My goal is to assist individuals to think for themselves, free of external intellectual coercion or self-imposed political correctness. But not only that: I would like to see kindred spirits do as the saintly George Orwell enjoined us to do, "To speak Truth to power!"
Books by Vaughn Klingenbeg
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5744 H.E.
By
Vaughn Klingenberg
Copyright © October 31, 2010.
Dedicated to my daughters, Anastasia and Lidia, so they know how, and why, I have come to have the beliefs I have.
Dedicated to the uncanonized Judeo-Christian catholic Saint, George Orwell, for speaking truth to power (and to the rest of us).
And dedicated to the prostrate, violated, and clueless Sheeple (may they finally have an epiphany).
Any similarities to individuals, places, or events is purely coincidental and should not be interpreted otherwise.
Obviously there are many good, outstanding Jews in the world, but this should not blind us to the fact that an extremely powerful subsection of the Jewish community does not affirm a universalist humanitarian agenda—quite the contrary! It is with respect to this latter, closeted community that I write my satirical expose here.
And if I really say it,
The publisher won’t print it,
So I have to lay it,
Between the lines…
Paraphrase of a popular song from the ‘60’s.
Any damn fool general can invade a country from without. It takes real genius to invade a country from within. – a Russian playwright.
“Difficile est saturam non scribere.” -- Decimus Junius Juvenal.
This is, of course, a work of fiction.
V.K.
Did I mention that this is a work of fiction?
-- V.K.
Cognitive dissonance is a term used in modern psychology to describe the feeling of discomfort when simultaneously holding two or more conflicting cognitions: ideas, beliefs, values or emotional reactions. In a state of dissonance, people may sometimes feel "disequilibrium": frustration, hunger, dread, guilt, anger, embarrassment, anxiety,… etc. Most often this invariably leads individuals to discount and dismiss the cognition that led to the dissonance in the first place. When a jarring cognition occurs, most all individuals choose to keep and affirm the alternative cognition that affirms the benignity of the pre-established worldview. To do otherwise is, for most people, too horrible to contemplate.
Part One
“He felt as though he were wandering in the forests of the sea bottom, lost in a monstrous world where he himself was the monster. He was alone.” -- 1984, George Orwell.
The World of North Atlantica.
Chapter One
It was a bright cold day in late November (After the Common Era, Gregorian), the first Sunday in Advent, in fact (for those few specialist archivists still familiar with the liturgical calendar), and the clock was striking thirteen. “Time to get a new clock—to repeat the old joke,” Victor Volk smiled to himself. However, military time did have its advantages. No more messing around with a.m. and p.m., just a straight recitation of a number and one knew immediately where one stood during the day. For that matter, thank God, they got rid of that ridiculous B.C.E and A.C.E. as well and replaced it with “Hebrew Era,” H.E. No more “before” or “after,” just a linear march towards…towards what, exactly? A glorious future where North Atlantica will once and for all prevail over all its enemies—both foreign and domestic—and smash the collective skulls of its opponents with all the ferocity and blind resolution of a jackbooted patriot? Or will the revolution end in devolution? A resolutionless and unending psycho-sadomasochistic dialectic spun out of control, yet managed, by the ruling elite? A Purgatory without a Paradise? A hell without a heaven? An Old Jerusalem without a New Jerusalem? Towards….? Victor’s musings on the Interregnum gnawed at him subconsciously, like the canker that galls the blossoms in the spring, and yet it was there, eating at him like a bloodsucker gorges itself on an unknowing victim.
Where Victor stood or, more accurately, lay, was in bed. He was out late last night chatting up a pretty, young blond sheeple. He didn’t have to get her drunk, or pay her, to bed her, but he enjoyed the sodden glazed look in her eyes before he climaxed inside her, on her, all over her. He told his sexual victims that he was Aaron Kosminsky of 1 Zion Square and he called his conquests “Mary Kellys,” because he liked to smother them with a pillow as he approached climax. As the “Mary Kellys” lay there with their bodies spent, Victor was often uncertain whether they were living or dead. He toyed with the idea of slashing their throats, and removing their ovaries, or carving a ”V” into their cheeks to let the cognoscenti know who really was responsible—and he had nothing to fear. Were a girl even to die accidentally the police would blame it on an aristocrat, or at least on a confusion of suspects, but not on him and his people. This would be true even if “Mary Kelly” was found murdered on the doorstep of a synagogue, and written in blood on her bedroom wall was the epithet:
The Sems areThe men thatWill notBe BlamedFor Nothing To be honest, it was all becoming a bit boring. There no longer was the “thrill of the chase,” because all Victor had to do was suggest that he was a Sem—OrthoSem or AssimaSem—it didn’t matter, and ‘Shazam’, a girl would begin vibrating her tongue like a buzzsaw. True, he could try to hook up with a SemGirl but sexual power politics would always come to the fore—who gets to be on top, and who goes on the bottom--and besides, he would have to be extra careful that in a spasm of drunken pleasure he didn’t mouth anything politically incorrect (that would then immediately be reported by her to the Tribal authorities). Until ready to settle down, most Semboys avoided their expected female marriageable counterparts like the plague. There was a reason the traditional Sem wedding ceremony took on many of the aspects of a contractual corporate merger—in many respects, it was.
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Still, thoughts haunted him from earlier that evening as he walked home down the streets and alleyways from her place. He could hear the muffled music and drunken chatter of the nighttime crowds as they began to rush home before the midnight curfew. It all reminded him of a quote from a book he recently flushed down the memory hole, forever to be forgotten, late last Friday, just before Advent. Later, he would come to realize how prescient it was indeed:
"No, they did not bury me, though there is a period of time which I remember mistily, with a shuddering wonder, like a passage through some inconceivable world that had no hope in it and no desire. I found myself back in the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurrying through the streets to filch a little money from each other, to devour their infamous cookery, to gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream their insignificant and silly dreams. They trespassed upon my thoughts. They were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretence, because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew. Their bearing, which was simply the bearing of commonplace individuals going about their business in the assurance of perfect safety, was offensive to me like the outrageous flauntings of folly in the face of a danger it is unable to comprehend. I had no particular desire to enlighten them, but I had some difficulty in restraining myself from laughing in their faces so full of stupid importance. I daresay I was not very well at that time.”
It had been a good work of fiction for its time, but times had changed--it came too close to things--so it had to be purged. That was perhaps Volk’s greatest ability: without needing to consult higher authority he knew intuitively what the perimeters of Stopthink were, and he didn’t dare cross them. That was why he had the position he had. He loved his work—felt almost as though he could communicate, inhabit, an earlier, richer world—provided he knew, and kept, his place in this world.
Later, when he got back to his relatively opulent, racially inbred (no Gens allowed) gated community—The Uebermensch Ghetto (or the “Ghetto,” for short, as he and his fellow denizens sarcastically but good-humoredly termed it), he immediately went right to bed, but not before setting the alarm for 13 o’clock. He had some minor work to catch up on and he thought he would go in and finish it even though it was a day off. Yes, he enjoyed his work, but he was careful not to let on how much he enjoyed it.
But “work” was the wrong word for it—“vocation,” yes, it was his vocation. For example, Victor, true to his profession, still liked to refer to the days according to their ancient nomenclature. Today was Sunday afternoon, not Day 2, as the Inner Temple had promulgated decades ago. Referring to days by name and not by number was a way for him to impress his fellow Sems with his knowledge of ancient practices, albeit occult and barbarian practices. His AssimaSem colleagues in the Outer Temple thought him a bit eccentric as a result, and that suited him just fine. True he trod a fine line between simply being odd and being dangerously politically heretical, but most fellow Sems thought that just went with the territory. Collecting, analyzing, sorting, and destroying “degenerate knowledge,” as the Sems termed it, was bound to affect one’s mind, regardless how fortified one was against it, and Victor was nearing the end of his 5-year stint as a Cultural-History and Literary Analyst & Purgerer.
Chapter Two
When he was finally fully awake, he heard the dull hum of the tv and radio in the background. Of course one could not turn either of them off completely—that was both prohibited decades ago as well as technically impossible—but one could turn them down so that they almost became imperceptible. There was a danger in turning them down as much as one could: one could forget that they were even on. Of course the feared Thought Police could watch and listen (on the tv) or listen (on the radio) through these devices to all of the movement and noise coming from an apartment, so there was an inescapable and constant level of low intensity paranoia in every household, but this was ostensibly done for the public’s protection. Terrorists and would-be terrorists were everywhere, and one could not be careful enough in hunting them down and eliminating them. It was one’s civic, patriotic, duty--forget the fact that it was a capital offense to harbor or even unintentionally befriend such social miscreants and outlaws. Victor yawned, stretched, and turned down the volume of the tv set in the bathroom as he began his ablutions.
Remembering that he wanted to stop in to work today, he fired up his computer to check traffic in order to learn the best way to get to MiniTru, the towering pyramidal structure Volk worked in. Of course the roads would be virtually empty on a Day 2 morning. Some elderly sheeple, out of habit, visited churches and cathedrals still, only now to offer sacrilegious profanations to the beleaguered and all-but-obliterated Universal Christian Church. It was a year ago, Advent (the Temple loved irony), that all recalcitrant clerics were universally rounded up and placed in internment camps to await their mortal fate. A decision on that matter was expected by this-coming Easter.
Suddenly, as Victor was watching the computer come on-line, Big Sam appeared on the computer screen with the caption, “Big Sam is Watching You!” Big Sam was a man in his late forties or early fifties wearing a black cassock and a white scarf with blue embroidery draped around his shoulders, all fastened with a small, gold star, pin—the Star of Redshield, latter to become the symbol of all Semdom, notwithstanding its recent origin. Big Sam also wore a short, black skullcap and the gold rimmed spectacles of an aging intellectual. His hair was grey and in tight curls, and he wore a full, pointed, lose beard, greyish-black. He had the appearance of a shortish, beetle-shaped figure of a man. He was the face of North Atlantica—the empire in which Victor Volk found himself residing. Up until Global War II it was called the United States of America but after the War it became simply “North Atlantica.” True, North Atlantica was nominally ruled by non-Sem Presidents and Republicratic and Demopublican politicians, but ever behind-the-scenes hovered the ubiquitous, avuncular presence of Big Sam and all that he represented, the Inner and Outer Temple, chief ideologue for “The New World Order,” the pyramidal ministries, barracks democracy, and the eugenically modified and culturally and educationally regressive homo-contra-sapiens—in other words, the modern day Gen sheeple and parrot-ple. Primitive Neanderthals, it was joked, with their grunts and screams, had a more sophisticated vocabulary and emotional range then modern day Gens (and that was, if fact, true).
After looking over the travel routes, Victor decided to skip having his chauffeur drive him to MiniTru and instead decided to make a day of it by riding the tram. Individual excursions like this were frowned upon by the Tribe, but he could always claim that he was doing undercover work checking for malcontents on the byways and trams of the city. Skipping lunch, he quaffed down a shot of Victory Gin, shuddered, grabbed his overcoat, and headed for the hallway. He stopped in front of the mirror as he was exiting. In it he saw a youngish, 50 something man, with a slight paunch and hair dyed black (blonde at the roots). He always felt somewhat ashamed of his blonde hair—he was the product of a Sem mother and a Gen father—and he could not help but feel that his blond roots (Victor was a bit slovenly) inhibited his entrance into the ranks of the Inner Temple. That, combined with his slack jaw, bluish-green eyes, and broad shoulders gave him away as a product of “mixed blood.” Still, being a half-blood was better than being Gen, regardless of the circumstances, and it did secure him his archivist position, so--all things being equal--he was satisfied with his lot in life.
As he left, Victor waved to the two simian-faced Gen guards that protected the entrance to the “Ghetto,” and he walked the two blocks to the tram stop. On the way he overheard the “baaing” of sheeple mothers calling for their children and heard snippets of Gen intellectuals—parrot-ple—earnestly mouthing the latest terror alert threat level. The authorities had done away with yellow and orange alert levels so only shades of red were now posted.
More precisely there were three levels of red alert—dull red, medium red, and bright red. A democratic election had just passed so more dull and medium reds were now to be seen. It seemed as though in the run-up to an election the party in power was more liberal with the alert warnings. Victor could not tell if this was because there was more of an actual threat of a terrorist attack during an election season or because the politicians were playing on the fears of the skittish electorate to re-elect the status quo (who invariably claimed to be “tougher on terrorism” that their counterparts in the opposing party). In any event, because of salient events like 11/9 the public was willing to pay any price and bear any burden just to feel safe. (Whether the Gens actually felt safer as a result of giving up literally all of their civil liberties and kissing good-bye to their social security and social welfare safety net in order to finance the unending war on terrorism was a question none of them ever seemed to bother to ask.)
Chapter Three
As Victor made his way down the street to the tram stop he couldn’t help but notice the ubiquitous political posters planted on walls, buildings, telephone poles…etc. The elections were completed just last month with Republocrats rearranging the congressional furniture with Demopublicans. Of course the Gens saw all this, including the billions of dollars spent on Media political advertising, as signs of a vibrant democracy, when in fact the exact opposite case could easily be made. The fact of the matter was that the electronic voting machines throughout the country were all rigged by a very small handful of pseudo-legitimate, black-ops companies that had close ties to “national security” [sic] institutions. These companies manufactured voting machines to get preordained candidates elected, so in most respects democracy in North Atlantica was a sham to begin with, the billions spent on election campaigning was used as a public relations cover to legitimize the pre-ordained elections. “Surely if the elections were illegitimate, billions would not be spent on them?! The mere fact that political campaigns are so expensive is prima facie evidence that they are legitimate,” or so goes parrot-ple reasoning, if you can call it that. “Stupid sheeple!”, Victor intoned.
Still, even aside from the suspect and rigged elections, Victor sometimes believed the sheeple got exactly what they deserved. One of the more recent presidents made the astute observation that election-time was a terrible time to debate real issues. All the electorate got was fear-mongering, half-truths, and demagoguery. “But, on the other hand,” Victor thought, “if election season is not the right time to debate the ‘tough issues’ in a democracy, when is?! When the electorate is not paying attention?! Maybe true!!!“
“Fuck’n moronic sheeple. Democracy is too important to be left to the electorate!” agreed Victor, and he smiled at a poster of Big Sam as he passed by it.
On the contrary, Victor was inclined to believe that anyone who wanted to be a politician should, by that very fact, be excluded from office: such a person is, by nature, power hungry. “And then to see those ridiculous, clueless sheeple with their ‘I voted’ stamps picked up at the voting stations, and the smug looks on the moonish faces of the dopes who thought they were doing their ‘civic duty’--as though they have actually done something positive to make society better or more responsive simply by the mere fact that they voted--it was enough to make someone puke.” Victor thought. If anything, “civic-minded” sheeple were in fact legitimizing the whole corrupt political system that was keeping them and their sorry children under foot. It got Volk to thinking—what a god-damn sickening world we live in--but not too much. Some thoughts were better not to pursue.
“Thank Yahweh and the long shadow of Big Sam—certainly he is not subject to the vicissitudes of human nature but instead functions as a paternal guiding hand through all the torments and tribulations facing North Atlantica!” Victor concluded.
Chapter Four
Victor got to the corner just as the tram arrived. His blue overalls marked him as a member of the Outer Temple and a Gen dutifully gave up her seat in the front of the car for him to sit down. He glanced around the dilapidated tram and saw the usual riff-raff on board. Mothers with crying children, bleary-eyed young men smelling of beer, elderly and handicapped folks fearful of being robbed or beaten. It was a perfect cross-section of Gen society.
A few Gens, no doubt the ones who fancied themselves more intellectual then their neighbors, could be seen “reading” the newspaper. Victor caught a glance at the headline and photos in the Times—“We only print what is fit for you to know!,” was its moniker. The title read, in Oldspeak English, “Eretz Israel Defends Itself from Lawless Thugs!!!.” The subtitle being, “Palestinians Again Try to Push Eretzites into the Sea.” The large photo underneath was taken from behind the position of the Eretz soldiers as they pointed their gun sights at what appeared to be starving, teenaged, jobless youth. Directly in the center of the photo was young, skinny Philistinian boy with a torn shirt attempting to throw a small rock at the Eretz soldiers. The photo was taken through a gun sight so the boy was framed by a dark circle with the crosshairs focused directly on his small forehead. Just below this photo, not coincidentally, was a picture of Gen soldiers liberating the Ouchwits “death camp,” what with emaciated and skeletal Sem men piled on top of each other on bunks in a barracks. It was inevitable that when any photo was printed that even hinted at Sem or Eretz Israel culpability that there would be an accompanying photo of one of the “death camps” or a photo of Shoahcaust survivor victims from Global War II strategically placed next to it.
Of course placing a story favorable to Eretz or Sems was de rigueur after an article even mildly critical of Eretz, Eretz soldiers, Sem shysters, or any sort of Sem misbehavior. The Shoahcaust, because of its more recent origins, was the preferred historical event of choice for this purpose. One saw this methodology applied not only in newspapers but also on tv, on the radio, on the internet,…etc. At what would have been Christmas there was the obligatory “Sound of Muzak” (to subtly remind Gens to come to the aid of downtrodden Sems) and at Easter there was the predictable “10 Komandments” (to remind Gens of the preeminence of Seminism to Christianity). Everything broadcast nowadays was done with a propaganda purpose in mind. The Media was too precious a commodity to leave in the hands of clueless Gens. It also served, of course, to mitigate the criminality of Sem misbehavior and at the same time remind Gens that whatever crimes Sems may be accused of, there was always the modern, and sui generous, apotheosis of crime-- the slaughter of Sems by Gens in the Shoahcaust during Global War II. This was a crime for which there was no equal in the annals of modern history, and Victor concurred.
The tram lurched forward down Summit Avenue, the main thoroughfare that led to MiniTru. As the tram creeked its way down the street Victor caught glances of the various Gen housing projects—Strategic Settlements—as he went. Sems had “Ghettos,” plush, opulent, gated housing estates; Gens had “Strategic Settlements,” row upon row of barbed wire and gun tower enclosed housing complexes; they were walled, crumbling, rat infested tenement complexes teeming with sheeple and patrolled by guards. After the manufactured real estate housing bubble burst at the beginning of the century, no Gen owned a private home anymore. Gens were all forced into foreclosure and bankruptcy and became wards of the state. This worked out well for the state since it was easier to monitor and control Gens this way. If they misbehaved, they could easily lose their employment and their apartment and have to make due by begging in the streets or being forced into drug addiction, prostitution, and crime. Besides, a lot of money was to be made from foreclosing on and bankrupting Gens even apart from the benefits to the police state.
The Strategic Settlements followed one after another in monotonous regularity along the tram route. They had names such as Ouchwits, Duckout, Mydangneck,…etc. For some reason the Ministry of Naming liked to give European-sounding names to the Strategic Settlements—perhaps because it gave it some cachet to the deteriorating housing projects, but perhaps for some other reason unbeknownst as well.
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While wealth was not solely concentrated in the hands of mega-rich Sem killionaires (there was the occasional poster-boy killionaire Gen), there was a method to Sem wealth. For example, much of the Sem uber-wealth came from insider-trading. Some Sem insider would give clandestine information to another Sem who would then use this financial tip to make a financial killing; then, as payback, the Sem who made the killing would tithe a portion of his wealth back to the Tribe. In sum, everyone in the Tribe watched out for everyone else in the Tribe. That was the ethos in which Sems were raised. Also, Ueber-wealthy Sems reveled in the title “killionaire,” because it underscored the fact that because they possessed such grossly inappropriate, unearned, and ill-begotten insider-trading wealth, dispossessed Gens suffered and died by the millions. The more money the Sem elite had, the less money there was for the commonwealth or for the grossly underfunded Gen social welfare programs. Statistically, while Sems comprised about 2% of the population of North Atlantica, they owned much more than 90% of the wealth. This meant, of course, that the remaining 98% of the population, controlled less than 10% of the wealth, and every year this gap grew. And this was not all: Sem wealth was consolidated in finance, entertainment-propaganda, defense contracting, energy, and the Media. In fact, with respect to the Media, over 95% of Media organizations were owned outright by Sems or the CEO of the Media corporations was a Sem. (Sems thought it prudent to leave a couple of percent of the Media in compliant non-Sem hands—typically obscure and insignificant media venues--so as to be able to claim ‘plausible deniability’ if the topic ever came up that Sems controlled literally all Media outlets.) This of course should have been a national security issue—the concentration of Media-propaganda all in the hands of a very small in-bred ethnic and secretive, conspiratorial, societal group—but it wasn’t. That issue was never raised—certainly not of course by the Sem Media itself. One other distinguishing factor that needed to be noted with respect to Sem mastery of the Media was that, unlike Gens, Sems always worked in concert with each other to establish tighter and tighter control over society and amass more and more wealth (wealth which would later, of course, be employed to buy off and bribe—i.e., via campaign contributions--book-licking politicians to give the ueber-wealthy even more tax breaks and to carry out, favorable to Sems, foreign, e.g,, wars against Mohammedian Middle Eastern countries, and domestic, e.g., increasing yearly taxes on the working poor but no wealth tax on the ultra-ueber-wealthy, policy). It was a brilliant self-sustaining parochial policy: Sems legally bribe democratic congresspersons to tax the shrinking middle and burgeoning lower class population even more, all the while granting ever more tax breaks to the Sem ueber-wealthy elite; then, use the tax dollars coercively collected by congress and its enforcement arm, the ISR, from the Gen middle and lower classes to pay for Sem adventurism, both foreign and domestic, and to justify a draconian civil rights policy at home. And all of this is done to advance strictly Sem financial and political goals--Gens be damned!!! (A “terrorist” was anyone who challenged or criticized this prevailing status quo.) It all was simply brilliant—a self-funding, politico-financial, “perpetual motion machine,” if you will. Tax the poor to pay for the objectives of the untaxed and above-the-law rich. Brilliant!!!
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On a related note, one reason that Sem mastery over the Media and cultural climate of North Atlantican society was so encompassing and pernicious had to do with the so-called “programming” of the Media broadcast outlets. The term “programming” was chosen very deliberately, and felicitously, when it came to defining how the Media was employed. Gens simply had to be “programmed” into a particular worldview and moral vocabulary. (Victor preferred the term “modeling” in place of “programming” since it more accurately represented the actual goal of Sem Media managers in that in the shows they ran they were subtly and not so subtly modeling despicable behavior as acceptable behavior to the listening or viewing Gen audience. The actual goal of such modeling was of course to destroy the Gen family and societal structure.) In particular, Gens had to be taught the “moral vocabulary” of the Sem ruling elite, i.e., that the very worst one can be called is an anti-Sem, a Nasi-lover, or an Itlerophile, and that Sems can only be victims--never the perpetrators of a crime—and that Sems were a chosen, select, Master Race and highly intelligent (and therefore that it was only right that they people literally all of the significant positions of administrative power in North Atlantica). This is what virtually all Sems sincerely believed and it had to be relentlessly inculcated into the puny minds of Gens as well. Conversely, Gens had to be indoctrinated into believing that they are subhuman, that their lives are meaningless (unless their lives are spent advancing Sem goals), and that they are incapable of taking care of their own best interests. Indoctrinating Gens into their status as subhumans was actually quite easy. To give just a couple of examples, there were television shows such as “The Paury Movich Show,” MC’d by a Sem, who regularly humiliated, for example, poor, uneducated, and promiscuous single Black women who were desperately hoping to find the father of one of their many offspring (via DNA testing); sadly, at the end of the show when the DNA results were revealed and when the (typically) Black father learned he actually was the biological father he would ordinarily shun any responsibility for his children; or, on the other hand, if he was found not to be the biological father he would cheer and celebrate this fact on national tv in front of the humiliated single-mother and her bewildered, teary-eyed and broken child. To cite another example, there was the tv show “Serry Jinger;” here, on national tv as well, he would often humiliate “White trash” or “Black trash” couples for sexual promiscuity (even though, initially, these couples claimed to be a purported monogamous relationship). Jinger, too, was a Sem. The pathetic Gen audience would chant “Serry, Serry” when there was the inevitable televised fist fight between jilted, humiliated, petty, and vindictive Gen lovers. The real message of Serry Jinger was all too clear to see: absolutely any form of black or white depravity and debasement was in fact acceptable and only a closed-minded prude would see it any other way. It was all so pathetic—especially the behavior of the goading Gen audience. As a famous circus owner once accurately declared: “You can never underestimate the stupidity of the Gen race!!!”—and he was oh so right!!! Of course both Porry and Serry studiously excluded Sem couples from their programs.
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As noted, in the war on terrorism it was decided to confine local populations to Strategic Settlements. That way, anyone found out and about after curfew (midnight to 6 in the morning) could legally be summarily shot—no questions asked. Of course ostensibly it was done for the protection of Gens, and—like morose, caged, cattle in a slaughterhouse—they all acquiesced. Each Strategic Settlement had one gate, facing the main street, staffed by guerilla-faced Gen soldiers, guns at the ready, to shoot their fellow Gens should they be found to be tardy, to disobey, or be without a “tag.”
The soldiers who guarded and patrolled the Settlement had as their job to make certain everyone flashed “safe” as they exited or entered the Settlement. Everyone in North Atlantica was injected with a tiny spychip, about the size of a grain of rice, so that literally all of their movements could be monitored all the time. These spychips initially were given to children, people in the military, and lawbreakers, but eventually it became mandatory for everyone to receive it at birth. Posts and cloaked posts (e.g., stoplights, lamp posts, switch boxes, cell phones…etc.) were set up throughout North Atlantica so that everyone’s movement at every given moment was run through massive computers and registered. When passing by a “reading post” a signal pulse would be sent out and activate a return, passive, echo signal from the spychip. The purpose, per usual, was twofold: on the one hand it was to track who was associating with whom so when a terrorist was uncovered it was easy to identify and locate who the terrorist associated with so the associates could be eliminated as well, and, second, it was to keep the Gen public in line. The Gens all lived in constant fear that they would be, even unintentionally, discovered to be an accomplice to a wrong-doer or, even worse, a political thought criminal. Needless to say, no one dared to overtly criticize the status quo. In fact, if as one left the Strategic Settlement one’s spychip did not flash “safe,” either because of a malfunction or injury to the site where the spychip was placed, or whatever, one was summarily shot, on site, by the soldiers who guarded the gate. This all of course contributed to the level of fear and paranoia that suffused North Atlantican society.
In the distance Victor could see the tall white pyramid of the Ministry of Truth, MiniTru. Its white façade glistened in the sunlight along with the three paradoxical dicta of North Atlantica, concerning War, Slavery, and Ignorance, inscribed on its walls. Below, in its shadow, stood the by now ancient and gutted Cathedral of St. Saul. Ever since Jesu had been condemned, post mortum, as anti-Sem, all other related institutions such as the Universal Church and Christianity had been outlawed as well. It was now a capital offense to publicly profess to be a Christian, a member of a traditional church, or a believer in the universal brotherhood of humankind. This all reminded Victor of a similar fact from old Soviet history. Upon assuming power the first law passed, oddly or not so oddly, by the Sem dominated Bolshevik party was to make anti-Sem acts a capital offense, punishable by death. Perhaps this had something to do with the fact that the Bolshevik leadership was almost all Sem (“Judeo-Communism” it was called at the time), and even the figurehead leaders such as Lennin and Stalin had Sem wives, so legislating against anti-Sem behavior was part and parcel of a broader strategy to conflate anti-Semism with state treason. This same strategy was employed today in the North Atlantican Media. Everyone now has forgotten—or been taught to forget--the fact that millions more Gens were murdered by the Soviet Sem State Police then Sems were murdered under the universally despised Gen, Adolf Itler (who, in fact, was actually a crypto-Sem, curiously enough). That was all most conveniently (for Sems) kept out of the Media in North Atlantica. As a matter of Media policy, Sems have only been, and can only be, the victims of Gen hate-crimes; Gens, on the other hand, have never suffered at the hands of Sems, either individually or collectively, nor can they. Such a notion was unthinkable. Simply put: Gens hate, Sems suffer being hated and therefore need to be coddled and protected by both well-indoctrinated Gens and the State—end of story.
On this score, no event in modern history was equivalent to the heinous crime of the Shoahcaust—the reported slaughter of six million Sems by blood-thirsty and maniacal Germanians mesmerized by Itlerian hate over half a century ago. It was an act of unimpeachable evil and, Sems believed, had no equivalent in any other cultural or historical period. It was sui generis. Victor firmly believed this too. If Victor every had a moment of heart-felt empathy for the Gens, he always reminded himself of the Crime of the Ages—the Shoahcaust—and it immediately helped him to harden his heart against the Gens. The Gens were, in fact, human cattle—emotionally blown about by the wind and their Media masters--and without the right indoctrination they could turn on Semdom and all it stood for. That had to be avoided at all costs, so every precaution was taken in the Media to prohibit that eventuality.
Still, with all that said, Victor was willing to grudgingly admit that the Sems did not always play fair with their enemies, especially in the matter of religion. For example, on the matter of religion, it just didn’t do to have ancient Sem High Priests employ the state to have an innocent man condemned to death and crucified and then have modern Sems employ the modern state to condemn the institutions that arose from that innocent man’s death. It smacked too much of a continuity of evil and it made Victor a little queasy—a shared page from the same playbook. True, Jesu was anti-Sem: he roundly condemned the Sem ruling elite in the New Testament, and Victor was now, two millennia later, a part of that elite. But, curiously, when modern Gens were given the choice between choosing to follow their God (at one point the Gens believed Jesu was the Son of God) and his teachings concerning the universal brotherhood of man, or being accused of harboring anti-Sem feelings by sticking to their humanitarian God, in pavlovian, knee-jerk fashion the sheeple chose to condemn their God and embrace Semism. Of course some Gens were confused by the fact that Jesu was from a Sem family and was reportedly a Sem himself. Why would a Sem condemn his own people? But then, to the Select, it was pointed out that Jesu was never really a true Sem: he was never bar mitzvahed (on the contrary, he bar mitzvah’d the rabbis who he interrogated when he was a mere boy of 12) so he never is recorded as becoming a full member of the Tribe. At the age of 12, when he should have undergone bar mitzvah, Jesu instead taught the rabbis—they did not teach him. On top of that, Jesu routinely criticized the Semish Sadducees and Pharasees and the Semish High Priesthood in the Gospels. Unquestionably were Jesu alive today, he would be routinely condemned as being and anti-Sem and would be condemned to a horrible death a second time. Curiously, the Semish High Priesthood did not move against Jesu until he threatened their purse—when He scourged and threw the Semish moneychangers from the Temple in Semruslahem. Once Jesu did that, his time on this earth was marked to be brought to a horrible end. So in spite of the fact that both of his parents were Sem, and for centuries everyone thought Jesu was a Sem (he was even called “rabbi”, or “teacher” by his followers), it turned out he wasn’t a Sem after all—or at least that was the official North Atlantican line.
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The tram continued down Summit Avenue and curved in a “U” around the destroyed Cathedral onto Syndicate Avenue as it led up to MiniTru. In a few minutes Victor would be at the Ministry.
It being a Sunday according to the ancient calendar, some elderly folks, out of habit, still ventured to the Cathedral. It had been called the Cathedral of St. Paul but when Christianity was outlawed and censured on Farbglasnacht it was gutted and renamed the Cathedral of St. Saul. On that fateful night a year ago a Gen priest and assassin, a young man named Greenspan, assassinated a Sem diplomat in Europe, Ernest Von Wrath. This triggered a Sem backlash against Gens and the Church. Taking full advantage of this opportunity (or having incited it), Sem Media fanned the flames of hatred towards Christian clerics and, as a result, stained glass windows adorning cathedrals and churches throughout North Atlantica were shattered, clerics were rounded up, arrested, and placed in concentration camps, and Christianity outlawed. Everyone expected the clerics to be burned at the stake in a gigantic auto da fe addressed to the greater glory of the Sem state this coming Easter. Today when entering the roofless and charred Cathedral, instead of bowing your head and performing the sign of the cross after dipping your hand in holy water, a new practice had been promulgated. A la the covert medieval initiation ritual for joining the wayward Knights Templar, now a crucifix was fastened above the water basin at the entrance to the Cathedral, and when one entered the vestibule one would spit on the crucifix so that the saliva, as it drizzled down, would be caught in what had been the holy water basin. One would make the, what would have been considered sacrilegious a mere year earlier, anti-Sign of the Cross. No one seemed to be particularly bothered by this inversion of ritual, or if they were, they didn’t dare show it.
Chapter Five
The tram, now empty, pulled up to the Ministry of Truth where Victor Volk worked. The streets around the towering pyramid were all cordoned off so one had to walk the final three blocks through a maze of barbed wire fences and pill box entrenchments to get to the entrance. In the courtyard in front of the Ministry a brigade of young, in shape, crew cut Gen soldiers were marching in lockstep with their row upon row of polished helmets glistening in the sun.
The Sem attitude towards Gen soldiers was veiled universal contempt, and neatly summarized by the grandfather of North Atlantican foreign policy, Henri Kissoff: “Military men are just dumb, stupid, animals to be used as pawns in foreign policy.” Victor shared Kissoff’s view. Why have Sems fight their own battles when they can get literally millions of stupid Gen “grunts” to kill fellow Gens “grunts” who, because of an accident of birth, were born on the opposite side of an arbitrary, imaginary border. There was a reason soldiers were called “G.I.s” by the ruling establishment, and it wasn’t so much because they were so-called “General Issue” thoughtless, zombie, killing machines as much as because they were all, to a man, in the eyes of Sems, human shit—“Gastro-Intestinal” excrement, i.e., “grunts.” Of course to their face soldiers were publicly honored for their “service” to the country (actually, service to the ruling elite), and flags and banners were hung and military bands played patriotic tunes on Independence Day [sic], Veterans Day and Memorial Day, but it was all for show. The ruling Sem elite depended on the pavlovian loyalty of the military to intimidate, threaten, and quash their, the Tribe’s, enemies—both foreign and, especially, domestic.
Victor showed his ID card to the captain on duty, was wanded for his spychip, and then went inside for further verification. Of course he had to walk through a body scanner, have his retina scanned, and do a fingerprint match. He still wondered why they did the body scan. Everyone in the Ministry knew that it was a sham—at airports it was employed to further create an atmosphere of terrorist-phobia in passengers as they stood in line taking off their shoes and belts, but it was all done in the name of protecting the public of course. In the public’s mind terrorists were everywhere planning to destroy airlines and kill hundreds of innocent civilians all in their bizarre wish to foment terrorism throughout North Atlantica. Victor knew the facts were just the opposite.
For example, Am Pan Flight 103 which blew up over Scotland was obviously a SUCCOCK (SUCk on our collective COCK) operation, run out of Semusalem, Eretz, in the Middle East. (SUCCOCK itself was reportedly named after a mountain range in central Eretz where ancient Sems took their lives rather than be captured by Gen legionnaires.) The motto of this feared police organization, which had infiltrators and operatives in the very highest ranks of all North Atlantican national security organizations, was “Through hypocrisy, wage war.” In fact it was a SUCCOCK agent (not surprisingly) who tagged a North African country, Libya, as responsible for the bombing of Flight 103 and the Media dutifully, like a fine-tuned and well oiled racing machine, ran with it when in fact that Arab country had absolutely nothing to do with the explosion. Of course all Gens believed it was yet another terrorist attack in the catalogue of Mohammedan attacks on the West, but the facts pointed elsewhere.
What gave the destruction of Flight 103 away as a False Flag Eretz operation is the fact that the flight was going form London to NYC. Curiously, initial reports said that not a single Sem (out of the 270 who died) was on board the flight (odd considering it was going to NYC)—all the dead were Gens, including dozens of children. Only later was this account recanted when it was discovered an AssimaSem young woman died in the explosion (apparently she did not order cosher food or she would have been warned off of taking that flight). The other thing all Gens forget is that Eretz Israel was in the middle of a ferocious invasion of Lebnon at that very time, and the Sem state was getting terrible publicity—Eretz was looking more like a jackbooted thug than a nation of victims so something had to be done to divert the negative publicity and mounting negative public opinion pressure on Eretz. Thankfully, for Eretz, immediately after the bombing took place, all attention was redirected from the Middle East and Eretz’s invasion of Lebnon to the airplane disaster over Scotland and the need to combat Middle Eastern terrorism—and Philastinians. The fact that the Sem controlled Media immediately did, on this queue, an about-face and focused on Flight 103 solely and completely ignored the Sem invasion of Lebnon also revealed this whole switcheroo to have been orchestrated.
Of course Tripli had absolutely nothing to gain by bombing a civilian plane, especially at that particular moment, given the heat Eretz was under internationally, but for its part Eretz benefited tremendously from the deaths of those unfortunate 270 as coverage of Eretz atrocities against Gen civilians dropped from the Western Media’s radar screen immediately. Victor had a hard time not laughing at the tearful faces of Gen families when they appeared on t.v. to vent their misdirected hate at Mohammedean “terrorists” for the tragedy of Am Pan Flight 103—but, then again, they were Gens—sheeple--after all. Their lives, and the lives of their children, amounted to less than nothing.
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In his darker moments, Victor came to wonder whether terrorists exited at all—besides state sanctioned and sponsored terrorists, of course. The word “terrorist” conjured up the notion that some evil mastermind or group of like-minded evil-doers were intent on mindlessly, and without motive, frightening and terrorizing innocents, when all of the purported real “terrorists” he knew of actually had a political or religious agenda and that to claim they were “terrorists” was just a red herring so the Media and the national security state did not have to address the root causes of socio-political disenfranchisement or religious alienation. As with the umbrella term, El Kinder, a phrase that evoked turbaned Mohammedeans masterminding a gigantic, monolithic, conspiratorial, global plot to threaten the “North Atlantican way of life”—whatever that was—the reality was that there were scores of indigenous, discrete, unconnected, anti-colonialist, freedom movements that were all tarred with the brush of being El Kinder affiliates when no such unity, bond, or common conspiratorial agenda existed. It was all part of Sem Media fear-mongering, but the commoners, the Gens, all believed it. “A lie, repeated often enough, becomes the Truth,” and the Sems knew this better than anyone.
On the other hand, were anyone so bold as to accuse the Temple of in fact being an “El Kinder” organization with its truly gigantic, genocidal, monolithic, conspiratorial plot to rule the world, they would have been shot on the spot without further ado. Nothing could defeat invincible Eretz, nothing, and it was foolish to even speculate more about it. There was word, however, hushed words, that a real sort of Al Kinder existed, an organization that had the courage to stand up to Big Sam: it was called The Bruderschaft. Reportedly it had the intelligence and means, not necessarily to stymie Big Sam, but to check him, embarrass him, even if only occasionally. But did it truly exist?—that was the question. Did it truly exist or was it just another police state invention to tease out would-be malcontents so that they would appear on the “radar screen,” so to speak.
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Victor made his way to the elevators, and pushed the button for the fifth floor, where his office was located. After navigating a labyrinth of corridors he finally made it to his small, doorless office. In it stood a desk, a wooden armchair, a computer, some file cabinets, some old and unused pneumatic tubes (for interoffice paper communication), a wastebasket, and a radio (to monitor him). He sat behind the desk and fired up his computer (also to monitor him).
The reason he was particularly interested in coming into the office today was to decide what to do with a book he had been mulling over: Hamlet-Christ, by Odysseus Er. “Odysseus Er” was obviously a pseudonym—and a very clever one at that (Victor, because of his background in ancient Greek philosophy, picked up on that immediately). Should it be sent down the memory hole and forever destroyed or be kept in public circulation? On the one hand, it was in fact the definitive interpretation of Shake-speare’s Hamlet: Hamlet was a vengeful Sem in the first four acts only later, in the last act, to convert and become a forgiving Christian. Hamlet, too, was a Christ-figure himself. It was a very layered and very complex interpretation of Hamlet, but most important--it was true. On the other hand, it portrayed Sems in a very unfavorable light—they were vengeful, power-hungry, litigious, conspiratorial, murderous, financially self-aggrandizing…etc., and that was impermissible, even as subtext. Not only that, Er correctly identified the 17th Earl of Oxford, Edward de Vere, as the true Shake-speare. The Gens all believed that it was an up-from-the-bootstraps commoner who composed the Shake-spearean corpus, because it flattered them to believe that an uneducated villager could compose such works of verbal mastery.
