," said the Rev. James G. Stertz, pastor of the First Baptist Church, on hearing of the incident "That's great logic," he said.

[saruvanthewhite]

I’ve posted this before. But only posted the title and what I thought about it and its meaning. This song was written thirty years ago. Thirty. Yet it reads and listens as though it was written in 2016.

Y’all need to listen to this song and tell me it’s not about what’s going on in uhh-murKKKa right ƃuıʞɔnɟ now.

American Babylon

By: Saviour Machine

A thousand bloody hand prints stain the walls of

Liberty

A stranger hides in dreams denied, awaiting his

Release

I've seen this picture before

I never thought that we would end up here

When fascism comes as an angel of light

Its license parading as Tyranny drives forth its son

The Son of Mourning dominating fears, afflicting fallen

Men

His body highly organized; it's coming into prominence

To bear its ominous warnings

It's in your blood to comprehend it's origin

For those who refuse to remember the past are

Condemned to repeat it

The first and the last, Dust to Dust ...

History is His Story

And life is laughing at its peril

Building towers that come forth in men

Shifting powers consuming us within

They will puzzle the apostles till the end

Enter

Into the silence

Into the dying life of America

The brave

The slave

The grave

The shattered pigs dying as primitive savages

Eating their flesh, they lie rotting in dirt

While a stranger among you has challenged the course

Of human existence and alien forces

The birth of the black prince is setting the stage

In its thriving dissension, exalting his rank

And the innocent man will fall victim to hands in the Trial of Truth and its twisted reversal

The union of factions bleeds shock to the system

For civilization had ended today

The transitional nature of acts and society climb in its place while its face re-creates

Until your god is dead

Enlighten me with your pale statue’s face of inhibition

And until your reign has ended, frighten me with your stale taste tongue of inquisition

In your eyes I will come forth in men

With no justice, no honor to defend

And the stone will be cast in again

Enter

Into the fire

Into the bloody gates of America

The great

The fate

The late

[bookoformon]

Ether 11, Part 3. "Arrested."

This is the final chapter of the Book of Ether. It is the second to the last Book in the Book of Mormon. The people become captive to wickedness and stay that way, and try to somehow balance good and evil in an obnoxious style.

The Prophet says shiblom "the brakes" put a stop to progress in the nation, and all the corruption, oppression, and prostitution that we pay our beloved politicians to engage in started all over again. The next series of verses say the people try to repent of their rotten decisions, but it doesn't work.

Something is entrenched in America that causes our government to flap in the breeze all the time. If we could figure it out, life here has amazing potential. The next character, Seth "for a little while" is just about the only sanity we can hope for here if we don't come to our senses.

Next come Ethem and Ahah, "hooked together by conditions" which we are even if we like to tease ourselves just a little about this. Women have a right to terminate unwanted pregnancies, this is a federal law.

The lawmakers, Supreme Court Justices and White House that have tried to prevent abortions need to be put in jail. There have been a number of very young teen pregnancies due to rape or incest and complications and murders as well.

President Biden will be considered liable for these incidents if he doesn't start handing out passports to local prisons. Donald Trump engaged in a siege in close cahoots with the Mormons and the Republican Party, all of the aforementioned have been proven to have ties to Hamas and Hezbollah, so there is now no longer a need to pretend.

If the Federal Government can't get its stuffing into the pie, so to speak, then perhaps it is time it was re-orged and supervised from abroad. Donald Trump, the Mormons, and the Republican Party must be made outlaw, they must be forbidden to collude agaisnt the innocent at once. No more "Seth":

8 And the people began to repent of their iniquity; and inasmuch as they did the Lord did have mercy on them.

9 And it came to pass that Shiblom was slain, and Seth was brought into captivity, and did dwell in captivity all his days.

10 And it came to pass that Ahah, his son, did obtain the kingdom; and he did reign over the people all his days. And he did do all manner of iniquity in his days, by which he did cause the shedding of much blood; and few were his days.

11 And Ethem, being a descendant of Ahah, did obtain the kingdom; and he also did do that which was wicked in his days.

The Values in Gematria are:

v. 8: And the people began to repent of their iniquity. The Value in Gematria is 4744, ד‎זדד‎, d zadad, "Sided."

Whose side are we supposed to be on? Repentance is a sign we sided with the wrong side. We always side with society first, and this means the Ten Commandments are the reference point.

Those shitty people that tried to ban abortion did not care sufficiently to think their actions all the way through or do their homework, and some of them are in the most powerful positions in the world. Persons occupying these positions are expected to side with the greater good, not a temporary fad.

v. 9: Seth was brought into captivity. The Value in Gematria is 8505, חה‎אֶפֶסה‎, hafesa, "just a step."

v. 10: And it came to pass that Ahah, his son, did obtain the kingdom; and he did reign over the people all his days. And he did do all manner of iniquity in his days, by which he did cause the shedding of much blood; and few were his days.

The Value in Gematria is 7492, "trapping the claim."

"This shall be an oppression free land."

When the Book of Mormon was published, Americans were told and they believed a real American Christian Prophet was born and the angels dictated him this amazing scripture. There is a body of evidence for this. After it was distributed and socialized, Americans took up arms and started a holy war between the states to put an end to all the persecution and executions of its African American citizens.

The results, of a Revelation and a Revelator standing up for what is right, drafting such a fine scripture, asserting its influences on the masses has never been seen before, and certainly not since.

Those fuckups in the GOP need to be put under their headstones and the world needs to be told the work is right, it is true, it is good and it is being done for their sakes.

They are not the friends of gun violence victims, gay people, black people, Muslims, Jews, Women or immigrants, no one will miss them for a single second.

v. 11: And Ethem, being a descendant of Ahah, did obtain the kingdom; and he also did do that which was wicked in his days. The Value in Gematria is 5105, ןאאֶפֶסה‎, naapesa, "he was arrested."

It is time for America to stop pretending it doesn't know the difference between the shit and the shinola.

[authorsrus]

Atlantic City

In a city that lives to bleed you dry

You’ll win only if you accept their lies

They sell popcorn like movies in the theater

Except it’s prostitution – dead center of America

Besides the alcohol – rich kids in a bottle

You have dancing and models

Model citizens rotted within Girls – like booze – imported

African taxis that bark gorilla

Catering the whim of almighty dollar

If your daughter was the one on a window sale

You’d think twice about accepting their bail

We support criminals who pander the trash

All for some hope that a dollar is cashed

Voting a democracy – tax payers at work

Gambling stability for all that its worth

This terrible life is the same across the world

Men fight for money – men purchase toys

Children are innocent before they taste blood

Time to feed these children a hearty plate of love

*************************************************************************************

General Washington stands on the cold Potomac. The river shifts dangerously beneath his fleet of army skiffs. The recent snow had brought a torrential flood over the settlements along the banks, making the river traverse harrowing and deadly. His men huddle towards the center of the boats in a desperate hope for warmth, warmth absent during such cold, dreary nights.

Virginia Governor John Murray, the Earl of Dunmore, had stood the high ground as Washington’s men attempted a small scale assault upon Richmond in the hopes to overtake the governor by surprise. He was rebuffed by the King’s 3rd American Regiment, a light infantry unit based out of New York under British Colonel Edmund Fanning. Colonel Fanning was an exceptional military man with long maritime experience as a part of the Queen’s Royal Navy. The King’s 3rd American Regiment was founded in 1776, the same year that the American Revolution fully engaged between colonialists and loyalists.

It was not the strength of the Red Coats but, rather, the failure of Washington that brought upon Colonial defeat. His men, poorly trained and even more poorly equipped, had undergone the exhausting fight from New York to Virginia in the distant hopes of seizing central control of the colonies. Repeated failures from New York, into New Jersey, resulted in costly casualties for the Americans.

***

The guerrilla warfare of the Colonialists was taxing on the American volunteer corps. They were unable to sustain ground for more than a brief respite, operating under nomadic means. For the sake of mobility, Washington’s men had neither the ammunition nor the food supplies stocked by the British.

The charity of small town America was the only sustenance keeping them. They were already halved in number and starving by the time he and his men reached the Potomac.

One thing that Washington knows is that it was necessary to take Richmond. If the center of British colonial command could be taken, the Crown’s power could be divided and conquered. He simply did not have the manpower to face the Brits directly, especially not with the farmhands and rag-tag equipment that was his fighting force. It would require something like an act of God.

Washington is a faith driven man. Although his Freemason ideology does not allow for ritual worship, he believes in the basic principles of heaven. He fervently believes in the righteousness of good will. It’s one of the main reasons why he was hesitant to take the helm of America’s war efforts. A society man by way of stature, a bloodied hand was not his forte.

Yet he fights. Today, December 15, 1777, it has been exactly one year and six months since he became General of the Continental Army. General Washington has seen over 100 battles and thousands of wounded. The honor and prestige of that day’s bestowment seems impossibly distant from today’s paucity. Today, his men are living dead.

The tattered uniforms of the Blue Coats are more than just a symbol of their circumstance. It is a demoralizing factor of certain death. Each of the men had lost their closest friends from battle and exposure. One night, 35 men did not wake to see the day. Seeing a friend frozen to death in his sleep is not easily forgotten. In many ways, being taken away in times of rest is worse than being shot down by musket fire. Unexpected loss is worse than a bayonet to the chest. Fear has no sympathy to those who sleep in war.

Through all the heartache and pain, Washington maintains a sense of calm. This is his defining character as a leader of men. Even now, body yearning for the warmth of Valley Forge, his mind is trained on the task set before him. Richmond must be won. America must live.