The fact of the matter was, as Er pointed out, William Shakespeare of Stratford was a front for the Earl and that neither of William’s parents could read nor write nor could any of William’s own children. Rather odd that the greatest English playwright would not teach his own children how to read or write. William’s own extant signatures are all barely legible and spelled differently and not a single manuscript, out of hundreds and hundreds of pages originally purportedly written from his own hand, exists. Most convenient and most curious. No need to destroy Shakespeare’s originals because they don’t exit in the first place. But Hamlet-Christ would have to be deleted, along with another book of Odysseus Er’s, Paradigm Shift: Shake-speare. When what is true was contrary to Sem interests, truth suffered. And with the touch of a finger—“poof!”--it was done.
Victor’s mind was wandering. All this cover-up, fraud, and lying to the public reminded him, backhandedly, of Mohatma Gandhi’s famous belief in “Truth-force,” in Satyagraha. Gandhi believed that peaceful non-violence and Truth will ultimately always win in the long course of history—“all facts to the contrary,” Victor thought to himself.
“There should be a cognitive counterpart to Satyagraha—Vitathagraha!, ‘False-force!,’” mused Victor. “Yin has its Yang, Up has its Down, Right has its Wrong, and Truth is counterbalanced by Falsity!” Victor mused. “To believe in Truth without Falsity is to believe one can hear the sound of one hand clapping. In fact, not only does one need falsity to compliment truth—falsity is more important than truth! As Goebbels famously declared, ‘History is written by the victors,’” and, as much as Victor did not like agreeing with a Nasi, Goebbels was right. Granted, a single voice of truth could be heard, but amongst the cacophony and din of the chorus of Media mis-truth only the most discerning, critical, and astute could distinguish that single voice.
This all set Victor’s mind to free associating again: “The majority is always wrong!”, “History is an agreed upon set of lies!”, “It’s not what you believe is true that gets you into trouble but what you think you know for certain is true—but which is really false--that trips you up!.” On the one hand, “In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies,” but then on the other, “The first casualty of war is Truth.” “Mendacity and lies, lies and mendacity…Big Daddy, Big Sam…” Victor murmured. Some times Victor’s head got so jumbled up with his work that he thought he might go insane.
“What is right? What is wrong? Did it matter? Duh! Of course not!!! What matters is the welfare of the Tribe—‘Israel Ueber Alles!’” Victor’s head began to clear. He often thought in quotes, pithy quotes, because they could say in his mind what he was afraid to say out loud, and saying it in a quote distanced him from the truth of what he said. After all, succinct quotes were attributable to someone else, not something he himself had came up with. All of this of course brought Victor to a conundrum that he had been avoiding for weeks. He refocused him mind. “I need to center myself,” he whispered.
There was another text that Victor had postponed making a decision on for months—The Wannsee Protocal. This was a far more tangled administrative riddle. On the one hand it was universally known for the famous phrase, “The Final Solution (Die Endlösung),” which purportedly euphemistically described the Nasi plan to exterminate all of European Jewry. This was a core belief in Sem propaganda regarding the Shoahcaust. After scouring millions of pages of Nazi documents Sem scholars could not discover any overt, explicit plan to murder all the Jews of Europe, so they fell back on manufacturing the authorization in the otherwise insignificant document The Wannsee Protocal. The problem was that if one actually read The Wannsee Protocal one quickly discovers that the phrase “The Final Solution” refers to relocating Sems, alive, to the then Soviet Union. This simply would not do. The text was in relatively wide paper circulation (thankfully, not many read it very carefully), so simply redacting the text was impossible. Victor might have to seek higher authority to adjudicate this one—something supervisors did not like to have to do. “Some other day,” Victor thought to himself. But he could not continue to keep putting this off for long.
Victor turned off the computer, slid off his shoes, and rested his feet on the desk. He noticed that someone had left a white handkerchief outside his desk by an old, unused printer. “Odd”, he thought, he hadn’t notice that before.
Then, looking at the printer, Victor was reminded that it’s been ages since he actually felt paper in his hands. Victor was a bibliophile who loved the feel of paper as he read. Computers strained his eyes and, besides, everything on every computer—be it a desktop, laptop, or pocket computer—was run through PROMISE or ECHELONE, software programs that culled from zillions of gigabites of data anything even remotely incriminating on any Sem or Gen in North Atlantica. This was done both by the FIB, the ICA, and the ANS. Strictly speaking, only the FIB was supposed to engage in domestic spying, but with the onset of the War on Terrorism decades ago that line had been permanently erased. Now police and spying agencies duplicated and triplicated efforts—after all, the billions upon billions of dollars earmarked for national security had to be spent somewhere, and this was easily justified given the rampant paranoia spread by these very same agencies.
While the sense of paranoia that permeated North Atlantican society was organized top-down, Sems themselves were not completely immune or completely safe from investigation or possible elimination if they strayed to far from the fold. Victor glanced at his radio. Yes, it was on and a voice was reciting the over-fulfillment of the latest 4 year plan of pig iron production for armaments, as well as the latest “adjustment” (read: reduction) in the production of foodstuffs for Gens. But one could not be absolutely certain that one was not being listened to at the same time nor that through the radio one’s spychip was not being monitored for movement. Still, while Victor loved the idea of writing something for himself, clandestinely--PROMISE, Spychips, the Thought Police, and Big Sam be damned—he was not so foolish as to do so.
Victor got up, walked back down the windowless corridors, reached the elevators, pushed the ‘down’ button, and left.
Chapter Six
Victor called for a limousine from the lobby of the Ministry and within two minutes it was there. A young sheeple chauffeur greeted Victor with a hearty “Baa, baa”, and Victor pointed on a map where he wanted to be taken.
On the last Sunday of the month the 11/9 dissident group met over by the university campus. While it was not required that Victor monitor dissident discussion groups, the Tribe strongly encouraged it. Victor was intrigued by the whole 11/9 event, in particular by what caused parrot-ple to ‘flip’ and become critics of North Atlantican society instead of slavish adherents to it. The psychology of dissent fascinated him and, while it was his job to stamp out and stymie any would-be dissidents, he still took pleasure in seeing the scales fall from the eyes of once law-abiding sheeple only later to be intimidated and silenced by the state.
Victor had the driver drop him off a block from Jehad, a Philistinian café specially chosen for the meetings to give the 11/9 group the appearance of also being sympathetic to the Philistinian cause. Dissident thought took on very familiar channels and once someone began to question the veracity of Semdom and the Media’s fawning portrayal of Sem and Eretz behavior, a whole domino-effect of crashing belief systems came tumbling down in its wake. Victor flipped the driver some cash, and walked the remaining distance to the café so as not to call attention to the fact that he was an agent provocateur.
The Café was actually owned by some transplanted Philistinians, and Victor ordered a gyro, some fries, and a cola, and entered the adjacent meeting room. In it was the usual hodge-podge of fellow Sems in dissident garb all pretending to be rough-and-tumble refusniks. Victor knew better than to acknowledge any of his fellow Tribesmen. He took a chair in the back.
While the 11/9 group was founded by a Gen architect who uncovered the transparent and gross falsities of the standard Media narrative of the 11/9 disaster, virtually all of the local chapters (and much of the administrative help) were composed of Sems, crypto-Sems, or FIB agents. Sems learned long ago that it was impossible always to stamp out dissident groups so it was better to let them develop so dissidents would appear on the “radar screen,” so to speak, and wouldn’t go underground. This way, troublemakers could be monitored and, when necessary, disabled or disposed of. Besides, true to form, Sems knew that all grass roots organizations can be infiltrated and imploded—they’ve done it hundreds of times. That was their modus operandi. Draw out the dissidents and then WAMM, figuratively kick a would-be dissident in the solar plexus and slam the coffin door shut on him or her.
Some more Sems trickled in, along with a couple of undercover FIB agents. So far, everyone knew everyone else. Finally, some new blood. In walked a newbie. He was a skinny, nervous, chain smoking young man obviously anxious. “Fresh meat,” Victor said to himself.
The meeting began innocuously enough with the secretary taking roll call and then reading the minutes from the last meeting. Then, she asked for any new attendees to introduce themselves. The new guy slowly stood up.
“My name is Thomas, D. Thomas,” he began, “this is the first time I’ve attended this group.”
“We are happy to have you come!” the secretary said soothingly. “What brought you here today?” she asked.
“Well,” he began, “I’ve been studying the standard account of what happened on 11/9, and it just doesn’t add up. There are too many coincidences, too many.”
“Like what?” someone chimed in.
“It’s just odd how things happened that day. The air force just happened to have a drill that morning that drew fighter jets away from New York and Washington D.C., none of the hijacked planes was ever intercepted, we are told, by fighters even though the East Coast is one of the most regularly patrolled and highly guarded areas of North Atlantica, the Towers collapsed in a free fall a mere hour after they were hit (this in spite of the fact that never has a steel structure ever been recorded as collapsing because of fire), and then there is Building 7…” he went on.
“Tell me more,” the secretary admonished.
“Well there is the statement by Eretz Prime Minister, Ben Nyetandyahoo, ‘11/9 was the best thing that ever happened for Eretz.’ Why would he say that? Eretz is supposed to be our friend and yet this guy is celebrating our tragedy.” D. Thomas paused. “But now that I look at it, Eretz is the country that, hands down, most directly benefited from 11/9—as a result of 11/9 we gave them more military and economic aid, strengthened our alliance with them and shunned ties with Arab states, fought a proxy war on Israel’s behalf, Iraqistan being formerly an anti-Eretz state, and began the shift from a Cold War ideology to a domestic War on Terrorism ideology, with its unending demands on our blood and coin and no clear definition of victory, just endless indecisive war. It’s just crazy. Just plain crazy!!!”
“Well, let’s not forget that the terrorists were Arabs.” Someone tried to correct him.
“But do we even know that? Yes, the Media trumpeted right after the attack that they were mostly Saudi citizens but then it turned out that half the men listed as responsible for flying the planes on 11/9 were still living, after the attack, in Saudi Arabia. And then let’s not forget that the reported ‘brains’ of 11/9 were renting an apartment from a Middle Eastern guy who turned out to be a FIB informant! Are you going to tell me that that apartment wasn’t bugged and monitored up the wazoo?! Hell no!!! The FIB even admitted as much. The FIB or some very powerful people in government or intelligence knew exactly what was coming down the pike and they either got out of the way or, more likely, made certain that 11/9 was successful!!! Heck, Bin Baden, the reported ultimate mastermind of 11/9, isn’t even listed on the FIB 10 Most Wanted List as the person responsible for 11/9!!!” Here, D. Thomas took a breath.
“Well, we are happy to have you join our group,” the secretary interjected, “and we look forward to having you share your ideas with us. Thank you for your introduction. Now, we must turn to some business at hand, we have a speaker coming to talk on the Arab connection to 11/9, and we have to find volunteers to help us organize the event…” and she rattled on.
Victor knew that besides giving enough rope to would-be dissidents so they might hang themselves, another tact was to side-track a real, honest and forthright critique of 11/9 by shifting the conversation away from Sems, Eretz, and state intelligence-terrorism to more acceptable enemies like Arabs, Mohammedeans, and Philistinians. A break in the meeting was coming up shortly, and on cue D. Thomas would be approached by a crypto-Sem who would ‘befriend’ him and eventually try to tease from him a call to overthrow the North Atlantican government—ideally by employing violence. This would take time, and Sems were in no hurry to rush things. Just let things percolate and eventually, in the right circumstances and with the right goading—gotch’ya! Sems were not just expert conspiracists, they were expert agent provocateurs as well.
“I give him 5 months.” Victor thought to himself. “Then he’ll be in a federal prison doing hard time for being a violent political radical—an anarchist typically. Another one bites the dust….” And with that, Victor left.
Chapter Seven
The second Sunday in Advent came and went, and Victor was back at work on Monday. Victor had still not decided what to do about The Wannsee Protocal. He wanted to make a decision on this before the end of the year in order to clear his desk, but he was in a no-win situation. To have the phrase “The Final Solution” excised from The Protocal would cause an uproar and undue attention and some might begin to question the veracity of Shoahcaust literature or scholarship. To leave the phrase in, on the other hand, was a glaring falsification of accepted Establishment history. Once again he decided to bide his time. He spent his morning re-editing Times newspaper articles so that any remaining favorable references to anti-Sems from the 1920s and 30s was deleted from the official state library database.
This wasn’t necessarily an easy task, for there were always obscure texts that hardly anyone read that still had passing references to Sem perfidy and duplicity. For example, it would surprise most semi-intelligent folks that in the ancient world it was the intellectuals who were most anti-Sem, not the ignorant masses (as was the view propagated in the Media today). According to the standard North Atlantican Media line, all anti-Sems were moronic, racist, fascist, authoritarian types who deserved to be shunned, damned, show tried and executed. Part of this had to do with the fact that Sems dominated and controlled the Media and would simply not permit an unfavorable portrayal of them on the air or in print. Part of it had to do with the fact that North Atlantican Sem society was itself in fact moronic, racist, fascist, and run by authoritarians, so it was felt that the best tact was to damn the enemies of the state with labels that would most properly apply to the existing status quo. “He who throws the inflammatory accusation at his enemy first has the high ground in any debate,” as the old saw went, and Sems were expert in labeling their enemies with pejorative epithets first and then damning them for having those (falsely) assigned epithets. “Give a Nasi a bad name and then hang him for it,” Victor thought.
Of course some of the greatest minds in history were anti-Sem: from the god-like humanitarian, Jesu, who despised the Sem ruling establishment in ancient Eretz, to the apostate Sem, B’ruch Spinoa, who famously declared, “The Sems worship a God of hate,” to the great Christian reformation leader, Luther Martin who composed The Sems and Their Lies very shortly before he abruptly, and some might say “suspiciously,” died, to the greatest English writer of all time, William Shake-speare (Edward de Vere), to the forward thinking apostate Sem philosopher, Marl Karx, who correctly predicted the Sem expropriation of wealth from the Gen underclass in his Manifesto and who was one of the first to posit “The Semish Question,” i.e., what is an open society to do with an acquisitive conspiratorial underclass bent on covertly destroying the society in which they find themselves and at the same time enrich their pockets?, to the profound composer and front-line refugee for democracy, Rick Wagner, to the industrial genius Enri Forde…and so on. These were all men of genius, and they all despised Sems, or at least the Sem ideology. No, it did a disservice to history to damn all anti-Sems as moronic and uneducated bumpkins when the exact opposite was often the case—these Gens and apostate Sems were all men of brave thoughts and fearless action, and it did chaff Victor to be relentlessly employed to refashion Truth into falsehood.
________________________________________________________
Victor debated what to do for lunch. Finally he decided around noon to go to the cafeteria and see some of his colleagues from the Ministry. He queued up in the cafeteria line and selected a bagel and lox for lunch, to be washed down with a gin and tonic. Victor needed to lose weight, and he thought a light lunch like this would help him lose the 20 extra pounds he needed to shed. As for the gin and tonic, Sems generally frowned on alcohol—booze and street drugs were for the Gens—but he did like the faint buzz it gave him in the afternoon and, besides, he was an AssimaSem, after all, he reminded himself (as though he needed a rationalization for his intoxication). He took his tray and made his way to the back wall where his associates usually hung out. First there were the OrthoSems, David and his son, Solomon—both men had a penchant for women and cars; David, for his part, while he enjoyed seducing women, he had a particular fondness for married women. He enjoyed breaking up their families, thanks to his paramour’s spousal infidelity. Solomon, on the other hand, in spite of giving generously to the local Temple, toyed with idolatry and was heavily involved in organizing a Freimason chapter at the Ministry along with his duller bulb sidekick, Hiram (who wasn’t there today). Curiously, given David and Solomon’s infidelities, they were assigned to the Ministry of Truth/Department of Marriage Statistics/Subunit Sem Racial Purity. Jacob, an ultra OrthoSem, was the most hypocritical of the lot. While lying was permissible—even encouraged--towards Gens by invoking the principle of Coal Nidre, Jacob was pathological and even lied to his fellow Sems—Ortho- and AssimaSem alike. He even cheated his elder brother out of his inheritance from their father, and he was one of the first OrthoSems to begin the practice of changing his original name to make him more adept at social climbing. In short, Jacob was a complete scumbag. “He would go far,” Victor thought. Jacob worked in the Gen Control Unit, which was responsible for wide-ranging and all manner of Gen de-population control from adding fluoride (a low-grade radioactive substance that reduced the sperm count in Gens) to the water supply under the guise of preventing Gens from getting dental cavities, to fostering the pervasive atmosphere of paranoia among and between Gens, to efficient and productive ways to dispose of Gens—alive and dead.
Finally, sitting at the table was Judas, also an AssimaSem, who was always on the outlook for anti-Sem conspiracies (leave it so some AssimaSems to be even more strident and righteous than their OrthoSem brothers), and a new woman Victor had never seen before. Judas was quick to introduce her.
“This is my sister, Victor. Salome, this is my coworker and best friend in Archives, Victor Volk.”
“I am very pleased to meet you—Salome—your brother said your name was?” Victor smiled. “Yes, she was pretty,” Victor thought to himself.
Victor glanced at her. She was a somewhat medium height brunette with long, full, luxurious hair, had a ready smile, and an average sized chest that just peaked out over the black lacy brazier under her white blouse. He could see her firm nipples as they pressed tightly against her blouse. Salome had a narrow waist and moderate hips nicely fitted to the blue pants she wore—in short, she was what Victor fantasized about when he imagined doing it with a completely uninhibited SemGirl. She couldn’t have been more that 25 years old at that.
“Yes. I just got an entry-level position as a film editor in PornSec.” She replied. PornSec was a subsection of GenFeed, the umbrella term for mindless Gen entertainment of all sorts. PornSec was where the most graphic and repetitive sex films were produced. As with everything else in the Media, Sems dominated the production side of PornSec. While it did not demand much imagination to crank out dozens and dozens of these films, it did offer hope to young Sems that they could eventually graduate to full length death bang films or do news shorts for the “30 Minutes Hate”—otherwise know as the national evening broadcast news. The latest fashion in PornSec was snuff films. Typically a runaway Gen girl or prostitute from the streets would be picked up by the police sex crimes unit and delivered to a warehouse converted to a sound stage where her gang rape would be filmed. Then, after drugging the girl and doing the most abominable sex acts imaginable to her, she would be snuffed—killed—usually at the moment of male gang-sex climax. It seemed as though there was an endless stream of blond girl victims from the Midwest to feed this latest sex film trend. “It pays the rent.” Salome volunteered.
“Have you seen the latest version of North Atlantican dictionary?” Judas asked, “It’s just been released, Victor, the Twelfth Edition and it still maintains the Sheeple/Parrot-ple dichotomy. I think you owe me, yes? It looks like we’ll have parot-ple with us for at least a few more years!”
There had been widespread debate within the linguistic community as to if, and when, the growing false distinction between Sheeple and Parrot-ple would finally be discarded. Victor bet that the newest edition would finally do away with it, but—apparently—he was wrong. For their time, Parrot-ple served a useful function of parroting and regurgitating in the Media the Sem party line on all issues. They were the Gen talking heads, the so-called Gen “intellectuals,” that appeared on radio and tv to embrace and advocate Sem causes to the Gen masses. While everyone at the table agreed Parrot-ple were as dumb as a doorknob and served a useful propaganda function for the state, the standard concern with them was that since they did have a larger vocabulary and a rudimentary capacity for thought that they could “flip.” In other words, that they could apply the principle of non-contradiction to what was put in front of them to espouse and come to see the double standard and hypocrisy of their ways. To date, such minor embarrassments only happened on rare occasions and the culprits were sent to mental health re-education centers for mental cleansing or quietly killed—but the danger did exist.
“I’ll believe it when I see it myself.” Victor replied.
“I agree with Victor,” Jacob asserted. “I still believe parrot-ple are a danger and that only when both Sheeple and Parrot-ple are reduced to absolute silence—to no vocabulary and, relatedly, to no mental concepts with which to even image treasonous thoughts—only then will Semdom be absolutely secure. Eliminate words and you eliminate concepts so that eventually, with no word for ‘rebellion,’ you eliminate even the theoretical possibility of rebellion. Besides, the bottom line is that Sheeple are animals. It is a violation of natural law to make them into something they cannot be—human.”
The table all concurred with Jacob, and there was a moment of uncomfortable silence before Victor chimed in, “Say, Judas, do you know what day it is today?”
“Oh, great, we get to learn something new from Archives!” chimed in Solomon.
“Yesterday’s news,” said David dismissively.
“I’d like to hear,” said Salome.
“December 7th—Gregorian--is today,” said Victor.
“’A date that will live in infamy!’” replied Judas, triumphantly.
“The real ‘infamy’ was RFD’s deliberately misleading the public about the Oyster Harbor attack,” replied Victor. “He claimed it was a completely ‘unprovoked’ attack on the naval station in Animal Farm/Hawaii, when the fact of the matter was that earlier RDF cut off all oil shipments to Nippon forcing them to seize the oil fields throughout South East Asia or face completely abandoning their empire, their newly constructed Greater East Asia Co-prosperity Sphere. What most North Atlanticans forget is that on December 7th the Nipponese not only attacked Oyster Harbor, they—predictably—also on that day invaded Vietnam, the Philippines, Vietnam, Borneo, and Singapore. The attack on South East Asia was to seize the oil fields there and the attack on Oyster Harbor was to knock out the only significant naval opposition to their plans—and all this happened on December 7th. “
“And RDF knew about this?” Salome asked.
“Of course RDF knew about this. In fact he orchestrated it. He and Illchurch conspired together to shock the United States and bring it into the war on the side of the English Empire and the Allies. You have to understand the way democracy works vis-à-vis a war of aggression.” Victor went on. “The population in a democracy would be reluctant to fight a transparent war of aggression so the political ruling establishment orchestrates attacks on itself as a pretext to fight a “defensive” [sic] war in response. We’ve seen this in the sinking of the Maine which brought us into the Spanish-American War, in the sinking of the Lusitania which brought us into Global War I, in Oyster Harbor which brought us into Global War II, in the Tonka Gulf which brought us into the Vietcong War, and in 11/9 which brought us into the War on Terrorism. Literally ALL of these attacks were either fostered, manufactured, or aided and abetted by the American/North Atlantican government, and to argue the contrary is not to know history.”
“Sometimes it is better not to know history,” inserted Solomon.
“Take Global War I, for example, Victor went on, “--the sinking of the Lusitania—which was the rallying cry that got the U.S. into that war. Before the ship left harbor in NYC the Germanian Embassy attempted to post warnings in American newspapers telling Americans not to sail on the Lusitania because it was carrying munitions--which it was--bound for England, but the American government intervened and prohibited Germania from publishing those warnings. Then, when the Lusitania got into British waters the destroyer escorts were pulled leaving the Lusitania a sitting duck for a Germanian submarine attack. The rest is history: the Lusitania was sunk, American and British political leaders hypocritically postured about the sinking of a “passenger” [sic] vessel, and the American Media began the drumbeat for war with Germania. Forget the fact that American and British government officials scripted the whole sorry event as a pretext for declaring war on Germania. No one seems to recall that any more—or no one is interested in listening. The same was true with the American policy of Lend-Lease prior to Global War II—it was an unofficial declaration of war against Nasi Germany and placed the U.S. squarely in the Allied camp, pre-official declaration of war. The same was true with the Tonkin Gulf Resolution where President BJL outright lied to the American public about an attack on North Atlantican warships in Indochina by North Vietnamese patrol boats. Naturally enough we, being the victims (at least in the minds of the gullible North Atlantican Gen public), set about waging a war on a country that was completely innocent of the attack. Once again, American/North Atlantican democratic leadership has a long history of inviting attacks on itself so it, in turn, can declare war on “our” enemies. 11/9 is yet the most recent glaring example of this. False Flag attacks are the bread and butter of North Atlantican foreign policy.” Victor caught his breath.
“’Buzz, buzz.’ Are you done, professor?” interjected Jacob, testily.
“’Yes, all’s fair in love and war,’” replied David.
“Spoken like a true lover!” Victor shot back.
“Shalom! Shalom!” Solomon tried to quell the debate.
“Here’s a question for you: Oyster Harbor was bombed on December 7th. What day was that in Nippon?”
“I don’t understand your question,” replied Salome.
“Was it December 7th in Nippon?”
Salome and the rest all looked confused.
“The International Date Line! No, it was December 8th in Nippon when Oyster Harbor was attacked. And what is the significance of this? (This question is directed mostly at Judas since he also worked in archives.) What Christian holiday always fell on December 8th each year and was employed as psychological warfare by the Nipponese against RDF and his government?--just as the second rate, and significantly named, American General, Dwight D. Eisen-shofar, was catapulted from the bottom of his class at West Point to serve, symbolically, as the military figurehead for the Allied forces against the anti-Sem Nasis in Global War II and just as June 6th was deliberately chosen, also symbolically, by the Allies in Global War II as the day for the invasion of France at the Normandy beaches.”
“The Immaculate Conception?!” Judas replied, his eyes widening.
“Exactly! The attack took place on the day of the Immacualate Conception in Japan and when the US congress met the next day to declare war on Nippon it was also the Immaculate Conception. Clever folks those Nipponese leaders!!! Q.E.D.” Victor smiled smugly to himself.
“Was it Pope who said, ’A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, but a lot of knowledge could get you killed.’” Interjected Judas.
“No, that wasn’t Pope, but I take your meaning in the good spirit in which it is intended.” Replied Victor.
“Right,” said Judas, smiling, and he and all his fellow lunch pals all got up to leave.
“Did I say something wrong?” Victor said beseechfully to Salome. She turned around, kissed him on the cheek, and pressed something into his hand. Almost automatically his fingers closed around it—a white tissue covering a piece of paper--and he slipped his hand into his pocket. Any communication that was not sent electronically and could not be monitored by the massive computer banks in the basements of the Ministry of Information was forbidden, and this included any form of paper communication. It was a serious crime and should immediately be reported to his supervisor. “Better not to think about it—for now.” Victor thought.
Chapter Eight
Victor’s fingers itched as he longed to see what Salome had written to him, but to publicly unfold the note and read it was the kiss of death, especially for her. He thought about going to the men’s room and opening it there in a stall, but those were most certainly under the surveillance of the Thought Police. He thought about going into a crowded elevator and trying to read it there, but those were all monitored too. Finally, he hit on an idea: he would feign having a runny nose and slip some additional tissue into his pocket and when the moment was right he would lift both the note and this tissue to his face, blow his nose, read the note, and then dispose of it down a drain pipe or something. Of course this still posed some terrible risks, but Victor longed to find a soul mate with whom he could unburden himself of his both fascinating and painful work, and Salome seemed to be someone he could talk to. Besides, she appeared to be a sassy, intelligent girl for her age—someone who would listen to him--and he was desperate for the touch of a real flesh and blood woman and not the temporary pleasure of an easy conquest.
Luckily it was raining when he left the Ministry and Victor decided, once again, to skip the usual limo ride home to the Uebermensch Ghetto and instead he decided to take the tram. Of course this was a bit unusual, especially because of the rain, but Victor was impatient. As he was leaving he mentioned to David that he had to pick up some razor blades and shoestrings, something only available in the Gen sections of town (where, not coincidentally, the suicide rates were off the chart), and it would be easier to do this on foot.
After finding a kiosk a half mile from the Ministry and purchasing the requisite items, he found himself standing in the rain, with his hands in his pockets. Below him stood a rain grating, just off the corner curb, and he stood somewhat impatiently in front of it as he awaited the arrival of a tram. In his right pocket his fingers had dexterously unfolded the note so that it rested inside the folded tissue. He needed to time this just right and everything would be fine he told himself. Finally, the tram arrived, and as it pulled up to the corner he anxiously snorted, quickly took out the tissue, read the note, blew his nose in the tissue, crumbled the tissue and the note up, and tossed them down the grating. Sweating, the rain drops disguising his anxiety, he entered the tram to take his seat. “V 69,” he said to himself.
Chapter Nine
“What the hell does that mean?!” Victor thought to himself. “V 69.” Was she writing to him in code? “V” was the 22nd letter in the alphabet, but it was also the Latin numerical symbol for “5.” Or was there something deeper to consider? Was it a reference to the Birkat Cohanim and Sem crypto-identification, but if so he too was a fellow Sem so why bother signing him? And then there was the number “69.” Inverse numerical symbols that faced and completed each other almost in the shape of an “0.” What was that all about? Then it hit him—Salome must live at Victory Ghetto, apartment 69. That must be it! Victory Ghetto was a plush new Sem gated community on the posh west side of town, and it was peopled by young, artsy, modish, fey pseudo-intellectual poseur types. And while Victor was no longer into group sex, this was reportedly still all the rage at that bohemian village.
His mind raced. He wanted to be with her tonight, but that would be too soon. What if she still had a boyfriend? Or what if he got it wrong and went to someplace where she didn’t live—that would arouse suspicion, not to mention be a colossal embarrassment. No, he needed to bide his time, and think this all over a bit more.
Chapter Ten
When Victor got home that evening he figured he needed some distraction so he decided to fulfill his mandatory “voluntary” monitoring of talk radio and internet blogs. As with monitoring and “outing” would-be dissidents in faux dissident groups, it was all part and parcel of being an employee of MiniTru. While he was not required to do this (Eretz actually paid some Sems to monitor talk radio and blogs to make certain that Sems and the State of Eretz was only portrayed in a positive light and that critics of Israel were demonized and slandered), it reportedly was a good thing to do and would help his advancement later.
From a socio-psychological perspective, sheeple, being what they are, naturally were strongly inclined to agree with the host of the tv, internet, cable, or radio program they were listening or calling in to. The Sem Establishment knew this psychological fact of course and deliberately set (very narrow) parameters of debate thereby making it psychologically uncomfortable—to say the least--for someone with the lack of self-confidence and puny intellect of a sheeple to disagree with the host and hand-selected guests of a program and what they were being fed information-wise. In this regard, Eretz and Sems held a special place in the pantheon of North Atlantica—in the Media one very rarely heard a sheeple criticize Eretz or Sems on the air; in fact, one was not even to refer to a Sem as a “Sem” in polite conversation, even though they dominated in a totalitarian fashion the whole of North Atlantica, odd as that may sound. It just wasn’t done. To create this psychologically inhibiting ethos, the very first thing Sems did when seizing control of a territory was to take control of the Media and manufacture a narrow, self-serving, dominant ideology for the masses. (In fact, as was noted, in North Atlantica, literally over 95% of the Media was either owned outright by Sem billionaires or the CEO of the Media corporation, and his key appointees, were Sems. Gens were tolerated at these companies but only as long as they towed the Semish corporate line. If they waivered in their support of the Semish party line even once, they were out the company door. It was simply an unspoken Condition of Employment that they obey their corporate overseers.)
The whole point of the exercise in manufacturing a pro-Semish ethos through the Media was to create “stop-think” in potentially dissident sheeple, get the sheeple to self-censor themselves intellectually—the most perfect form of slavery. If a sheeple criticized Eretz or the bad behavior of a wayward Sem, that sheeple would immediately be branded with the epithet “anti-Semmite”—case dismissed. In fact, Sems had a word for this highly effective coercive psychological strategy for inhibiting free-thinking: it was called “The Strategy of Silence.” As noted, a Sem was always obligated to present Eretz and fellow Sems in the best possible light to the public or be silent on the transgressions of fellow Sems, and damn anyone, i.e., sheeple, as “anti-Semmite” should they have the temerity to dare criticize a Sem or anything remotely affiliated with Semdom. If anyone could possibly even benignly criticize Semdom or Eretz, it could only be a fellow Sem.
Victor called the local political talk radio program on a special phone line, verified his identity, and was put on hold to await a potential dissident. (All of the call screeners, not to mention the programmers who invited hand-selected “safe” guests on the program at talk radio, worked for the Thought Police.) He decided to have the radio on in the background and do some blogging while he waited, eagerly, for a Gen who “flipped.” He sought out conspiracy websites for counter-blogging. It was extremely important to vilify and silence anyone who gave conspiracy theories serious consideration. This was usually done by associating conspiracy theorists with mentally ill folks or believers in space aliens. Since Sem culture and all of North Atlantica was built on conspiracies and various degrees of paranoia, it was crucial to damn conspiracy theories and marginalize them in the so-called “minds” of the sheeple. The main reason for this, of course, was because conspiracies were rife in the ruling Sem establishment, and it was vitally important to keep the sheeple ignorant about this by reinforcing Stop-think. Of course there were also the very rare “conspiracy factualists,” as they were known, people who unearthed fissures in the standard Establishment narrative of an event and who broadly theorized about what more encompassing hypothesis could account for the salient details that the Establishment narrative ignored or did not address. Conspiracy factualists always left open the possibility that their theory could be falsified by new data, and for this reason they were extremely dangerous to the ruling Sem elite. The Sem Media consciously and deliberately lumped all conspiracy advocates in with being “conspiracy theorists” and by so doing associated them with monothematic conspiracy dogmatists whose speculations could not be falsified. This way, by labeling someone a “conspiracy theorist,” one could denigrating his speculations on a problematic event without having to argue over the salient fissures in the sacrosanct Establishment narrative.
Most of the radio stations were taken up with sports trivia—endless amounts of sports trivia. This way male sheeple would have something to distract themselves with and not focus instead on improving their lot in life or, God forbid, creating a real social safety net for them and their children. “Panem et circenses—bread and circuses.” Victor thought to himself. “’Food stamps and football games,’ all to keep the Gen population pacified and under control.”
Victor was feeling lazy so he decided to monitor one of the blogs that dealt with the assassination of President FJK. In the background he could hear the “baaing” and “bleating” of the Gens on the radio. Of course all Sems knew the FJK assassination was a SUCCOCK operation. It had all the earmarks of a choreographed state murder plot: the fact that he died on “Elm” street of all places (coffins traditionally are made of elm), the “V” underpass that he was driving down when he was shot, the convenient, and conveniently edited, film made by Abraham, a Sem tailor (where Sems went to get a shrouding sheet for burial after one died) as he stood on a tree stump (symbolic, and found in Sem graveyards, signifying a life cut short…etc), the fact that the Semish Sabbath reading on the night of the FJK was assassinated (Parashat Vayetzei) was Gen:28:11-19, the account of Jacob’s Ladder), not to mention—most importantly of all--FJK’s plan to “take out” the Dimona nuclear weapons facility in Eretz that was about to go on-line just before he was assassinated; in the wake of the Havana Missile Crises, which almost brought about global annihilation, FJK was not about to allow a nuclear weapons grade reactor take root in the tinderbox of the Middle East, especially since it was managed by trigger-happy Eretz Sems)—all these “connections” were well know to Sems, but had to be kept separate and unconnected in the “minds” of Gens. Instead of “connecting the dots” the strategy with Gens was to condition them to “unconnect the dots.” So the standard strategy was to confuse Gens with a plethora of conspiracy theories—The Germans, the Soviets, the Cubans, The VP, the Mafia…etc (in other words, insert name of country or non-Sem entity here ________) did it—anyone but Eretz Israel or SUCCOCK in conjunction with the Media. The real focal point however was to blame the assassination on a lone gunman—LH Waldos. Dozens of books had been published on Waldos’ sole responsibility for FJK’s death and most of the talk radio callers were FIB disinformation specialists or crypto-Sems whose job was to either support the Waldos lone gunman theory or deliberately confuse the whole matter with a plethora of half-formed, half-true speculations.
“Censorship,” Victor thought, “can be done one of two ways: either by banning and burning books or, just as perniciously, by glutting the market with biased and very narrowly focused books that effectively marginalize real, honest and true, dissident literature. With the publishing industry in their pocket, Sems traditionally have opted for the latter type of censorship—drown the handful of insightful opposition voices in an ocean of elitist-vetted Sem pabulum.”
What really surprised Victor about the whole FJK assassination was that the Sem Media was so clearly and obviously complicit in the assassination cover-up (by casting false nets everywhere and pretending that LH Waldos was the sole person responsible for the death of FJK) that that alone should have made some of the more astute Gens realize that the FJK assassination was a colossal, coordinated, Sem conspiracy. Nevertheless, so many Gens still somehow felt the need to debate the veracity of the transparently false counter-theories promulgated by the Media. But, then again, Gens will be Gens.
A Gen blogger finally wrote something: “It is impossible that a lone gunman shot FJK because there wasn’t enough time to load, aim, and fire 3 shots in 6 seconds; besides the gun Waldos used had a broken sighting mechanism.” This was a standard Gen critique of the Warden Commission’s report—the official government report on the assassination. Victor decided to reply, somewhat indiscreetly, as follows: “What, you conspiracy nutcase! Are you saying that Steinruby was in on the assassination too?! You moron! A Sem assassin shot and killed the assassin of FJK so Sems could not have been involved. We have poetic justice if nothing else! Steinruby did us all a service and saved the taxpayers millions of dollars by avoiding a painful and needless public trial! Waldos got what he deserved and you should too—you fucking conspiracy fruitcake!”
As Victor waited for the blogger to reply he heard something on the radio that caught his attention—a Gen parrot-ple had “flipped” and dared to criticize a Sem. The Gen was calling about the fact that the House Majority Leader of the Repubicrats, Erich Kantor, on a recent visit to Eretz, promised the Eretz PM that he would work with Eretz and the Sem community to make certain the interests of Eretz trumped the interests of his own North Atlantica and the North Atlantican President. Not only that, the Gen caller went on to observe that all Sems in congress (in fact all Sems around the world) had dual citizenship—they had citizenship in the country of their birth and citizenship in Eretz Ysrael (the so-called “Right of Return”), and that they never recused themselves from voting on aid to Eretz which, if they had any integrity, Sems should do. Finally, he concluded by quoting a former PM of Eretz, Aerial Sharon: “We, the Sems, control North Atlantica, and the Gens know it!!!”
Of course the Gen was right on all three counts: the Sem leadership in congress always put the interests of Eretz above the interests of North Atlantica, Sems the world over all had dual citizenship (with their primary loyalty to Eretz), and, yes, an Eretz PM was quoted as saying that the Sems controlled North Atlantica—the Gens be damned!!! Victor sprung into high gear. The talk radio station screener immediately got Victor on the special line so he could deliver the standard rebuttal: Sem interests and North Atlantica interests were actually all one and the same (which of course Victor knew was false), that it was a good thing that Sems did not recuse themselves from votes on aid to Eretz because they were in fact experts on that vitally important region of the world (which Victor also knew was hogwash; there was a reason the national anthem of Eretz was “Eretz Ueber Alles”), and finally, an appeal to pity by changing the subject, “Remember the Shoahcaust and how badly Sems were mistreated by Gens. It’s anti-Sem to say that Sems rule North Atlantica—don’t we live in a democracy?! Don’t we choose our representative?! (Once again, Victor knew this was false—carefully vetted and pre-selected, i.e., acceptable to Semdom, candidates were the only ones ever to be nominated by either Repubicrats or Demopublicans, and then there was the ubiquitous vote-rigging and the post-election Media expose of a wayward representative should that be necessary of course.) How dare you say that Sems contol North Atlantica!!! You’re an anti-Sem and probably a Shoahcast denier as well, you God-damn Nasi!!!”
The radio talk show host then cut to commercials, knowing that the Gen who “flipped” was still listening to the broadcast even if only to hear his own voice on the radio. First the host played a commercial about life insurance, and how anyone can die at any moment and that a husband should consider his family’s wellbeing. Second, a solicitation for cancer prevention donations came on “Because you never know when or how you will contract cancer!” Finally, an advert for the neuroleptic, anti-schizophrenic medication Dualarrest was aired. All of these commercials were of course directed at the caller (and anyone else who agreed with the caller and believed in Sem conspiracies). Victor also knew that over the next few weeks, the caller—whose phone line was traced, of course (all folks who called in to talk radio had their calls traced)—would see his car insurance rate “adjusted” up, might be put on probation at work for a manufactured infraction, or might start getting funeral plot solicitations. It all depending on whether the caller would “unflip” and go back to regurgitation politically correct speech or—at a minimum—shut up. Self-censorship of this type was not seen as a second class solution but in many ways a better victory: what better way to enslave a person then to have them enslave themselves through mental self-censorship via Stop-think, Double-think, or what have you.
“While it was a potentially dangerous call, still, it made the evening interesting,” thought Victor. “And it should keep that caller from daring to phone in again about Sem conspiracies—the pathetic fool!”
________________________________________________________
“I heard your response to the caller on the radio last night,” Salome said approvingly to Victor when she saw him in the cafeteria two weeks later.
“Yeah, you really nailed him!” Judas chimed in and winked.
“We are celebrating the last night of the Festival of Lights at my place. Would you like to come? Be there before nightfall, of course,” Salome interjected.
“But I don’t know where you live,” Victor replied.
“Yes you do.” She said as she handed him a scarf and, with a wink, Salome disappeared.
Chapter Eleven
The “Festival of Lights” was always an uncomfortable time for Victor. While he was appreciative to have been invited to Salome’s apartment to share celebrating the Festival, especially to be with her, it still reminded him that he did not have family anymore to be with during this time of the year and it also served to remind him that he was, wish as he might it weren’t true, an AssimaSem. In preparation for this evening he spent some extra time dying his blond hair black and touching up his beard and moustache from reddish-blond to black as well. Still, he couldn’t hide his pale white skin, his broad shoulders, or his northern European physiology or square-jawed facial appearance. He cursed his father for being Gen and he wanted the self-polluting Gen blood stripped from his veins—but it was all for naught. “One can’t simply change what one is,” he resignedly remonstrated to himself.
“Perhaps I will leave early tonight—before the singing,” he said to himself. Victor was feeling a bit nauseous, and it seemed to be getting worse as the evening approached. Also, something was eating at him. He could understand why Salome winked at him, but why did her brother, Judas, wink at him also. Something to think about.
Victor arrived early, before the final candle was lit, and took up his post by the window facing the inner courtyard. Salome came up to him and asked how he was…
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The Festival of Lights poignantly reminded him that he was an AssimaSem and, try as he might, he would never reach the inner corridors of power. Reportedly the ceiling in the Star Chamber, the room that represented the apex to which any Sem could rise, was littered with small six-pointed stars, and intelligent and clever as he might be, he would never see those stars first hand. And yet, on the other hand, there was his profession: Victor knew the historical events upon which the Festival was based: Antiochus IV wanted to Hellenize the Sem population of ancient Eretz, make them less exclusive, in-bred, and insular, so he promulgated laws that would gradually encourage Sems to assimilate into wider MidEast culture, so he outlawed practices that set the Sems apart from all of their neighbors. The OrthoSem heirarchy chaffed at the diminution of their prestiege, authority, and power, so a family of OrthoSems led a rebellion, called the Makkabean revolt. The supposed “miracle” of this revolt was that after the Temple in Semrulsalem was reconquered only one day’s worth of consecrated oil was on hand to keep the eternal flame of Semism alive in the ancient Temple, nevertheless it burned for a whole eight days until fresh consecrated oil could be prepared. While all that sounds pretty innocuous, what really bothered Victor was that most Sems—and especially AssimaSems—did not have a clue as to the nature of the real battle inside ancient Semrusalem. The fact of the matter was that OrthoSems conducted racial and ethnic cleansing during the Makkabean revolt by killing their Sem brothers and sisters--all Sems who would dare break ranks and work with the ancient Gens were murdered. It was an ancient civil war in which OrthoSems, in the name of racial, cultural, ethnic, and religious purity, murdered AssimaSems. Didn’t AssimaSems like Judas and Salome “get it”! If they did, why were they even honoring this holiday?!
All this of course perfectly contrasted with the ancient holiday of Christmas (now extinct). While Christians the world over had celebrated the brotherhood of man and family togetherness, Sems, on the other hand, during their Festival in the very same month, were proudly celebrating OrthoSems slaughtering AssimaSems. “The purity of the Semitic race must be maintained, Seig Heil!” Victor thought to himself, and he had some trouble restraining his arm from stiffening to give the Nasi salute.
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Just as they were about to light the candle, Victor excused himself. He was feeling too ill to remain there, so grabbing his hat, gloves, and coat, and, without a word, he left early.
Once again Victor waived off his driver, and decided to walk some distance before catching a tram home.
It was now the evening of the 24th and in a few short hours it would be midnight. After walking for some time he passed one of the Strategic Settlements as Gens rushed in to get home before curfew. Suddenly, as he passed the gate, a spychip monitor gave its telltale “Danger! Danger!” refrain. At first, Victor thought that he had set off the alarm, but then he could see that the soldiers had surrounded a mother and her disheveled autistic child. The girl was about 7 years of age and she was constantly slapping herself on the side of the head. “Step way from the child!!!” the Marine captain ordered. The mother began to bleet in a high pitched voice. You didn’t have to know Sheepish to know what she was saying. She wanted to have her child returned to her. The girl was covered in welts and bruises, no doubt from injuring herself, and she must have damaged the spychip embedded inside her. The mother’s bleeting became more earnest as the captain ordered two of his grunts to pull the girl aside towards a bloodied wall. Victor wanted to intervene but that could possibly get him shot as well, Outer Temple member of not. He watched helplessly. A soldier was ordered to wand the girl for an electronic echo, but the wand refused to light up. Then, with all the certainty of a well trained, unthinking soldier, the captain ordered the girl up against the wall. He removed his revolver, placed its barrel so that it was aimed at the center of her forehead, and fired. The girl’s lifeless body collapsed like a rag doll. The captain then pointed the revolver at the mother. She stood there open-mouthed and silent for a moment, and then was hustled away by cowering members of the evening crowd, now all the more anxious to get in to the Settlement before curfew.
Victor hustled on past. “There was nothing he could do,” he kept telling himself, “people die every day, why should one more dumb autistic Gen girl matter?”
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But it did matter. Victor knew that Autism was caused by a mercury based vaccine preservative, Thermisol, and that the symptoms matched that of mercury poisoning. Why the hell mercury was being put in a child’s vaccine, especially for a child as young as 2 years old, was anyone’s guess. But of course Victor didn’t have to guess. Ministry of Health, Department of Population Control, Section Children and Infants, Subsection Vaccines, was the answer. The one worry the Sems had about the Gens had to do with their ability to reproduce. While Sems made up approximately 2% of the total population, Gens made up 98% of the population, so occasional down-home human “harvesting” had to be done. Besides killing off the excess male population in wars, vaccine poisoning was seen to be an effective way to destroy Gen Families and distract Gens from focusing on larger social issues concerning the distribution of wealth and power and instead have them focus on taking care of their crippled and stunted family members. Korris Mharasch, a Sem chemist, developed Thermisol early in the last century; he invested heavily in its development and marketing and profited dearly when it became widely used as a mercury-based, infant vaccine preservative. The point was to create a vaccine preservative that would devastate the nervous system of young Gen infants all the while allowing medical staff to be able to claim “plausible deniability” as to its true cause. The Sem strategy was to put in just enough mercury in the vaccine so that a significant segment of Gen infants would become disabled but not enough mercury for scientists to draw a one-to-one connection between the poisonous compound and its effects. Significantly, while 1 in 100 North Atlantican infants now suffered from Autism, in Eretz Israel, where vaccines are discouraged, especially in the OrthoSem community, that illness is virtually unheard of. Most curious.
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Thermisol and autism got Victor to thinking more about vaccines and how perfectly they functioned as vectors to deliver a lethal dose of poison to unwitting victims—AIDS being another classic example. Here, the standard unofficial, but widely believed, account was that Eretz Israel employed AIDS as a means of punishing central Africa for crossing swords with Eretz over the Intebbe incident. The story went like this: after an Eretz passenger jet was hijacked by Philistinians and flown to Intebbe on Independence Day (in North Atlantica), the plane was surrounded by Yougandan soldiers. Significantly, they were not there to free the hijacked passengers but to protect the Philistinian hijackers from being attacked by Ysraelites. Be that as it may, commandos from the Eretz Ysrael Attack Forces struck and killed the hijackers along with dozens of black African soldiers from Youganda who were protecting the Philistinian hijackers. Youganda had to pay, and pay dearly, for this breech of decorum. There was the public relations threat to Ysrael that the similarities between black oppression and Sem oppression—which took decades for Sems to construct—was in danger of unraveling. So the PM of Eretz, the OrthoSem Begin, decided to have a shipment of small pox vaccine infected with AIDS—distributed, not coincidentally, by USAID as a cover—to central Africa. That way, black Africans would eventually come to be weighed down with caring for their own infected and dead so that they could not agitate against former colonial powers or come to the support of the Philistinians (a people newly suffering from neo-colonialism)—and of course they would be sorely punished, retroactively, for daring to cross swords with Eretz to boot. It would be claimed by scientific “experts” that oversexed black African men had sex with green monkeys and this is what caused AIDS—yet another example of giving a dog a bad name and then hanging him for it, so to speak. AIDS stands for Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome. Properly speaking, however, it should be called Acquired Immune Suppression Syndrome. Intelligence agencies certainly know how to employ language (and abbreviations) to co-opt language and discount suspicion by including in the name of the disease the vector that caused it. Black ops domestic government terrorist agencies also were wise to allude to a conspiracy in the manufacture of a conspiracy in order to discount the conspiracy—odd as that may sound. The reason for this was that, in the “minds” of sheeple, it was unbelievable that conspiracists would refer to their own conspiracy in the staging or manufacture of that conspiracy. Manufactured coincidences—whether they coincide with famous dates in history, saints days, numerological references, acronyms…etc.—elicited a an intellectual defense mechanism in sheeple which led them to deflect and discount the facticity of a conspiracy. SUCCOCK was especially expert at this methodology.
Or take Jakob-Creutzfeldt (“Jacob’s field of crosses”) disease as yet another example of how language and the names of diseases are re-written or reconfigured to diffuse a negative spin vis-à-vis the Sem community. For decades it was listed as “Jacob-Creutzfeldt” in books and on the internet but when a widespread outbreak occurred in the 1990s the name of this disease was thought to reflect badly on Semdom. This disease called to mind, translated from the German, “Jacob’s Field of Crosses”, suggesting Sems killed Gens. Now, however, the nomenclature has been reversed to read, “Creutzfeld-Jakob” disease—for reasons that are all too easily understood.
AIDS, SARS, Ebola, Bird Flu…etc. these “new,” late 20th century, diseases were all widely regarded by Sems in-the-know as state sponsored bio-terrorist viruses manufactured in biological weapons laboratories under the auspices of diabolical Sem overlords. If anyone had any doubt about state intelligence and bio-weapons facilities releasing viruses on an unsuspecting public in their own countries they needed to look no further than to the weaponized anthrax scare in Washington D.C. following in the wake of 11/9. The only two congressmen who had weaponized anthrax mailed to their offices were ones who wanted to hold up debate on the Patriot Act so as to give it a full hearing; needless to say, after the anthrax scare these two congressmen “caved” and permitted a speedy and perfunctory hearing to the Patriot Act, which then passed by a virtually unanimous vote. Score one again for SUCCOCK.
On a more mundane level, all this does not even take into account the unregulated employment of fluoride—i.e., the amount of fluoride one consumes varies widely according to how much fluoridated water one drinks daily--added to the water supply of most municipalities in North Atlantica since the 1950s; this was done purportedly to provide protection to enamel against tooth decay buy actually it was done to reduce the population by lowering the sperm count in men—fluoride being a low-grade radioactive element which in fact has only marginal benefits, at best, to combating tooth decay.
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No, this night was a turning point. Alienated from his co-religionists at the Festival of Lights celebration and then to see a disabled and innocent Gen child shot by a trained-to-be-callous-and-uncaring fellow Gen--all at the behest of the Master puppet-master, Big Sam--was something Volk could no longer stomach.
“It’s not me that’s wrong, but reality that’s wrong!!!” Volk told himself. From now on Victor Volk would not rest until he joined the Bruderschaft—the sworn enemy of Big Sam and all Big Sam stood for.
Chapter 12
Of course Victor didn’t have a clue as to how to safely get in contact with the Bruderschaft. One thing he was certain of, however, is that he should not try to get in contact with them on his own. He needed a cover. He needed, in the words of Sem spooks, “Plausible deniability.” There were Goldsteins aplenty out there. For instance, there was Bin Baden, a legitimate enemy of Big Sam who died years ago but who was kept alive in the Sem Media as a means of teasing out fellow Middle Eastern Gen dissidents. SUCCOCK manufactured a steady stream of Bin Baden video and audio tapes and then fed them to various intelligence and Media outlets around the world for broadcast. SUCCOCK also used various False Flag Arab and Philistinian websites to take “credit” for actual Eretz attacks on various bars, nightclubs, airlines, hotels, embassies, mosques…etc. SUCCOCK, in a masterful False Flag operation, got Shiite and Sunni Arabs to slaughter each other in Iraqistan after SUCCOCK blew up each sides mosques. SUCCOCK killed thousands of innocent civilians, and then placed the blame on the competing Islamic sides to foment a civil war—Divide et impera was as true today as it was in ancient Rome.
No, Victor would have to be cleverer—use his weaknesses as his strengths. He could tell the Thought Police that he could pose as a disaffected AssimaSem—he could undye his hair and wear it blond. His background in Archives could give him a rationale for his excellent knowledge of dissident Sem and Gen gripes against Big Sam (all of which were transparently false he would tell the Thought Police, of course). But who could he approach for advice? Who indeed?
Why, Judas, of course! Judas was more orthodox than the OrthoSems, and then there was that wink, of course. What exactly did it mean? It didn’t matter. He would approach Judas on Boxing Day--St. Stephen’s Day, December 26th, today!--and seek out his advice. He didn’t want to waste any time.
Chapter 13
Judas lived in the Sicarii Ghetto, Apartment 33. Like all Ghettos it was a plush, gated community of Sems protected by a wall and a guarded entrance. “No pigs or Gens allowed!” was posted in large gothic letters over the gate.
After passing through the usual security checks, a guard called Judas to tell him he had a visitor. Victor was escorted to Judas’ apartment.
The door was already open when Victor arrived.
“Come in,” Judas said. “We missed your company at the Festival. What brings you to my place on a blustery winter’s day?”
“Jude,” Victor used the diminutive, “I’ve got to get out of Archives! Working there is driving me crazy. All the crap I have to read and file—it’s just not healthy. I want to do something special, something that means something, something that will please Big Sam!” (Here, Victor was careful not to be the one suggesting he go undercover.) “I want your advice.”
“I thought you liked working in Archives? You get to one-up me with your knowledge of Gen trivia.” Judas replied, then he switched topics, “So where do you think you should be?”
“Like I said, where I can help Big Sam most. I don’t know. Something where I can use my knowledge of trivia and loyalty to the Tribe to its best advantage.” Victor went on.
“Oh, I see, you don’t want a desk job any more.”
“That’s right!” Victor interjected, a little too eagerly. “Some place where I can use my training and skills to…”
“…to help the Tribe.” Judas concluded and then thought for a moment. “You’re a bit too old to work in GenFeed, and administration is your strength. My recommendation is that you stay where you are and take on a sideline.”
This was finally going where Victor wanted. He then noticed the morning news report on tv—apparently there was a power outage in the Northeast and the President, somewhat oddly given that this was a regional crisis, had immediately—during the blackout--flown to The Lone Star State, which had its own unique, contiguous, and self-contained electrical grid. Victor saw it for what it was: a symbolic “terrorist” attack by the Bruderschaft, and a counter-symbolic flight to Animal Farm/Texas by the President. He cast a knowing look toward Judas.
“The Bruderschaft?” Judas muttered.
“The Bruderschaft!” Victor acknowledged.
“Well, perhaps you can do some part-time work for the Thought Police. I know they are always looking for informants, and if you could capture any of those Bruderschaft bastards—and they are clever, trust me--you wouldn’t be working on the 5th Floor of MiniTru any more.” Judas replied.
“Eureka!, that’s it!” Victor exclaimed, but a moment later conceded, “But I don’t have any contacts in the Thought Police…”
“Don’t worry, Victor, we both know someone who can get us in touch with them. Just let me take care of arranging the meeting. You sure you want to go ahead with this?”
“Yes,” Victor said firmly.
“We’ll need to give you a codename?
“Stephen?” Victor blurted out unthinkingly.
“Good, the patron saint of casket-makers!” interjected Judas.
“I didn’t know that,” said Victor a little uneasily.
“Death to the Bruderschaft!!!” Judas exclaimed.
“Death to the Bruderschaft!!!, Victor repeated more weakly.
“It’ll take about a fortnight, but then I’ll call you. In the meanwhile, don’t mention this to anyone—do you hear me?!—ANYONE! Dixi!”
Chapter 14
Victor raced home to watch the tv coverage of the power outage. The whole Northeast Quadrant was without power, from eastern Canada to New York and Washington D.C. (including Blanco House and the Capitol). By now the tv networks had a chance to unify their accounts of the event. Apparently a squirrel caused an electrical transformer in Canada to go out and this caused a domino-effect power outage that spread throughout eastern Canada and New England. No more mention was made of the President flying to Texas, and then the tv anchorman said, very deliberately, “This was not a terrorist attack! To repeat, this was not a terrorist attack!!!”
“’The lady doth protest too much,’” Victor thought to himself. Doublethink was already at work in the Media.
Victor knew that when the Bruderschaft was successful the Media would discount the attack as being the result of “natural causes” in order not to give the Bruderschaft any positive coverage for a successful assault or else they would just ignore the story. On the other hand, when the state coerced or entrapped innocent individuals into illegal behavior it unabashedly trumpeted the success of its “counter-terrorist” units.
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Over the next 10-odd days, Victor spent all his free time researching what he could to find out about the Bruderschaft. While he was convinced it was mostly a dissident Sem organization (sheeple and parrot-ple had little brains for such complex ingenuity and intrigue), still, there must be some Gen involvement as well. To the best of his knowledge it was founded on bringing an end to Big Sam, barracks democracy, rampant paranoia, widespread misery, poverty, and slaughter, and universal fear of the state and replacing it with truly representative government, broad social welfare programs, real personal freedom, and peace—in short, instead of the hell that now passed for normal a new heaven on earth was to be founded. Not the Old Semrusalem but a New Genrusalem—a Zion where the distinction between human predators and sub-human prey, Sems and Gens, no longer existed.
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Finally, Judas got word to Victor that a meeting had been arranged between him and a member of the Thought Police. He was to meet at Judas’ apartment on the evening of January 6th, and Judas would introduce him to his handler. He also said that he had a “surprise” for Victor. Victor did not like surprises. He reached for a gin, poured out a shot, and drank it down. It burned his throat but warmed his stomach. He thought of Hamlet: “Tonight I could drink hot blood…I’ll speak to him though hell itself should gape and bid me hold my peace!” Victor burped.
Chapter 15
When Victor got to Judas’ apartment early in the evening, this time the door was closed. He knocked three times and waited. A minute later the door opened an inch, the door chain taunt, and one of Judas’ eyes peered out.
“Are you alone?” he asked.
“Yes,” Victor replied.
“Shut your eyes!” Judas commanded.
“What?” Victor asked.
“Shut your eyes!!!”
Victor obeyed. The next thing he heard was the door close, the latch come undone, and the door reopen.
“Turn around!” Judas ordered.
Victor complied. Suddenly a blindfold was draped over his eyes and tightened. Judas then clasped Victor’s hand, and guided him into the apartment.
“No one’s here yet.” Judas volunteered. “Would you like a drink—all I have is gin. Here, let’s sit you down first.” Judas sat Victor down in an overstuffed chair and then left for a moment. In the distance Victor heard the clinking of glasses and a bottle pouring. Then he felt a glass pressed into his hand. “La Chiam!” Judas said.
“La Chiam!” Victor repeated.
They waited in silence. Judas seemed tense, but it was impossible to tell for certain since Victor couldn’t see him. Victor thought it best to keep quiet.
Finally, Victor heard a commotion in the hallway. Then, a knock, and he heard Judas rush to the door and open it. Some more muffled noises, and the next thing he knows someone is untying the blindfold, and before him stood—Jacob!
“Surprised?” asks a familiar voice behind him. It was Salome. She handed him the blindfold. Victor put it in his pocket.
“So, you want to work for us?” Jacob asks.
Victor couldn’t help but see in Jacob’s diminutive height and belligerent attitude the makings of a Napoleon complex. “He probably had a small penis too,” Victor thought to himself.
“I want to secede, ah, succeed in bringing down the Bruderschaft.” Victor corrected himself. “I want to bring the terrorists to final judgment. I think with my background and experience I can help you.”
Salome smiled at him.
“That will be for me to decide,” Jacob corrected him. “But first, a test,” and Jacob nodded to Judas. “Bring him in!”
Judas went to the door, opened it, and waved. In walked two burly men in plain clothes. They were not Gens. In with them they escorted a thin, middling-sized man, his whole body shivering.
“Kneel down!” Jacob commanded as he pointed to the space in front of Victor. The man dutifully complied. “This man here is a traitor—a Sem turncoat who was poisoned by the ideals of the Bruderschaft and wants to destroy us.” Jacob then placed a revolver on the small table next to the chair Victor was sitting in. Then, looking at Victor, Jacob said, “Kill him!”
Victor slowly picked up the revolver as sweat began to appear on his forehead. Myriad thoughts all crowded his brain. “Sem does not kill Sem” was one of the main dicta of the Semish Decalogue. He set down the revolver. This went against his whole training as a Sem cadre. On the other hand, this man was a traitor, and he was being given an order by an OrthoSem.
“Shoot him!!!” Jacob ordered even more forcefully. Victor picked up the revolver again.
Victor felt the loneliness of Abraham. Did loyalty to the Tribe trump morality? Of course it did—but the man was a God-damn Sem!
“Kill him now!!!” Jacob shouted at the top of his lungs.
But if he were really a member of the Bruderschaft Victor couldn’t kill him—he wanted to become one of them. Victor couldn’t kill someone who embodied the only hope that this world had for redemption. Finally, almost in tears, Victor—crestfallen-- set down the revolver. “I guess….”
“Congratulations, Victor, you passed!” smiled Jacob. “You see, members of the Bruderschaft never kill—be it Sem or Gen. They mainly try to embarrass and expose us. By not killing this man you showed that you will function perfectly as a double agent for us. ”
The man, groveling, collapsed at Victor’s feet, kissed them, and began to cry in a muffled voice. “Mazel Tov! Thank you! Thank you!” He wined. (God, I should have shot him, Victor thought to himself.)
“Take him away!” Jacob ordered, and the two non-descript burly men dragged the broken man out the door and down the hallway.
“We have been watching you for some time,” Jacob went on. “We think you will do well. We want you to keep your position in Archives and attempt to contact others who you think might have Bruderschaft leanings. Here,” Jacob took out a book, “read this.”
“Could it be?!” Victor asked himself. “Yes, it was—a copy of The Bruderschaft Manifesto! The most hated book in all North Atlantica. A short critique of international Semdom and the program for its transmutation!” Victor didn’t believe the book existed, but here it was in his very own hands.
“Salome will be your handler. She will pose as your girlfriend. You will contact me through her. I understand you have already selected a codename, ‘Stephen.’ Good. Salome’s codename will be ‘Judith.’” Jacob dictated all this as though he had done it dozens of times. “Now, I have other pressing matters to attend to. Good hunting, and ‘Death to the Bruderschaft!’ Shalom.” And with that Jacob left.
As Jacob left, Judas approached Victor and kissed him. “Shalom.” He said.
“Shalom,” Salome repeated, and she too kissed him.
“Shalom,” Victor said.
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As he left, alone, Victor thought he heard in the distance what sounded like the muffled crack of a revolver.
Chapter 16
The Bruderschaft Manifesto.
Hitherto all history has been the story of class warfare. From a multiplicity of classes we now are in a situation where, in essence, only two classes exist: the tiny minority Sem haves and the great majority Gen have-nots. With some variations, the great humanist philosopher Marl Karx predicted this outcome. What he did not foresee, however, was the consolidation and lock on power on behalf of the Sems. He believed that once society was split into two distinct groups that the mass of Gens, through suffering, would come to have social consciousness, rebel, seize the means of production from the tiny minority Sems, and usher in a new era of universal prosperity for all. This has not happened. Why is that?
A number of reasons present themselves: Karx saw history as an inexorable dance, led by economic factors which, albeit painful for the masses in the short run, would inevitably lead to an economic nirvana in the long run. What he did not factor in sufficiently was the nature of man, the co-option of democracy, and the ultimate success of Sem religio-ethno-racial oligarchic collectivism as a means of infiltrating and destroying an open society and, in turn, of covertly promoting its narrowly parochial predatory agenda and advancing its compliant and eager-to-serve cadres.
The Nature of Man
While we recognize that the society Plato wished to construct millennia ago is virtually unrealizable, nevertheless Plato was essentially correct in 400 B.C. when he observed that there are three basic types of people—appetitive (those who are ruled by their appetites, the economic class), spirited (those who are ruled by emotion, the military class), and intellectual (those who are ruled by reason, the philosophical class). Appetitive types form the greatest number in a society; to a lesser extent spirited people exist; and only a tiny minority of the population of a society is intellectual or, better, philosophical. The appetitive class can easily be swayed with crumbs from the table of the wealthy so long as they do not achieve self-consciousness. They are like the proverbial rooster with its head cut off—running this way and that, but now knowing why it is running or where it is going. With the spirited class, morality is the common lever with which to manipulate this group. Very few do evil in the name of evil, but some spirited types will do evil in the name of good, and all spirited types will do good if that is how their actions are so defined for them. They too can be easily manipulated but they are especially dangerous because they most often uncritically justify their actions in the name of good. Finally, there is the intellectual or, philosophical class. The reason we eschew the term “intellectual” is because being thoughtful does not necessarily mean one is good. That designation is reserved for the philosophers. Like Plato we agree that in the best society a perfectly functioning state will mirror a perfectly functioning soul, with its tripartite ordered and properly hierarchical divisions we have outlined above. The philosophical class will know what the proper goal of a society is and direct it to that end, the spirited class—clerics and soldiers—will edify and protect the society, and finally the economic class will serve the physical needs of a society.
Contrast This with Democracy or Republicanism.
With democracy or republicanism every adult man and woman has a vote, regardless of their ability to reason critically. This naturally leads to a nation of clueless, tempest tossed voters who vote according to spur-of-the-moment fancy. Nay, it often results in a government that acts against the real best interests of the citizenry. There is a reason democratic politicians do not present reasoned arguments to the voters during elections but instead run on “family values,” “lower taxes,” and a “strong defense.” It works!!! What politician is against family values, for higher taxes, or for a weak defense? And yet the voters accept this drivel as thoughtful political debate and expect nothing more from their candidates. Democracy has been captured by the least astute among us and turned into a pathetic caricature of governance. This should come as no surprise to those knowledgeable of the nature of man.
While democracy has been the bane of the ruled masses, it has been a godsend to the ruling elite. Now plutocrats and power brokers within each of the parties vet the candidates and then present them to the pubic for rubberstamp ratification. The candidates are ultimately beholden to the moneyed interests that got them elected and as a result dutifully function as waterboys, as electoral puppets, for the puppet-master elite. Furthermore, with democracy, the ruling elite can justify taxing the ruled masses for government services and defense all the while feathering their nests with government largess and instigating wars to advance elitist interests and goals. The ruling elite, through their corporate owned Media, repeatedly reminds the electorate that it is “their”—the people’s—government that is formulating policy and thereby the government serves as a veneer behind which the puppet-master elite functions. Finally, the Gen electorate is so indoctrinated into the so-called virtues of democracy by the Sem ruling elite that it is almost impossible for the masses to even imagine a better world. Virtually all citizens today believe that democracy is the final chapter in the evolution of governance and that, while flawed, it cannot be improved upon. How wrong they are!!!
Finally, another thing Karx did not fully realize was the truth of his dictim: “The ruling ideas are the ideas of the ruling class” –materialist determinism be damned! Karx grossly underestimated the power of words and ideas. The moral vocabulary of the West is not the moral vocabulary of the East. In Western society the worst one can call someone is an Itler, a Nasi, an anti-Sem, and a racist, but this is not the pejorative moral vocabulary of the East where Heroito functions as that regions’ historical “Satan.” Our moral vocabulary here in the West is a Sem moral vocabulary, and the cultural relativism of this moral position needs to be fleshed out and acknowledged. The Gens are like the proverbial unself-conscious fish that swims in the ubiquitous saltwater of morality—it doesn’t question its moral values because it has been breathing them in since birth. This, too, has got to change.
Oligarchic Collectivism.
Before we address the pernicious effect of Sem oligarchic collectivism on Western society, we must first discover how Sems likely came to practice this methodology for seizing, consolidating, and holding power.
If we take Semish history at face value from the Pentateuch or, more broadly, from the Old Testament, we learn several revealing things about early Sem society. Over the mists of time, Eretz Ysrael eventually came to see ancient Palestine as its God-given home. Be that as it may, Palestine was at a crossroads. It was surrounded by great empires. To the north lay ancient Greece. To the east lay Babylon and Persia. To the south, ancient Egypt. And along the coast came Phoenician and Roman traders. Eretz had no hope of conquering any of these great empires, and it had the unpleasant experience of being occupied and enslaved by ancient Babylon and, reportedly, by ancient Egypt.
During these occupations the Sem population was dispersed throughout these empires. Making the best of a bad situation, Sems began to co-operate with their masters and eventually came to hold important civil, trading, and administrative posts in each of the empires in which they found themselves. While the common view is that the Diaspora only took place with the Roman destruction of the Second Temple in 70 A.D., the fact of the matter was that Sems centuries earlier has distributed themselves throughout the region. Realizing that they could not survive as a tiny regional state at the crossroads of the Middle East, Sems set about on a different tact.
One way to defeat an enemy was to engage in a direct, dramatic, frontal assault from outside the borders of a nation. Raw numbers translate into raw power, and it was impossible for the Sems to compete on this battlefield—they simply did not have the raw manpower to be successful. A second way to defeat an enemy was to engage in indirect, anti-climactic, incremental, interior assault. Bleed a nation, not from the outside, but from the inside--attack not the trunk of an empire but its pith and marrow. In other words, occupy a nation from the inside, not the outside, and instead slowly, incrementally, and inexorably bleed a country white. Overtly and covertly, through public and crypto-advancement, get one’s people into higher and higher positions of authority until one controlled the whole apparatus of a state or institution. This is what the Sems did. Eventually, as with the Roman Empire, Sems became so important to the state as tax farmers that the Emperors even allowed Sems to manufacture their own coins without the images of the Emperors on them (it was seen by the Sem elite as worshiping a false god). Besides tax farmers, Sems—because of their international connections--also were very prominent in slavery, white slavery (prostitution), and trading.
Sems realized that it did not matter who, particularly, represented them as Sems, just as long it was someone from the Tribe. So a great deal of elite Sem propaganda and indoctrination was spent on educating Sem minions into victimhood and the corollary need to maintain impregnable Tribal loyalty and cohesion. Part and parcel of maintaining this loyalty is maintaining food taboos (Kosher vs Treif), using a unique calendar to mark the passing of the year (The Hebrew lunar calendar), and a belief in racial purity (matriarchal lineage) and racial, ethnic, cultural, and religious superiority--the Sem God is a Sem God, and even though Christians may worship the One True God, it is a Sem God—Sems believe—not a Gen God, that Christians pay homage to.
Strictly speaking, Semism is not a religion in the ordinary sense. To be a Jew does not mean essentially that one agrees with a particular belief system but rather that one performs particular rituals. All the other major Western religions—e.g., Christianity, Mohammedianism--focus on what one believes. If one affirms a particular set of beliefs, one is of that religion. Not so with Semism. Semism has no “Nicene Creed,” if you will, with which one must agree in order to call oneself a a “Sem.” Semism has no such creed. It has no substantive belief in an afterlife; believes in moral double standards (one for fellow Sems and another for subhuman Gens, the infamous Kol Nidre); and its God is an ethnic and tribal god, strictly speaking, not a universal God for all of humankind. Furthermore, it is perfectly logical for a Sem to be an atheist (which may surprise many non-Sems); to be considered a “Sem” one merely has to practice the rituals associated with Semism—lighting the candles at Hannukah, celebrating the Passover seder, following a cosher diet...etc. One’s own personal Semish religious beliefs are, in a very real sense, irrelevant. If Semism is not a religion, then what is it? In a word, and practically speaking, Semism is a semi-conspiratorial crypto-society that uses the veneer of religion as a cover to overtly and covertly reciprocally promote its members to higher and higher positions of authority until they control the very institution they set about to infiltrate, commandeer, dominate, and control. The Greek roots to the word “synagogue” mean “to train together.” If one combines a self-serving ideology of victimhood, racial superiority, moral duplicity, and a belief in this-worldliness solely, one has a lethal mix indeed—especially if one is not a part of the Sem Master Race. Intra-species predation, Sem contra Gen, has been the logical and predictable result of Sem ideology.
The Recent History of Incipient Sem Control of North Atlantica.
Sem control of North Atlantican society was well advanced long before the outbreak of Global War II, and this was posing some public relations problems for Sems starting in the 20’s and 30’s. Grossly disproportionate and sizable numbers of Sem representatives filled the German Reichstag—this after many notable Sem labor leaders reportedly stabbed Germany in the back by calling for munitions labor strikes in Germany in the last year of Global War I—and this and, perhaps more importantly, the splitting off of German-speaking populations from the German mainland authored by a polyglot of Semish representatives to the infamous Versailles Conference, directly led to the rise of Itler. In the US national heroes such as industrialist and humanitarian Henry Ford, aviator and peace activist Charles Lindbergh, and Roman Catholic Priest Father Charles Coughlin all warned of creeping Sem control of the economy, Hollywood (the Media), and politics. Anti-Semism, in spite of the best efforts of Sems to disguise and hide their wealth and mushrooming profound incremental advancement and influence over American society, was growing. Something had to be done to deflect and disarm criticism of the self-aggrandizing Semish community.
If the Shoahcaust did not exist, it would have to be invented (and the fact of the matter is that it was). Sems made tremendous wealth off of the misery of GWI. The wealthiest family in the world, the Sem Redshields, are famously quoted as saying, “We have made more money off of one day of war than from a year of peace!” Alfred Nobel, a famous Sem munitions developer and manufacturer, profited dearly off of dynamite, cannon manufacturing, and ballistite, and the corresponding deaths of literally millions of Gen soldiers throughout Europe in GWI; some say he created the Nobel Prize as a salve for his conscience for being responsible for the deaths, injury, and misery of so many. If an event of Sem suffering so total and complete could be found or manufactured to top Gen misery in Global War I, it could silence once and for all criticism of the Sem community (and possibly even give them a state in the Middle East in which to live, Eretz Ysrael). This manufactured event was the Shoahcaust.
“No, this isn’t right!” Volk thought to himself, and he began to wonder whether the Brudershaft Manifesto was a forgery. He kept reading.
Contrary to popular belief, the Allies in GWII did everything they could do to make certain the Shoahcaust succeeded and the Nazis did everything they could do to avoid the Shoahcaust. Prior to the War, the Nazis tried to force Sems to leave the country through more and more onerous laws and prohibitions; if a war did if fact break out the last thing the Nasis wanted was to have to investigate, arrest, transport, and house, millions of prisoners. It would be a logistical nightmare—especially if a war time famine ensued, which in fact actually took place during the last year and a half of the war. The Allies, for their part, refused to allow Sems to emigrate to their countries before the war, chaired the notorious “Naïve” Conference (near Lake Geneva) in France in 1938 (from which Nasi Germany was pointedly excluded from an invitation to attend in spite of the Nasi’s express wish to attend), hypocritically refused during the war to even acknowledge the camps existed or bomb those that were designated as so-called “death camps.” At the end of the war the Allies had the chutzpah to pretend they did not know the camps—which housed millions—existed until the were liberated, camera crews conveniently in tow to film the liberation or to manufacture propaganda about the motives and methods of the Nazis and invent the figure of 6 million Semish dead.
(As an interesting aside it is worth noting that the Orthodox Semish Establishment supported Itler’s view on racial segregation. Semmish rabbis supported Ilter’s attempt to prevent “race-mixing” and stem the tide of Semmish assimilation into a broader Genish society. This was historically true in spite of post-war Semish propaganda films such as “The Sound of Muzak” and “Kabarat”--to site just two films--which present war-time Sems as agreeable to assimilation and jovial fraternity with Gens; one thing you will never see is an honest and accurate film from Hollywood showing pre-war Orthodox Semish support of Itler and his segregationist racial agenda.)
With the “discovery” of the Shoahcaust, now Sems could bludgeon their enemies by pointing to the sufferings of millions of Jews in the camps in GWII and forever silence their critics. It was a godsend—forget the fact that wealthy, elitist Sems were more than willing to sacrifice, as mere pawns, their poorer and less connected Sem brothers and sisters in order to manufacture a propaganda event that they, Sem elites, could now use for generations to deflect and parry legitimate criticisms of that community. Sem Zionists conspired with international Sem bankers and war profiteers—the Big Sems—to sacrifice as mere pawns Little Sems, those less well connected Sems actually suffering in the camps in Europe. And all this was done for self-serving Big Sem propaganda purposes—Little Sems be damned!!!
Of course not all intelligence operatives were Sems in GWII, and this led to internecine strife in the intelligence community post-War. Gen intelligence operatives (along with some minority wise and humanitarian Sem supporters) knew that they could not directly challenge the growing Sem dominance of the intelligence field so instead of drawing attention to this directly (and being accused of having post-war, anti-Sem, pro-Nazi sympathies) Gen intelligence operatives initiated the famous “Blue and White Scare,” in which Sem intelligence, Media, Hollywood, and military operatives were seen as being in the service of Soviet communists (which was also grossly dominated by Sem elites). This skirmish went back and forth for a couple of years and it was only when the now President Eisen-shofer saw that the tide had turned in favor of the Sems that he pulled the plug on the “Blue and White Scare.” As a fig leaf to the Sem community, Eisen-shofar agreed to build a nuclear weapons grade power plant in Eretz Ysrael, Dimona (and then he hypocritically warned of the “military-industrial complex” as he left office).
FJK followed Eisen-shofar as President. After the Havana Missile Crisis, which brought the world to the brink of nuclear devastation in the early 60s, President FJK decided to stop the Eretz uranium power plan, Dimona, from coming on-line. The Middle East was a tinderbox, and FJK did not want to see the Havana Missile Crisis repeated there, especially with nuclear trigger-happy Sem leaders chafing at their perceived victimization during the recent Shoahcaust. Besides, FJK despised the Sem leadership of Eretz Israel. Realizing that their military trump card was about to be taken away, SUCCOCK along with double agents in the North Atlantican (the US changed its name to “North Atlantica” after GWII) Secret Service (the SS) conspired to successfully assassinate FJK and blame the killing on an American patsy, Waldos. All this was done with the quiet effectiveness of strategically placed compliant sayanim and the Semish controlled Media.
Sonjohn, who took power immediately upon FJK’s death, approved the completion of the Eretz nuclear weapons facility, began giving military aid to Eretz for the first time, and then doubled, and next tripled, aid to Eretz Ysrael. Many in the know saw this as presidential payback to Eretz for facilitating the opportunistic Sonjohn to assume the presidency.
President Nixen followed Sonjohn, of course. He was involved in the “Blue and White Scare” from the 50’s and also kept a list of Sems who he considered conspiratorial, anti-Gen, and anti-North Atlantican. Not surprisingly, he was impeached and left office in disgrace. His crime was not an act of commission but omission—reportedly he tried to cover-up the Gatewater break-in after it occurred. Other Presidents have committed far greater crimes and stayed in office and never were impeached, e.g., President Bushleague II and the Iraqistan War, but the latter did not run afoul of Sem interests but instead championed them. Hense, Bushleague II was never indicted but instead was feted in the Semish community.
We need not here go through the whole litany of crimes committed by the Sem ruling elite (e.g., the Gateiran scandal which almost brought down the Raygun Presidency; the story broke, oddly, in a very tiny and obscure newspaper just across the Eretz border in Lebnon and was immediately picked up by the interconnected and well coordinated international Sem Media because supporting Iran went against Eretz foreign policy interests. Nor do we need to highlight the statement by President Klint’s Secretary of State, Madeline Alldim, who “discovered” [sic] she was Sem after assuming that office and who, upon hearing that her policy of denying medical supplies to Iraq led to the deaths of 500,000 Iraqi children, famously declared: “I am willing to pay that price.” Or to the green light President Bushleague I gave, through his ambassador in Dadbag, to the Iraqi leader before the First Gulf War that it would be okay for Iraq to invade Kuwait because “North Atlantica has no interest in intra-Arab disputes” [sic]). All of these can be skipped, for the sake of brevity, to bring us up to more recent times.