Examining the military map in his hand, he searches for open field where the men could make camp. With him he has 200 men. Of the 200, only 50 are fit for battle. The rest will go on and fight with what little they have left. Taking a spot of charcoal from his pouch, he marks the base of a small mountain in the Appalachians. The clandestine trail that follows the ridgeline will provide a perfect path toward Richmond undetected, their destination: Shenandoah Valley.

The General moves his eyes towards the approaching banks of Virginia. His men begin to gather the gear packed towards the back of the army skiffs. Their return to Virginia is accompanied by somber portent, almost as if Death is standing to greet them in place of the lush, beautiful scenery the river’s woodland bank provides.

Washington’s boat is the first to reach the soft silt of the riverside with the full moon lighting the surface of the water, evoking a carved path of shimmering melted glass. The eerie silence of the skiff bottoms docking into the packed silt sends chills through the men. The river’s spirits have emerged out of the land to welcome the men to their world.

General Washington, in a firm tone, commands to his men, “Pull the vessels to the forestry, conceal them with undercover brush and make sure the skiffs are placed top-side upheaval.” The order is followed immediately. The one thing the men learned in battle: a singular direction was necessary for survival. In war, the single voice that guides them is the voice of life. For these men, every moment of their waking life is war. For most, so too is their sleep.

The resting fields were only 5 leagues distance from the Potomac’s shore. The men saddle their bags and check their musket covers, then align into formation by rows of four. Washington mounts the horse brought up from the supply barge. Only he would sit on the comfort of a horse for the journey ahead.

The men know to keep tight ranks. Straying from the march could prove fatal. Because of extreme fatigue, the mind struggles to keep direction or time in tune with normalcy. A five minute rest could translate to an hour lost on a dangerous trail, the biggest enemy being nature herself. Men sooner die to the elements than to the bullets of Lobster backs. The march, although quiet and weary, shows neat press.

Approaching midnight, the unit reaches the open fields of Prince William’s Forest. They set minimal fires, a task made difficult by frozen firewood and damp tinder and foodstuffs are brought out as cooking fires are stoked alive. The striking resemblance to gypsy vagabonds, lost in the wood, is impossible to ignore.

As Washington makes his nightly trek through camp, he takes on the usual sights: half eaten salted hams boiling with dried onions and hard-bread, dried barley loaves cracked and distributed by hand. They are fortunate to have even this, received as a donation from the townspeople of Alexandria. Soon, the bread will mold and the hams will develop crust. This is a good night.

Overhearing conversation of his men, usually of those who fail to recognize Washington in the dark fires, he gains perspective on company morale. Tonight, there is a soundless weight hanging over the shoulders of his men. Tonight, they reacquaint themselves with death.

***

The Earl of Dunmore sits in his Victorian room and looks deep into a fire, burning smolder lashing bright in the hearth. The acrimonious smoke billows upward through the chimney as the heat fans the suffocating fumes. The Earl, Governor John Murray, throws angry thoughts that dance to the fury of flames while blue-orange firelight licks the burning logs. The stone fireplace is covered by blackened soot.

The purpose of Earl John’s madness is rooted in the last correspondence he received from King George. Aside from repelling Continental attacks on Richmond, his Royal post, the Earl has control over lands far beyond the jurisdiction of Virginia on behalf of the Crown. The letter, written directly from King George, demanded the relegation of territories outside of Virginia to the respective governors of North Carolina and Maryland. The incompetence of Governor William Tryon and Governor Sir Robert Eden is the reason why the Earl had to fight Americans outside of Virginia’s borders and now, after victory, he was being told to deliver the territorial gains into their floundering hands. In the mind of Earl John, it would only lead to recurring need for battle.

The second part of the Earl’s frustration is that Colonel Fanning, his approbate commander at arms, would take the remanding of his gains as an act of betrayal. It would be factually impossible to convince the colonel that political adherence is necessary. In addition to Colonel Fanning’s certain opposition to the matter, Earl John’s subsequent plans to subjugate the local population was now immutable. If only a musket could ratify his quandary.

Nevertheless, the Earl of Dunmore must respect the Crown. King George was not known for his patience when addressing disobedience in the Royal colonies. If Earl John was to continue his office as governor of Virginia, one of the few dignified posts in the Americas, loyalty was necessary. This galling affair would have to be stomached as posterity to noble demands. Tomorrow, Colonel Edmund Fanning would be called into the Earl’s presence and will likely, then, become a powerful enemy.

***

The morning of the 16th proves to be bitterly cold. The aching bones of the colonialists match the weakness of their fortitude. The men muster to order with great effort. Tonight, in the cover of night, they are to reach the Shenandoah, a 30 mile journey through elevated terrain. The sun had not shown its face in two days’ time, but the coldness of morning reminds them that their day had begun early in the pre-dawn. The dark clouds overhead paint a lowly backdrop to the downtrodden men.