11/9 and its Wake
With 11/9 we will spend particular, detailed attention since it occurred within recent memory, and many things have followed in its wake.
Phase One: 11/9 itself.
With the end of the Cold War, North Atlantica strode the world like a colossus. No longer was there a need to expend surplus capitol and surplus production on wasteful military spending. The population was expecting a “peace dividend,” more and better social services or at least a relief to their burdensome taxes, but that was not to be.
The Sem neo-Cons (including President Bushleague II’s Secretary of Defense, Don Rumfield) called for a “new Pearl Harbor” in order to reorient national security from a Cold War stance to a post-Cold War, anti-terrorisism threat position stance. A short year later they got their wish—11/9.
11/9 was a very carefully planned False Flag SUCCOCK operation and it has Sem fingerprints all over it. Two planes, reportedly piloted by Arab “terrorists” (but we will never know for certain who flew these planes—or for that matter if they were flown by remote control--because the FIB has had to backtrack and retract accusations on half of the so-called “terrorists” it originally named as participants in 11/9 because it turned out the men so accused were still living in Saudi Arabia after the attacks) flew into the Twin Towers in NYC. One other plane reportedly flew into the Pentagon and a fourth reportedly crashed into a field in Pennsylvania after the passengers allegedly rebelled against the hijackers.
With respect to the planes that crashed into the Twin Towers, each Tower caught fire and burned for about an hour and then collapsed, straight down, in what appears to demolition experts as a free fall, controlled demolition, collapse. Building Seven, which was not hit by any plane, also collapsed in a free fall, controlled demolition-like collapse. All three of these building were steel framed buildings, built to withstand a large passenger jet airplane ramming into them, and in the history of steel framed buildings there is not a single earlier example of fire causing any steel framed building to collapse. As for the “plane” [sic] that hit the Pentagon, there is serious doubt as to whether it was hit by a plane at all. No fuselage or jet engines were found at the site (very unusual), the turf where the object hit the Pentagon was undamaged, and the part of the Pentagon that was hit was the area responsible for auditing the 2.3 trillion dollars gone missing from the Pentagon budget that Secretary of War, Rumfield, announced just the day before. As for the plane that crashed in Pennsylvania, while a fighter jet was reportedly scrambled to meet it, the interceptor reportedly (oddly) never went above subsonic speed and never reached the plane before it crashed; others have speculated that the jet fighter did in fact reach the passenger jet and shot it down but for public relations purposes this fact is being shielded from the public. The bottom line is that even the most basic outline of 11/9 is shot through with so many holes that it is difficult to know what is true and what is misinformation--or deliberate disinformation.
What we know for certain is that there was a government and Media cover-up of 11/9, and that if this is true then the government and the Media has a hand in the crime. It took a full 5 years for the government’s airline investigation unit to admit that it had two of the Black Boxes (actually, they are colored orange) and, even so, the flight data and full cockpit voice recordings have never been made available to the public. The two Black Boxes from the planes that hit the Towers reportedly were never found. (This, however, is contradicted by police witnesses on the ground who say they did see the Black Boxes being recovered from there.)
The crime scenes of where the planes hit the two Towers and later the Pentagon was immediately ordered disturbed—yes, disturbed--and therefore forever compromised. The very day after 11/9 the clean-up began on the debris in NYC. By cleaning up the debris immediately (and thereby grossly compromising the crime scene), independent investigators and ordinary citizens did not get the chance to ponder how it was that huge cement blocks and heavy steel girders were ejected 100s of feet away from the site of the attack—something only accountable were there demolition explosives that ejected debris far away from the original site. The same was true with the attack on the Pentagon; while there was no substantial debris on the ground and the lawn was intact right after the attack, nevertheless, the lawn was immediately ordered torn up and re-sodded the very next day after the attack. Obviously some people in authority did not want a “clean” investigation site.
Molten steel pooled in the sub-basement of the Towers after the attack and remained molten for months after the attack. It is simply impossible that the crashing planes caused a fire of the magnitude necessary to melt steel and then for that melted steel to remain molten for months underground after the attack. Some have speculated that pre-positioned, steel-melting, thermite was employed in the demolition of the buildings (which raises the interesting question, ‘How were Arab “terrorists” [sic] able to preposition explosives and thermite in the Towers before they rammed them?’).
Building 7. This part of the Trade Center Complex was a 47 story steel framed skyscraper that was not hit by any plane and yet it completely collapsed in on itself and was leveled to the ground in a free fall on 11/9 as well. A couple curious things to note with respect to Building 7: a BBC tv reporter from Brittan reported the collapse of Building 7 before it even occurred (Building 7 appeared over her shoulder, intact, as she described its collapse an hour before it actually fell down!!!), and, second, the owner of the Trade Center Complex, the Sem, Lawrence Silverstone, was heard to say to a colleague that Building 7 needed to be “pulled”—which in the demolition business is jargon for calling for a “controlled demolition.”
Speaking of Larry Silverstone, he doubled the insurance on the Towers a few months before the attack took place and profited handsomely from their destruction. Did someone or some intelligence agency (e.g., SUCCOCK) forewarn him of the attacks with insider information and he took advantage of this information to profit handsomely financially from it, or was he part of the conspiracy from the get-go? And then there is the fact that the FIB began an investigation into gold purchases and the short selling of airline stock just prior 11/9 in order to learn whether there was any insider trading in advance of the 11/9 attack. Reportedly some major Sem financial players took major stock positions on gold going up in value and airline stock plummeting in value shortly before 11/9. What became of the FIB investigation into this matter and all the implications following therefrom? Absolutely nothing. The Bushleague II administration shut down the investigation. Some very powerful members of the Bushleague II administration did not want the public to learn what such an investigation may have uncovered. Finally, it took President Bushleague II months and months before he would finally agree to testify before a congressional committee about what he knew concerning 11/9; he was only agreeable to do this if he could avoid testifying under oath and with his VP, Dick Cagey, holding his hand during the proceedings. Pathetic.
Phase Two: the demonization of Arabs (Islamists in particular), the invention of Al Kinder, and the invasion of Iraqistan.
With the success of the false flag attack on North Atlantica having been completed, Phase Two could now begin: the Sem Media drumbeat to punish the “Arabs” [sic] responsible. Al Kinder was now invented and rushed to the public as an international Mohammedean conspiracy bent on destroying the West; it was Al Kinder, we were told now, who were responsible for 11/9. Osama bin Baden was selected as the poster boy responsible for 11/9 (even though on the FIB’s own website of the 10 most wanted fugitives, responsibility for 11/9 is pointedly not listed as one of Bin Baden’s plots). Sem neo-Cons in the Bushleague II administration—Pearl, Faith, Sonofabraham—all pointed the finger of blame towards Al Kinder responsibility, and this was immediately echoed and amplified by Sems and their cadres and quislings in the Media. Not only do we need to punish the perpetrators of 11/9, we also need to free Mohammedean women from the tyranny of the headscarf. We would bring them freedom, and they would become like us, come to embrace us, come to love us—or so we were told.
At that time in the eastern Middle East there was a block of contiguous, anti-Eretz states—Syra, Iragistan, and Irun. Iraqistan surrounded the most powerful anti-Eretz state, Irun. Bin Baden was known to reside in the eastern wing of Iraqistan, and North Atlantica demanded his surrender. The ruling party in that part of Iraqistan, the Talibad, agreed to turn over Bin Baden but only on the condition that North Atlantica provide some—any—kind of proof that Bin Baden was involved in 11/9. President Bushleague II ignored their reasonable offer, refused to offer proof of Bin Badin’s culpability for 11/9, and instead set about to activate the pre-planned invasion of Iraqistan--which he then did. The international Sem-Eretz strategy worked perfectly: the contiguous block of Middle Eastern anti-Eretz states was now broken up and checkerboarded (with Syra and Irun now surrounded and isolated on all sides), North Atlantican soldiers were fighting and dying as proxies for Eretz, Sem war-profiteering mushroomed, anti-Arab sentiment was solidified in North Atlantica and anti-North Atlantica sentiment was solidified in Arab states, it was a win-win-win for Eretz and the international Sem community!!!
Of course Bushleague II played the war in Iraqistan from both sides. On the one hand he repeatedly made the claim to the sheeple public that this state in some sense was responsible for 11/9 (which was transparently untrue) but at other times (far less frequently) he would admit the truth and grant that there was absolutely no connection between 11/9 and Iraqistan. The Sem Media of course, well versed in the dictum that a lie, repeated often enough, becomes the truth, trumped the first Bushleague claim and all but ignored the second. Once the invasion was complete, and the occupation deliberately mis-managed, a new reason had to be given for the invasion, and that was oil. Bushleague II, a failed oilman, went into Iraqistan to secure the oil fields for North Atlantican big business. This too was a canard—one, because—as we have already noted—the real reason for the invasion was to have North Atlantica, as a proxy, carry out Eretz foreign policy military goals, and two because if the invasion was done to secure oil fields why—10 years after the invasion—are those oil fields still not producing as much oil as they did pre-invasion.
Phase Three: the War on ‘Terrorism,’ the War on Dissent.
Of course Sem interests were not limited to financially profiting off of 11/9 and the War on Terrorism, and advancing Eretz foreign policy interests, it was also necessary to intimidate, harass, and silence domestic critics who were on to them, under the guise of fighting ever-present “terrorists”--enter the Patriot Act. Dissent had to be criminalized. Within days of 11/9 the Patriot Act was presented to congress for ratification. Those congresspersons who bothered to read it were given two days to pour over 1000s of pages of legislation and consider the ramifications to civil liberties. When two crucial congressmen, Senate Majority Leader T. Daschel and the head of the Senate Judiciary Committee, P. Leyhy, indicated that they would hold up consideration of the Patriot Act because of civil liberties concerns, they each received mail that contained weaponized anthrax spores. Congress had to be shut down, and the death threats served their purpose: the two senators shortly thereafter caved and allowed passage of the Patriot Act. How Al Kinder got its hands on highly processed weaponized anthrax from a high tech military bio-weapons lab is a mystery. But it is no mystery who really sent those mailings, especially if one considers who benefited from the Patriot Act being passed—the Sem national security state within a state!
Besides Senators being intimidated after 11/9 there was also one noteworthy assassination of a senator at that time. Senator P. Stonewell, an AssimaSem, shortly before election night a couple of months later, declared that he would oppose the invasion of Iraqistan. This was a potentially grievous breaking of ranks. By not agreeing to approve the Iraqistan invasion Stonewell gave spineless Gens in congress the pretext for joining him, a Sem, in subverting the Eretz and OrthoSem grand strategy. The overarching Sem goal of getting North Atlantica to invade, divide, and conquer anti-Eretz states in the Middle East was in danger of falling apart. Something had to be done! That something was the assassination of Senator P. Stonewell and his family, purportedly in an ordinary plane crash just a week before the election. Stonewell was by far the most liberal senator in congress, he was leading in the polls against his Sem rival just a week before election day, and he was fully expected to have won re-election. How convenient for the ruling Sem elite and their grand strategy that he died when he did.
11/3, the Madrid Bombings. North Atlantica employed its military alliance to conscript allied nations to come to its assistance in invading and occupying Iraqistan. Hispania was one of those allies. However, the sheeple public in Hispania began to resent the lies and deceit surrounding the invasion of Iraqistan and began to demand that the government of Hispania pull out. An election was called to either ratify the present leadership and maintain the status quo or elect new leadership and pull out of Iraqistan. This put the international Sem elite and partisans of Eretz in a quandary. It appeared that the alliance was on the verge of breaking up. Something had to be done to stop the hemorrhaging or, at a minimum, punish the Hispanian public for reluctance to fight on behalf of Sems. SUCCOCK took the ball and decided on fashioning a dilemma for the Hispanian sheeple: three days before the general election, on 11/3 (so people would associate the attack with 11/9 three years earlier), SUCCOCK decided to blow up train stations in Madrid and blame the attack on Al Kinder. Manufactured reports would circulate that Al Kinder was angry at Hispania’s involvement in Iraqistan and that is why they attacked the Madrid train stations (forget the fact that the most likely outcome of such an attack—which SUCCOCK was banking on—was that there would be a backlash against Al Kinder and the status quo would be re-elected and thus continue their support of the Iraqistan occupation). But even if Hispanian sheeple saw through the SUCCOCK false flag operation, Eretz would have the satisfaction of punishing the Hispanian population (200 people killed, 1800 wounded in the Madrid bombings) and simultaneously sending a message to other would-be dissident nations and people-in-the-know what lay in store for them if they bucked Sem hegemony and control. The bottom line is that the Hispanian sheeple saw through the attacks, elected a new, anti-militant government, and eventually withdrew from Iraqistan altogether. Still, Hispania had to pay a terrible price for standing up to the Sems.
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In sum, each nation-state in the world today is, in effect, a discrete and stand-alone animal farm with its own practices and institutions. This is true regardless whether the ruling governmental institutions are democratic, monarchical, totalitarian…what have you. The ruling elite in each of these nation-states view the common people in their own countries, not as human beings, but as animals to be exploited for personal and collective gain. On the other hand, this elite sees themselves as the Master Farmers, Master Butchers, and Master Harvesters—in short, the human beings--over the sub-human “animals” over which they have dominion. Each of the nation-states in existence today all shares this view of their minions, their sheeple. The main task of the ruling elite is to protect and defend the ruled masses only to the extent that they are not absorbed by adjacent Farms. The other task of the ruling elite is to avoid overt internal strife, civil unrest, while at the same time exploiting, and milking, the ruled masses of all their productivity and wealth. We can see this operative in the various manufactured financial and real estate “bubbles” that are inflated and then, once they reach a pre-determined size, imploded, so that profits can be skimmed and the process can begin anew in another area of the economy. This is the best way to conceive of the nation-states that comprise the world today—as patchworks of various sized animal farms, each ruled by an elite that harvests its own domestic human cattle and the wealth that they create. Of course above this all is the international Master Elite, the Sem crypto-ruling Establishment, that employs the national and international banking system to keep the Gen masses in thrall and uses its international propaganda network, the Media in its broadest sense (Hollywood, televlsion, radio, the internet…etc.) to paper over, misdirect attention, and shield the Semish Master Elite from scrutiny.
The Solution to Defeating Sem Oligarchic Collectivism
While, ideally, we would like to see rule by Philosopher-Kings, a la Plato, we are not so naïve as to recognize the unlikeliness of this happening. The sheeple, blind to their ignorance, would not stand for it. However, if not individual Philosopher-Kings to guide a nation, why not a nation of Philosopher-Kings!!! With this in mind, we propose the dissolution of democracy and its replacement with government by lottery. Every citizen’s name (or social security number) would be put in a hat, so to speak, and, say, 1000 names would be randomly selected from the hat to serve as our representatives. Secret societies would be prohibited, and those with dual citizenship would not be allowed to hold office; for example, all the de jure citizens of Eretz—all Sems--would thereby be prohibited from holding any political office. Instead of largely wealthy Sems and white male quislings comprising the governing class, we would have a truly demographically representative government. Half of the electors would be women, 10% homosexual, 20% Black, 75% without a post secondary degree, 30% poor…and so on. We could do away with expensive and insidious election campaigns, and quash once and for all the Sem good-old-boys-and-girls network that gets them into positions of power—both elected and unelected. No longer would Sem oligarchic collectivism work as a means of overtly and covertly reciprocally promoting its members into higher and higher positions of authority until the whole body politic is infected with its insidious, clandestine cancer. Oligarchic collectivism would be cut off at its knees, not allowed to take root or expand. Most importantly, the poor would have a seat at the table of a truly representative government. Today, under titular democracy, no such seat is set for them.
While we cannot say definitively what the policies of a lotteryist government would be, we can well imagine that far more money would be spent on social welfare programs (social security, national health care, employment re-training, education…etc.) then is spent now, and far fewer dollars would go to armaments and the machinery of death, i.e. the war department and on so-called “national security.” Since literally anyone could be selected for office, it would be in the interests of a lotteryist government to maximize critical thinking abilities and education for the nation as a whole (and not reserve higher education as merely the purview or birthright of the wealthy). Of course Sem and Masonfrei control of the economy, the Media, Hollywood, the education system, and the parochial ideological system on which it rests would have to be dismantled. Agencies that intimidate or are antithetical to open and honest governance—the FIB, the ICA, the ASN, Fatherland Security—would all have to be curtailed or dismantled as well. Captains of industry and business would have to be retired, and wealth capped at, say, 10 million. Income tax could be eliminated completely and a severely progressive wealth tax would support the full expense of government and government programs. Finally, the full time work week (since there would be no income tax) could—and should—be reduced to 30 hours per week.
Forget the Gen posterboys for wealth in this country—the Bill Gattes and the Warren Bufets of this world—the real power rests in oligarchic Sem financial and Media Kabals. These Kabals often function covertly with the complicity of Sem owned Media to be kept out of the spotlight of Media glare. We are talking about the Rothschilds, the Warburgs, the Kochs, the Waltons, the Murdochs, the Zuckermans, the Sulzbergers, the Bloombergs, the Bernankes, the Karmazins…etc. And don’t forget: we are not talking about independent actors that function separately and unilaterally but Sem men and Sem families who work in concert, most often covertly, united with one and other to subvert the institutions that would protect and promote an open society. We are dealing with an religio-ethno-racial oligarchy of power. Sems make up 2% of the population of North Atlantica and yet over 50% of all billionaires in North Atlantica are Sem—and this is only the ones we know of!!! These Sem men and their families are literally killionaires—by their self-centered, self-serving, and self-aggrandizing possession of mega-wealth these Sems literally acquiesce to the suffering and deaths of millions of North Atlantican Gens. Nay, by their policies they actively promote the misery and destitution of the Gen underclass the world over. They do this by subverting the political process through the legalized bribery, i.e., campaign contributions, that leads politicians to vote against the real interests of their Gen constituency--national health care, unemployment and retirement benefits, and affordable education; Sem killionaires do it through the economic process of first creating and them imploding investment and housing bubbles; and they do this through the propaganda process of mis-informing the public as to what their real interests are and, instead, conflate poverty stricken Gen interests as corresponding with wealthy Sem interests—when nothing could be further from the truth. On this score, one particular trick Sems employ is to associate themselves with poverty stricken Blacks and minorities when the fact of the matter is that, socio-economically, Blacks have more in common with Whites than they do with Sems!
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The time is now! We can refashion man and revolutionize this age. From a hell on earth we can make it a heaven. From a samsara we can make a nirvana. Like a purged and transformed Phoenix resurrecting itself from the ashes of Gehenna we can envision an Olam Ha-Ba-- a new age for Sem and Gen alike. The lamb can lay down with the lion and live in harmony, and the shy, retiring, supine, and coy sheeple can be taught to stand up and roar. We have nothing to lose, and a world to gain!!!
Part Two
But if there was hope, it lay in the proles. You had to cling on to that. When you put it in words it sounded reasonable: it was when you looked at the human beings passing you on the pavement that it became an act of faith. – George Orwell, 1984.
Rebellion
Chapter 17
”Yes, yes,” Victor thought, “a sheeple that roars. That’s what we need! If there is hope it lay in the sheeple! The time is now!!!”
But as Victor thought more about it he became less optimistic. “For the sheeple to rebel, they first need to discover class consciousness. But for them to discover class consciousness, they need first to rebel.” It was a Catch 22. The one thing Gens had going for themselves was raw numbers. They reproduced like rabbits. Using Gen women and men as canon-fodder could only obliterate so many. Much more needed to be done to keep the Gen population in line and under control. In sum, Gens needed to be regularly “harvested”—to use the phraseology of Semspeak.
Even more pressing for Victor, however, was the question of whether he should even try to get in contact with the Bruderschaft. Now that he was in it with both feet, he realized that he was in a double bind himself: on the one hand he wanted to connect up with, and help, the Bruderschaft by overthrowing Big Sam and all he stood for, but on the other hand he did not want to compromise the Bruderschaft and ‘out’ any of its operatives. What to do? He was now officially working for the Thought Police, so that provided him with some limited protection when he went fishing for true dissidents, but he also believed that, now that he was a double agent, the Thought Police would be monitoring him even more closely. If he did something, e.g., discover and expose a Bruderschaft agent, he would be sacrificing his original humanitarian principles and was screwed, but if he did nothing, e.g., refused to look for Bruderschaft agents, he was screwed as well. “What the fuck am I supposed to do?!” Victor murmured to himself.
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Victor was in Salome’s apartment. She was laying on a fat, upholstered couch, and appeared to be sleeping. He went over to lay his jacket over her but she awoke.
“Yes, Victor?” she said.
“Oh nothing.” Victor answered. “I was just wondering how I would connect up with the Bruderschaft.”
“Well, you could try websites, the Ethernet, blogging…” she yawned.
“All already monitored, manufactured, or patrolled by the Thought Police of course.” Victor interjected testily.
“…check your family and friends, colleagues at work…”
“I am uncomfortable with that, at least as a first move” Victor answered.
“..well, that would leave getting in touch with strangers who are aligned with the Bruderschaft, but even if you were able to do so, it would take time to solidify a relationship with a stranger, especially if they are connected with the Bruderschaft.” concluded Salome.
“I need some direction.” replied Victor, an idea beginning to take shape in his mind.
“Direction?” asked Salome.
“Yes, I need someone to vet me and open doors for me.”
“Who do you have in mind?” asked Salome.
“That’s just it—I don’t know. He would have to be someone involved in dissident politics, someone people trust to go to for advice, an academic perhaps, an author…”
“A Sem?” asked Salome.
“Sure, why not? More than half the members of the Bruderschaft are probably Sem anyway.” answered Victor.
“Why not go see Noam?” she asked.
Victor suddenly had that ‘Eurika!’ look on his face now. “That’s it! I will see Noam! If nothing else it will buy me some time and, who knows, I may learn something!”
“What?!” Salome responded.
“I’ve read most all of his books, especially his tome, Fabricating Consent. I think I can trust him. He is a mensch, all right. A mensch! Why didn’t I think of this sooner?”
“Do you want me to go along?” Salome asked.
“No, I think it would be best if I spoke with him alone. He’ll be able to speak more candidly if it is just a personal conversation between him and me.” Victor reasoned.
“He usually speaks at the Kulturkampf Kafe downtown.” Salome helpfully volunteered.
“Right. The next time he speaks there, I’ll go see him.” His eyes darting back and forth in thoughtfulness.
“Come, sit beside me.” Salome coyly invited him. “’Yond Volk has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much: Such men are dangerous.’”
“You know Shake-speare as well!” Victor said gleefully as he sat down next to her. “When will the surprises end?”
“I like dangerous men.” she kissed him on the cheek.
“Les Liaisons dangereuses,” and Victor placed his hand between her thighs.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” She removed his hand, took out a handkerchief and said, “Here. Use this.” And smiled.
“What is it with you and handkerchiefs?” Victor asked.
“Call me your Iago--your ‘honest’ Iago.” Salome corrected herself.
Chapter 18
Victor got to the Kulturkampf Kafe just as Noam was finished speaking.
“Eretz Ysrael is an apartheid state, a Sem state, and as long as it remains a Sem state it will never function as a true democracy! Remember, the Devil does not trip you up with outright lies, but with half-truths!” Noam concluded.
Raucous applause filled the café.
“So far, so good.” Victor thought to himself as he waited for fawning fans to disperse. Victor got closer to Noam as the crowd lessened.
“We need more men like you to tell it like it is,” one devotee admonished.
“Yes, leave it to a Sem to have the balls to criticize Eretz Ysrael!” Ejaculated another.
“I would be called ‘anti-Sem’ if I had the guts to speak publicly like you. How do you do it? Aren’t you afraid?” gushed another.
Finally, the clapping and hooting done, Victor was able to approach Noam. “Hi, my name is Victor Volk, and I’ve read all—well, most—of your books.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Volk.” Noam kindly replied.
“I was wondering,” and here Victor spoke in a hushed voice, “I have some questions about the Bruderschaft,” and here Victor surreptitiously offered the Sign of Cohn, “Can you speak with me?”
Noam hesitated for a moment and then whispered, “Sure, I have a private table in back, but I’ve only got a few minutes.”
“That’s all I need.” Victor said thankfully.
Noam led Victor to a small alcove with a table and bench seating. They both sat down, and Victor drew the curtain across so no one could see them speak.
“I liked your speech, or at least what I heard of it…the last part.” Victor began.
“Yes, I guess a lot of people like to hear out loud what they are afraid to say in private,” Noam began, “but the feelings of anti-Semism are sometimes almost palpable. Still, the public needs to believe that someone out there is fighting for them—even if it is a Sem.”
“That’s sort of one reason I came to see you.” Victor began, “I’ve read your book, Fabricating Consent, and I was wondering if you agree with everything in the book?”
“Why not? I wrote it.” Noam replied quizzically.
“Well, in that book you argue that all we need to pay attention to are the formal economic relations of Media businesses in a capitalist society to understand Media bias. First of all, big corporations own the Media companies themselves that ‘inform’ the public and they pay substantial fees for advertising as well, so it is only natural that we have pro-capitalist, pro-big business, pro-Establishment agenda that is disseminated through the Media as news. In sum, because of the formal relations of wealth in our society pro-financial Establishment propaganda passes for news.” Victor expounded.
“In a nutshell, that is correct.” answered Noam.
“But what about material economic relations?” Victor interjected. “Your analysis only takes into consideration formal economic relations between corporations and by doing so it ignores and discounts the people who actually decide what is news--what their background is, their ethno-religious heritage, and their own parochial biases. For example, we both know that all three major networks, all three, were founded in the 1950s by Sems, and that today the majority of tv commentators and radio talk show hosts are Sems (even though Sems only make up about 2% of the population). Why isn’t that relevant in your analysis? Someone might even argue that Fabricating Consent is a tour de force to distract and misdirect the public away from the real, true power relations in Media and those relations are not formal but very personal indeed.” Victor asked.
“I thought you said you were Sem?” Noam replied testily.
“I am, but I am just wondering how far acceptable thinking goes.” Victor answered.
“Look, I stand by what I’ve written. Remember that old adage from ancient India. A young novice approached a wise man and asked upon what does the earth stand. The wise man replied, ‘The earth stands on the elephant that stands on a snake which stands on a turtle…’ When the novice asked on what does the turtle stand, he was told--wisely again I might add—‘Do not ask that.’”
“Is that your answer?” Victor asked.
“It is—now the question is, ‘Are you wise enough to heed it?’” Noam replied. “I thought you had some questions about the Bruderschaft?”
“Yes. I am doing some government research on the Bruderschaft, and I was wondering what you could tell me about them?” Victor inquired.
“Well, perhaps you could tell me what you know.” Noam retorted.
“I’ve read their Manifesto.” Answered Victor.
“And….” Noam began.
“He is trying to get me to talk first. To tell him what I know so he has the position of strength. Standard negotiating technique,” Victor thought to himself.
“I think there is some merit in their critique.” Victor said as he decided to play it close to the chest as well.
“Democracy is the final chapter in political development.” Noam asserted. I agree with Churchill, ‘democracy is the worst form of government, except for all the others…”
“…that have been tried.” Victor interjected.
“What?” Noam was caught off-guard.
“’Except for all the others that have been tried.’ That’s how his quote ends. Lotteryism has never been tried—well it has, in ancient Greece—but not since.”
“Look, I am the first to admit that democracy has its flaws, but what the Bruderschaft is proposing is the complete overthrow of North Atlantican society. Revolution. And from a practical point of view, I don’t see that happening—ever! The public would not accept that. It is too foreign. Too novel. Too strange. Too…revolutionary! We have to work through the existing forms of democratic governance and effect change from the bottom up. Grassroots change is what is needed and that is where we need to organize.” Noam stopped. “You disagree?”
“Look I am not one of your fawning sociology graduate students. That all sounds well and good in the abstract but, come on, we both know that democracy spawns, chews up, and spits out grass root movements like shit through a proctologist. ‘We have to work through the existing forms of democratic governance and effect change from the bottom up through grass roots organizing’, right!” Victor said sarcastically. “I wish that would fit that on a bumper sticker so I could put it on my car. Grass roots movements are simply a way to sidetrack and disperse dissident voices--get them to waste their efforts on time consuming and expensive organizing--so as to re-channel their efforts from potential real radical social change and instead get them to validate the system that enslaves them by working within it. Besides it gives the more idealistic of the masses a ‘feel-good’ experience and allows them to believe that they are doing something productive and worthwhile when they are just ‘dancing in the wings,’ so to speak. In fact, I would go so far as to say that, given our democratic system and how it really works, practically, that voting is not only bad—it’s immoral!!!”
“People have been prosecuted for treason on lesser ground.” Noam warned.
“Well, what does one do when the democratically elected government commits treason against its own citizenry? What court will hear that indictment? To whom does one bring that charge? To the government itself? Ha!” Victor was now flush and speaking freely, too freely.
“I think we need to end this conversation.” Noam interjected.
“Before we do, I need to ask you one more question: you have publicly argued that FJK was killed by a lone gunman and that since people die every day why should we pay any especial attention to the FJK assassination, and you have further argued that 11/9 is what it is—no conspiracy—just some crazy Arabs getting extremely lucky on a day when our defenses happened to be down. Why are you protecting the Sem establishment when we both know SUCCOCK has their semen all over FJK and 11/9? You bill yourself as the ‘honest’ Sem that Gens can turn to for the truth. You’re a hypocrite, a fuck’n Goldstein!”
“I don’t know you, good-bye.” And with that, Noam got up to leave.
“I’m not done.” Victor asserted.
“Au contraire, you are done. ‘A fool speaks his mind…’ Proverbs 29:11,” and Noam left.
The moment Noam left Victor immediately felt ashamed. He had said too much. Spoken his mind too freely. He assumed he was in like-minded company, but now he was afraid. “Damn it!” he said to himself, “I am going to pay dearly for this.” Feeling like he had ‘outed’ himself and like a confused child that clings lovingly to the angry parent that punishes him, he decided to seek the company of Salome for consolation.
Chapter 19
Victor decided to walk to the Victory Ghetto, apartment 69, via the back streets and alleys of St. Saul. He needed time to think. To ruminate on what he had just said. It didn’t go according to plan. He had intended to get helpful advice from Noam but instead he played the role of a prosecutor. “I am going to hear about this from Jacob,” Victor thought to himself. “God, what was I thinking?!”
Victor was ID’d at the gate to Victory Ghetto and he looked to see if he could sense any potential upcoming trouble from the guards, but they just waved him in.
When he got to Salome’s apartment, he hesitated outsider her door. It was late. Would she still be up, and did she even want to see him. He swallowed deeply, and knocked.
Immediately the door swung open and a happy faced Salome greeted him. “So how did it go? Did you get what you wanted?”
Victor entered and took off his hat and coat. “Well, that’s why came. I…I think I won’t be speaking with him again.” Victor confessed.
“It didn’t turn out well?” Salome asked.
“Let’s just say we won’t be sharing the Passover Seder this year.” And here Victor exhaled deeply.
“That bad. Huh?” Salome said empathetically.
“Yeah.” Victor conceded. “Why the fuck do I have such a big mouth. Why can’t I learn to keep things in?! It’ll be the death of me—the fuck’n death of me!” Victor cried.
“Here. Let me pour you a drink. Gin—as usual?” She asked.
“Yeah. Straight up.” Replied Victor.
“Two fingers?” Salome asked rhetorically. She poured him a tumblerful and Victor drank it down in one swallow.
“Can I have another?” He asked.
“Of course.” Salone replied.
Victor took the glass from Salome’s hand and they touched. Victor felt a spark of passion. He then held up the tumbler to the light and looked at the clear liquid that filled the glass. “Do you know the etymology of ‘gin’?” Victor asked, and he swallowed his second glass of spirits.
“’Gin’? No. A strong alcohol made with some kind of berry I assume.” She replied.
Victor ignored her. His head was full of facts. Fascinating, obscure facts, and he felt that, even when compared with most Sems, he more than held his own. “I don’t think I am made for police work.” Victor confessed. “I think I should go back to my desk job in Archives.”
“’In for a penny, in for a pound’” Salome rebutted. “I’ve never heard of anyone quitting the Thought Police, but—if you are really set on this—perhaps they will make an exception for you.”
“Ha! Right!” Victor thought to himself. “The Thought Police will just let me go. Like quitting a job that you don’t like: you just put in your notice and, puff, two weeks later you’re free.”
“Oh God! What have I done!” and he began to cry, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Vic., Vic., it will be alright! I’m your friend. Look, you can sleep here tonight if you wish. Mama will make it all right.” And here she took out a tissue and began to wipe his tear-swept face.
“I’m in over my head. I never wanted to catch anyone. That’s not me.” He paused for a moment to catch his breath. “I’m just so god-damn sick of the lies, the rules, the hypocrisy. It’s not normal. A natural man rebels. It’s human nature, god-damn it!!! Yes, it’s human nature!”
“It’s not just the lies, however, it’s the lies that masquerade as truth.” Victor continued. “How does that saying go, ‘Hypocrisy is the tribute vice pays to virtue.’ We are meant to be honest. To help each other—or at least not hurt each other. Why is something so easy made so difficult and complicated?”
“Why does the Devil use half-truths? Because outright lies would be transparent.” Salome added, then stopped.
“It’s funny, Noam said something like that tonight. Déjà vu!” Victor continued, “I want to get serious for a moment Salome, and then I will go to bed.” Here Victor began to remove his shoes. “Tell me: I know you are a Sem like myself, but do you really believe in all that crap about being a “Chosen People,” God’s favorites? If the story of Noah and the flood is true, and only Noah and his family survived, then aren’t we all Sems, including the Gens?”
“Victor, I am not a philosopher or theologian like yourself. I dance!” and with that she disappeared into the bathroom. “Get yourself ready for sleep!” Victor heard Salome’s muffled voice command from behind the door.
The alcohol was now taking its effect. Victor felt very tired, as though the world had been placed on his shoulders, and then removed. He needed some sleep—good sleep. He also needed to forget. He entered Salome’s bedroom, drew the blankets down, and undressed. “Is there, is there balm in Gelead” a voice in his head kept repeating, like a song one couldn’t quite remember but also couldn’t quite forget. He crawled into bed. Eventually, merciful sleep came upon him.
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As he lay there he thought he felt a tug at his groin. In that netherworld of sleep however he wasn’t quite sure what was happening—whether he was awake or dreaming. Finally, he felt a definite presence over his stomach. Salome was straddling him. Like some Egyptian snake charmer who conjured with her rhythmic body the body of another, he was magically erect and yet felt nothing but the tightness of his muscle. Slowly she began to rock back and forth, her rhythm picking up tempo as she ground her pussy into his groin. Back and forth, back and forth, up and down. He could hear her now. The “Ah, ah, ahing” with every thrust. Finally, as she was approaching climax, she removed a bandana from somewhere and knotted it around his throat. With a final heave she pumped her groin into his like a sheath swallowing a glistening broadsword, then gasped, and collapsed on his chest. “I’m dead.” She whispered. “Le petit mort.”
Suddenly, from behind the mirror on the wall came a commanding voice: “You’re dead! (a pause) You are the dead! You will remain where you are!,” and suddenly the lights came on. “You are now in the custody of the Thought Police! Do not attempt to resist!” The door opened and a half a dozen of gorilla shaped men in black commando garb entered. Victor raised himself, pushed Salome aside, and threw some blankets over her naked body. Immediately Victor heard the ‘whack’ of a truncheon and everything went dark once again.
Part Three
“You are under the [mistaken] impression that hatred is more exhausting than love. Why should it be?...
But always -- do not forget this, Winston -- always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a [Semish] [jack]boot stamping on a [Genish] human face -- for ever.” -- 1984, George Orwel
l.
Omnia vincit abomino
Chapter 20
When the two burly guards removed the bag from Victor Volk’s head he found himself in a glistening white room with a light bulb overhead, a faulty air conditioner working haltingly and occasionally blasted in a cold rush of chilled air. There was no apparent door. “So this must be the interior of the Ministry of Love,” Victor thought to himself. The room itself was pyramid in shape and it was impossible to stand upright in the suffocatingly claustrophobic room. One of the guards pressed a tile, words were said, a door opened, and the guards left. He was alone.
“This can’t be happening to me—Victor Volk—I am a Sem, a member of the Outer Temple, a double agent for the State. Sem does not kill Sem—that is a prime directive. This must be a dream. All a very very bad dream!” Victor rationalized to himself.
“Well, fuck them! Fuck them!,” Victor shouted. “Let them do what they want—I’m not talking!!! To think I spent my whole life in the service of the Tribe, and what do I have to show for it? Slander and abuse! I was set up. I’m a patsy! If I could put a bullet in their heads I would shoot the whole fuck’n collective lot! Damn them!!!”
Victor had only heard rumors of what was done inside the walls of the Ministry of Love. “Of course they would break me,” Victor thought to himself, “But how?” Crude tactics like water-boarding, electro-shocks to the genitalia, and the brutal whack of a truncheon across the jaw all seemed too crass for cracking an intellectual—and Victor, like it or not, was an intellectual. The root strategy and goal of torture was turning a subject into an object and then destroying the object or having the object destroy himself. “That works with Gens, but with intellectuals, it was different,” he told himself. “They will want information. Or at least what caused me to turn away from the lies, hypocrisy, and deceit that passed itself off as truth in this god-forsaken world.”
And then there was Room 101. Victor had heard about it only vaguely. Supposedly the Thought Police had a way of discovering your Achilles heal, your most vulnerable spot—the more you repressed it the more easily it was revealed--and exploit that and make you crack, turn you into a blubbering, confessing idiot. With some people it was a fear of spiders, so one’s head would be placed in a cage filled with sand spiders and they would slowly eat away the skin from one’s face, only to finish with one’s eyes. To others it was castration—especially effective on young women--with the result that one would never be able to have children. “What would it be for me?!” Victor thought to himself.
____________________________
It was impossible for Victor to sleep what with the constant illumination and the irregular shifting gears of the air conditioner motor. Not only that, it was impossible for Victor to stretch and fully extend his body. Victor stood about 6 feet tall but the room was about 5 feet across at the peak and 5 feet across at the base. He would kneel down and stretch his torso and then lie on his back and stretch his legs upward, but he still felt confined, limited.
Of course Victor soon lost all sense of time as well. He seemed to recall that he was arrested on a Wednesday (after partying the day before with Judith—or was it Salome—his memory was beginning to get all jumbled up), and that it was still very early spring, before the trees had budded or the muddy earth had been aerated, solidified, and ready for new life. Victor was in a constant state of both hunger and thirst. Occasionally, a guard would open a small, floor-level, seamless door and deposit a tumbler of water, some cold, tasteless gruel, and a medium-sized basin in which Victor was to relieve himself. When he was done he pushed the utensils to the door and, at some point, they all disappeared.
While Victor’s disbelief had passed to anger, even that was beginning to wane. The constant lighting, irregular motor noises, cold air, cramped quarters, and glistening white surroundings was beginning to play on Victor’s mind. At first he tried to meditate to avoid having his mind latch onto the annoying particulars of his cell and the dire situation he was in, but then he would notice himself mumbling and humming to himself and rocking back and forth. It was not a good sign.
Sleeping was a problem. He never felt as though he got a full “nights” rest. Involuntarily his body would want to stretch as he slept, but this would only result in his head bumping against one of the walls and waking him up. Not having a blanket also exacerbated his sleeplessness. Victor was constantly shivering, even when the air conditioner was not running. It was a hopeless situation. And yet time marched on. Had he been there for a week? Two weeks? A month? Did they forget about him? Did they place him in this cell just to have him rot? Maybe they weren’t even going to bother interrogating him, but just have him waste away, slowly, both physically and mentally, in a forgotten cell, in a prison warehouse, isolated, abandoned, and alone. Victor began to long for human contact—even the contact of an interrogator. He wanted to be acknowledged, and with that thought, a heavy sleep slowly engulfed him. His eyes shut, and—haltingly--he fell asleep once again.