Within the ranks of Washington’s men is a young blacksmith from New York named William Kont. He joined an American militia unit and became a Continental soldier in the fall of 1775. His story is unremarkable and his history even less interesting. The only aspect that stands out about the young Kont is that he is the youngest of Washington’s enlistment. That a scrawny metal-worker from colonial New York could survive the harsh travels of the Continental Army is a testament borne to witness as the will for victory exampled in the hearts of the General’s men. He expects death in the upcoming battles, just as all men expected, yet the only circumstance bothering him is that his General would never know him in person. As one who is remembered only for his insignificance, this boy fights as a man betrayed in the brave New World.

***

The journey to Shenandoah was arduous. They entered camp in the dead of night as snowfall began over the Appalachians. An abandoned British outpost was the ideal location to scavenge for food and munitions, an important consideration since their supplies are running low as is.

Lost in the foraging for necessities, the Continental division under Washington is unaware of a large detachment of soldiers stationed in the nearby woods. Scouts had spotted activity of soldiers at the hilltop outpost and had reported back to their base camp. As night quickly grew denser, a raiding party was being gathered not 30 minutes neigh, downhill. Within the hour, Washington’s battalion would be engaged.

Housed for the night in an officer barrack, Washington sits entranced in deep thought. He ponders the successful taking of Richmond, but struggles to believe in his means. He knows that any disturbance of Richmond’s substantial defense would result in outright massacre of his men. Successful planning will be the difference between victory and certain death.

The strategy requires surprise and timely incursion into the governor’s district. If the leadership is removed successfully, British orders would stop and the Continental efforts in Virginia would have opportunity to regroup. The defeat of Governor John, Earl of Dunmore, is the impetus needed to push American liberty forward. The 200 men, equipped with standard black-powder muskets and bayonets, represent a weak force. Due to their limited size, heavy weapons became a portability issue. It was simply impossible to move and protect extensive supplies and equipment.

The Appalachian Trail, segments of which are mostly unknown to the British forces, provides distance from population centers and allows direct access into Richmond. Traversing the lengths through Charlottesville, Washington hopes to bypass large British regiments stationed along the Virginia coast. A flanking maneuver places the Americans in close proximity to the governor’s mansion. Because Richmond is heavily guarded under Colonel Fanning, Washington planned to avoid direct fighting for the short period of time it would take to reach the Earl’s estate.

Suddenly, as Washington completes his final thoughts, musket fire rings out at the southern end of the outpost. Continental soldiers shout and cry as they scramble for cover. The attack is so sudden and rapid that men are unable to light their muskets in time, leaving dozens slaughtered before they could stir. The incoming band of soldiers had scaled the outpost hill quietly, avoiding the watch guards overlooking the terrain.

As quickly as the fighting began, it ended. The only sound left is the moaning of dying men as they lay where they were shot. The dust and gunpowder smoke dissipates and a horrifying realization dawns. The raiders who had just slaughtered a third of Washington’s men are all wearing blue coats. They are Continental Army.

The raiding party was a small cadre of guerillas from the 1st Rhode Island Regiment, a British regiment that assimilated into the Continental Army under Colonel James Mitchell Varnum. They had no way of knowing that Washington’s men were staying in the British outpost, especially since it was pitch- black. Even greater to their surprise is the fact that it is General Washington, far from Valley Forge, who stands as enemy command.

Mind numbing shock is tangible as men stare in dismay at the carnage befallen them. The raiders push their muskets to the ground to aid the wounded and the aura of silence increases as Death passes through the camp. The consequences of this tragedy are yet unknown, but Washington knew that his chance for victory fractured with every man who had fallen. It became more and more likely that Washington’s expedition to Richmond would be his end.

Washington’s men are escorted to Colonel Varnum’s camp. A makeshift fortress had been erected in colonial fashion with tall timber walls bound by metal studs. A trench two men deep was dug in front of the barriers, creating an ethereal appearance to the double-story fence. The general stands at the front, watching the entrance open as crackling of timber grinds timber.

The site is in sorry state. Wounded men are gathered towards the north end while soldiers in faded uniform stand guard. A ragtag man in Colonel’s attire approaches slowly. It is apparent that a leg injury had not set properly as he angled forward on a steelhead cane. The ghostly apparition inches forward painfully as Colonel Varnum, veteran of the great Roanoke battle, materializes to salute Washington. General Washington is saddened, realizing the sight of a man who cannot trek the necessary distance of destiny that rests in the wild lay of the land. This fortress, in many ways, has become the colonel’s grave.