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He dreamed that he was back in Spain in the Middle Ages, in Seville, where the night before 1000 heretics were burned at the stake ad majorem civitas gloriam. On that breathless night in Seville a short, squat, aged man appeared in a red satin yarmulke, white waist sash, and flowing black robes, surrounded by the chiefs of state and the militia. He gave a sign to the cowering crowd that filled the square, and on cue they began to pile logs and brambles underneath the victims who were tied to the stakes. With a second sign from the high priest they began to rip pages from books--ancient, classical, heretical books--and lit them on fire. The heaving, massing crowd then placed the burning pages underneath the pyres, and fire began to envelop the victims. The odd thing was that while the men and women, the heretics, all soon went up in a tongue of fire, not a single word was heard from them—all the noise came from the eager-to-please, docile crowd with their shouts of vituperation and joy, and from the ruling ecclesiastical and secular authorities with their profane curses and invectives directed at the now dead or, soon to be dead, charred and unconscious victims.
Victor found himself next walking the backstreets of Seville. People began to touch his clothing and his person, and a small, growing crowd was assembling. Cries went up: the blind were beginning to see, and cripples were abandoning their braces. In a manner of speaking, it seemed as though the dead were coming back to life. The crowd was multiplying. Victor wanted to run, but he was jostled and surrounded by a now teeming mob. There was no place to go, no place to run. He wanted to get out of there. Now.
Suddenly, a man appeared: it was the high priest official who led the auto da fe the night before, along with some guards. With a sign the crowd parted, those in front kissed the prelate’s shoes, and Victor was escorted away. Everything was silent.
Victor found himself in a dungeon, alone. He waited. Then a click was heard, and the high priest entered. The door closed behind him. He was not in his magnificent robes from the night before, but was dressed in a common cassock. He removed his yarmulke.
“So you have returned?” the prelate asked, let his words sink in for a moment, then continued, “You don’t need to say anything—nor, I assume, will you.” Then, looking out the dungeon window, added, “Give them bread, allow them to sin, establish the perimeters of right and wrong, decide who will live and who will die, and take from them the burden of thinking, and they will give you the world, lay it at your feet, and beg—yes, beg—to be shackled in chains. They, in fact, will eagerly hand you the key to their chains.” He paused, “At my faintest gesture they will crucify you again.” He paused again, this time a little longer, “But I am not telling you anything you don’t already know.” Then, pointing to the door of the dungeon, the aged rabbi muttered, “Go!”
________________________________________________________
Suddenly Victor awoke. He was kneeling and rocking back and forth. Blood was on the sloping wall and spattered on the front of his shirt, just below his chest. He felt his forehead—more blood.
Abruptly, the door opened, and Jacob appeared with two guards. “What the hell!” Victor gasped. Jacob said nothing but placed his forefinger next to his lips and led him away in silence…
______________________________
Victor was led down a narrow hallway with glistening white walls while two guards held him up and dragged him by each of his shoulders. After several turns Victor felt as though he was in the very center of the building. Two large doors opened up, and what appeared to be an operating room loomed before him. The guards set him in a chair in the middle of the room, fastened some electrical monitoring cords to his head and his heart, strapped him down so he couldn’t move, and left.
Victor and Jacob were alone in the room.
After a few moments, Jacob spoke, “So you think you can save them…the sheeple? Perhaps a half century earlier this may—may--have been true, but we have long since set ourselves up as their Masters, as their ‘shepherds,’ if you will. You probably still believe in objective good and evil—that is your weakness—something you share with our sheeple. But even that can be cured.”
Jacob took out a cigarette and lit it. After a long inhale he slowly blew a puff towards Victor. Jacob continued, “You see, the sheeple have been raised in an ethos in which good is returned for “evil”—whatever that word means.” He took a second puff. “They simply do not have the mental category, the imagination, to conceive of the evil we have already done to them nor what we have in store for them. We hurt them and they either, through cognitive dissonance, discount or dismiss the evil that was done to them, or they believe that they in some way deserved to treated in such a fashion by us--that they deserved to be punished and hurt. The sheeple are our human cattle, our de facto slaves with no right to exist outside of our grudging willing acquiescence, and we will not rest until they are totally prostrate and underfoot. We are very stern fathers.”
“But you need the sheeple. They helped you defeat the Nasis.” Victor shot back. “They liberated our people from the camps. They saved us!!! How can you do this to them? Surely not all of them are bad, some of them are good! Why are you doing this? Why?!!!” Victor plaintively asked.
“Come now, Victor, you know the answer to that—or have I misjudged your intelligence?” replied Jacob. “The Shoahcaust never happened, or at least didn’t happen in the way it is commonly portrayed in our Media. The Nasis didn’t want the Shoahcaust—it was a tremendous drain on the Germanian war machine and war economy, searching for, arresting, transporting, housing, and guarding millions of anti-Nasi Sem dissidents—no, the Nazis didn’t want the Shoahcaust, but we—yes, we!--did!!! It was a brilliant False Flag operation committed by OrthoSems against AssimaSems to justify and popularize the founding of the Semish state of Ysrael. Itler fought Global War II in order to reclaim land and people that were taken from Germania after Global War I. We fought Itler to justify and claim land for ourselves in the Middle East. If a few score million Gens gave their lives for us to achieve our goal—‘I am willing to pay that price.’ Besides, Global War I am II were both immensely profitable and helped us to consolidate power. The Shoahcaust was our crowning achievement. Now no one dares criticize us. No one!!!”
Victor was troubled by some oddities to the Shoahcaust—the fact that he could never get the Shoahcaust Museum in Semrusalem to do the math and provide him with a simple arithmetical basis for the widely reported and believed (but in fact unsubstantiated) 6 million Sem dead, the fact that RDF in 1938 called for the Naïve Conference in France to relocate European Sems and then did absolutely nothing to ease Sem emigration from Nasi Germany (Sems which the Nasis were most eager to unload on other countries)--in truth just the opposite resulted from that conference with virtually all carefully selected invitees refusing to accept new Semish immigration--the fact that 400 Sem rabbis marched on the Blanco House in Washington DC in 1943 to bring attention to the Shoahcost only to have President DRF literally sneak away out the back door of Blanco House so he did not have to meet them, the fact that reportedly no one knew of the Shoahcaust during the war, only to discover after the war that millions upon millions of prisoners had been incarcerated by the Nasis after was over and the camps were liberated. It just didn’t make sense.
Jacob continued. “I see you thinking. Let me ask you this, because I don’t get to interrogate intellectuals very often, why is there a Ministry of Shoahcaust Propaganda? Here, let me put this another way, more simple and direct: if the Shoahcaust is true, then why do so many Sems feel the need to fabricate Shoahcaust documentation? The Diary of Anne Ernest is a fraud of course—written in ball point pen when ball points were not even invented (they were invented after the war), and then there was the lawsuit by the ghostwriter of The Diary of Anne Earnest, Meyer Levin, in NYC (in which the ghostwriter, Levin, won). Or take the Wannsee Protocal—everyone knows the phrase “The Final Solution” from the Protocal, but how many people know that it has absolutely nothing to do with exterminating European Semry but instead has to do with transporting Sems, alive, to the then Union Soviet? But you know about that. Or what about Jerzy Kosinski’s book, The Painted Budgie, a heart rendering account of the Shoahcaust only later discovered to be fabricated (Kosinski committed suicide as a result). The list could go on. Finally, there is the fact that after pouring over millions of pages of Nazi documents, not a single Sem scholar has found any link whatsoever between Adolf Itler and the Shoahcaust—reported claims of Nazis regularly employing the ‘Nuremburg Defense’ at trial their notwithstanding. One more aside, why is it that when a Sem or the nation of Eretz commits some great heinous crime against Gens, and is caught, the Media often segueways to a story on Shoahcaust survivors? Duh! The notion that history is interested in the Truth is something you also need to disabuse yourself of. All history is propaganda—pure and simple. It was in the past; it is now, and it will be in the future!!!”
“But even most Sems believe in the Shoahcaust—forget about history per se for the moment.” Victor interjected. “And what about the gas chambers—surely they existed!”
“Yes, of course they did,” Jacob continued, “but even here, there is some ambiguity. Were the gas chambers used for murdering millions of Sems or were they in fact used to disinfect newly arrived Sem prisoners and protect them from typhus? If the Nasis were so hell-bent on quickly murdering Sems, why would they take the time to shave the heads of all newly arrived internees unless they were trying to remove the lice that spread the typhus that ravaged the camps especially later in the war?!!! You see in the last year and a half of the war there was a famine in Nazi Germany, and who would be fed last in a famine—soldiers, civilians, or prisoners? Undernourished prisoners are much more likely to die of disease, right? You don’t have to answer that. And with respect to the gas chambers, even if you believe they were used to murder Sems, one could easily make the argument that the Nazis were trying to save as many Sems as possible, not kill them. Yes indeed. Triage! According to some dubious testimony, when Sems got off of the trains arriving at the camps they had to run across a field and those who were too old, sick, or enfeebled were immediately sent to the gas chambers. But even if you accept this questionable testimony as true (no one of the so-called ‘witnesses’ who saw this transpiring actually witnessed the gassing taking place), one could put a positive spin on it if one chose. You see the Nazi commanders did not necessarily want to kill prisoners out of some unspeakable anti-Sem bloodlust, but there was a shortage of food for the camps and the Nazi camp administrators were performing triage and determining who would likely survive the camps and who would not. Those who would likely survive in the midst of a famine got food—albeit meager—and those who would not likely survive were mercifully put to death. But of course we are not interested in a balanced account of history—especially with respect to the ‘hated’ Nasis—we are interested in furthering our goal of world domination and the Nasis perform the absolutely essential function of being our public “whipping boy,” the ‘dark’ angel to we—the ‘good’—angels. Imagine the most heinous and sadistic crime conceivable, and we ascribe it to the Nasis. We have been so successful in this ideological construct that now the sheeple do not even ask for proof. They simply assume that if something was done by a Nasi, it must therefore have been evil, and if it is absolute evil, it must have been done, or wished for, by a Nasi. Ignore, of course, that according to a published report (now suppressed of course) 95% of the Zyklon B used at the Nasi concentration camps was employed to disinfect newly arriving Sems to protect them—and the German soldiers guarding them—from an outbreak of typhus! It certainly was not mainly used to gas Sems to death!!! In fact, don’t you find it interesting that there is not a single scientific study confirming that the Nasis gassed 100s—let alone millions—of Sems in the gas chambers of Nasi-occupied Europe?!!! Even today, decades after the Shoahcoaust, we could exhume and demonstrate that Sem victims of the Nasis had lethal traces of Zyklon B in their lungs, but this is one study that will never be pursued. Why? Because the outcome would prove that what we have fed to our people as Truth was in fact a lie. The whole myth of the gassing of millions of Sems is just that—a fable. Of course you won’t hear this from any of our Shoahcaust scholars—they know the perimeters of what is permitted, ‘stop-think’ I believe you call it, but were our Shoahcaust scholars actually interested in a balanced and true account of history then these alternative accounts of the Shoahcaust are certainly logical, plausible, valid, and dare I say “true” interpretations as well—and ones that should certainly be entertained were we interested in the Truth, but we are not!” Jacob paused.
“And don’t forget that if the Allies really wanted to save the Sems—who they knew were dying in the camps—they could have invaded Festung Europa a year earlier and saved hundreds of thousands of Sems—in fact U.S. General Marshall called for that, but he was over-ruled by President RDF—besides, having Sems removed from German cities and put in concentration camps allowed us to carpet-bomb and slaughter hundreds of thousands of German women and children. That weakened the Nasi will to resist. And of course you need to look at this from the other side as well. We needed to stamp out Semish assimilation and anti-Sionism once and for all. We needed to have Sems—“Little Sems” we call them—suffer and die in the camps so as to decisively destroy the Semish anti-Sionist movement and prepare the ground for immigration to a new Sionist state in the Middle East where refugees from the Shoahcaust could find sanctuary. Global War II and the Shoahcaust was a win-win situation for us all the way around. We manufactured and demonized our arch-enemy, the Nasis, set them up as the apotheosis of evil, and simultaneously we set ourselves up as innocent, perpetual, and relentless victims of latent Gen hate while being the apotheosis of good and we got a neo-colonialist, racially pure, Semish nation-state out of it as well!!!
“Why are you telling me this?” Victor interjected.
“Why didn’t we bomb the camps?” Jacob continued unabated. “Because we knew exactly what the Nasis were doing and we approved! Yes, we approved!!! You see, even within Semism there are conspiracies. Conspiracies within conspiracies within conspiracies. Orders within orders within orders. Imperium in imperio. OrthoSems and AssimaSems. “Big Sems” and “Little Sems.” And sometimes—if it suits us or is to our advantage—the left hand does not know what the right hand is doing. The whole point of enabling, insuring, manufacturing, and inventing the Shoahcaust—i.e., making certain the Nasis were successful in holding and starving millions our people--was to get European Semry, “Little Sems,” so to speak, to follow the lead of “Big Sem” Sionists (most all of whom themselves, interestingly enough, chose not to emigrate) and emigrate to Eretz Ysrael. Eretz needed to be peopled, and the Shoahcaust provided the perfect pretext and catalyst to get ‘Little Sems’ to emigrate there. After Global War I anti-Semism was rife in the 1920s and 30s; gargantuan Semish war profiteering chaffed Gens, so we needed to manufacture and invent, to coin a phrase, “the crime to end all crimes,” the Shoahcost, in order to silence once and for all Gen criticism of the Sem community. If a few million Little Sems had to die in the process—well, we consider that “collateral damage.” After the Shoahcast, no longer was AssimaSem anti-Sionism a viable position to hold or express. Even better—today all Sems now are Sionists! That was certainly not true before Global War II. Let me repeat, all Sems are now Sionists, regardless where they happen to live. We are victorious on that count. You see,” Jacob said with a wry smile, ”even within the category of human beings—with respect to the Elect, the Sems—some, OrthoSem Sionists, are even more human than others (AssimaSems)!!!”
“You see, Victor, the Gens paid us their gold and in exchange we provided them with the means to slaughter each other in the millions. We financed both sides. Yes, we authored the deaths of millions upon millions of dead Gen solidiers and civilians, but what of that. They are not Sems. What do we care?! What did Rothschild admit: “I have made more money in one day of war than in a year of peace!!!” We, the Semish community, in particular, the “Big,” OrthoSems, needed a ‘Shoahcoust’ to silence—once and for all—the claim that we (forget about the “Little” AssimaSems) have not suffering in time of war. Not only that, we decided to employ our orchestrated slaughter of our own people to found a Semish Zionist state: Eritz Ysrael. Did it have to be in Palestine? Of course not, but we did have some specious religious claim to that land—the so-called “Promised Land” of our forefathers, and it did give us the territory we needed to have a political and economic sanctuary in times of trouble and having it there allows us to wear the cloak of it being a geographical religious sanctuary free from ubiquitous, hateful Gen discrimination.
Victor Volks mind was beginning to lose its bearings. He was in the midst of a nervous breakdown. It was an odd combination of racing thoughts combined with profound depression. All that he held as bedrock, Semish truths was collapsing, and the twilight of nihilism was unwillingly invading his mind. Victor was finding it impossible to maintain “Double-think”—the well-versed Semish practice of maintaining, as both true, two contradictory propositions in one’s mind. “So the Brudershaft Manifesto was true. The Shoahcaust is a fraud!” Victor muttered weakly.
“Of course it was true. With this bait of truth we tease from you your carping complaints.” Jacob, delirious, continued, “Look. The bottom line is that Nazis were amateurs. Itler and the Nasis believed that they were on a mission to save Gendom from inexorable slavery and butchery at the hands of Sems—and they were right! So we needed to demonize these self-proclaimed “saviours of the Gen race” and ascribe to them the embodiment, the epitome, of evil. We ascribed to the Nasis our agenda and goals—global conquest, a Master Race ideology, a genocidal mission—indoctrinated our Gens into believing this, and got hundreds of thousands of them to lay down their lives, Gens murdering Gens, to achieve our Semish goals. Now, with Global War II over half a century behind us we still loudly and incessantly beat the drumbeat of the Nasi s being the apotheosis of evil so as to instill the proper indoctrinated mindset in our vapid, thoughtless, minions. We have manufactured and created the moral vocabulary of North Atlantica to buttress and serve our interests. Even those who might wish to criticize us are reduced to using the very vocabulary, the superlative pejorative moral vocabulary, we ourselves have invented!!! By calling us—if they dare—a Itler, a Nasi, a fascist, or a racist, they are wittingly or unwittingly reinforcing the moral vocabulary we have foisted upon them. The crucial importance of demonizing the Nasis cannot be underestimated. It is vital that Gens do not recognize the real mission of the Nasis for that would completely undermine our decades old construction of the ideological moral ethos of North Atlantica. Hence, anything that even remotely can be associated with evil is ascribed to the Nasis and their anti-Sem agenda. It is all grand social engineering after all, isn’t it?—and we are damn good at it. The best!!!”
Moreover, like old-time, conventional strategists, the Nasis believed in invading and conquering a country from the outside. Uprooting Semdom via inter-nation warfare. Effective? Sometimes, but crude. We, instead, believe in eviscerating our opponents from the inside. Just as I am doing to you. Our method may be compared to an insidious and lethal cancer. We attack our host, and host nation, or—in your case—a host person, from within. Yes, I daresay the most ardent and uncritical believers in the Shoahcaust are our fellow Sems, and if they have a grossly and utterly biased account of the Shoahcaust, that is all the better! Some things are better not known. For us to maintain control and flourish, it is required that Truth be suppressed!!! How does that saying go?—‘a little knowledge is a terrible thing’? In this case, complete knowledge is counter-productive and creates doubt where unself-critical certitude is what is demanded even in our Semish minions. The Shoahcaust was unique, sui generis, we tell our Semish cadres, and they believe us. But try telling that to a Christian who survived the Holodomor—our genocidal Semish attempt at exterminating Gens from the Ukraine!” Jacob went on, “Stupid self-pitying pawns—that’s what our cadres, our Little Jews, are. We trumpet our sufferings and belittle the sufferings of others. But we were talking about religion.”
“Is this part of breaking me? Are you softening me up? What is this? It’s not true!!!” cried Victor, tears beginning to well up in his eyes.
“Immanuel Cant,” Jacob went on, ecstatically, “described religion as comprising three component parts: a belief in a universal God, a belief in freedom and morality, and a belief in immortality. Semism of course denies all three—our God is a parochial God, a God of the Sems alone. Our morality is a morality of double-standards—one for fellow Sems, and one, if you can call it that, towards the subhuman Gen sheeple. And of course we don’t believe in immortality at all—we believe in this world, period, full stop--not the next. Our God is not a God of love but a God of hate. We worship vengeance, not forgiveness. The more we can humiliate and debase our opponents, the more we want to, need to, thrill to. We desire absolute power and all the corruption it engenders. It feeds on itself like an unending, accelerating sadistic orgy.
“Why?!” Victor murmured, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Victor, you made the observation that, if the story of the Flood is true, then we are all Sems because only Sems survived the Flood, and all the Gens were drowned.” Jacob said.
“How did you know that?!” Victor asked, surprised.
“We make it our practice to know everything.” Jacob retorted. “And, in a sense, you are correct. But as you know, the Torah not only tells us what was, but what will be, and I choose to believe that Yahweh has enjoined us to ‘drown,’ to asphyxiate, the Gen race. Genocide, of course, is not new to Semdom; in fact it is enshrined in our Torah. The Canaanites, the Amonites, the Midianites—all were ordered exterminated by our God and His elite Semish representatives—it is in our holy book! We were up to the task back then, and we are up to the task now! The only difference was that back then we could only obliterate individual tribes. Now, we can obliterate whole races and nations if need be!!! We not longer deal in hundreds or thousands—now, with the help of modern technology and biotechnology we can exterminate billions!!!”
“But you could even take it a step further,” Jacob continued. “We claim that the land of Eretz is ours because it was promised to us in the Torah—the Bible, if you will. But if you are Christian and really believe in the New Testament, then the man-God, Jesus, formed a new covenant with the world that supersedes the covenant God had with us in the Old Testament. That was the point of the rending of the curtain in the Temple—God’s covenant with the Sems was now broken. But we have Christians so twisted around our little finger today that they have surrendered the Holy Land to us, and to us alone. Hell, we don’t even allow Christians to emigrate to, or become full citizens of, Eretz, and yet the stupid and cowed Christians acquiesce to being our second class, subhuman, contemptuously tolerated denizens. They are alright with that. They see us as their ‘brothers and sisters in faith’ when we see them as illegitimate and bastard Sem wanna-bees. The cretins! ”
“You see, our religion is a religion of victimization and hatred.” Jacob changed topics. “We tell ourselves (and the stupid Gens) that we have been the perpetual and unremitting victim of majoritarian Christian or Mohammadean society. We are innocent. They are guilty. We have taught ourselves to hate remorselessly. We do not celebrate the universal brotherhood of humankind, believe in forgiveness, the ultimate victory of good over evil, or the resurrection of a wrongly condemned and innocent man-god. Instead, with our Hanukkah we celebrate the deaths of assimilating Sems (at the hands of fellow Orthodox Sems, no less!) who would compromise and befriend Gens. At Passover we go through the pretense of commemorating our bondage in Egypt (forget for a moment that, historically, it never happened) and the concomitant deaths of myriad Egyptian Gen children. If 1000 Gen children have to die in order that one Sem may live well, we will pay that price… and more!!! No, from an objectivist perspective, the Sems are responsible for more evil than the Nazis ever performed. Ever!!! Ney, we are responsible for more evil than the Nazis could ever even have imagined, let alone have committed!!! But, then again, all this talk presumes you believe in good and evil, and we do not. We believe in ourselves. We are beyond good and evil! We are Sems. The Master Race. The Chosen People. And this world is our God’s gift to us and us alone! We, alone, are the stewards of nature and this includes stewardship over all the beasts of the fields—including Gens—our sub-human cattle. Gens butcher pigs, and we butcher the Gens who butcher the pigs. There is a certain circular poetry to that.
“Nation states with their stupid parochial nationalism are like animal farms, and we are the human beings that cultivate and render the human animals on those farms—be they North Atlantican, Hispanian, Germanian, Anglican, Russian…etc. In the hierarchical society we have created, we are at the top of the pyramid--the pinnacle, the apex—and nothing else matters. The New World Order is our Order. Dixi!”
Jacob was exhausted, paused for a moment, and then went on, “Tell me, Victor Volk, what is Truth?” And Jacob turned his back to Victor. “I will teach you. When I am done with you, if I say 2 + 2 = 3, you will affirm it, and honestly believe that 2 + 2 = 3 is correct. If I say that in a Euclidian universe the shortest distance between two points is an elliptical line, you will agree with me also. And finally if I tell you that you love Big Sam, your heart will well up in deepest joy and profoundest passion, and you will weep for the love Big Sam has for you. You will joyfully embrace what he requires of you….” (Victor did not like the turn the conversation was taking.)
“And what does Big Sam require of me?” Victor asked reluctantly, his tearful voice quivering.
“All in due course.” And with that, Jacob left.
Victor, his brain overwrought, closed his eyes and, try as he might to stop them, tears rained down his face. His mind was a shambles.
Chapter 21
“Phase Two,” Jacob said as he led Victor and the silent, attending guards down the white hallways. This time, Victor was taken back to the interrogation room what with its dials, and monitors, syringes, and electrical equipment, but instead of being placed in the chair and strapped down, the party halted before an adjoining annex: Room 101.
“So this is it.” Victor thought to himself. Crazy thoughts raced through his head: perhaps he should confess to everything now and be spared the humiliation of being broken, but then he would regain himself and come to think that he would be the exception—he would be the one the Thought Police would not be able to break, kill him if they must!!!
The door opened. It was a white, padded room, but without any kind of monitoring equipment at all. A padded chair with braces for the wrists and ankles stood in the middle of the room, and that was it. Victor was strapped to the chair, and once again the guards left, shutting the door behind them.
“You are thinking what is going to happen next? Yes?” Jacob whispered. “You think you are unique—that you will beat us. Sometimes I half-wish that were true. This has all become a bit boring, especially with idealistic intellectuals.”
“You want me to confess?” Victor asked shyly.
“Oh, that would be up to you. Of course it’s not required. You have already been found guilty. That’s a mere formality. And if you didn’t know much before coming here, you know too much now.” And here Jacob waived his hand to silence Victor’s plaintive rebuttal.
After a moment, Jacob continued, “And what have you heard about Room 101?”
“That it is where enemies of the state are broken and confess?” Victor replied.
“And how might we break you?” Jacob asked, and winked.
Victor said nothing.
“You see, Victor, every man, and woman, has their ‘price,’ so to speak, or their weakness. It may be money, it may be prestige, it may be a life of hedonistic pleasure, it may be the avoidance of pain, and it may be something quite different. You fall into this last category.” Jacob almost seemed bored with his observation.
“My diagnosis of your mental illness is that you are suffering from love—love for your fellow man. Something went terribly wrong and you have come to see sheeple as human beings—dare I say, as our potential equals. You would be willing to sacrifice all that Big Sam has given you—a beautiful apartment, a chauffer-driven limousine, money, the best in food and drink, freedom of movement (with some restrictions), top security clearance, an interesting job (given your tastes)—in short, everything an ordinary cultivated man could want, and yet you rebel. You are an idealist. You are willing to sacrifice everything in order to alleviate the general suffering of man. But just as love is your strength, it is also your weakness, your Achilles heal. The way to destroy a moral man is to employ his own morality against him.” Jacob concluded, paused, and then said, “Choose!”
Immediately the door swung open and in walked a clearly distraught and brutalized Salome accompanied by the two broad shouldered guards. They brought with them a plastic tarp, and spread it out on the floor in front of Victor. Salome was made to kneel down in the middle of the tarp. Her hands were tied behind her. She was sobbing.
“What!” Victor screamed.
“I love you, Victor.” Salome interjected between her sobs.
“Don’t!” Victor demanded.
Jacob removed a revolver from his holster, and pointed the barrel at Salome’s temple.
“I love you…” Salome whimpered.
Jacob cocked the trigger.
Victor’s mind raced. While he felt an abstract love for the downtrodden sheeple, he felt a personal love for Salome. He hadn’t loved a woman until he met her, and he couldn’t just let her die. “Kill me! Kill me!” Victor demanded. “Salome had nothing to do with anything. It was I who wanted to connect up with the Bruderschaft. It was I. She is innocent….Fuck the sheeple!!!...Fuck the Bruderschaft!!!...Kill me…please….” Victor’s voice trailed off as tears filled his eyes.
Jacob smiled at Victor, looked back towards Salome, aimed the revolver, pressed it against the side of her head, and released the firing pin. “Click.” And then silence. It was a silence that seemed to last forever. It was as though time stood still.
“Kill him.” Salome said, breaking the silence. Then she wiped her tears, smiled, got off her knees, slipped off her handcuffs, took out a white handkerchief and placed it over Victor’s face. Without further ado she left the room.
The guards collected the tarp and followed her out.
Silence, befuddlement, and then welling anger: “That fucking bitch! Kill her. Slit the cunt’s throat.” Victor tried to reach for Jacob’s revolver. “Give it to me!” he demanded. “I hate her!!! Let me go!!! Kill her!!! Let me wash my hands in her blood!!!”
As Victor continued to rant deliriously, Jacob withdrew a small leather bag from his waist pocked, unzipped it, removed a small syringe filled with a silvery liquid.
“Et tu, Victor?” and he injected the syringe into Victor’s neck. Darkness.
Chapter 22
When Victor awoke he was back in his apartment. A letter on the bed stand said that he had been granted a leave of absence from work. Next to the letter was a white handkerchief, neatly folded. He needed a drink.
The Renaissance Café was now where Victor spent all of his time. He often got there before 9 a.m. when it opened. Milling about outside he would smoke a cigarette and keep to himself.
A special table was set up for Victor at the side of the bar. One chair, his chair, was placed next to the table. He never ate much and had trouble sleeping. Curiously, he lost the ability to dream. He attributed all this to gin—Victory Gin.
Sheeple would occasionally enter the bar and order their Victory Beer and cocktails. Victor ignored them. He no longer felt the tug of compassion for their sorry lot. “The sheeple get exactly what they deserved,” was his new mantra. Social Darwinism was his new philosophy of life.
Victor often sat with two other broken and defeated men, Ford and Berglind. They never spoke to one another but simply drank their gin in silence. No one ever bothered them either. All they did was drink and wait, drink and wait. One day, Ford no longer appeared. A week later, Berglind was gone. And yet Victor Volk waited--for what, he did not know.
__________________________
And then the time came. Over the bar loudspeaker the radio was interrupted by an announcement: because of the threat of terrorism the ration of food staples and fuel would have to be reduced, but shoelaces and razorblades were still in strong supply. Then, in an aside, the radio announced that this coming Sunday, Easter Sunday morning, Day 2, the heretical Universalist Christian Priesthood would finally be burned at the stake in a gigantic auto da fe on the steps of the old Cathedral. The few nuns that still existed—mostly old women in their 80’s—would also be available for sexual violation as well; this would be as an “aperitif,” so to speak, a little something before the main course, before they, in turn, are torched as well. “Be sure to dress warmly,” the radio broadcaster admonished, “and bring your own popcorn and soda. Matches and kindling will be provided.”
Victor vaguely seemed to recall having some empathy for the condemned clerics, but it all quickly passed. “They got what they deserve. Fuck ‘em!,” he said to himself, and swallowed another shot of gin.
Chapter 23
Victor got up early, before dawn. He dimly saw crowds beginning to leave their Strategic Settlements and progress towards the cathedral. Some were laughing, while others, voyeurs and curiosity-seekers, were wiping the sleep out of their eyes in order to witness the novelty of groups of men dying before their very eyes.
He knew that the immolation would not take place until the red sky of dawn began to peek from the clouds. Symbolism was everything in North Atlantica.
Victor turned on the tv in his room. A news flash appeared. Apparently some terrorists, in a bold attack of arson, had torched a huge complex of grain elevators by the river. Not only would this result in the ration of food being further reduced for Gens, the news anchor continued, but Sems might have to reduce their caloric intake as well. A sheet was handed to the anchor, and he continued: “Due to the dastardly attack by terrorists on our food infrastructure, Big Sam is asking that brave, altruistic, and self-less souls assemble by the train depot for special transportation to camps in the nearby countryside. The national security of North Atlantica is in jeopardy! You will be doing yourself, your family, your community, and your country a service. Big Sam needs you now! Greater love than this hath no man…”
Victor knew immediately what he had to do. Throwing on his coat, and grapping his hat, he ran out the door. “Big Sam needs me!” Victor thought to himself. He arrived just as a tram approached to take him to the train depot. While the tram to the railroad yard was going in the opposite direction of the auto da fe, it too was filling up with patriotic husbands, wives, sons, and daughters.
The trip to the railroad yard was short, but he couldn’t get the smell of sheeple out of his nostrils. “Don’t they ever bathe,” he said to himself. In the corner a young man, drunk from the night before, urinated. Still, an air of eager anticipation filled the car, something one only gets when one feels one is sacrificing oneself for cause greater that oneself. Victor noticed that he was the only Sem on the tram.
When the tram arrived at the train depot, hundreds of people were milling about. Cattle cars from the countryside disgorged families at the train depot as well. Since Victor did not see anyone Semish with whom to talk, he continued to keep to himself. Finally, an announcement came. What looked like a fellow Sem stood up, bullhorn in hand, and addressed the crowd of Gens, “North Atlantica is in a dire situation. Food and fuel is in short supply, and there are some calls for Sems to give up their privileges!”
“No, no!” The crowd shouted back.
“The Sems are our saviors,” the man exclaimed as he continued. “They have protected us from invasion, defended us from terrorism, and secured the national security state. It is because of them that we have the North Atlantican way of life that we all now cherish! But how have we shown our gratitude to the Sems? Have we shed their tears, have we washed their feet, have we felt their pain, have we kissed their…(and he the microphone malfunctioned for a moment)? No, we want to bring them down to our level! Well I say we will have none of it! We owe them our lives and it is now time to pay up. Now you can leave and go home—turn your back on the Sems—but what kind of message will that send to your spouse, to your children, to your friends, to Big Sam? Or you can do the honorable thing and you can sacrifice your life for the greater glory of North Atlantica. Come, walk with me. You will die so they may live. Once and for all appease your personal guilt and the collective guilt of all Gendom for treating the Sems so abominably over the centuries. Remember the Shoahcaust, a sin for which we can never be forgiven—remember the Shoahcaust…”
“Look!” someone cried, and pointed to the eastern horizon. Miniature tongues of flames were beginning to light the rose colored sky off to the horizon.
“The priests are being immolated!” Someone else exclaimed.
Returning the focus back to the assembled crowd, the speaker interrupted, “Let our deaths expiate the sins of our fathers!!! Run with me to the gas chambers whose inviting mouth stands open, ready to receive us. Its jaws beckon! Do not think, re-act, and do what is right! Come with me. I am running…”
And the great mass of men, women and children began to heave towards the massive doors of the gas chambers.
“Don’t worry, there is room for everyone. Come…come. You are all saints and we love you for that…” Here, the speaker, stepped aside from the crowd and allowed it to pass by him. He wiped his brow and a wry smile could be seen on his lips.
Victor looked around him. Families in altruistic ecstasy were crying tears of joy as they raced to the gas chambers—parents pushing their children ahead of them so they would have the honor of asphyxiating first.
Victor began to run. He passed the speaker (who appeared now to be walking away from the gas chambers), and elbowed his way past a breathless Gen woman, hunched over with an infant in a carrier on her back.
Finally, he reached the door to the gas chamber and entered. Bodies were crammed together. From some corners there was singing, from others there was joyful prayer, from still others there was laughter. Everyone was happy. Tear of joy stained the faces of parents as their wide-eyed children looked up in wonderment not comprehending what was about to transpire.
“Me first! Me first!” someone cried, and then the chant was picked up by the packed crowd. Soon everyone in the chamber was shouting this chorus.
Finally, as the doors to the gas chamber closed and the lock clicked shut, Victor saw—once again—a neatly tiled white room but this time with glistening silver shower heads. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a neatly folded white handkerchief and tied it around his neck. He then played with the handkerchief so that his head appeared centered on a plate-like ruff. And as gas shot out of the spigot heads, Victor approached the gushing jet of mist. He pushed a small blond-headed boy out of the way. Then, with tears welling up in his eyes, Victor smiled and took a deep breath. Victor Volk loved B.S.
Epilogue
(“Someday, somehow” lyrics, by Nickelback.)
How the hell did we wind up like this
Why weren't we able
To see the signs that we missed
And try to turn the tables
I wish you'd unclench your fists
And unpack your suitcase
Lately there's been too much of this
Don’t think its too late
Nothin's wrong
just as long as
you know that someday I will
Someday, somehow
gonna make it alright but not right now
I know you're wondering when
(You're the only one who knows that)
Someday, somehow
gonna make it alright but not right now
I know you're wondering when
Well I hoped that since we're here anyway
We could end up saying
Things we've always needed to say
So we could end up singing
Now the story's played out like this
Just like a paperback novel
Lets rewrite an ending that fits
Instead of a hollywood horror
[Chorus]
[Solo]
How the hell did we wind up like this
Why weren't we able
To see the signs that we missed
And try to turn the tables
Now the story's played out like this
Just like a paperback novel
Lets rewrite an ending that fits
Instead of a hollywood horror
Nothin's wrong
just as long as
you know that someday I will
Someday, somehow
gonna make it alright but not right now
I know you're wondering when
(You're the only one who knows that)
Someday, somehow
gonna make it alright but not right now
I know you're wondering when
(You're the only one who knows that)
I know you're wondering when
(You're the only one who knows that)
5744 H.E.
By
Vaughn Klingenberg
Copyright © October
Dedicated to my daughters, Anastasia and Lidia, so they know how, and why, I have come to have the beliefs I have.
Dedicated to the uncanonized Judeo-Christian catholic Saint, George Orwell, for speaking truth to power (and to the rest of us).
And dedicated to the prostrate, violated, and clueless Sheeple (may they finally have an epiphany).
Any similarities to individuals, places, or events is purely coincidental and should not be interpreted otherwise.
Obviously there are many good, outstanding Jews in the world, but this should not blind us to the fact that an extremely powerful subsection of the Jewish community does not affirm a universalist humanitarian agenda—quite the contrary! It is with respect to this latter, closeted community that I write my satirical expose here.
And if I really say it,
The publisher won’t print it,
So I have to lay it,
Between the lines…
Paraphrase of a popular song from the ‘60’s.
Any damn fool general can invade a country from without. It takes real genius to invade a country from within. – a Russian playwright.
“Difficile est saturam non scribere.” -- Decimus Junius Juvenal.
This is, of course, a work of fiction.
V.K.
Did I mention that this is a work of fiction?
-- V.K.
Cognitive dissonance is a term used in modern psychology to describe the feeling of discomfort when simultaneously holding two or more conflicting cognitions: ideas, beliefs, values or emotional reactions. In a state of dissonance, people may sometimes feel "disequilibrium": frustration, hunger, dread, guilt, anger, embarrassment, anxiety,… etc. Most often this invariably leads individuals to discount and dismiss the cognition that led to the dissonance in the first place. When a jarring cognition occurs, most all individuals choose to keep and affirm the alternative cognition that affirms the benignity of the pre-established worldview. To do otherwise is, for most people, too horrible to contemplate.
Part One
“He felt as though he were wandering in the forests of the sea bottom, lost in a monstrous world where he himself was the monster. He was alone.” -- 1984, George Orwell.
The World of North Atlantica.
Chapter One
It was a bright cold day in late November (After the Common Era, Gregorian), the first Sunday in Advent, in fact (for those few specialist archivists still familiar with the liturgical calendar), and the clock was striking thirteen. “Time to get a new clock—to repeat the old joke,” Victor Volk smiled to himself. However, military time did have its advantages. No more messing around with a.m. and p.m., just a straight recitation of a number and one knew immediately where one stood during the day. For that matter, thank God, they got rid of that ridiculous B.C.E and A.C.E. as well and replaced it with “Hebrew Era,” H.E. No more “before” or “after,” just a linear march towards…towards what, exactly? A glorious future where North Atlantica will once and for all prevail over all its enemies—both foreign and domestic—and smash the collective skulls of its opponents with all the ferocity and blind resolution of a jackbooted patriot? Or will the revolution end in devolution? A resolutionless and unending psycho-sadomasochistic dialectic spun out of control, yet managed, by the ruling elite? A Purgatory without a Paradise? A hell without a heaven? An Old Jerusalem without a New Jerusalem? Towards….? Victor’s musings on the Interregnum gnawed at him subconsciously, like the canker that galls the blossoms in the spring, and yet it was there, eating at him like a bloodsucker gorges itself on an unknowing victim.
Where Victor stood or, more accurately, lay, was in bed. He was out late last night chatting up a pretty, young blond sheeple. He didn’t have to get her drunk, or pay her, to bed her, but he enjoyed the sodden glazed look in her eyes before he climaxed inside her, on her, all over her. He told his sexual victims that he was Aaron Kosminsky of 1 Zion Square and he called his conquests “Mary Kellys,” because he liked to smother them with a pillow as he approached climax. As the “Mary Kellys” lay there with their bodies spent, Victor was often uncertain whether they were living or dead. He toyed with the idea of slashing their throats, and removing their ovaries, or carving a ”V” into their cheeks to let the cognoscenti know who really was responsible—and he had nothing to fear. Were a girl even to die accidentally the police would blame it on an aristocrat, or at least on a confusion of suspects, but not on him and his people. This would be true even if “Mary Kelly” was found murdered on the doorstep of a synagogue, and written in blood on her bedroom wall was the epithet:
The Sems areThe men thatWill notBe BlamedFor Nothing To be honest, it was all becoming a bit boring. There no longer was the “thrill of the chase,” because all Victor had to do was suggest that he was a Sem—OrthoSem or AssimaSem—it didn’t matter, and ‘Shazam’, a girl would begin vibrating her tongue like a buzzsaw. True, he could try to hook up with a SemGirl but sexual power politics would always come to the fore—who gets to be on top, and who goes on the bottom--and besides, he would have to be extra careful that in a spasm of drunken pleasure he didn’t mouth anything politically incorrect (that would then immediately be reported by her to the Tribal authorities). Until ready to settle down, most Semboys avoided their expected female marriageable counterparts like the plague. There was a reason the traditional Sem wedding ceremony took on many of the aspects of a contractual corporate merger—in many respects, it was.