Varnum’s regiment is formally organized under General Nathaniel Greene, a cohort of General Washington. Their notoriety arose from the African-American companies of blacks that constitute many of Varnum’s enlisted. Varnum’s regiment had been coined the “Black Regiment”, leading many people to believe that the force comprised entirely of African-Americans. They helped to defend Boston against Red Coat attacks and had made their way down to Virginia under General Greene’s orders. Their intended destination was Charleston, South Carolina where Major Benjamin Lincoln had been routed by British forces. Major Lincoln’s call for reinforcements had fallen upon General Greene’s desk and Colonel Varnum was dispatched soon thereafter.

Colonel Varnum had reached a dead end. His forces were stymied in the Shenandoah after repeated engagement with the British. While traveling from upper New York to Virginia, Varnum and his men were forced to relinquish many brethren to the heavens. Although originally numbered in the thousands, Varnum was reduced to barely 600 men. Supplies were also a major handicap as their relatively large force had undergone huge losses in both men and supplies. Many companies were beginning to starve as the indigenous rat and squirrel population had been hunted into extinction.

With Washington’s arrival, Varnum had found a reason for hope. The tragic meet was, indeed, a terrible loss to Washington’s belabored camp, yet the opportunity was now presented for Varnum’s men to fight again. The alternative is to rot away in the lush greenery of Shenandoah’s lifeless valley.

Fighting men live and die according to purpose.

Early the next morning, the 17th of December, 1777, Colonel Varnum sits with General Washington in the officer tent. Colonel Varnum is the first to break the cold silence, lowering his gaze and says, “General Washington, I would like to begin by expressing my sincere sorrow for the previous night’s calamity. We were completely unaware of your presence in the Shenandoah and had not been properly informed of your regiment’s occupation of the abandoned outpost. I have no way to redress the dear men that you have lost, but I do have some matters of great importance to discuss with your person if you were so inclined to entertain my humble word.”

Washington replies, “As a man of honor I know you to be. It was not in malicious intent that you assaulted our encampment, nor was it your desire to cause our men injury. You faced an unknown enemy in the darkness of night during this period of desperate war. I muster not any anger on matters pertaining to your choice of action nor do I wish you disfavored sentiment. Furthermore, you have my gratitude for the response of you and your men, having taken in our road weary detachment and tending to us as if we were your own. Our kinship and standards of duty demand that I accept your service as an act of proper atonement. You will not find an enemy under my command.”

Varnum paused but for a moment and in regiment discipline he furthers the conversation, saying, “In your witness you can observe that I am of ill means. My men are sickly and my injuries disallow any extensive movement of our regiment. For three months we have been deferred to this limbo, unable to make way for our orders from General Greene. We are to enter Charleston, South Carolina in order to assist Major Benjamin Lincoln, charge of Charleston City. Because of constant engagement with the British, our numbers have been decimated and my men have lost the power of purpose. It is my request that you, General Washington, take on the able-bodied remnant of my men and proceed

[boricuacherry-blog]

O.J. Simpson, famed football star and Hollywood actor who was acquitted of charges he killed his ex-wife and her friend but later was found liable in a separate civil trial, has died after battling prostate cancer.

With Simpson's old friend and teammate Al Cowlings at the wheel and the fugitive in the back holding a gun to his head and threatening suicide, the Bronco led a fleet of patrol cars and seven news helicopters on a slow 60-mile televised chase over the Southern California freeways.

As he rode in the Bronco, a friend, Robert Kardashian (yes, Kim Kardashian's dad), released a handwritten letter to the public that Mr. Simpson had reportedly left at home, expressing love for Ms. Simpson and denying that he killed her.

The trial lasted nine months, from January to early October 1995, and captivated the nation with its lurid accounts of the murders and the tactics and strategy of prosecutors and of a defense that included the "dream team" of Johnnie L. Cochran Jr., F. Lee Bailey, Robert Kardashian, Alan M. Dershowitz, Barry Scheck and Robert L. Shapiro. The prosecution, led by Marcia Clark and Christopher A. Darden, had what seemed to be overwhelming evidence: tests showing that blood, shoe prints, hair strands, shirt fibers, carpet threads and other items found at the murder scene had come from Mr. Simpson or his home, and DNA tests showing that the bloody glove found at Mr. Simpson's home matched the one left at the crime scene. Prosecutors also had a list of 62 incidents of abusive behavior by Mr. Simpson against his wife.

But as the trial unfolded before Judge Lance Ito and a 12-member jury that included 10 Black people, it became apparent that the police inquiry had been flawed. Photo evidence had been lost or mislabeled; DNA had been collected and stored improperly, raising a possibility that it was tainted. And Detective Mark Fuhrman, a key witness, admitted that he had entered the Simpson home and found the matching glove and other crucial evidence - all without a search warrant.

The defense argued, but never proved, that Mr. Fuhrman planted the second glove. More damaging, however, was its attack on his history of racist remarks. Mr. Fuhrman swore that he had not used racist language for a decade. But four witnesses and a taped radio interview played for the jury contradicted him and undermined his credibility. (After the trial, Fuhrman pleaded no contest to a perjury charge. He was the only person convicted in the case.)

In what was seen as the crucial blunder of the trial, the prosecution asked Mr. Simpson, who was not called to testify, to try on the gloves. He struggled to do so. They were apparently too small. This led Johnnie Cochran famously pleading to the jury during closing arguments, "If it doesn't fit, you must acquit."

Questions about his guilt or innocence never went away. In May 2008, Mike Gilbert, a memorabilia dealer and former crony, said in a book that Mr. Simpson, high on marijuana, had admitted the killings to him after the trial. Gilbert quoted Mr. Simpson as saying that he had used one that Ms. Simpson had in her hand when she opened the door. He also said that Mr. Simpson had stopped taking arthritis medicine to let his hands swell so that they would not fit the gloves in court. Mr. Simpson's lawyer, Yale L. Galanter, denied Gilbert's claims, calling him delusional.

"He died without penance," Cook said of Simpson. "We don't know what he has, where it is or who is in control. We will pick up where we are and keep going with it."

Simpson's rise to fame involved 11 NFL seasons, nine of them with the Buffalo Bills, who made him the no. 1 pick in the NFL draft in 1969. He became known as The Juice, the first running back to break the 2,000-yard rushing mark (doing it in 14 games) while averaging 141.3 yards per game, still an NFL record.

Hertz rentals shot up and the ads made O.J.'s face one of the most recognizable in America. The ads also opened Simpson up for more endorsements: sporting goods, soft drinks, and even razor blades.

"People identify with me," he told The Times. "People have told me I'm colorless. Everyone likes me. I stay out of politics, I don't try to save people for the Lord and, besides, I don't look that out of character in a suit."

Simpson made his big-screen debut in 1974 in "The Klansman," an exploitation film in which he starred alongside Lee Marvin and Richard Burton. The film was a flop, but Simpson would go on to appear in several dozen films and TV series, including 1974's "The Towering Inferno," 1976's "The Cassandra Crossing," 1977's "Roots" and 1977's "Capricorn One."

Most notable, perhaps, was his performance in 1988's "The Naked Gun: From the Files of Police Squad" and its two sequels. Simpson played Detective Nordberg in the slapstick films opposite Leslie Nielsen.

Simpson married his first wife, Marguerite Whitley, on June 24, 1967, moving her to Los Angeles the next day so he could begin preparing for his first season with USC - which, in large part because of Simpson, won that year's national championship. He had three children - Arnelle, Jason, and Aaren with his first wife. Their daughter Aaren, however, drowned as a toddler in a swimming pool accident in 1979, the same year he and Whitley divorced. He would go on to have two kids - Sydney and Justin - with Nicole.

In his football career, he broke college and professional records, and became an American idol. It was good on the surface, but beneath it, there was a deeper, more troubled reality - the infant daughter drowning in the family pool, a divorce from his high-school sweetheart, and a stormy marriage to a stunning young waitress and her frequent calls to the police when he beat her; about the jealous rages of a frustrated man.

The abuse left Nicole Simpson bruised and terrified on scores of occasions, but the police rarely took substantive action. After one call to the police on New Year's Day, 1989, officers found her badly beaten and half-naked, hiding in the bushes outside their home. "He's going to kill me!" she sobbed. "He gets a very animalistic look in him," Sgt. Craig Lally recalled. "All his veins pop out, his eyes are black and just black, I mean cold, like an animal. I mean very, very weird."

Mr. Simpson was arrested and convicted of spousal abuse, but was let off with a fine and probation.

And to add insult to injury, he was reportedly cheating during the marriage - during her pregnancy. Ms. Simpson discovered his trysts in a shocking way. While rummaging through her bedroom just before her birthday, she found a jewelry box in his bureau. She opened it and gasped at a set of dazzling earrings, worth at least $25,000. She thought they were for her. So she put them back and said nothing. But her birthday came and went - without the diamonds. She then mentioned the mystery to one of Mr. Simpson's golfing buddies. Stunned, the woman whispered: "Don't you know? He gave them to Tawny Kitaen. We thought you allowed him to have a mistress!"

The couple divorced in 1992, but confrontations continued. On October 25, 1993, Ms. Simpson called the police again. "He's back," she told a 911 operator, and officers once more intervened.

Then it happened.

Ron Goldman was a waiter, like Nicole. Instead, he told friends his real dream was to open a bar or restaurant in the Brentwood area. He shared his vision that it not be known by a name, but by the ankh, an Egyptian symbol of life. He wanted to learn all facets of the restaurant-bar business, and gregarious and social as he was, everyone felt he would succeed. He had even expressed aspirations to act, after appearing as a contestant on the short-lived game show Studs in 1992. And though sometimes promoting for clubs, he rarely drank. Still, there was something alluring about the nightlife.