_____________________________
Still, thoughts haunted him from earlier that evening as he walked home down the streets and alleyways from her place. He could hear the muffled music and drunken chatter of the nighttime crowds as they began to rush home before the midnight curfew. It all reminded him of a quote from a book he recently flushed down the memory hole, forever to be forgotten, late last Friday, just before Advent. Later, he would come to realize how prescient it was indeed:
"No, they did not bury me, though there is a period of time which I remember mistily, with a shuddering wonder, like a passage through some inconceivable world that had no hope in it and no desire. I found myself back in the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurrying through the streets to filch a little money from each other, to devour their infamous cookery, to gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream their insignificant and silly dreams. They trespassed upon my thoughts. They were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretence, because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew. Their bearing, which was simply the bearing of commonplace individuals going about their business in the assurance of perfect safety, was offensive to me like the outrageous flauntings of folly in the face of a danger it is unable to comprehend. I had no particular desire to enlighten them, but I had some difficulty in restraining myself from laughing in their faces so full of stupid importance. I daresay I was not very well at that time.”
It had been a good work of fiction for its time, but times had changed--it came too close to things--so it had to be purged. That was perhaps Volk’s greatest ability: without needing to consult higher authority he knew intuitively what the perimeters of Stopthink were, and he didn’t dare cross them. That was why he had the position he had. He loved his work—felt almost as though he could communicate, inhabit, an earlier, richer world—provided he knew, and kept, his place in this world.
Later, when he got back to his relatively opulent, racially inbred (no Gens allowed) gated community—The Uebermensch Ghetto (or the “Ghetto,” for short, as he and his fellow denizens sarcastically but good-humoredly termed it), he immediately went right to bed, but not before setting the alarm for 13 o’clock. He had some minor work to catch up on and he thought he would go in and finish it even though it was a day off. Yes, he enjoyed his work, but he was careful not to let on how much he enjoyed it.
But “work” was the wrong word for it—“vocation,” yes, it was his vocation. For example, Victor, true to his profession, still liked to refer to the days according to their ancient nomenclature. Today was Sunday afternoon, not Day 2, as the Inner Temple had promulgated decades ago. Referring to days by name and not by number was a way for him to impress his fellow Sems with his knowledge of ancient practices, albeit occult and barbarian practices. His AssimaSem colleagues in the Outer Temple thought him a bit eccentric as a result, and that suited him just fine. True he trod a fine line between simply being odd and being dangerously politically heretical, but most fellow Sems thought that just went with the territory. Collecting, analyzing, sorting, and destroying “degenerate knowledge,” as the Sems termed it, was bound to affect one’s mind, regardless how fortified one was against it, and Victor was nearing the end of his 5-year stint as a Cultural-History and Literary Analyst & Purgerer.
Chapter Two
When he was finally fully awake, he heard the dull hum of the tv and radio in the background. Of course one could not turn either of them off completely—that was both prohibited decades ago as well as technically impossible—but one could turn them down so that they almost became imperceptible. There was a danger in turning them down as much as one could: one could forget that they were even on. Of course the feared Thought Police could watch and listen (on the tv) or listen (on the radio) through these devices to all of the movement and noise coming from an apartment, so there was an inescapable and constant level of low intensity paranoia in every household, but this was ostensibly done for the public’s protection. Terrorists and would-be terrorists were everywhere, and one could not be careful enough in hunting them down and eliminating them. It was one’s civic, patriotic, duty--forget the fact that it was a capital offense to harbor or even unintentionally befriend such social miscreants and outlaws. Victor yawned, stretched, and turned down the volume of the tv set in the bathroom as he began his ablutions.
Remembering that he wanted to stop in to work today, he fired up his computer to check traffic in order to learn the best way to get to MiniTru, the towering pyramidal structure Volk worked in. Of course the roads would be virtually empty on a Day 2 morning. Some elderly sheeple, out of habit, visited churches and cathedrals still, only now to offer sacrilegious profanations to the beleaguered and all-but-obliterated Universal Christian Church. It was a year ago, Advent (the Temple loved irony), that all recalcitrant clerics were universally rounded up and placed in internment camps to await their mortal fate. A decision on that matter was expected by this-coming Easter.
Suddenly, as Victor was watching the computer come on-line, Big Sam appeared on the computer screen with the caption, “Big Sam is Watching You!” Big Sam was a man in his late forties or early fifties wearing a black cassock and a white scarf with blue embroidery draped around his shoulders, all fastened with a small, gold star, pin—the Star of Redshield, latter to become the symbol of all Semdom, notwithstanding its recent origin. Big Sam also wore a short, black skullcap and the gold rimmed spectacles of an aging intellectual. His hair was grey and in tight curls, and he wore a full, pointed, lose beard, greyish-black. He had the appearance of a shortish, beetle-shaped figure of a man. He was the face of North Atlantica—the empire in which Victor Volk found himself residing. Up until Global War II it was called the United States of America but after the War it became simply “North Atlantica.” True, North Atlantica was nominally ruled by non-Sem Presidents and Republicratic and Demopublican politicians, but ever behind-the-scenes hovered the ubiquitous, avuncular presence of Big Sam and all that he represented, the Inner and Outer Temple, chief ideologue for “The New World Order,” the pyramidal ministries, barracks democracy, and the eugenically modified and culturally and educationally regressive homo-contra-sapiens—in other words, the modern day Gen sheeple and parrot-ple. Primitive Neanderthals, it was joked, with their grunts and screams, had a more sophisticated vocabulary and emotional range then modern day Gens (and that was, if fact, true).
After looking over the travel routes, Victor decided to skip having his chauffeur drive him to MiniTru and instead decided to make a day of it by riding the tram. Individual excursions like this were frowned upon by the Tribe, but he could always claim that he was doing undercover work checking for malcontents on the byways and trams of the city. Skipping lunch, he quaffed down a shot of Victory Gin, shuddered, grabbed his overcoat, and headed for the hallway. He stopped in front of the mirror as he was exiting. In it he saw a youngish, 50 something man, with a slight paunch and hair dyed black (blonde at the roots). He always felt somewhat ashamed of his blonde hair—he was the product of a Sem mother and a Gen father—and he could not help but feel that his blond roots (Victor was a bit slovenly) inhibited his entrance into the ranks of the Inner Temple. That, combined with his slack jaw, bluish-green eyes, and broad shoulders gave him away as a product of “mixed blood.” Still, being a half-blood was better than being Gen, regardless of the circumstances, and it did secure him his archivist position, so--all things being equal--he was satisfied with his lot in life.
As he left, Victor waved to the two simian-faced Gen guards that protected the entrance to the “Ghetto,” and he walked the two blocks to the tram stop. On the way he overheard the “baaing” of sheeple mothers calling for their children and heard snippets of Gen intellectuals—parrot-ple—earnestly mouthing the latest terror alert threat level. The authorities had done away with yellow and orange alert levels so only shades of red were now posted.
More precisely there were three levels of red alert—dull red, medium red, and bright red. A democratic election had just passed so more dull and medium reds were now to be seen. It seemed as though in the run-up to an election the party in power was more liberal with the alert warnings. Victor could not tell if this was because there was more of an actual threat of a terrorist attack during an election season or because the politicians were playing on the fears of the skittish electorate to re-elect the status quo (who invariably claimed to be “tougher on terrorism” that their counterparts in the opposing party). In any event, because of salient events like 11/9 the public was willing to pay any price and bear any burden just to feel safe. (Whether the Gens actually felt safer as a result of giving up literally all of their civil liberties and kissing good-bye to their social security and social welfare safety net in order to finance the unending war on terrorism was a question none of them ever seemed to bother to ask.)
Chapter Three
As Victor made his way down the street to the tram stop he couldn’t help but notice the ubiquitous political posters planted on walls, buildings, telephone poles…etc. The elections were completed just last month with Republocrats rearranging the congressional furniture with Demopublicans. Of course the Gens saw all this, including the billions of dollars spent on Media political advertising, as signs of a vibrant democracy, when in fact the exact opposite case could easily be made. The fact of the matter was that the electronic voting machines throughout the country were all rigged by a very small handful of pseudo-legitimate, black-ops companies that had close ties to “national security” [sic] institutions. These companies manufactured voting machines to get preordained candidates elected, so in most respects democracy in North Atlantica was a sham to begin with, the billions spent on election campaigning was used as a public relations cover to legitimize the pre-ordained elections. “Surely if the elections were illegitimate, billions would not be spent on them?! The mere fact that political campaigns are so expensive is prima facie evidence that they are legitimate,” or so goes parrot-ple reasoning, if you can call it that. “Stupid sheeple!”, Victor intoned.
Still, even aside from the suspect and rigged elections, Victor sometimes believed the sheeple got exactly what they deserved. One of the more recent presidents made the astute observation that election-time was a terrible time to debate real issues. All the electorate got was fear-mongering, half-truths, and demagoguery. “But, on the other hand,” Victor thought, “if election season is not the right time to debate the ‘tough issues’ in a democracy, when is?! When the electorate is not paying attention?! Maybe true!!!“
“Fuck’n moronic sheeple. Democracy is too important to be left to the electorate!” agreed Victor, and he smiled at a poster of Big Sam as he passed by it.
On the contrary, Victor was inclined to believe that anyone who wanted to be a politician should, by that very fact, be excluded from office: such a person is, by nature, power hungry. “And then to see those ridiculous, clueless sheeple with their ‘I voted’ stamps picked up at the voting stations, and the smug looks on the moonish faces of the dopes who thought they were doing their ‘civic duty’--as though they have actually done something positive to make society better or more responsive simply by the mere fact that they voted--it was enough to make someone puke.” Victor thought. If anything, “civic-minded” sheeple were in fact legitimizing the whole corrupt political system that was keeping them and their sorry children under foot. It got Volk to thinking—what a god-damn sickening world we live in--but not too much. Some thoughts were better not to pursue.
“Thank Yahweh and the long shadow of Big Sam—certainly he is not subject to the vicissitudes of human nature but instead functions as a paternal guiding hand through all the torments and tribulations facing North Atlantica!” Victor concluded.
Chapter Four
Victor got to the corner just as the tram arrived. His blue overalls marked him as a member of the Outer Temple and a Gen dutifully gave up her seat in the front of the car for him to sit down. He glanced around the dilapidated tram and saw the usual riff-raff on board. Mothers with crying children, bleary-eyed young men smelling of beer, elderly and handicapped folks fearful of being robbed or beaten. It was a perfect cross-section of Gen society.
A few Gens, no doubt the ones who fancied themselves more intellectual then their neighbors, could be seen “reading” the newspaper. Victor caught a glance at the headline and photos in the Times—“We only print what is fit for you to know!,” was its moniker. The title read, in Oldspeak English, “Eretz Israel Defends Itself from Lawless Thugs!!!.” The subtitle being, “Palestinians Again Try to Push Eretzites into the Sea.” The large photo underneath was taken from behind the position of the Eretz soldiers as they pointed their gun sights at what appeared to be starving, teenaged, jobless youth. Directly in the center of the photo was young, skinny Philistinian boy with a torn shirt attempting to throw a small rock at the Eretz soldiers. The photo was taken through a gun sight so the boy was framed by a dark circle with the crosshairs focused directly on his small forehead. Just below this photo, not coincidentally, was a picture of Gen soldiers liberating the Ouchwits “death camp,” what with emaciated and skeletal Sem men piled on top of each other on bunks in a barracks. It was inevitable that when any photo was printed that even hinted at Sem or Eretz Israel culpability that there would be an accompanying photo of one of the “death camps” or a photo of Shoahcaust survivor victims from Global War II strategically placed next to it.
Of course placing a story favorable to Eretz or Sems was de rigueur after an article even mildly critical of Eretz, Eretz soldiers, Sem shysters, or any sort of Sem misbehavior. The Shoahcaust, because of its more recent origins, was the preferred historical event of choice for this purpose. One saw this methodology applied not only in newspapers but also on tv, on the radio, on the internet,…etc. At what would have been Christmas there was the obligatory “Sound of Muzak” (to subtly remind Gens to come to the aid of downtrodden Sems) and at Easter there was the predictable “10 Komandments” (to remind Gens of the preeminence of Seminism to Christianity). Everything broadcast nowadays was done with a propaganda purpose in mind. The Media was too precious a commodity to leave in the hands of clueless Gens. It also served, of course, to mitigate the criminality of Sem misbehavior and at the same time remind Gens that whatever crimes Sems may be accused of, there was always the modern, and sui generous, apotheosis of crime-- the slaughter of Sems by Gens in the Shoahcaust during Global War II. This was a crime for which there was no equal in the annals of modern history, and Victor concurred.
The tram lurched forward down Summit Avenue, the main thoroughfare that led to MiniTru. As the tram creeked its way down the street Victor caught glances of the various Gen housing projects—Strategic Settlements—as he went. Sems had “Ghettos,” plush, opulent, gated housing estates; Gens had “Strategic Settlements,” row upon row of barbed wire and gun tower enclosed housing complexes; they were walled, crumbling, rat infested tenement complexes teeming with sheeple and patrolled by guards. After the manufactured real estate housing bubble burst at the beginning of the century, no Gen owned a private home anymore. Gens were all forced into foreclosure and bankruptcy and became wards of the state. This worked out well for the state since it was easier to monitor and control Gens this way. If they misbehaved, they could easily lose their employment and their apartment and have to make due by begging in the streets or being forced into drug addiction, prostitution, and crime. Besides, a lot of money was to be made from foreclosing on and bankrupting Gens even apart from the benefits to the police state.
The Strategic Settlements followed one after another in monotonous regularity along the tram route. They had names such as Ouchwits, Duckout, Mydangneck,…etc. For some reason the Ministry of Naming liked to give European-sounding names to the Strategic Settlements—perhaps because it gave it some cachet to the deteriorating housing projects, but perhaps for some other reason unbeknownst as well.
__________________________________________________________
While wealth was not solely concentrated in the hands of mega-rich Sem killionaires (there was the occasional poster-boy killionaire Gen), there was a method to Sem wealth. For example, much of the Sem uber-wealth came from insider-trading. Some Sem insider would give clandestine information to another Sem who would then use this financial tip to make a financial killing; then, as payback, the Sem who made the killing would tithe a portion of his wealth back to the Tribe. In sum, everyone in the Tribe watched out for everyone else in the Tribe. That was the ethos in which Sems were raised. Also, Ueber-wealthy Sems reveled in the title “killionaire,” because it underscored the fact that because they possessed such grossly inappropriate, unearned, and ill-begotten insider-trading wealth, dispossessed Gens suffered and died by the millions. The more money the Sem elite had, the less money there was for the commonwealth or for the grossly underfunded Gen social welfare programs. Statistically, while Sems comprised about 2% of the population of North Atlantica, they owned much more than 90% of the wealth. This meant, of course, that the remaining 98% of the population, controlled less than 10% of the wealth, and every year this gap grew. And this was not all: Sem wealth was consolidated in finance, entertainment-propaganda, defense contracting, energy, and the Media. In fact, with respect to the Media, over 95% of Media organizations were owned outright by Sems or the CEO of the Media corporations was a Sem. (Sems thought it prudent to leave a couple of percent of the Media in compliant non-Sem hands—typically obscure and insignificant media venues--so as to be able to claim ‘plausible deniability’ if the topic ever came up that Sems controlled literally all Media outlets.) This of course should have been a national security issue—the concentration of Media-propaganda all in the hands of a very small in-bred ethnic and secretive, conspiratorial, societal group—but it wasn’t. That issue was never raised—certainly not of course by the Sem Media itself. One other distinguishing factor that needed to be noted with respect to Sem mastery of the Media was that, unlike Gens, Sems always worked in concert with each other to establish tighter and tighter control over society and amass more and more wealth (wealth which would later, of course, be employed to buy off and bribe—i.e., via campaign contributions--book-licking politicians to give the ueber-wealthy even more tax breaks and to carry out, favorable to Sems, foreign, e.g,, wars against Mohammedian Middle Eastern countries, and domestic, e.g., increasing yearly taxes on the working poor but no wealth tax on the ultra-ueber-wealthy, policy). It was a brilliant self-sustaining parochial policy: Sems legally bribe democratic congresspersons to tax the shrinking middle and burgeoning lower class population even more, all the while granting ever more tax breaks to the Sem ueber-wealthy elite; then, use the tax dollars coercively collected by congress and its enforcement arm, the ISR, from the Gen middle and lower classes to pay for Sem adventurism, both foreign and domestic, and to justify a draconian civil rights policy at home. And all of this is done to advance strictly Sem financial and political goals--Gens be damned!!! (A “terrorist” was anyone who challenged or criticized this prevailing status quo.) It all was simply brilliant—a self-funding, politico-financial, “perpetual motion machine,” if you will. Tax the poor to pay for the objectives of the untaxed and above-the-law rich. Brilliant!!!
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On a related note, one reason that Sem mastery over the Media and cultural climate of North Atlantican society was so encompassing and pernicious had to do with the so-called “programming” of the Media broadcast outlets. The term “programming” was chosen very deliberately, and felicitously, when it came to defining how the Media was employed. Gens simply had to be “programmed” into a particular worldview and moral vocabulary. (Victor preferred the term “modeling” in place of “programming” since it more accurately represented the actual goal of Sem Media managers in that in the shows they ran they were subtly and not so subtly modeling despicable behavior as acceptable behavior to the listening or viewing Gen audience. The actual goal of such modeling was of course to destroy the Gen family and societal structure.) In particular, Gens had to be taught the “moral vocabulary” of the Sem ruling elite, i.e., that the very worst one can be called is an anti-Sem, a Nasi-lover, or an Itlerophile, and that Sems can only be victims--never the perpetrators of a crime—and that Sems were a chosen, select, Master Race and highly intelligent (and therefore that it was only right that they people literally all of the significant positions of administrative power in North Atlantica). This is what virtually all Sems sincerely believed and it had to be relentlessly inculcated into the puny minds of Gens as well. Conversely, Gens had to be indoctrinated into believing that they are subhuman, that their lives are meaningless (unless their lives are spent advancing Sem goals), and that they are incapable of taking care of their own best interests. Indoctrinating Gens into their status as subhumans was actually quite easy. To give just a couple of examples, there were television shows such as “The Paury Movich Show,” MC’d by a Sem, who regularly humiliated, for example, poor, uneducated, and promiscuous single Black women who were desperately hoping to find the father of one of their many offspring (via DNA testing); sadly, at the end of the show when the DNA results were revealed and when the (typically) Black father learned he actually was the biological father he would ordinarily shun any responsibility for his children; or, on the other hand, if he was found not to be the biological father he would cheer and celebrate this fact on national tv in front of the humiliated single-mother and her bewildered, teary-eyed and broken child. To cite another example, there was the tv show “Serry Jinger;” here, on national tv as well, he would often humiliate “White trash” or “Black trash” couples for sexual promiscuity (even though, initially, these couples claimed to be a purported monogamous relationship). Jinger, too, was a Sem. The pathetic Gen audience would chant “Serry, Serry” when there was the inevitable televised fist fight between jilted, humiliated, petty, and vindictive Gen lovers. The real message of Serry Jinger was all too clear to see: absolutely any form of black or white depravity and debasement was in fact acceptable and only a closed-minded prude would see it any other way. It was all so pathetic—especially the behavior of the goading Gen audience. As a famous circus owner once accurately declared: “You can never underestimate the stupidity of the Gen race!!!”—and he was oh so right!!! Of course both Porry and Serry studiously excluded Sem couples from their programs.
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As noted, in the war on terrorism it was decided to confine local populations to Strategic Settlements. That way, anyone found out and about after curfew (midnight to 6 in the morning) could legally be summarily shot—no questions asked. Of course ostensibly it was done for the protection of Gens, and—like morose, caged, cattle in a slaughterhouse—they all acquiesced. Each Strategic Settlement had one gate, facing the main street, staffed by guerilla-faced Gen soldiers, guns at the ready, to shoot their fellow Gens should they be found to be tardy, to disobey, or be without a “tag.”
The soldiers who guarded and patrolled the Settlement had as their job to make certain everyone flashed “safe” as they exited or entered the Settlement. Everyone in North Atlantica was injected with a tiny spychip, about the size of a grain of rice, so that literally all of their movements could be monitored all the time. These spychips initially were given to children, people in the military, and lawbreakers, but eventually it became mandatory for everyone to receive it at birth. Posts and cloaked posts (e.g., stoplights, lamp posts, switch boxes, cell phones…etc.) were set up throughout North Atlantica so that everyone’s movement at every given moment was run through massive computers and registered. When passing by a “reading post” a signal pulse would be sent out and activate a return, passive, echo signal from the spychip. The purpose, per usual, was twofold: on the one hand it was to track who was associating with whom so when a terrorist was uncovered it was easy to identify and locate who the terrorist associated with so the associates could be eliminated as well, and, second, it was to keep the Gen public in line. The Gens all lived in constant fear that they would be, even unintentionally, discovered to be an accomplice to a wrong-doer or, even worse, a political thought criminal. Needless to say, no one dared to overtly criticize the status quo. In fact, if as one left the Strategic Settlement one’s spychip did not flash “safe,” either because of a malfunction or injury to the site where the spychip was placed, or whatever, one was summarily shot, on site, by the soldiers who guarded the gate. This all of course contributed to the level of fear and paranoia that suffused North Atlantican society.
In the distance Victor could see the tall white pyramid of the Ministry of Truth, MiniTru. Its white façade glistened in the sunlight along with the three paradoxical dicta of North Atlantica, concerning War, Slavery, and Ignorance, inscribed on its walls. Below, in its shadow, stood the by now ancient and gutted Cathedral of St. Saul. Ever since Jesu had been condemned, post mortum, as anti-Sem, all other related institutions such as the Universal Church and Christianity had been outlawed as well. It was now a capital offense to publicly profess to be a Christian, a member of a traditional church, or a believer in the universal brotherhood of humankind. This all reminded Victor of a similar fact from old Soviet history. Upon assuming power the first law passed, oddly or not so oddly, by the Sem dominated Bolshevik party was to make anti-Sem acts a capital offense, punishable by death. Perhaps this had something to do with the fact that the Bolshevik leadership was almost all Sem (“Judeo-Communism” it was called at the time), and even the figurehead leaders such as Lennin and Stalin had Sem wives, so legislating against anti-Sem behavior was part and parcel of a broader strategy to conflate anti-Semism with state treason. This same strategy was employed today in the North Atlantican Media. Everyone now has forgotten—or been taught to forget--the fact that millions more Gens were murdered by the Soviet Sem State Police then Sems were murdered under the universally despised Gen, Adolf Itler (who, in fact, was actually a crypto-Sem, curiously enough). That was all most conveniently (for Sems) kept out of the Media in North Atlantica. As a matter of Media policy, Sems have only been, and can only be, the victims of Gen hate-crimes; Gens, on the other hand, have never suffered at the hands of Sems, either individually or collectively, nor can they. Such a notion was unthinkable. Simply put: Gens hate, Sems suffer being hated and therefore need to be coddled and protected by both well-indoctrinated Gens and the State—end of story.
On this score, no event in modern history was equivalent to the heinous crime of the Shoahcaust—the reported slaughter of six million Sems by blood-thirsty and maniacal Germanians mesmerized by Itlerian hate over half a century ago. It was an act of unimpeachable evil and, Sems believed, had no equivalent in any other cultural or historical period. It was sui generis. Victor firmly believed this too. If Victor every had a moment of heart-felt empathy for the Gens, he always reminded himself of the Crime of the Ages—the Shoahcaust—and it immediately helped him to harden his heart against the Gens. The Gens were, in fact, human cattle—emotionally blown about by the wind and their Media masters--and without the right indoctrination they could turn on Semdom and all it stood for. That had to be avoided at all costs, so every precaution was taken in the Media to prohibit that eventuality.
Still, with all that said, Victor was willing to grudgingly admit that the Sems did not always play fair with their enemies, especially in the matter of religion. For example, on the matter of religion, it just didn’t do to have ancient Sem High Priests employ the state to have an innocent man condemned to death and crucified and then have modern Sems employ the modern state to condemn the institutions that arose from that innocent man’s death. It smacked too much of a continuity of evil and it made Victor a little queasy—a shared page from the same playbook. True, Jesu was anti-Sem: he roundly condemned the Sem ruling elite in the New Testament, and Victor was now, two millennia later, a part of that elite. But, curiously, when modern Gens were given the choice between choosing to follow their God (at one point the Gens believed Jesu was the Son of God) and his teachings concerning the universal brotherhood of man, or being accused of harboring anti-Sem feelings by sticking to their humanitarian God, in pavlovian, knee-jerk fashion the sheeple chose to condemn their God and embrace Semism. Of course some Gens were confused by the fact that Jesu was from a Sem family and was reportedly a Sem himself. Why would a Sem condemn his own people? But then, to the Select, it was pointed out that Jesu was never really a true Sem: he was never bar mitzvahed (on the contrary, he bar mitzvah’d the rabbis who he interrogated when he was a mere boy of 12) so he never is recorded as becoming a full member of the Tribe. At the age of 12, when he should have undergone bar mitzvah, Jesu instead taught the rabbis—they did not teach him. On top of that, Jesu routinely criticized the Semish Sadducees and Pharasees and the Semish High Priesthood in the Gospels. Unquestionably were Jesu alive today, he would be routinely condemned as being and anti-Sem and would be condemned to a horrible death a second time. Curiously, the Semish High Priesthood did not move against Jesu until he threatened their purse—when He scourged and threw the Semish moneychangers from the Temple in Semruslahem. Once Jesu did that, his time on this earth was marked to be brought to a horrible end. So in spite of the fact that both of his parents were Sem, and for centuries everyone thought Jesu was a Sem (he was even called “rabbi”, or “teacher” by his followers), it turned out he wasn’t a Sem after all—or at least that was the official North Atlantican line.
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The tram continued down Summit Avenue and curved in a “U” around the destroyed Cathedral onto Syndicate Avenue as it led up to MiniTru. In a few minutes Victor would be at the Ministry.
It being a Sunday according to the ancient calendar, some elderly folks, out of habit, still ventured to the Cathedral. It had been called the Cathedral of St. Paul but when Christianity was outlawed and censured on Farbglasnacht it was gutted and renamed the Cathedral of St. Saul. On that fateful night a year ago a Gen priest and assassin, a young man named Greenspan, assassinated a Sem diplomat in Europe, Ernest Von Wrath. This triggered a Sem backlash against Gens and the Church. Taking full advantage of this opportunity (or having incited it), Sem Media fanned the flames of hatred towards Christian clerics and, as a result, stained glass windows adorning cathedrals and churches throughout North Atlantica were shattered, clerics were rounded up, arrested, and placed in concentration camps, and Christianity outlawed. Everyone expected the clerics to be burned at the stake in a gigantic auto da fe addressed to the greater glory of the Sem state this coming Easter. Today when entering the roofless and charred Cathedral, instead of bowing your head and performing the sign of the cross after dipping your hand in holy water, a new practice had been promulgated. A la the covert medieval initiation ritual for joining the wayward Knights Templar, now a crucifix was fastened above the water basin at the entrance to the Cathedral, and when one entered the vestibule one would spit on the crucifix so that the saliva, as it drizzled down, would be caught in what had been the holy water basin. One would make the, what would have been considered sacrilegious a mere year earlier, anti-Sign of the Cross. No one seemed to be particularly bothered by this inversion of ritual, or if they were, they didn’t dare show it.
Chapter Five
The tram, now empty, pulled up to the Ministry of Truth where Victor Volk worked. The streets around the towering pyramid were all cordoned off so one had to walk the final three blocks through a maze of barbed wire fences and pill box entrenchments to get to the entrance. In the courtyard in front of the Ministry a brigade of young, in shape, crew cut Gen soldiers were marching in lockstep with their row upon row of polished helmets glistening in the sun.
The Sem attitude towards Gen soldiers was veiled universal contempt, and neatly summarized by the grandfather of North Atlantican foreign policy, Henri Kissoff: “Military men are just dumb, stupid, animals to be used as pawns in foreign policy.” Victor shared Kissoff’s view. Why have Sems fight their own battles when they can get literally millions of stupid Gen “grunts” to kill fellow Gens “grunts” who, because of an accident of birth, were born on the opposite side of an arbitrary, imaginary border. There was a reason soldiers were called “G.I.s” by the ruling establishment, and it wasn’t so much because they were so-called “General Issue” thoughtless, zombie, killing machines as much as because they were all, to a man, in the eyes of Sems, human shit—“Gastro-Intestinal” excrement, i.e., “grunts.” Of course to their face soldiers were publicly honored for their “service” to the country (actually, service to the ruling elite), and flags and banners were hung and military bands played patriotic tunes on Independence Day [sic], Veterans Day and Memorial Day, but it was all for show. The ruling Sem elite depended on the pavlovian loyalty of the military to intimidate, threaten, and quash their, the Tribe’s, enemies—both foreign and, especially, domestic.
Victor showed his ID card to the captain on duty, was wanded for his spychip, and then went inside for further verification. Of course he had to walk through a body scanner, have his retina scanned, and do a fingerprint match. He still wondered why they did the body scan. Everyone in the Ministry knew that it was a sham—at airports it was employed to further create an atmosphere of terrorist-phobia in passengers as they stood in line taking off their shoes and belts, but it was all done in the name of protecting the public of course. In the public’s mind terrorists were everywhere planning to destroy airlines and kill hundreds of innocent civilians all in their bizarre wish to foment terrorism throughout North Atlantica. Victor knew the facts were just the opposite.
For example, Am Pan Flight 103 which blew up over Scotland was obviously a SUCCOCK (SUCk on our collective COCK) operation, run out of Semusalem, Eretz, in the Middle East. (SUCCOCK itself was reportedly named after a mountain range in central Eretz where ancient Sems took their lives rather than be captured by Gen legionnaires.) The motto of this feared police organization, which had infiltrators and operatives in the very highest ranks of all North Atlantican national security organizations, was “Through hypocrisy, wage war.” In fact it was a SUCCOCK agent (not surprisingly) who tagged a North African country, Libya, as responsible for the bombing of Flight 103 and the Media dutifully, like a fine-tuned and well oiled racing machine, ran with it when in fact that Arab country had absolutely nothing to do with the explosion. Of course all Gens believed it was yet another terrorist attack in the catalogue of Mohammedan attacks on the West, but the facts pointed elsewhere.
What gave the destruction of Flight 103 away as a False Flag Eretz operation is the fact that the flight was going form London to NYC. Curiously, initial reports said that not a single Sem (out of the 270 who died) was on board the flight (odd considering it was going to NYC)—all the dead were Gens, including dozens of children. Only later was this account recanted when it was discovered an AssimaSem young woman died in the explosion (apparently she did not order cosher food or she would have been warned off of taking that flight). The other thing all Gens forget is that Eretz Israel was in the middle of a ferocious invasion of Lebnon at that very time, and the Sem state was getting terrible publicity—Eretz was looking more like a jackbooted thug than a nation of victims so something had to be done to divert the negative publicity and mounting negative public opinion pressure on Eretz. Thankfully, for Eretz, immediately after the bombing took place, all attention was redirected from the Middle East and Eretz’s invasion of Lebnon to the airplane disaster over Scotland and the need to combat Middle Eastern terrorism—and Philastinians. The fact that the Sem controlled Media immediately did, on this queue, an about-face and focused on Flight 103 solely and completely ignored the Sem invasion of Lebnon also revealed this whole switcheroo to have been orchestrated.
Of course Tripli had absolutely nothing to gain by bombing a civilian plane, especially at that particular moment, given the heat Eretz was under internationally, but for its part Eretz benefited tremendously from the deaths of those unfortunate 270 as coverage of Eretz atrocities against Gen civilians dropped from the Western Media’s radar screen immediately. Victor had a hard time not laughing at the tearful faces of Gen families when they appeared on t.v. to vent their misdirected hate at Mohammedean “terrorists” for the tragedy of Am Pan Flight 103—but, then again, they were Gens—sheeple--after all. Their lives, and the lives of their children, amounted to less than nothing.
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In his darker moments, Victor came to wonder whether terrorists exited at all—besides state sanctioned and sponsored terrorists, of course. The word “terrorist” conjured up the notion that some evil mastermind or group of like-minded evil-doers were intent on mindlessly, and without motive, frightening and terrorizing innocents, when all of the purported real “terrorists” he knew of actually had a political or religious agenda and that to claim they were “terrorists” was just a red herring so the Media and the national security state did not have to address the root causes of socio-political disenfranchisement or religious alienation. As with the umbrella term, El Kinder, a phrase that evoked turbaned Mohammedeans masterminding a gigantic, monolithic, conspiratorial, global plot to threaten the “North Atlantican way of life”—whatever that was—the reality was that there were scores of indigenous, discrete, unconnected, anti-colonialist, freedom movements that were all tarred with the brush of being El Kinder affiliates when no such unity, bond, or common conspiratorial agenda existed. It was all part of Sem Media fear-mongering, but the commoners, the Gens, all believed it. “A lie, repeated often enough, becomes the Truth,” and the Sems knew this better than anyone.
On the other hand, were anyone so bold as to accuse the Temple of in fact being an “El Kinder” organization with its truly gigantic, genocidal, monolithic, conspiratorial plot to rule the world, they would have been shot on the spot without further ado. Nothing could defeat invincible Eretz, nothing, and it was foolish to even speculate more about it. There was word, however, hushed words, that a real sort of Al Kinder existed, an organization that had the courage to stand up to Big Sam: it was called The Bruderschaft. Reportedly it had the intelligence and means, not necessarily to stymie Big Sam, but to check him, embarrass him, even if only occasionally. But did it truly exist?—that was the question. Did it truly exist or was it just another police state invention to tease out would-be malcontents so that they would appear on the “radar screen,” so to speak.
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Victor made his way to the elevators, and pushed the button for the fifth floor, where his office was located. After navigating a labyrinth of corridors he finally made it to his small, doorless office. In it stood a desk, a wooden armchair, a computer, some file cabinets, some old and unused pneumatic tubes (for interoffice paper communication), a wastebasket, and a radio (to monitor him). He sat behind the desk and fired up his computer (also to monitor him).
The reason he was particularly interested in coming into the office today was to decide what to do with a book he had been mulling over: Hamlet-Christ, by Odysseus Er. “Odysseus Er” was obviously a pseudonym—and a very clever one at that (Victor, because of his background in ancient Greek philosophy, picked up on that immediately). Should it be sent down the memory hole and forever destroyed or be kept in public circulation? On the one hand, it was in fact the definitive interpretation of Shake-speare’s Hamlet: Hamlet was a vengeful Sem in the first four acts only later, in the last act, to convert and become a forgiving Christian. Hamlet, too, was a Christ-figure himself. It was a very layered and very complex interpretation of Hamlet, but most important--it was true. On the other hand, it portrayed Sems in a very unfavorable light—they were vengeful, power-hungry, litigious, conspiratorial, murderous, financially self-aggrandizing…etc., and that was impermissible, even as subtext. Not only that, Er correctly identified the 17th Earl of Oxford, Edward de Vere, as the true Shake-speare. The Gens all believed that it was an up-from-the-bootstraps commoner who composed the Shake-spearean corpus, because it flattered them to believe that an uneducated villager could compose such works of verbal mastery.
The fact of the matter was, as Er pointed out, William Shakespeare of Stratford was a front for the Earl and that neither of William’s parents could read nor write nor could any of William’s own children. Rather odd that the greatest English playwright would not teach his own children how to read or write. William’s own extant signatures are all barely legible and spelled differently and not a single manuscript, out of hundreds and hundreds of pages originally purportedly written from his own hand, exists. Most convenient and most curious. No need to destroy Shakespeare’s originals because they don’t exit in the first place. But Hamlet-Christ would have to be deleted, along with another book of Odysseus Er’s, Paradigm Shift: Shake-speare. When what is true was contrary to Sem interests, truth suffered. And with the touch of a finger—“poof!”--it was done.
Victor’s mind was wandering. All this cover-up, fraud, and lying to the public reminded him, backhandedly, of Mohatma Gandhi’s famous belief in “Truth-force,” in Satyagraha. Gandhi believed that peaceful non-violence and Truth will ultimately always win in the long course of history—“all facts to the contrary,” Victor thought to himself.
“There should be a cognitive counterpart to Satyagraha—Vitathagraha!, ‘False-force!,’” mused Victor. “Yin has its Yang, Up has its Down, Right has its Wrong, and Truth is counterbalanced by Falsity!” Victor mused. “To believe in Truth without Falsity is to believe one can hear the sound of one hand clapping. In fact, not only does one need falsity to compliment truth—falsity is more important than truth! As Goebbels famously declared, ‘History is written by the victors,’” and, as much as Victor did not like agreeing with a Nasi, Goebbels was right. Granted, a single voice of truth could be heard, but amongst the cacophony and din of the chorus of Media mis-truth only the most discerning, critical, and astute could distinguish that single voice.
This all set Victor’s mind to free associating again: “The majority is always wrong!”, “History is an agreed upon set of lies!”, “It’s not what you believe is true that gets you into trouble but what you think you know for certain is true—but which is really false--that trips you up!.” On the one hand, “In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies,” but then on the other, “The first casualty of war is Truth.” “Mendacity and lies, lies and mendacity…Big Daddy, Big Sam…” Victor murmured. Some times Victor’s head got so jumbled up with his work that he thought he might go insane.
“What is right? What is wrong? Did it matter? Duh! Of course not!!! What matters is the welfare of the Tribe—‘Israel Ueber Alles!’” Victor’s head began to clear. He often thought in quotes, pithy quotes, because they could say in his mind what he was afraid to say out loud, and saying it in a quote distanced him from the truth of what he said. After all, succinct quotes were attributable to someone else, not something he himself had came up with. All of this of course brought Victor to a conundrum that he had been avoiding for weeks. He refocused him mind. “I need to center myself,” he whispered.
There was another text that Victor had postponed making a decision on for months—The Wannsee Protocal. This was a far more tangled administrative riddle. On the one hand it was universally known for the famous phrase, “The Final Solution (Die Endlösung),” which purportedly euphemistically described the Nasi plan to exterminate all of European Jewry. This was a core belief in Sem propaganda regarding the Shoahcaust. After scouring millions of pages of Nazi documents Sem scholars could not discover any overt, explicit plan to murder all the Jews of Europe, so they fell back on manufacturing the authorization in the otherwise insignificant document The Wannsee Protocal. The problem was that if one actually read The Wannsee Protocal one quickly discovers that the phrase “The Final Solution” refers to relocating Sems, alive, to the then Soviet Union. This simply would not do. The text was in relatively wide paper circulation (thankfully, not many read it very carefully), so simply redacting the text was impossible. Victor might have to seek higher authority to adjudicate this one—something supervisors did not like to have to do. “Some other day,” Victor thought to himself. But he could not continue to keep putting this off for long.
Victor turned off the computer, slid off his shoes, and rested his feet on the desk. He noticed that someone had left a white handkerchief outside his desk by an old, unused printer. “Odd”, he thought, he hadn’t notice that before.
Then, looking at the printer, Victor was reminded that it’s been ages since he actually felt paper in his hands. Victor was a bibliophile who loved the feel of paper as he read. Computers strained his eyes and, besides, everything on every computer—be it a desktop, laptop, or pocket computer—was run through PROMISE or ECHELONE, software programs that culled from zillions of gigabites of data anything even remotely incriminating on any Sem or Gen in North Atlantica. This was done both by the FIB, the ICA, and the ANS. Strictly speaking, only the FIB was supposed to engage in domestic spying, but with the onset of the War on Terrorism decades ago that line had been permanently erased. Now police and spying agencies duplicated and triplicated efforts—after all, the billions upon billions of dollars earmarked for national security had to be spent somewhere, and this was easily justified given the rampant paranoia spread by these very same agencies.