It was in a club that he met ex-girlfriend Jacqui Bell, but, she said, "He wanted a commitment, and I'm not very good with commitments." Their relationship was marked by sporadic separations. Once, when Bell left for St. Louis, Goldman flew there to pursue her to return to their Brentwood home. "For a guy who doesn't have a car or a dime, it was wonderful," she reflected. But it was not to be. She still has the Belgian sheep dog he gave her, named Audrey. "It's the only thing I have left of him. He was a very sweet, honest faithful guy. Maybe if I'd given him the commitment he wanted he'd still be here," she said, her voice filling with anguish. A friend remembered how he envied the quiet times he had with his girlfriend. "He would say...'I really miss that - having someone to talk to, you don't have to go out, you can avoid all the craziness out there."

Nicole had met Goldman six weeks prior when he borrowed her Ferrari, and since then the two had become increasingly friendly, meeting for coffee and dinner on occasion. That day, he had after-work plans with his bartender friend, but before finishing work, the restaurant got a call from Nicole - a pair of glasses had been left behind. He punched out, then left to return them to her. That day he met with her, though, would be the last.

On June 12, 1994, Ms. Simpson, 35, and Mr. Goldman, 25, were attacked outside her condominium in the Brentwood section of Los Angeles, not far from Mr. Simpson's estate. She was nearly decapitated, and Mr. Goldman was slashed to death.

The knife was never found, but the police discovered a bloody glove at the scene and abundant hair, blood and fiber clues. Aware of Mr. Simpson's earlier abuse and her calls for help, investigators believed from the start that Mr. Simpson, 46, was the killer. They found blood on his car and, in his home, a bloody glove that matched the one picked up near the bodies. There was never any other suspect.

Five days later, after Mr. Simpson attended Nicole's funeral with their two children, before being charged with the murders.

In his later civil trial, a letter Ms. Simpson wrote was revealed, in which she wrote he "beat the holy hell out of her" and that the injuries she sustained were serious enough to require hospitalization. She stated that she and her then-husband "lied at the X-ray lab and said I fell off a bike."

Although the Goldmans were awarded millions of dollars in their 1997 civil suit, as late as 2022, Fred Goldman says Simpson still hasn't paid a dime.

[newsource21]

The loud pro-Hamas protests that have unfolded across Europe and North America for the past few months are the latest manifestation of a transformation that has been going on for decades.

Many protesters carried Islamic flags and chanted “death to the Jews” or “from the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.” They attempted to disrupt the Christmas tree lighting ceremony in New York City, with some shouting “burn it down.” They blocked roads, targeted shops, disrupted gatherings, and harassed Western leaders and politicians, from King Charles to Justin Trudeau, Keir Starmer, and Joe Biden, to name a few.

The elites have instigated a demographic change, resulting in crime-ridden, divided, poorer, and less tolerant societies.

In Montreal, thousands gathered to listen to a man masked with a Palestinian kufiyah in the style of Hamas chief terrorist Abu Obaida. He asked his audience what they wanted, and they replied: a revolution — “intifada.” The same slogan was repeated on January 13th at a demonstration in front of the White House.

The Elite Universities and Terrorism

While the world was reeling from the shocking brutality of the October 7th attacks, vocal groups in the West began praising Hamas and justifying its crimes. In a staggering display of callousness, 31 student organizations at Harvard University, consisting mainly of students from the Middle East and Asia, issued a lengthy statement indicting Israel for Hamas’s crimes, hours after the attacks. They stated that they “hold the Israeli regime entirely responsible for the unfolding violence.” A student group at Tufts University issued an even more disturbing statement, claiming that “Since Friday, Palestinians have been launching a historic attack on the colonizers. Footage of the liberation fighters from Gaza paragliding into occupied territory has shown the creativity necessary to take back stolen land.” Columbia University’s Students for Justice in Palestine claimed that Hamas’s actions were “a counter-offensive against their settler-colonial oppressor.” On January 23rd this year, during a pro-Hamas protest held at that university, the gathered students praised the violence and called (in Arabic) for the ethnic cleansing of Israeli Jews.

From the Halls of Power to the Streets

In contrast to Western governments, most of which condemned Hamas and supported Israel, two Muslim American congresswomen, along with 19 Muslim MPs in Britain, failed to denounce the terrorist organization, or even urge it to release the children and women they had kidnapped. Instead, they have raucously condemned Israel and the governments which support it. For instance, the British MP for Birmingham, Tahir Ali, accused the British Prime Minister of having “the blood of thousands of innocent people on his hands.” Muslim American congresswoman Rashida Tlaib, who came to the U.S. as a refugee, defended posting the first half of the slogan: “From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free,” claiming that it is a call for peace. In contrast, British PM Rishi Sunak affirmed that “Those who chant ‘from the river to the sea’ are either useful idiots who do not understand what they are saying or worse, people who wish to wipe the Jewish state from the map.”