While the sense of paranoia that permeated North Atlantican society was organized top-down, Sems themselves were not completely immune or completely safe from investigation or possible elimination if they strayed to far from the fold. Victor glanced at his radio. Yes, it was on and a voice was reciting the over-fulfillment of the latest 4 year plan of pig iron production for armaments, as well as the latest “adjustment” (read: reduction) in the production of foodstuffs for Gens. But one could not be absolutely certain that one was not being listened to at the same time nor that through the radio one’s spychip was not being monitored for movement. Still, while Victor loved the idea of writing something for himself, clandestinely--PROMISE, Spychips, the Thought Police, and Big Sam be damned—he was not so foolish as to do so.
Victor got up, walked back down the windowless corridors, reached the elevators, pushed the ‘down’ button, and left.
Chapter Six
Victor called for a limousine from the lobby of the Ministry and within two minutes it was there. A young sheeple chauffeur greeted Victor with a hearty “Baa, baa”, and Victor pointed on a map where he wanted to be taken.
On the last Sunday of the month the 11/9 dissident group met over by the university campus. While it was not required that Victor monitor dissident discussion groups, the Tribe strongly encouraged it. Victor was intrigued by the whole 11/9 event, in particular by what caused parrot-ple to ‘flip’ and become critics of North Atlantican society instead of slavish adherents to it. The psychology of dissent fascinated him and, while it was his job to stamp out and stymie any would-be dissidents, he still took pleasure in seeing the scales fall from the eyes of once law-abiding sheeple only later to be intimidated and silenced by the state.
Victor had the driver drop him off a block from Jehad, a Philistinian café specially chosen for the meetings to give the 11/9 group the appearance of also being sympathetic to the Philistinian cause. Dissident thought took on very familiar channels and once someone began to question the veracity of Semdom and the Media’s fawning portrayal of Sem and Eretz behavior, a whole domino-effect of crashing belief systems came tumbling down in its wake. Victor flipped the driver some cash, and walked the remaining distance to the café so as not to call attention to the fact that he was an agent provocateur.
The Café was actually owned by some transplanted Philistinians, and Victor ordered a gyro, some fries, and a cola, and entered the adjacent meeting room. In it was the usual hodge-podge of fellow Sems in dissident garb all pretending to be rough-and-tumble refusniks. Victor knew better than to acknowledge any of his fellow Tribesmen. He took a chair in the back.
While the 11/9 group was founded by a Gen architect who uncovered the transparent and gross falsities of the standard Media narrative of the 11/9 disaster, virtually all of the local chapters (and much of the administrative help) were composed of Sems, crypto-Sems, or FIB agents. Sems learned long ago that it was impossible always to stamp out dissident groups so it was better to let them develop so dissidents would appear on the “radar screen,” so to speak, and wouldn’t go underground. This way, troublemakers could be monitored and, when necessary, disabled or disposed of. Besides, true to form, Sems knew that all grass roots organizations can be infiltrated and imploded—they’ve done it hundreds of times. That was their modus operandi. Draw out the dissidents and then WAMM, figuratively kick a would-be dissident in the solar plexus and slam the coffin door shut on him or her.
Some more Sems trickled in, along with a couple of undercover FIB agents. So far, everyone knew everyone else. Finally, some new blood. In walked a newbie. He was a skinny, nervous, chain smoking young man obviously anxious. “Fresh meat,” Victor said to himself.
The meeting began innocuously enough with the secretary taking roll call and then reading the minutes from the last meeting. Then, she asked for any new attendees to introduce themselves. The new guy slowly stood up.
“My name is Thomas, D. Thomas,” he began, “this is the first time I’ve attended this group.”
“We are happy to have you come!” the secretary said soothingly. “What brought you here today?” she asked.
“Well,” he began, “I’ve been studying the standard account of what happened on 11/9, and it just doesn’t add up. There are too many coincidences, too many.”
“Like what?” someone chimed in.
“It’s just odd how things happened that day. The air force just happened to have a drill that morning that drew fighter jets away from New York and Washington D.C., none of the hijacked planes was ever intercepted, we are told, by fighters even though the East Coast is one of the most regularly patrolled and highly guarded areas of North Atlantica, the Towers collapsed in a free fall a mere hour after they were hit (this in spite of the fact that never has a steel structure ever been recorded as collapsing because of fire), and then there is Building 7…” he went on.
“Tell me more,” the secretary admonished.
“Well there is the statement by Eretz Prime Minister, Ben Nyetandyahoo, ‘11/9 was the best thing that ever happened for Eretz.’ Why would he say that? Eretz is supposed to be our friend and yet this guy is celebrating our tragedy.” D. Thomas paused. “But now that I look at it, Eretz is the country that, hands down, most directly benefited from 11/9—as a result of 11/9 we gave them more military and economic aid, strengthened our alliance with them and shunned ties with Arab states, fought a proxy war on Israel’s behalf, Iraqistan being formerly an anti-Eretz state, and began the shift from a Cold War ideology to a domestic War on Terrorism ideology, with its unending demands on our blood and coin and no clear definition of victory, just endless indecisive war. It’s just crazy. Just plain crazy!!!”
“Well, let’s not forget that the terrorists were Arabs.” Someone tried to correct him.
“But do we even know that? Yes, the Media trumpeted right after the attack that they were mostly Saudi citizens but then it turned out that half the men listed as responsible for flying the planes on 11/9 were still living, after the attack, in Saudi Arabia. And then let’s not forget that the reported ‘brains’ of 11/9 were renting an apartment from a Middle Eastern guy who turned out to be a FIB informant! Are you going to tell me that that apartment wasn’t bugged and monitored up the wazoo?! Hell no!!! The FIB even admitted as much. The FIB or some very powerful people in government or intelligence knew exactly what was coming down the pike and they either got out of the way or, more likely, made certain that 11/9 was successful!!! Heck, Bin Baden, the reported ultimate mastermind of 11/9, isn’t even listed on the FIB 10 Most Wanted List as the person responsible for 11/9!!!” Here, D. Thomas took a breath.
“Well, we are happy to have you join our group,” the secretary interjected, “and we look forward to having you share your ideas with us. Thank you for your introduction. Now, we must turn to some business at hand, we have a speaker coming to talk on the Arab connection to 11/9, and we have to find volunteers to help us organize the event…” and she rattled on.
Victor knew that besides giving enough rope to would-be dissidents so they might hang themselves, another tact was to side-track a real, honest and forthright critique of 11/9 by shifting the conversation away from Sems, Eretz, and state intelligence-terrorism to more acceptable enemies like Arabs, Mohammedeans, and Philistinians. A break in the meeting was coming up shortly, and on cue D. Thomas would be approached by a crypto-Sem who would ‘befriend’ him and eventually try to tease from him a call to overthrow the North Atlantican government—ideally by employing violence. This would take time, and Sems were in no hurry to rush things. Just let things percolate and eventually, in the right circumstances and with the right goading—gotch’ya! Sems were not just expert conspiracists, they were expert agent provocateurs as well.
“I give him 5 months.” Victor thought to himself. “Then he’ll be in a federal prison doing hard time for being a violent political radical—an anarchist typically. Another one bites the dust….” And with that, Victor left.
Chapter Seven
The second Sunday in Advent came and went, and Victor was back at work on Monday. Victor had still not decided what to do about The Wannsee Protocal. He wanted to make a decision on this before the end of the year in order to clear his desk, but he was in a no-win situation. To have the phrase “The Final Solution” excised from The Protocal would cause an uproar and undue attention and some might begin to question the veracity of Shoahcaust literature or scholarship. To leave the phrase in, on the other hand, was a glaring falsification of accepted Establishment history. Once again he decided to bide his time. He spent his morning re-editing Times newspaper articles so that any remaining favorable references to anti-Sems from the 1920s and 30s was deleted from the official state library database.
This wasn’t necessarily an easy task, for there were always obscure texts that hardly anyone read that still had passing references to Sem perfidy and duplicity. For example, it would surprise most semi-intelligent folks that in the ancient world it was the intellectuals who were most anti-Sem, not the ignorant masses (as was the view propagated in the Media today). According to the standard North Atlantican Media line, all anti-Sems were moronic, racist, fascist, authoritarian types who deserved to be shunned, damned, show tried and executed. Part of this had to do with the fact that Sems dominated and controlled the Media and would simply not permit an unfavorable portrayal of them on the air or in print. Part of it had to do with the fact that North Atlantican Sem society was itself in fact moronic, racist, fascist, and run by authoritarians, so it was felt that the best tact was to damn the enemies of the state with labels that would most properly apply to the existing status quo. “He who throws the inflammatory accusation at his enemy first has the high ground in any debate,” as the old saw went, and Sems were expert in labeling their enemies with pejorative epithets first and then damning them for having those (falsely) assigned epithets. “Give a Nasi a bad name and then hang him for it,” Victor thought.
Of course some of the greatest minds in history were anti-Sem: from the god-like humanitarian, Jesu, who despised the Sem ruling establishment in ancient Eretz, to the apostate Sem, B’ruch Spinoa, who famously declared, “The Sems worship a God of hate,” to the great Christian reformation leader, Luther Martin who composed The Sems and Their Lies very shortly before he abruptly, and some might say “suspiciously,” died, to the greatest English writer of all time, William Shake-speare (Edward de Vere), to the forward thinking apostate Sem philosopher, Marl Karx, who correctly predicted the Sem expropriation of wealth from the Gen underclass in his Manifesto and who was one of the first to posit “The Semish Question,” i.e., what is an open society to do with an acquisitive conspiratorial underclass bent on covertly destroying the society in which they find themselves and at the same time enrich their pockets?, to the profound composer and front-line refugee for democracy, Rick Wagner, to the industrial genius Enri Forde…and so on. These were all men of genius, and they all despised Sems, or at least the Sem ideology. No, it did a disservice to history to damn all anti-Sems as moronic and uneducated bumpkins when the exact opposite was often the case—these Gens and apostate Sems were all men of brave thoughts and fearless action, and it did chaff Victor to be relentlessly employed to refashion Truth into falsehood.
________________________________________________________
Victor debated what to do for lunch. Finally he decided around noon to go to the cafeteria and see some of his colleagues from the Ministry. He queued up in the cafeteria line and selected a bagel and lox for lunch, to be washed down with a gin and tonic. Victor needed to lose weight, and he thought a light lunch like this would help him lose the 20 extra pounds he needed to shed. As for the gin and tonic, Sems generally frowned on alcohol—booze and street drugs were for the Gens—but he did like the faint buzz it gave him in the afternoon and, besides, he was an AssimaSem, after all, he reminded himself (as though he needed a rationalization for his intoxication). He took his tray and made his way to the back wall where his associates usually hung out. First there were the OrthoSems, David and his son, Solomon—both men had a penchant for women and cars; David, for his part, while he enjoyed seducing women, he had a particular fondness for married women. He enjoyed breaking up their families, thanks to his paramour’s spousal infidelity. Solomon, on the other hand, in spite of giving generously to the local Temple, toyed with idolatry and was heavily involved in organizing a Freimason chapter at the Ministry along with his duller bulb sidekick, Hiram (who wasn’t there today). Curiously, given David and Solomon’s infidelities, they were assigned to the Ministry of Truth/Department of Marriage Statistics/Subunit Sem Racial Purity. Jacob, an ultra OrthoSem, was the most hypocritical of the lot. While lying was permissible—even encouraged--towards Gens by invoking the principle of Coal Nidre, Jacob was pathological and even lied to his fellow Sems—Ortho- and AssimaSem alike. He even cheated his elder brother out of his inheritance from their father, and he was one of the first OrthoSems to begin the practice of changing his original name to make him more adept at social climbing. In short, Jacob was a complete scumbag. “He would go far,” Victor thought. Jacob worked in the Gen Control Unit, which was responsible for wide-ranging and all manner of Gen de-population control from adding fluoride (a low-grade radioactive substance that reduced the sperm count in Gens) to the water supply under the guise of preventing Gens from getting dental cavities, to fostering the pervasive atmosphere of paranoia among and between Gens, to efficient and productive ways to dispose of Gens—alive and dead.
Finally, sitting at the table was Judas, also an AssimaSem, who was always on the outlook for anti-Sem conspiracies (leave it so some AssimaSems to be even more strident and righteous than their OrthoSem brothers), and a new woman Victor had never seen before. Judas was quick to introduce her.
“This is my sister, Victor. Salome, this is my coworker and best friend in Archives, Victor Volk.”
“I am very pleased to meet you—Salome—your brother said your name was?” Victor smiled. “Yes, she was pretty,” Victor thought to himself.
Victor glanced at her. She was a somewhat medium height brunette with long, full, luxurious hair, had a ready smile, and an average sized chest that just peaked out over the black lacy brazier under her white blouse. He could see her firm nipples as they pressed tightly against her blouse. Salome had a narrow waist and moderate hips nicely fitted to the blue pants she wore—in short, she was what Victor fantasized about when he imagined doing it with a completely uninhibited SemGirl. She couldn’t have been more that 25 years old at that.
“Yes. I just got an entry-level position as a film editor in PornSec.” She replied. PornSec was a subsection of GenFeed, the umbrella term for mindless Gen entertainment of all sorts. PornSec was where the most graphic and repetitive sex films were produced. As with everything else in the Media, Sems dominated the production side of PornSec. While it did not demand much imagination to crank out dozens and dozens of these films, it did offer hope to young Sems that they could eventually graduate to full length death bang films or do news shorts for the “30 Minutes Hate”—otherwise know as the national evening broadcast news. The latest fashion in PornSec was snuff films. Typically a runaway Gen girl or prostitute from the streets would be picked up by the police sex crimes unit and delivered to a warehouse converted to a sound stage where her gang rape would be filmed. Then, after drugging the girl and doing the most abominable sex acts imaginable to her, she would be snuffed—killed—usually at the moment of male gang-sex climax. It seemed as though there was an endless stream of blond girl victims from the Midwest to feed this latest sex film trend. “It pays the rent.” Salome volunteered.
“Have you seen the latest version of North Atlantican dictionary?” Judas asked, “It’s just been released, Victor, the Twelfth Edition and it still maintains the Sheeple/Parrot-ple dichotomy. I think you owe me, yes? It looks like we’ll have parot-ple with us for at least a few more years!”
There had been widespread debate within the linguistic community as to if, and when, the growing false distinction between Sheeple and Parrot-ple would finally be discarded. Victor bet that the newest edition would finally do away with it, but—apparently—he was wrong. For their time, Parrot-ple served a useful function of parroting and regurgitating in the Media the Sem party line on all issues. They were the Gen talking heads, the so-called Gen “intellectuals,” that appeared on radio and tv to embrace and advocate Sem causes to the Gen masses. While everyone at the table agreed Parrot-ple were as dumb as a doorknob and served a useful propaganda function for the state, the standard concern with them was that since they did have a larger vocabulary and a rudimentary capacity for thought that they could “flip.” In other words, that they could apply the principle of non-contradiction to what was put in front of them to espouse and come to see the double standard and hypocrisy of their ways. To date, such minor embarrassments only happened on rare occasions and the culprits were sent to mental health re-education centers for mental cleansing or quietly killed—but the danger did exist.
“I’ll believe it when I see it myself.” Victor replied.
“I agree with Victor,” Jacob asserted. “I still believe parrot-ple are a danger and that only when both Sheeple and Parrot-ple are reduced to absolute silence—to no vocabulary and, relatedly, to no mental concepts with which to even image treasonous thoughts—only then will Semdom be absolutely secure. Eliminate words and you eliminate concepts so that eventually, with no word for ‘rebellion,’ you eliminate even the theoretical possibility of rebellion. Besides, the bottom line is that Sheeple are animals. It is a violation of natural law to make them into something they cannot be—human.”
The table all concurred with Jacob, and there was a moment of uncomfortable silence before Victor chimed in, “Say, Judas, do you know what day it is today?”
“Oh, great, we get to learn something new from Archives!” chimed in Solomon.
“Yesterday’s news,” said David dismissively.
“I’d like to hear,” said Salome.
“December 7th—Gregorian--is today,” said Victor.
“’A date that will live in infamy!’” replied Judas, triumphantly.
“The real ‘infamy’ was RFD’s deliberately misleading the public about the Oyster Harbor attack,” replied Victor. “He claimed it was a completely ‘unprovoked’ attack on the naval station in Animal Farm/Hawaii, when the fact of the matter was that earlier RDF cut off all oil shipments to Nippon forcing them to seize the oil fields throughout South East Asia or face completely abandoning their empire, their newly constructed Greater East Asia Co-prosperity Sphere. What most North Atlanticans forget is that on December 7th the Nipponese not only attacked Oyster Harbor, they—predictably—also on that day invaded Vietnam, the Philippines, Vietnam, Borneo, and Singapore. The attack on South East Asia was to seize the oil fields there and the attack on Oyster Harbor was to knock out the only significant naval opposition to their plans—and all this happened on December 7th. “
“And RDF knew about this?” Salome asked.
“Of course RDF knew about this. In fact he orchestrated it. He and Illchurch conspired together to shock the United States and bring it into the war on the side of the English Empire and the Allies. You have to understand the way democracy works vis-à-vis a war of aggression.” Victor went on. “The population in a democracy would be reluctant to fight a transparent war of aggression so the political ruling establishment orchestrates attacks on itself as a pretext to fight a “defensive” [sic] war in response. We’ve seen this in the sinking of the Maine which brought us into the Spanish-American War, in the sinking of the Lusitania which brought us into Global War I, in Oyster Harbor which brought us into Global War II, in the Tonka Gulf which brought us into the Vietcong War, and in 11/9 which brought us into the War on Terrorism. Literally ALL of these attacks were either fostered, manufactured, or aided and abetted by the American/North Atlantican government, and to argue the contrary is not to know history.”
“Sometimes it is better not to know history,” inserted Solomon.
“Take Global War I, for example, Victor went on, “--the sinking of the Lusitania—which was the rallying cry that got the U.S. into that war. Before the ship left harbor in NYC the Germanian Embassy attempted to post warnings in American newspapers telling Americans not to sail on the Lusitania because it was carrying munitions--which it was--bound for England, but the American government intervened and prohibited Germania from publishing those warnings. Then, when the Lusitania got into British waters the destroyer escorts were pulled leaving the Lusitania a sitting duck for a Germanian submarine attack. The rest is history: the Lusitania was sunk, American and British political leaders hypocritically postured about the sinking of a “passenger” [sic] vessel, and the American Media began the drumbeat for war with Germania. Forget the fact that American and British government officials scripted the whole sorry event as a pretext for declaring war on Germania. No one seems to recall that any more—or no one is interested in listening. The same was true with the American policy of Lend-Lease prior to Global War II—it was an unofficial declaration of war against Nasi Germany and placed the U.S. squarely in the Allied camp, pre-official declaration of war. The same was true with the Tonkin Gulf Resolution where President BJL outright lied to the American public about an attack on North Atlantican warships in Indochina by North Vietnamese patrol boats. Naturally enough we, being the victims (at least in the minds of the gullible North Atlantican Gen public), set about waging a war on a country that was completely innocent of the attack. Once again, American/North Atlantican democratic leadership has a long history of inviting attacks on itself so it, in turn, can declare war on “our” enemies. 11/9 is yet the most recent glaring example of this. False Flag attacks are the bread and butter of North Atlantican foreign policy.” Victor caught his breath.
“’Buzz, buzz.’ Are you done, professor?” interjected Jacob, testily.
“’Yes, all’s fair in love and war,’” replied David.
“Spoken like a true lover!” Victor shot back.
“Shalom! Shalom!” Solomon tried to quell the debate.
“Here’s a question for you: Oyster Harbor was bombed on December 7th. What day was that in Nippon?”
“I don’t understand your question,” replied Salome.
“Was it December 7th in Nippon?”
Salome and the rest all looked confused.
“The International Date Line! No, it was December 8th in Nippon when Oyster Harbor was attacked. And what is the significance of this? (This question is directed mostly at Judas since he also worked in archives.) What Christian holiday always fell on December 8th each year and was employed as psychological warfare by the Nipponese against RDF and his government?--just as the second rate, and significantly named, American General, Dwight D. Eisen-shofar, was catapulted from the bottom of his class at West Point to serve, symbolically, as the military figurehead for the Allied forces against the anti-Sem Nasis in Global War II and just as June 6th was deliberately chosen, also symbolically, by the Allies in Global War II as the day for the invasion of France at the Normandy beaches.”
“The Immaculate Conception?!” Judas replied, his eyes widening.
“Exactly! The attack took place on the day of the Immacualate Conception in Japan and when the US congress met the next day to declare war on Nippon it was also the Immaculate Conception. Clever folks those Nipponese leaders!!! Q.E.D.” Victor smiled smugly to himself.
“Was it Pope who said, ’A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, but a lot of knowledge could get you killed.’” Interjected Judas.
“No, that wasn’t Pope, but I take your meaning in the good spirit in which it is intended.” Replied Victor.
“Right,” said Judas, smiling, and he and all his fellow lunch pals all got up to leave.
“Did I say something wrong?” Victor said beseechfully to Salome. She turned around, kissed him on the cheek, and pressed something into his hand. Almost automatically his fingers closed around it—a white tissue covering a piece of paper--and he slipped his hand into his pocket. Any communication that was not sent electronically and could not be monitored by the massive computer banks in the basements of the Ministry of Information was forbidden, and this included any form of paper communication. It was a serious crime and should immediately be reported to his supervisor. “Better not to think about it—for now.” Victor thought.
Chapter Eight
Victor’s fingers itched as he longed to see what Salome had written to him, but to publicly unfold the note and read it was the kiss of death, especially for her. He thought about going to the men’s room and opening it there in a stall, but those were most certainly under the surveillance of the Thought Police. He thought about going into a crowded elevator and trying to read it there, but those were all monitored too. Finally, he hit on an idea: he would feign having a runny nose and slip some additional tissue into his pocket and when the moment was right he would lift both the note and this tissue to his face, blow his nose, read the note, and then dispose of it down a drain pipe or something. Of course this still posed some terrible risks, but Victor longed to find a soul mate with whom he could unburden himself of his both fascinating and painful work, and Salome seemed to be someone he could talk to. Besides, she appeared to be a sassy, intelligent girl for her age—someone who would listen to him--and he was desperate for the touch of a real flesh and blood woman and not the temporary pleasure of an easy conquest.
Luckily it was raining when he left the Ministry and Victor decided, once again, to skip the usual limo ride home to the Uebermensch Ghetto and instead he decided to take the tram. Of course this was a bit unusual, especially because of the rain, but Victor was impatient. As he was leaving he mentioned to David that he had to pick up some razor blades and shoestrings, something only available in the Gen sections of town (where, not coincidentally, the suicide rates were off the chart), and it would be easier to do this on foot.
After finding a kiosk a half mile from the Ministry and purchasing the requisite items, he found himself standing in the rain, with his hands in his pockets. Below him stood a rain grating, just off the corner curb, and he stood somewhat impatiently in front of it as he awaited the arrival of a tram. In his right pocket his fingers had dexterously unfolded the note so that it rested inside the folded tissue. He needed to time this just right and everything would be fine he told himself. Finally, the tram arrived, and as it pulled up to the corner he anxiously snorted, quickly took out the tissue, read the note, blew his nose in the tissue, crumbled the tissue and the note up, and tossed them down the grating. Sweating, the rain drops disguising his anxiety, he entered the tram to take his seat. “V 69,” he said to himself.
Chapter Nine
“What the hell does that mean?!” Victor thought to himself. “V 69.” Was she writing to him in code? “V” was the 22nd letter in the alphabet, but it was also the Latin numerical symbol for “5.” Or was there something deeper to consider? Was it a reference to the Birkat Cohanim and Sem crypto-identification, but if so he too was a fellow Sem so why bother signing him? And then there was the number “69.” Inverse numerical symbols that faced and completed each other almost in the shape of an “0.” What was that all about? Then it hit him—Salome must live at Victory Ghetto, apartment 69. That must be it! Victory Ghetto was a plush new Sem gated community on the posh west side of town, and it was peopled by young, artsy, modish, fey pseudo-intellectual poseur types. And while Victor was no longer into group sex, this was reportedly still all the rage at that bohemian village.
His mind raced. He wanted to be with her tonight, but that would be too soon. What if she still had a boyfriend? Or what if he got it wrong and went to someplace where she didn’t live—that would arouse suspicion, not to mention be a colossal embarrassment. No, he needed to bide his time, and think this all over a bit more.
Chapter Ten
When Victor got home that evening he figured he needed some distraction so he decided to fulfill his mandatory “voluntary” monitoring of talk radio and internet blogs. As with monitoring and “outing” would-be dissidents in faux dissident groups, it was all part and parcel of being an employee of MiniTru. While he was not required to do this (Eretz actually paid some Sems to monitor talk radio and blogs to make certain that Sems and the State of Eretz was only portrayed in a positive light and that critics of Israel were demonized and slandered), it reportedly was a good thing to do and would help his advancement later.
From a socio-psychological perspective, sheeple, being what they are, naturally were strongly inclined to agree with the host of the tv, internet, cable, or radio program they were listening or calling in to. The Sem Establishment knew this psychological fact of course and deliberately set (very narrow) parameters of debate thereby making it psychologically uncomfortable—to say the least--for someone with the lack of self-confidence and puny intellect of a sheeple to disagree with the host and hand-selected guests of a program and what they were being fed information-wise. In this regard, Eretz and Sems held a special place in the pantheon of North Atlantica—in the Media one very rarely heard a sheeple criticize Eretz or Sems on the air; in fact, one was not even to refer to a Sem as a “Sem” in polite conversation, even though they dominated in a totalitarian fashion the whole of North Atlantica, odd as that may sound. It just wasn’t done. To create this psychologically inhibiting ethos, the very first thing Sems did when seizing control of a territory was to take control of the Media and manufacture a narrow, self-serving, dominant ideology for the masses. (In fact, as was noted, in North Atlantica, literally over 95% of the Media was either owned outright by Sem billionaires or the CEO of the Media corporation, and his key appointees, were Sems. Gens were tolerated at these companies but only as long as they towed the Semish corporate line. If they waivered in their support of the Semish party line even once, they were out the company door. It was simply an unspoken Condition of Employment that they obey their corporate overseers.)
The whole point of the exercise in manufacturing a pro-Semish ethos through the Media was to create “stop-think” in potentially dissident sheeple, get the sheeple to self-censor themselves intellectually—the most perfect form of slavery. If a sheeple criticized Eretz or the bad behavior of a wayward Sem, that sheeple would immediately be branded with the epithet “anti-Semmite”—case dismissed. In fact, Sems had a word for this highly effective coercive psychological strategy for inhibiting free-thinking: it was called “The Strategy of Silence.” As noted, a Sem was always obligated to present Eretz and fellow Sems in the best possible light to the public or be silent on the transgressions of fellow Sems, and damn anyone, i.e., sheeple, as “anti-Semmite” should they have the temerity to dare criticize a Sem or anything remotely affiliated with Semdom. If anyone could possibly even benignly criticize Semdom or Eretz, it could only be a fellow Sem.
Victor called the local political talk radio program on a special phone line, verified his identity, and was put on hold to await a potential dissident. (All of the call screeners, not to mention the programmers who invited hand-selected “safe” guests on the program at talk radio, worked for the Thought Police.) He decided to have the radio on in the background and do some blogging while he waited, eagerly, for a Gen who “flipped.” He sought out conspiracy websites for counter-blogging. It was extremely important to vilify and silence anyone who gave conspiracy theories serious consideration. This was usually done by associating conspiracy theorists with mentally ill folks or believers in space aliens. Since Sem culture and all of North Atlantica was built on conspiracies and various degrees of paranoia, it was crucial to damn conspiracy theories and marginalize them in the so-called “minds” of the sheeple. The main reason for this, of course, was because conspiracies were rife in the ruling Sem establishment, and it was vitally important to keep the sheeple ignorant about this by reinforcing Stop-think. Of course there were also the very rare “conspiracy factualists,” as they were known, people who unearthed fissures in the standard Establishment narrative of an event and who broadly theorized about what more encompassing hypothesis could account for the salient details that the Establishment narrative ignored or did not address. Conspiracy factualists always left open the possibility that their theory could be falsified by new data, and for this reason they were extremely dangerous to the ruling Sem elite. The Sem Media consciously and deliberately lumped all conspiracy advocates in with being “conspiracy theorists” and by so doing associated them with monothematic conspiracy dogmatists whose speculations could not be falsified. This way, by labeling someone a “conspiracy theorist,” one could denigrating his speculations on a problematic event without having to argue over the salient fissures in the sacrosanct Establishment narrative.
Most of the radio stations were taken up with sports trivia—endless amounts of sports trivia. This way male sheeple would have something to distract themselves with and not focus instead on improving their lot in life or, God forbid, creating a real social safety net for them and their children. “Panem et circenses—bread and circuses.” Victor thought to himself. “’Food stamps and football games,’ all to keep the Gen population pacified and under control.”
Victor was feeling lazy so he decided to monitor one of the blogs that dealt with the assassination of President FJK. In the background he could hear the “baaing” and “bleating” of the Gens on the radio. Of course all Sems knew the FJK assassination was a SUCCOCK operation. It had all the earmarks of a choreographed state murder plot: the fact that he died on “Elm” street of all places (coffins traditionally are made of elm), the “V” underpass that he was driving down when he was shot, the convenient, and conveniently edited, film made by Abraham, a Sem tailor (where Sems went to get a shrouding sheet for burial after one died) as he stood on a tree stump (symbolic, and found in Sem graveyards, signifying a life cut short…etc), the fact that the Semish Sabbath reading on the night of the FJK was assassinated (Parashat Vayetzei) was Gen:28:11-19, the account of Jacob’s Ladder), not to mention—most importantly of all--FJK’s plan to “take out” the Dimona nuclear weapons facility in Eretz that was about to go on-line just before he was assassinated; in the wake of the Havana Missile Crises, which almost brought about global annihilation, FJK was not about to allow a nuclear weapons grade reactor take root in the tinderbox of the Middle East, especially since it was managed by trigger-happy Eretz Sems)—all these “connections” were well know to Sems, but had to be kept separate and unconnected in the “minds” of Gens. Instead of “connecting the dots” the strategy with Gens was to condition them to “unconnect the dots.” So the standard strategy was to confuse Gens with a plethora of conspiracy theories—The Germans, the Soviets, the Cubans, The VP, the Mafia…etc (in other words, insert name of country or non-Sem entity here ________) did it—anyone but Eretz Israel or SUCCOCK in conjunction with the Media. The real focal point however was to blame the assassination on a lone gunman—LH Waldos. Dozens of books had been published on Waldos’ sole responsibility for FJK’s death and most of the talk radio callers were FIB disinformation specialists or crypto-Sems whose job was to either support the Waldos lone gunman theory or deliberately confuse the whole matter with a plethora of half-formed, half-true speculations.
“Censorship,” Victor thought, “can be done one of two ways: either by banning and burning books or, just as perniciously, by glutting the market with biased and very narrowly focused books that effectively marginalize real, honest and true, dissident literature. With the publishing industry in their pocket, Sems traditionally have opted for the latter type of censorship—drown the handful of insightful opposition voices in an ocean of elitist-vetted Sem pabulum.”
What really surprised Victor about the whole FJK assassination was that the Sem Media was so clearly and obviously complicit in the assassination cover-up (by casting false nets everywhere and pretending that LH Waldos was the sole person responsible for the death of FJK) that that alone should have made some of the more astute Gens realize that the FJK assassination was a colossal, coordinated, Sem conspiracy. Nevertheless, so many Gens still somehow felt the need to debate the veracity of the transparently false counter-theories promulgated by the Media. But, then again, Gens will be Gens.
A Gen blogger finally wrote something: “It is impossible that a lone gunman shot FJK because there wasn’t enough time to load, aim, and fire 3 shots in 6 seconds; besides the gun Waldos used had a broken sighting mechanism.” This was a standard Gen critique of the Warden Commission’s report—the official government report on the assassination. Victor decided to reply, somewhat indiscreetly, as follows: “What, you conspiracy nutcase! Are you saying that Steinruby was in on the assassination too?! You moron! A Sem assassin shot and killed the assassin of FJK so Sems could not have been involved. We have poetic justice if nothing else! Steinruby did us all a service and saved the taxpayers millions of dollars by avoiding a painful and needless public trial! Waldos got what he deserved and you should too—you fucking conspiracy fruitcake!”
As Victor waited for the blogger to reply he heard something on the radio that caught his attention—a Gen parrot-ple had “flipped” and dared to criticize a Sem. The Gen was calling about the fact that the House Majority Leader of the Repubicrats, Erich Kantor, on a recent visit to Eretz, promised the Eretz PM that he would work with Eretz and the Sem community to make certain the interests of Eretz trumped the interests of his own North Atlantica and the North Atlantican President. Not only that, the Gen caller went on to observe that all Sems in congress (in fact all Sems around the world) had dual citizenship—they had citizenship in the country of their birth and citizenship in Eretz Ysrael (the so-called “Right of Return”), and that they never recused themselves from voting on aid to Eretz which, if they had any integrity, Sems should do. Finally, he concluded by quoting a former PM of Eretz, Aerial Sharon: “We, the Sems, control North Atlantica, and the Gens know it!!!”
Of course the Gen was right on all three counts: the Sem leadership in congress always put the interests of Eretz above the interests of North Atlantica, Sems the world over all had dual citizenship (with their primary loyalty to Eretz), and, yes, an Eretz PM was quoted as saying that the Sems controlled North Atlantica—the Gens be damned!!! Victor sprung into high gear. The talk radio station screener immediately got Victor on the special line so he could deliver the standard rebuttal: Sem interests and North Atlantica interests were actually all one and the same (which of course Victor knew was false), that it was a good thing that Sems did not recuse themselves from votes on aid to Eretz because they were in fact experts on that vitally important region of the world (which Victor also knew was hogwash; there was a reason the national anthem of Eretz was “Eretz Ueber Alles”), and finally, an appeal to pity by changing the subject, “Remember the Shoahcaust and how badly Sems were mistreated by Gens. It’s anti-Sem to say that Sems rule North Atlantica—don’t we live in a democracy?! Don’t we choose our representative?! (Once again, Victor knew this was false—carefully vetted and pre-selected, i.e., acceptable to Semdom, candidates were the only ones ever to be nominated by either Repubicrats or Demopublicans, and then there was the ubiquitous vote-rigging and the post-election Media expose of a wayward representative should that be necessary of course.) How dare you say that Sems contol North Atlantica!!! You’re an anti-Sem and probably a Shoahcast denier as well, you God-damn Nasi!!!”
The radio talk show host then cut to commercials, knowing that the Gen who “flipped” was still listening to the broadcast even if only to hear his own voice on the radio. First the host played a commercial about life insurance, and how anyone can die at any moment and that a husband should consider his family’s wellbeing. Second, a solicitation for cancer prevention donations came on “Because you never know when or how you will contract cancer!” Finally, an advert for the neuroleptic, anti-schizophrenic medication Dualarrest was aired. All of these commercials were of course directed at the caller (and anyone else who agreed with the caller and believed in Sem conspiracies). Victor also knew that over the next few weeks, the caller—whose phone line was traced, of course (all folks who called in to talk radio had their calls traced)—would see his car insurance rate “adjusted” up, might be put on probation at work for a manufactured infraction, or might start getting funeral plot solicitations. It all depending on whether the caller would “unflip” and go back to regurgitation politically correct speech or—at a minimum—shut up. Self-censorship of this type was not seen as a second class solution but in many ways a better victory: what better way to enslave a person then to have them enslave themselves through mental self-censorship via Stop-think, Double-think, or what have you.
“While it was a potentially dangerous call, still, it made the evening interesting,” thought Victor. “And it should keep that caller from daring to phone in again about Sem conspiracies—the pathetic fool!”
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“I heard your response to the caller on the radio last night,” Salome said approvingly to Victor when she saw him in the cafeteria two weeks later.
“Yeah, you really nailed him!” Judas chimed in and winked.
“We are celebrating the last night of the Festival of Lights at my place. Would you like to come? Be there before nightfall, of course,” Salome interjected.
“But I don’t know where you live,” Victor replied.
“Yes you do.” She said as she handed him a scarf and, with a wink, Salome disappeared.
Chapter Eleven
The “Festival of Lights” was always an uncomfortable time for Victor. While he was appreciative to have been invited to Salome’s apartment to share celebrating the Festival, especially to be with her, it still reminded him that he did not have family anymore to be with during this time of the year and it also served to remind him that he was, wish as he might it weren’t true, an AssimaSem. In preparation for this evening he spent some extra time dying his blond hair black and touching up his beard and moustache from reddish-blond to black as well. Still, he couldn’t hide his pale white skin, his broad shoulders, or his northern European physiology or square-jawed facial appearance. He cursed his father for being Gen and he wanted the self-polluting Gen blood stripped from his veins—but it was all for naught. “One can’t simply change what one is,” he resignedly remonstrated to himself.
“Perhaps I will leave early tonight—before the singing,” he said to himself. Victor was feeling a bit nauseous, and it seemed to be getting worse as the evening approached. Also, something was eating at him. He could understand why Salome winked at him, but why did her brother, Judas, wink at him also. Something to think about.
Victor arrived early, before the final candle was lit, and took up his post by the window facing the inner courtyard. Salome came up to him and asked how he was…
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The Festival of Lights poignantly reminded him that he was an AssimaSem and, try as he might, he would never reach the inner corridors of power. Reportedly the ceiling in the Star Chamber, the room that represented the apex to which any Sem could rise, was littered with small six-pointed stars, and intelligent and clever as he might be, he would never see those stars first hand. And yet, on the other hand, there was his profession: Victor knew the historical events upon which the Festival was based: Antiochus IV wanted to Hellenize the Sem population of ancient Eretz, make them less exclusive, in-bred, and insular, so he promulgated laws that would gradually encourage Sems to assimilate into wider MidEast culture, so he outlawed practices that set the Sems apart from all of their neighbors. The OrthoSem heirarchy chaffed at the diminution of their prestiege, authority, and power, so a family of OrthoSems led a rebellion, called the Makkabean revolt. The supposed “miracle” of this revolt was that after the Temple in Semrulsalem was reconquered only one day’s worth of consecrated oil was on hand to keep the eternal flame of Semism alive in the ancient Temple, nevertheless it burned for a whole eight days until fresh consecrated oil could be prepared. While all that sounds pretty innocuous, what really bothered Victor was that most Sems—and especially AssimaSems—did not have a clue as to the nature of the real battle inside ancient Semrusalem. The fact of the matter was that OrthoSems conducted racial and ethnic cleansing during the Makkabean revolt by killing their Sem brothers and sisters--all Sems who would dare break ranks and work with the ancient Gens were murdered. It was an ancient civil war in which OrthoSems, in the name of racial, cultural, ethnic, and religious purity, murdered AssimaSems. Didn’t AssimaSems like Judas and Salome “get it”! If they did, why were they even honoring this holiday?!
All this of course perfectly contrasted with the ancient holiday of Christmas (now extinct). While Christians the world over had celebrated the brotherhood of man and family togetherness, Sems, on the other hand, during their Festival in the very same month, were proudly celebrating OrthoSems slaughtering AssimaSems. “The purity of the Semitic race must be maintained, Seig Heil!” Victor thought to himself, and he had some trouble restraining his arm from stiffening to give the Nasi salute.
________________________________________________________
Just as they were about to light the candle, Victor excused himself. He was feeling too ill to remain there, so grabbing his hat, gloves, and coat, and, without a word, he left early.
Once again Victor waived off his driver, and decided to walk some distance before catching a tram home.