One Country but Not One Nation

In France, a poll conducted a month after the Hamas attacks revealed that 50 percent of French Muslims under 25 years of age and 53 percent aged over 50 characterize Hamas atrocities as “resistance against colonization.” Nineteen percent of the questioned French Muslims affirmed that they support Hamas. This contrasts sharply with the French general public, 90 percent of whom view Hamas attacks as war crimes and terrorism. A similar disparity exists in most other European countries. The gap between immigrant societies and native communities in Europe encompasses a wide array of essential values, from views on homosexuality, women’s rights, human rights, freedom of expression, and the role of religion in daily life. Did the leaders of the Western world understand this disparity when drafting their immigration policies?

Revolutionary Vision of the Mediocre

The ruling political parties of western Europe oversaw a mass migration of people mainly from Africa and Asia to the West, aiming to improve the prosperous, peaceful, homogeneous, aging populations with multicultural, multi-ethnic, diverse communities. They argued that this would bring a surplus of laborers, progressive voters, more tolerance, and prosperity. Angela Merkel is a prominent example of a politician who pursued this policy. She argued that Germany should have no limits in accepting illegal immigrants and asylum seekers. In 2015, she reportedly asked then-Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg to censor criticism of her decision to allow millions of illegal immigrants into Germany. Canadian PM Justin Trudeau is another staunch champion of multiculturalism and mass migration; he allowed over a million immigrants in the past three years and has repeatedly affirmed that “Diversity is Canada’s strength.”

The newcomers were encouraged to maintain their cultures, beliefs, and social identities and to look down on the culture of the host societies. For instance, in 2006, Sweden’s then-Prime Minister Fredrik Reinfeldt said while visiting a town known for its large immigrant population that ‘Swedish indigenous culture was simple barbarism. Civilization had come from outside.” The number of Syrian-born individuals living in Sweden increased from less than seven thousands in 1990 to 197,799 in 2023; Iraqi-born from 9,818 to 146,831; and Somali-born from 1,441 to 69,477.

Over six million people immigrated into Germany alone between 2013 and 2022, and an additional 351,915 individuals applied for asylum just last year: 104,561 from Syria, 62,624 from Turkey, and 53,582 from Afghanistan. In France, the number of asylum applicants in 2023 was 142,500, and in the UK, a further 93,296, with Afghans constituting the largest portion.

Criminal clans, grenade attacks, rape pandemic, no-go zones, mass shootings, honor killings, terrorism, and gang warfare became the new norms in Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Finland, among other European countries, with migrants and asylum seekers having been blamed for them.

The Paris attacks of 2015, the Charlie Hebdo shooting, the Manchester Arena bombing, the Brussels bombings, the Berlin attack, the 2015-16 New Year’s sexual assaults in Germany, the 2010 Stockholm bombings, the 2017 truck attack, and the 2018 Freiburg gang rape are a few of the countless major crimes perpetrated by immigrants and asylum seekers.

While steadfastly pursuing their agenda, the elites have demonstrated a striking disregard for the larger public’s opinion and the facts on the ground. They don’t tolerate dissenting voices and cast those who don’t conform to their ideas as evil, greedy, unwilling to share with others, and ignorant. The way Gordon Brown dealt with a Labor voter who confronted him about the economy and immigration policies during his 2010 election campaign exemplifies the elite’s mentality. Brown feigned compassion while listening to the sincere woman, but once in his car, was overheard calling her a “bigoted woman” whom he “shouldn’t have met with.”

The elites have instigated a demographic change, resulting in crime-ridden, divided, poorer, and less tolerant societies. This change has caused immense harm to the natives, not just the many victims of terrorism and crimes but also all taxpayers, who bear the burden of supporting foreigners unwilling to contribute or assimilate into society. Legal immigrants eager to integrate might be the most adversely affected by illegal migration.

Meanwhile, the elites, along with a portion of their supporters, have benefited from this transformation. The promise of improving Western societies by creating policies based on notions such as open borders, positive discrimination, equity, diversity, inclusion, and multiculturalism has been successfully employed to secure electoral victories, fame, and influence. Many corporations have made fortunes from lucrative government contracts dedicated to providing housing, healthcare, education, and other services for illegal immigrants. In 2023, Germany spent at least 48.2 billion Euros of taxpayers’ money on migrants.  (READ MORE: Georgetown University Stumps for the Muslim Brotherhood)

The people who have instituted the societal transformation have largely remained sheltered from its negative effects. Angela Merkel was re-elected after she allowed the entry of millions of unvetted, illegal immigrants, including terrorists and rapists. Fredrik Reinfeldt, who played a significant role in changing the demographics of Sweden, remained in power for eight years.

The demographic change has already occurred, at a price to the people on the ground, while benefiting the elites. The mass migration and demographic transformation will continue as long as the decision-makers are not directly affected by the adverse consequences. Until the elites are held accountable for what they have done, there won’t be any meaningful reform.