It was now the evening of the 24th and in a few short hours it would be midnight. After walking for some time he passed one of the Strategic Settlements as Gens rushed in to get home before curfew. Suddenly, as he passed the gate, a spychip monitor gave its telltale “Danger! Danger!” refrain. At first, Victor thought that he had set off the alarm, but then he could see that the soldiers had surrounded a mother and her disheveled autistic child. The girl was about 7 years of age and she was constantly slapping herself on the side of the head. “Step way from the child!!!” the Marine captain ordered. The mother began to bleet in a high pitched voice. You didn’t have to know Sheepish to know what she was saying. She wanted to have her child returned to her. The girl was covered in welts and bruises, no doubt from injuring herself, and she must have damaged the spychip embedded inside her. The mother’s bleeting became more earnest as the captain ordered two of his grunts to pull the girl aside towards a bloodied wall. Victor wanted to intervene but that could possibly get him shot as well, Outer Temple member of not. He watched helplessly. A soldier was ordered to wand the girl for an electronic echo, but the wand refused to light up. Then, with all the certainty of a well trained, unthinking soldier, the captain ordered the girl up against the wall. He removed his revolver, placed its barrel so that it was aimed at the center of her forehead, and fired. The girl’s lifeless body collapsed like a rag doll. The captain then pointed the revolver at the mother. She stood there open-mouthed and silent for a moment, and then was hustled away by cowering members of the evening crowd, now all the more anxious to get in to the Settlement before curfew.
Victor hustled on past. “There was nothing he could do,” he kept telling himself, “people die every day, why should one more dumb autistic Gen girl matter?”
________________________________________________________
But it did matter. Victor knew that Autism was caused by a mercury based vaccine preservative, Thermisol, and that the symptoms matched that of mercury poisoning. Why the hell mercury was being put in a child’s vaccine, especially for a child as young as 2 years old, was anyone’s guess. But of course Victor didn’t have to guess. Ministry of Health, Department of Population Control, Section Children and Infants, Subsection Vaccines, was the answer. The one worry the Sems had about the Gens had to do with their ability to reproduce. While Sems made up approximately 2% of the total population, Gens made up 98% of the population, so occasional down-home human “harvesting” had to be done. Besides killing off the excess male population in wars, vaccine poisoning was seen to be an effective way to destroy Gen Families and distract Gens from focusing on larger social issues concerning the distribution of wealth and power and instead have them focus on taking care of their crippled and stunted family members. Korris Mharasch, a Sem chemist, developed Thermisol early in the last century; he invested heavily in its development and marketing and profited dearly when it became widely used as a mercury-based, infant vaccine preservative. The point was to create a vaccine preservative that would devastate the nervous system of young Gen infants all the while allowing medical staff to be able to claim “plausible deniability” as to its true cause. The Sem strategy was to put in just enough mercury in the vaccine so that a significant segment of Gen infants would become disabled but not enough mercury for scientists to draw a one-to-one connection between the poisonous compound and its effects. Significantly, while 1 in 100 North Atlantican infants now suffered from Autism, in Eretz Israel, where vaccines are discouraged, especially in the OrthoSem community, that illness is virtually unheard of. Most curious.
________________________________________________________
Thermisol and autism got Victor to thinking more about vaccines and how perfectly they functioned as vectors to deliver a lethal dose of poison to unwitting victims—AIDS being another classic example. Here, the standard unofficial, but widely believed, account was that Eretz Israel employed AIDS as a means of punishing central Africa for crossing swords with Eretz over the Intebbe incident. The story went like this: after an Eretz passenger jet was hijacked by Philistinians and flown to Intebbe on Independence Day (in North Atlantica), the plane was surrounded by Yougandan soldiers. Significantly, they were not there to free the hijacked passengers but to protect the Philistinian hijackers from being attacked by Ysraelites. Be that as it may, commandos from the Eretz Ysrael Attack Forces struck and killed the hijackers along with dozens of black African soldiers from Youganda who were protecting the Philistinian hijackers. Youganda had to pay, and pay dearly, for this breech of decorum. There was the public relations threat to Ysrael that the similarities between black oppression and Sem oppression—which took decades for Sems to construct—was in danger of unraveling. So the PM of Eretz, the OrthoSem Begin, decided to have a shipment of small pox vaccine infected with AIDS—distributed, not coincidentally, by USAID as a cover—to central Africa. That way, black Africans would eventually come to be weighed down with caring for their own infected and dead so that they could not agitate against former colonial powers or come to the support of the Philistinians (a people newly suffering from neo-colonialism)—and of course they would be sorely punished, retroactively, for daring to cross swords with Eretz to boot. It would be claimed by scientific “experts” that oversexed black African men had sex with green monkeys and this is what caused AIDS—yet another example of giving a dog a bad name and then hanging him for it, so to speak. AIDS stands for Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome. Properly speaking, however, it should be called Acquired Immune Suppression Syndrome. Intelligence agencies certainly know how to employ language (and abbreviations) to co-opt language and discount suspicion by including in the name of the disease the vector that caused it. Black ops domestic government terrorist agencies also were wise to allude to a conspiracy in the manufacture of a conspiracy in order to discount the conspiracy—odd as that may sound. The reason for this was that, in the “minds” of sheeple, it was unbelievable that conspiracists would refer to their own conspiracy in the staging or manufacture of that conspiracy. Manufactured coincidences—whether they coincide with famous dates in history, saints days, numerological references, acronyms…etc.—elicited a an intellectual defense mechanism in sheeple which led them to deflect and discount the facticity of a conspiracy. SUCCOCK was especially expert at this methodology.
Or take Jakob-Creutzfeldt (“Jacob’s field of crosses”) disease as yet another example of how language and the names of diseases are re-written or reconfigured to diffuse a negative spin vis-à-vis the Sem community. For decades it was listed as “Jacob-Creutzfeldt” in books and on the internet but when a widespread outbreak occurred in the 1990s the name of this disease was thought to reflect badly on Semdom. This disease called to mind, translated from the German, “Jacob’s Field of Crosses”, suggesting Sems killed Gens. Now, however, the nomenclature has been reversed to read, “Creutzfeld-Jakob” disease—for reasons that are all too easily understood.
AIDS, SARS, Ebola, Bird Flu…etc. these “new,” late 20th century, diseases were all widely regarded by Sems in-the-know as state sponsored bio-terrorist viruses manufactured in biological weapons laboratories under the auspices of diabolical Sem overlords. If anyone had any doubt about state intelligence and bio-weapons facilities releasing viruses on an unsuspecting public in their own countries they needed to look no further than to the weaponized anthrax scare in Washington D.C. following in the wake of 11/9. The only two congressmen who had weaponized anthrax mailed to their offices were ones who wanted to hold up debate on the Patriot Act so as to give it a full hearing; needless to say, after the anthrax scare these two congressmen “caved” and permitted a speedy and perfunctory hearing to the Patriot Act, which then passed by a virtually unanimous vote. Score one again for SUCCOCK.
On a more mundane level, all this does not even take into account the unregulated employment of fluoride—i.e., the amount of fluoride one consumes varies widely according to how much fluoridated water one drinks daily--added to the water supply of most municipalities in North Atlantica since the 1950s; this was done purportedly to provide protection to enamel against tooth decay buy actually it was done to reduce the population by lowering the sperm count in men—fluoride being a low-grade radioactive element which in fact has only marginal benefits, at best, to combating tooth decay.
________________________________________________________
No, this night was a turning point. Alienated from his co-religionists at the Festival of Lights celebration and then to see a disabled and innocent Gen child shot by a trained-to-be-callous-and-uncaring fellow Gen--all at the behest of the Master puppet-master, Big Sam--was something Volk could no longer stomach.
“It’s not me that’s wrong, but reality that’s wrong!!!” Volk told himself. From now on Victor Volk would not rest until he joined the Bruderschaft—the sworn enemy of Big Sam and all Big Sam stood for.
Chapter 12
Of course Victor didn’t have a clue as to how to safely get in contact with the Bruderschaft. One thing he was certain of, however, is that he should not try to get in contact with them on his own. He needed a cover. He needed, in the words of Sem spooks, “Plausible deniability.” There were Goldsteins aplenty out there. For instance, there was Bin Baden, a legitimate enemy of Big Sam who died years ago but who was kept alive in the Sem Media as a means of teasing out fellow Middle Eastern Gen dissidents. SUCCOCK manufactured a steady stream of Bin Baden video and audio tapes and then fed them to various intelligence and Media outlets around the world for broadcast. SUCCOCK also used various False Flag Arab and Philistinian websites to take “credit” for actual Eretz attacks on various bars, nightclubs, airlines, hotels, embassies, mosques…etc. SUCCOCK, in a masterful False Flag operation, got Shiite and Sunni Arabs to slaughter each other in Iraqistan after SUCCOCK blew up each sides mosques. SUCCOCK killed thousands of innocent civilians, and then placed the blame on the competing Islamic sides to foment a civil war—Divide et impera was as true today as it was in ancient Rome.
No, Victor would have to be cleverer—use his weaknesses as his strengths. He could tell the Thought Police that he could pose as a disaffected AssimaSem—he could undye his hair and wear it blond. His background in Archives could give him a rationale for his excellent knowledge of dissident Sem and Gen gripes against Big Sam (all of which were transparently false he would tell the Thought Police, of course). But who could he approach for advice? Who indeed?
Why, Judas, of course! Judas was more orthodox than the OrthoSems, and then there was that wink, of course. What exactly did it mean? It didn’t matter. He would approach Judas on Boxing Day--St. Stephen’s Day, December 26th, today!--and seek out his advice. He didn’t want to waste any time.
Chapter 13
Judas lived in the Sicarii Ghetto, Apartment 33. Like all Ghettos it was a plush, gated community of Sems protected by a wall and a guarded entrance. “No pigs or Gens allowed!” was posted in large gothic letters over the gate.
After passing through the usual security checks, a guard called Judas to tell him he had a visitor. Victor was escorted to Judas’ apartment.
The door was already open when Victor arrived.
“Come in,” Judas said. “We missed your company at the Festival. What brings you to my place on a blustery winter’s day?”
“Jude,” Victor used the diminutive, “I’ve got to get out of Archives! Working there is driving me crazy. All the crap I have to read and file—it’s just not healthy. I want to do something special, something that means something, something that will please Big Sam!” (Here, Victor was careful not to be the one suggesting he go undercover.) “I want your advice.”
“I thought you liked working in Archives? You get to one-up me with your knowledge of Gen trivia.” Judas replied, then he switched topics, “So where do you think you should be?”
“Like I said, where I can help Big Sam most. I don’t know. Something where I can use my knowledge of trivia and loyalty to the Tribe to its best advantage.” Victor went on.
“Oh, I see, you don’t want a desk job any more.”
“That’s right!” Victor interjected, a little too eagerly. “Some place where I can use my training and skills to…”
“…to help the Tribe.” Judas concluded and then thought for a moment. “You’re a bit too old to work in GenFeed, and administration is your strength. My recommendation is that you stay where you are and take on a sideline.”
This was finally going where Victor wanted. He then noticed the morning news report on tv—apparently there was a power outage in the Northeast and the President, somewhat oddly given that this was a regional crisis, had immediately—during the blackout--flown to The Lone Star State, which had its own unique, contiguous, and self-contained electrical grid. Victor saw it for what it was: a symbolic “terrorist” attack by the Bruderschaft, and a counter-symbolic flight to Animal Farm/Texas by the President. He cast a knowing look toward Judas.
“The Bruderschaft?” Judas muttered.
“The Bruderschaft!” Victor acknowledged.
“Well, perhaps you can do some part-time work for the Thought Police. I know they are always looking for informants, and if you could capture any of those Bruderschaft bastards—and they are clever, trust me--you wouldn’t be working on the 5th Floor of MiniTru any more.” Judas replied.
“Eureka!, that’s it!” Victor exclaimed, but a moment later conceded, “But I don’t have any contacts in the Thought Police…”
“Don’t worry, Victor, we both know someone who can get us in touch with them. Just let me take care of arranging the meeting. You sure you want to go ahead with this?”
“Yes,” Victor said firmly.
“We’ll need to give you a codename?
“Stephen?” Victor blurted out unthinkingly.
“Good, the patron saint of casket-makers!” interjected Judas.
“I didn’t know that,” said Victor a little uneasily.
“Death to the Bruderschaft!!!” Judas exclaimed.
“Death to the Bruderschaft!!!, Victor repeated more weakly.
“It’ll take about a fortnight, but then I’ll call you. In the meanwhile, don’t mention this to anyone—do you hear me?!—ANYONE! Dixi!”
Chapter 14
Victor raced home to watch the tv coverage of the power outage. The whole Northeast Quadrant was without power, from eastern Canada to New York and Washington D.C. (including Blanco House and the Capitol). By now the tv networks had a chance to unify their accounts of the event. Apparently a squirrel caused an electrical transformer in Canada to go out and this caused a domino-effect power outage that spread throughout eastern Canada and New England. No more mention was made of the President flying to Texas, and then the tv anchorman said, very deliberately, “This was not a terrorist attack! To repeat, this was not a terrorist attack!!!”
“’The lady doth protest too much,’” Victor thought to himself. Doublethink was already at work in the Media.
Victor knew that when the Bruderschaft was successful the Media would discount the attack as being the result of “natural causes” in order not to give the Bruderschaft any positive coverage for a successful assault or else they would just ignore the story. On the other hand, when the state coerced or entrapped innocent individuals into illegal behavior it unabashedly trumpeted the success of its “counter-terrorist” units.
________________________________________________________
Over the next 10-odd days, Victor spent all his free time researching what he could to find out about the Bruderschaft. While he was convinced it was mostly a dissident Sem organization (sheeple and parrot-ple had little brains for such complex ingenuity and intrigue), still, there must be some Gen involvement as well. To the best of his knowledge it was founded on bringing an end to Big Sam, barracks democracy, rampant paranoia, widespread misery, poverty, and slaughter, and universal fear of the state and replacing it with truly representative government, broad social welfare programs, real personal freedom, and peace—in short, instead of the hell that now passed for normal a new heaven on earth was to be founded. Not the Old Semrusalem but a New Genrusalem—a Zion where the distinction between human predators and sub-human prey, Sems and Gens, no longer existed.
________________________________________________________
Finally, Judas got word to Victor that a meeting had been arranged between him and a member of the Thought Police. He was to meet at Judas’ apartment on the evening of January 6th, and Judas would introduce him to his handler. He also said that he had a “surprise” for Victor. Victor did not like surprises. He reached for a gin, poured out a shot, and drank it down. It burned his throat but warmed his stomach. He thought of Hamlet: “Tonight I could drink hot blood…I’ll speak to him though hell itself should gape and bid me hold my peace!” Victor burped.
Chapter 15
When Victor got to Judas’ apartment early in the evening, this time the door was closed. He knocked three times and waited. A minute later the door opened an inch, the door chain taunt, and one of Judas’ eyes peered out.
“Are you alone?” he asked.
“Yes,” Victor replied.
“Shut your eyes!” Judas commanded.
“What?” Victor asked.
“Shut your eyes!!!”
Victor obeyed. The next thing he heard was the door close, the latch come undone, and the door reopen.
“Turn around!” Judas ordered.
Victor complied. Suddenly a blindfold was draped over his eyes and tightened. Judas then clasped Victor’s hand, and guided him into the apartment.
“No one’s here yet.” Judas volunteered. “Would you like a drink—all I have is gin. Here, let’s sit you down first.” Judas sat Victor down in an overstuffed chair and then left for a moment. In the distance Victor heard the clinking of glasses and a bottle pouring. Then he felt a glass pressed into his hand. “La Chiam!” Judas said.
“La Chiam!” Victor repeated.
They waited in silence. Judas seemed tense, but it was impossible to tell for certain since Victor couldn’t see him. Victor thought it best to keep quiet.
Finally, Victor heard a commotion in the hallway. Then, a knock, and he heard Judas rush to the door and open it. Some more muffled noises, and the next thing he knows someone is untying the blindfold, and before him stood—Jacob!
“Surprised?” asks a familiar voice behind him. It was Salome. She handed him the blindfold. Victor put it in his pocket.
“So, you want to work for us?” Jacob asks.
Victor couldn’t help but see in Jacob’s diminutive height and belligerent attitude the makings of a Napoleon complex. “He probably had a small penis too,” Victor thought to himself.
“I want to secede, ah, succeed in bringing down the Bruderschaft.” Victor corrected himself. “I want to bring the terrorists to final judgment. I think with my background and experience I can help you.”
Salome smiled at him.
“That will be for me to decide,” Jacob corrected him. “But first, a test,” and Jacob nodded to Judas. “Bring him in!”
Judas went to the door, opened it, and waved. In walked two burly men in plain clothes. They were not Gens. In with them they escorted a thin, middling-sized man, his whole body shivering.
“Kneel down!” Jacob commanded as he pointed to the space in front of Victor. The man dutifully complied. “This man here is a traitor—a Sem turncoat who was poisoned by the ideals of the Bruderschaft and wants to destroy us.” Jacob then placed a revolver on the small table next to the chair Victor was sitting in. Then, looking at Victor, Jacob said, “Kill him!”
Victor slowly picked up the revolver as sweat began to appear on his forehead. Myriad thoughts all crowded his brain. “Sem does not kill Sem” was one of the main dicta of the Semish Decalogue. He set down the revolver. This went against his whole training as a Sem cadre. On the other hand, this man was a traitor, and he was being given an order by an OrthoSem.
“Shoot him!!!” Jacob ordered even more forcefully. Victor picked up the revolver again.
Victor felt the loneliness of Abraham. Did loyalty to the Tribe trump morality? Of course it did—but the man was a God-damn Sem!
“Kill him now!!!” Jacob shouted at the top of his lungs.
But if he were really a member of the Bruderschaft Victor couldn’t kill him—he wanted to become one of them. Victor couldn’t kill someone who embodied the only hope that this world had for redemption. Finally, almost in tears, Victor—crestfallen-- set down the revolver. “I guess….”
“Congratulations, Victor, you passed!” smiled Jacob. “You see, members of the Bruderschaft never kill—be it Sem or Gen. They mainly try to embarrass and expose us. By not killing this man you showed that you will function perfectly as a double agent for us. ”
The man, groveling, collapsed at Victor’s feet, kissed them, and began to cry in a muffled voice. “Mazel Tov! Thank you! Thank you!” He wined. (God, I should have shot him, Victor thought to himself.)
“Take him away!” Jacob ordered, and the two non-descript burly men dragged the broken man out the door and down the hallway.
“We have been watching you for some time,” Jacob went on. “We think you will do well. We want you to keep your position in Archives and attempt to contact others who you think might have Bruderschaft leanings. Here,” Jacob took out a book, “read this.”
“Could it be?!” Victor asked himself. “Yes, it was—a copy of The Bruderschaft Manifesto! The most hated book in all North Atlantica. A short critique of international Semdom and the program for its transmutation!” Victor didn’t believe the book existed, but here it was in his very own hands.
“Salome will be your handler. She will pose as your girlfriend. You will contact me through her. I understand you have already selected a codename, ‘Stephen.’ Good. Salome’s codename will be ‘Judith.’” Jacob dictated all this as though he had done it dozens of times. “Now, I have other pressing matters to attend to. Good hunting, and ‘Death to the Bruderschaft!’ Shalom.” And with that Jacob left.
As Jacob left, Judas approached Victor and kissed him. “Shalom.” He said.
“Shalom,” Salome repeated, and she too kissed him.
“Shalom,” Victor said.
________________________________________________________
As he left, alone, Victor thought he heard in the distance what sounded like the muffled crack of a revolver.
Chapter 16
The Bruderschaft Manifesto.
Hitherto all history has been the story of class warfare. From a multiplicity of classes we now are in a situation where, in essence, only two classes exist: the tiny minority Sem haves and the great majority Gen have-nots. With some variations, the great humanist philosopher Marl Karx predicted this outcome. What he did not foresee, however, was the consolidation and lock on power on behalf of the Sems. He believed that once society was split into two distinct groups that the mass of Gens, through suffering, would come to have social consciousness, rebel, seize the means of production from the tiny minority Sems, and usher in a new era of universal prosperity for all. This has not happened. Why is that?
A number of reasons present themselves: Karx saw history as an inexorable dance, led by economic factors which, albeit painful for the masses in the short run, would inevitably lead to an economic nirvana in the long run. What he did not factor in sufficiently was the nature of man, the co-option of democracy, and the ultimate success of Sem religio-ethno-racial oligarchic collectivism as a means of infiltrating and destroying an open society and, in turn, of covertly promoting its narrowly parochial predatory agenda and advancing its compliant and eager-to-serve cadres.
The Nature of Man
While we recognize that the society Plato wished to construct millennia ago is virtually unrealizable, nevertheless Plato was essentially correct in 400 B.C. when he observed that there are three basic types of people—appetitive (those who are ruled by their appetites, the economic class), spirited (those who are ruled by emotion, the military class), and intellectual (those who are ruled by reason, the philosophical class). Appetitive types form the greatest number in a society; to a lesser extent spirited people exist; and only a tiny minority of the population of a society is intellectual or, better, philosophical. The appetitive class can easily be swayed with crumbs from the table of the wealthy so long as they do not achieve self-consciousness. They are like the proverbial rooster with its head cut off—running this way and that, but now knowing why it is running or where it is going. With the spirited class, morality is the common lever with which to manipulate this group. Very few do evil in the name of evil, but some spirited types will do evil in the name of good, and all spirited types will do good if that is how their actions are so defined for them. They too can be easily manipulated but they are especially dangerous because they most often uncritically justify their actions in the name of good. Finally, there is the intellectual or, philosophical class. The reason we eschew the term “intellectual” is because being thoughtful does not necessarily mean one is good. That designation is reserved for the philosophers. Like Plato we agree that in the best society a perfectly functioning state will mirror a perfectly functioning soul, with its tripartite ordered and properly hierarchical divisions we have outlined above. The philosophical class will know what the proper goal of a society is and direct it to that end, the spirited class—clerics and soldiers—will edify and protect the society, and finally the economic class will serve the physical needs of a society.
Contrast This with Democracy or Republicanism.
With democracy or republicanism every adult man and woman has a vote, regardless of their ability to reason critically. This naturally leads to a nation of clueless, tempest tossed voters who vote according to spur-of-the-moment fancy. Nay, it often results in a government that acts against the real best interests of the citizenry. There is a reason democratic politicians do not present reasoned arguments to the voters during elections but instead run on “family values,” “lower taxes,” and a “strong defense.” It works!!! What politician is against family values, for higher taxes, or for a weak defense? And yet the voters accept this drivel as thoughtful political debate and expect nothing more from their candidates. Democracy has been captured by the least astute among us and turned into a pathetic caricature of governance. This should come as no surprise to those knowledgeable of the nature of man.
While democracy has been the bane of the ruled masses, it has been a godsend to the ruling elite. Now plutocrats and power brokers within each of the parties vet the candidates and then present them to the pubic for rubberstamp ratification. The candidates are ultimately beholden to the moneyed interests that got them elected and as a result dutifully function as waterboys, as electoral puppets, for the puppet-master elite. Furthermore, with democracy, the ruling elite can justify taxing the ruled masses for government services and defense all the while feathering their nests with government largess and instigating wars to advance elitist interests and goals. The ruling elite, through their corporate owned Media, repeatedly reminds the electorate that it is “their”—the people’s—government that is formulating policy and thereby the government serves as a veneer behind which the puppet-master elite functions. Finally, the Gen electorate is so indoctrinated into the so-called virtues of democracy by the Sem ruling elite that it is almost impossible for the masses to even imagine a better world. Virtually all citizens today believe that democracy is the final chapter in the evolution of governance and that, while flawed, it cannot be improved upon. How wrong they are!!!
Finally, another thing Karx did not fully realize was the truth of his dictim: “The ruling ideas are the ideas of the ruling class” –materialist determinism be damned! Karx grossly underestimated the power of words and ideas. The moral vocabulary of the West is not the moral vocabulary of the East. In Western society the worst one can call someone is an Itler, a Nasi, an anti-Sem, and a racist, but this is not the pejorative moral vocabulary of the East where Heroito functions as that regions’ historical “Satan.” Our moral vocabulary here in the West is a Sem moral vocabulary, and the cultural relativism of this moral position needs to be fleshed out and acknowledged. The Gens are like the proverbial unself-conscious fish that swims in the ubiquitous saltwater of morality—it doesn’t question its moral values because it has been breathing them in since birth. This, too, has got to change.
Oligarchic Collectivism.
Before we address the pernicious effect of Sem oligarchic collectivism on Western society, we must first discover how Sems likely came to practice this methodology for seizing, consolidating, and holding power.
If we take Semish history at face value from the Pentateuch or, more broadly, from the Old Testament, we learn several revealing things about early Sem society. Over the mists of time, Eretz Ysrael eventually came to see ancient Palestine as its God-given home. Be that as it may, Palestine was at a crossroads. It was surrounded by great empires. To the north lay ancient Greece. To the east lay Babylon and Persia. To the south, ancient Egypt. And along the coast came Phoenician and Roman traders. Eretz had no hope of conquering any of these great empires, and it had the unpleasant experience of being occupied and enslaved by ancient Babylon and, reportedly, by ancient Egypt.
During these occupations the Sem population was dispersed throughout these empires. Making the best of a bad situation, Sems began to co-operate with their masters and eventually came to hold important civil, trading, and administrative posts in each of the empires in which they found themselves. While the common view is that the Diaspora only took place with the Roman destruction of the Second Temple in 70 A.D., the fact of the matter was that Sems centuries earlier has distributed themselves throughout the region. Realizing that they could not survive as a tiny regional state at the crossroads of the Middle East, Sems set about on a different tact.
One way to defeat an enemy was to engage in a direct, dramatic, frontal assault from outside the borders of a nation. Raw numbers translate into raw power, and it was impossible for the Sems to compete on this battlefield—they simply did not have the raw manpower to be successful. A second way to defeat an enemy was to engage in indirect, anti-climactic, incremental, interior assault. Bleed a nation, not from the outside, but from the inside--attack not the trunk of an empire but its pith and marrow. In other words, occupy a nation from the inside, not the outside, and instead slowly, incrementally, and inexorably bleed a country white. Overtly and covertly, through public and crypto-advancement, get one’s people into higher and higher positions of authority until one controlled the whole apparatus of a state or institution. This is what the Sems did. Eventually, as with the Roman Empire, Sems became so important to the state as tax farmers that the Emperors even allowed Sems to manufacture their own coins without the images of the Emperors on them (it was seen by the Sem elite as worshiping a false god). Besides tax farmers, Sems—because of their international connections--also were very prominent in slavery, white slavery (prostitution), and trading.
Sems realized that it did not matter who, particularly, represented them as Sems, just as long it was someone from the Tribe. So a great deal of elite Sem propaganda and indoctrination was spent on educating Sem minions into victimhood and the corollary need to maintain impregnable Tribal loyalty and cohesion. Part and parcel of maintaining this loyalty is maintaining food taboos (Kosher vs Treif), using a unique calendar to mark the passing of the year (The Hebrew lunar calendar), and a belief in racial purity (matriarchal lineage) and racial, ethnic, cultural, and religious superiority--the Sem God is a Sem God, and even though Christians may worship the One True God, it is a Sem God—Sems believe—not a Gen God, that Christians pay homage to.
Strictly speaking, Semism is not a religion in the ordinary sense. To be a Jew does not mean essentially that one agrees with a particular belief system but rather that one performs particular rituals. All the other major Western religions—e.g., Christianity, Mohammedianism--focus on what one believes. If one affirms a particular set of beliefs, one is of that religion. Not so with Semism. Semism has no “Nicene Creed,” if you will, with which one must agree in order to call oneself a a “Sem.” Semism has no such creed. It has no substantive belief in an afterlife; believes in moral double standards (one for fellow Sems and another for subhuman Gens, the infamous Kol Nidre); and its God is an ethnic and tribal god, strictly speaking, not a universal God for all of humankind. Furthermore, it is perfectly logical for a Sem to be an atheist (which may surprise many non-Sems); to be considered a “Sem” one merely has to practice the rituals associated with Semism—lighting the candles at Hannukah, celebrating the Passover seder, following a cosher diet...etc. One’s own personal Semish religious beliefs are, in a very real sense, irrelevant. If Semism is not a religion, then what is it? In a word, and practically speaking, Semism is a semi-conspiratorial crypto-society that uses the veneer of religion as a cover to overtly and covertly reciprocally promote its members to higher and higher positions of authority until they control the very institution they set about to infiltrate, commandeer, dominate, and control. The Greek roots to the word “synagogue” mean “to train together.” If one combines a self-serving ideology of victimhood, racial superiority, moral duplicity, and a belief in this-worldliness solely, one has a lethal mix indeed—especially if one is not a part of the Sem Master Race. Intra-species predation, Sem contra Gen, has been the logical and predictable result of Sem ideology.
The Recent History of Incipient Sem Control of North Atlantica.
Sem control of North Atlantican society was well advanced long before the outbreak of Global War II, and this was posing some public relations problems for Sems starting in the 20’s and 30’s. Grossly disproportionate and sizable numbers of Sem representatives filled the German Reichstag—this after many notable Sem labor leaders reportedly stabbed Germany in the back by calling for munitions labor strikes in Germany in the last year of Global War I—and this and, perhaps more importantly, the splitting off of German-speaking populations from the German mainland authored by a polyglot of Semish representatives to the infamous Versailles Conference, directly led to the rise of Itler. In the US national heroes such as industrialist and humanitarian Henry Ford, aviator and peace activist Charles Lindbergh, and Roman Catholic Priest Father Charles Coughlin all warned of creeping Sem control of the economy, Hollywood (the Media), and politics. Anti-Semism, in spite of the best efforts of Sems to disguise and hide their wealth and mushrooming profound incremental advancement and influence over American society, was growing. Something had to be done to deflect and disarm criticism of the self-aggrandizing Semish community.
If the Shoahcaust did not exist, it would have to be invented (and the fact of the matter is that it was). Sems made tremendous wealth off of the misery of GWI. The wealthiest family in the world, the Sem Redshields, are famously quoted as saying, “We have made more money off of one day of war than from a year of peace!” Alfred Nobel, a famous Sem munitions developer and manufacturer, profited dearly off of dynamite, cannon manufacturing, and ballistite, and the corresponding deaths of literally millions of Gen soldiers throughout Europe in GWI; some say he created the Nobel Prize as a salve for his conscience for being responsible for the deaths, injury, and misery of so many. If an event of Sem suffering so total and complete could be found or manufactured to top Gen misery in Global War I, it could silence once and for all criticism of the Sem community (and possibly even give them a state in the Middle East in which to live, Eretz Ysrael). This manufactured event was the Shoahcaust.
“No, this isn’t right!” Volk thought to himself, and he began to wonder whether the Brudershaft Manifesto was a forgery. He kept reading.
Contrary to popular belief, the Allies in GWII did everything they could do to make certain the Shoahcaust succeeded and the Nazis did everything they could do to avoid the Shoahcaust. Prior to the War, the Nazis tried to force Sems to leave the country through more and more onerous laws and prohibitions; if a war did if fact break out the last thing the Nasis wanted was to have to investigate, arrest, transport, and house, millions of prisoners. It would be a logistical nightmare—especially if a war time famine ensued, which in fact actually took place during the last year and a half of the war. The Allies, for their part, refused to allow Sems to emigrate to their countries before the war, chaired the notorious “Naïve” Conference (near Lake Geneva) in France in 1938 (from which Nasi Germany was pointedly excluded from an invitation to attend in spite of the Nasi’s express wish to attend), hypocritically refused during the war to even acknowledge the camps existed or bomb those that were designated as so-called “death camps.” At the end of the war the Allies had the chutzpah to pretend they did not know the camps—which housed millions—existed until the were liberated, camera crews conveniently in tow to film the liberation or to manufacture propaganda about the motives and methods of the Nazis and invent the figure of 6 million Semish dead.
(As an interesting aside it is worth noting that the Orthodox Semish Establishment supported Itler’s view on racial segregation. Semmish rabbis supported Ilter’s attempt to prevent “race-mixing” and stem the tide of Semmish assimilation into a broader Genish society. This was historically true in spite of post-war Semish propaganda films such as “The Sound of Muzak” and “Kabarat”--to site just two films--which present war-time Sems as agreeable to assimilation and jovial fraternity with Gens; one thing you will never see is an honest and accurate film from Hollywood showing pre-war Orthodox Semish support of Itler and his segregationist racial agenda.)
With the “discovery” of the Shoahcaust, now Sems could bludgeon their enemies by pointing to the sufferings of millions of Jews in the camps in GWII and forever silence their critics. It was a godsend—forget the fact that wealthy, elitist Sems were more than willing to sacrifice, as mere pawns, their poorer and less connected Sem brothers and sisters in order to manufacture a propaganda event that they, Sem elites, could now use for generations to deflect and parry legitimate criticisms of that community. Sem Zionists conspired with international Sem bankers and war profiteers—the Big Sems—to sacrifice as mere pawns Little Sems, those less well connected Sems actually suffering in the camps in Europe. And all this was done for self-serving Big Sem propaganda purposes—Little Sems be damned!!!
Of course not all intelligence operatives were Sems in GWII, and this led to internecine strife in the intelligence community post-War. Gen intelligence operatives (along with some minority wise and humanitarian Sem supporters) knew that they could not directly challenge the growing Sem dominance of the intelligence field so instead of drawing attention to this directly (and being accused of having post-war, anti-Sem, pro-Nazi sympathies) Gen intelligence operatives initiated the famous “Blue and White Scare,” in which Sem intelligence, Media, Hollywood, and military operatives were seen as being in the service of Soviet communists (which was also grossly dominated by Sem elites). This skirmish went back and forth for a couple of years and it was only when the now President Eisen-shofer saw that the tide had turned in favor of the Sems that he pulled the plug on the “Blue and White Scare.” As a fig leaf to the Sem community, Eisen-shofar agreed to build a nuclear weapons grade power plant in Eretz Ysrael, Dimona (and then he hypocritically warned of the “military-industrial complex” as he left office).
FJK followed Eisen-shofar as President. After the Havana Missile Crisis, which brought the world to the brink of nuclear devastation in the early 60s, President FJK decided to stop the Eretz uranium power plan, Dimona, from coming on-line. The Middle East was a tinderbox, and FJK did not want to see the Havana Missile Crisis repeated there, especially with nuclear trigger-happy Sem leaders chafing at their perceived victimization during the recent Shoahcaust. Besides, FJK despised the Sem leadership of Eretz Israel. Realizing that their military trump card was about to be taken away, SUCCOCK along with double agents in the North Atlantican (the US changed its name to “North Atlantica” after GWII) Secret Service (the SS) conspired to successfully assassinate FJK and blame the killing on an American patsy, Waldos. All this was done with the quiet effectiveness of strategically placed compliant sayanim and the Semish controlled Media.
Sonjohn, who took power immediately upon FJK’s death, approved the completion of the Eretz nuclear weapons facility, began giving military aid to Eretz for the first time, and then doubled, and next tripled, aid to Eretz Ysrael. Many in the know saw this as presidential payback to Eretz for facilitating the opportunistic Sonjohn to assume the presidency.
President Nixen followed Sonjohn, of course. He was involved in the “Blue and White Scare” from the 50’s and also kept a list of Sems who he considered conspiratorial, anti-Gen, and anti-North Atlantican. Not surprisingly, he was impeached and left office in disgrace. His crime was not an act of commission but omission—reportedly he tried to cover-up the Gatewater break-in after it occurred. Other Presidents have committed far greater crimes and stayed in office and never were impeached, e.g., President Bushleague II and the Iraqistan War, but the latter did not run afoul of Sem interests but instead championed them. Hense, Bushleague II was never indicted but instead was feted in the Semish community.
We need not here go through the whole litany of crimes committed by the Sem ruling elite (e.g., the Gateiran scandal which almost brought down the Raygun Presidency; the story broke, oddly, in a very tiny and obscure newspaper just across the Eretz border in Lebnon and was immediately picked up by the interconnected and well coordinated international Sem Media because supporting Iran went against Eretz foreign policy interests. Nor do we need to highlight the statement by President Klint’s Secretary of State, Madeline Alldim, who “discovered” [sic] she was Sem after assuming that office and who, upon hearing that her policy of denying medical supplies to Iraq led to the deaths of 500,000 Iraqi children, famously declared: “I am willing to pay that price.” Or to the green light President Bushleague I gave, through his ambassador in Dadbag, to the Iraqi leader before the First Gulf War that it would be okay for Iraq to invade Kuwait because “North Atlantica has no interest in intra-Arab disputes” [sic]). All of these can be skipped, for the sake of brevity, to bring us up to more recent times.
11/9 and its Wake
With 11/9 we will spend particular, detailed attention since it occurred within recent memory, and many things have followed in its wake.
Phase One: 11/9 itself.
With the end of the Cold War, North Atlantica strode the world like a colossus. No longer was there a need to expend surplus capitol and surplus production on wasteful military spending. The population was expecting a “peace dividend,” more and better social services or at least a relief to their burdensome taxes, but that was not to be.
The Sem neo-Cons (including President Bushleague II’s Secretary of Defense, Don Rumfield) called for a “new Pearl Harbor” in order to reorient national security from a Cold War stance to a post-Cold War, anti-terrorisism threat position stance. A short year later they got their wish—11/9.
11/9 was a very carefully planned False Flag SUCCOCK operation and it has Sem fingerprints all over it. Two planes, reportedly piloted by Arab “terrorists” (but we will never know for certain who flew these planes—or for that matter if they were flown by remote control--because the FIB has had to backtrack and retract accusations on half of the so-called “terrorists” it originally named as participants in 11/9 because it turned out the men so accused were still living in Saudi Arabia after the attacks) flew into the Twin Towers in NYC. One other plane reportedly flew into the Pentagon and a fourth reportedly crashed into a field in Pennsylvania after the passengers allegedly rebelled against the hijackers.
With respect to the planes that crashed into the Twin Towers, each Tower caught fire and burned for about an hour and then collapsed, straight down, in what appears to demolition experts as a free fall, controlled demolition, collapse. Building Seven, which was not hit by any plane, also collapsed in a free fall, controlled demolition-like collapse. All three of these building were steel framed buildings, built to withstand a large passenger jet airplane ramming into them, and in the history of steel framed buildings there is not a single earlier example of fire causing any steel framed building to collapse. As for the “plane” [sic] that hit the Pentagon, there is serious doubt as to whether it was hit by a plane at all. No fuselage or jet engines were found at the site (very unusual), the turf where the object hit the Pentagon was undamaged, and the part of the Pentagon that was hit was the area responsible for auditing the 2.3 trillion dollars gone missing from the Pentagon budget that Secretary of War, Rumfield, announced just the day before. As for the plane that crashed in Pennsylvania, while a fighter jet was reportedly scrambled to meet it, the interceptor reportedly (oddly) never went above subsonic speed and never reached the plane before it crashed; others have speculated that the jet fighter did in fact reach the passenger jet and shot it down but for public relations purposes this fact is being shielded from the public. The bottom line is that even the most basic outline of 11/9 is shot through with so many holes that it is difficult to know what is true and what is misinformation--or deliberate disinformation.
What we know for certain is that there was a government and Media cover-up of 11/9, and that if this is true then the government and the Media has a hand in the crime. It took a full 5 years for the government’s airline investigation unit to admit that it had two of the Black Boxes (actually, they are colored orange) and, even so, the flight data and full cockpit voice recordings have never been made available to the public. The two Black Boxes from the planes that hit the Towers reportedly were never found. (This, however, is contradicted by police witnesses on the ground who say they did see the Black Boxes being recovered from there.)
The crime scenes of where the planes hit the two Towers and later the Pentagon was immediately ordered disturbed—yes, disturbed--and therefore forever compromised. The very day after 11/9 the clean-up began on the debris in NYC. By cleaning up the debris immediately (and thereby grossly compromising the crime scene), independent investigators and ordinary citizens did not get the chance to ponder how it was that huge cement blocks and heavy steel girders were ejected 100s of feet away from the site of the attack—something only accountable were there demolition explosives that ejected debris far away from the original site. The same was true with the attack on the Pentagon; while there was no substantial debris on the ground and the lawn was intact right after the attack, nevertheless, the lawn was immediately ordered torn up and re-sodded the very next day after the attack. Obviously some people in authority did not want a “clean” investigation site.
Molten steel pooled in the sub-basement of the Towers after the attack and remained molten for months after the attack. It is simply impossible that the crashing planes caused a fire of the magnitude necessary to melt steel and then for that melted steel to remain molten for months underground after the attack. Some have speculated that pre-positioned, steel-melting, thermite was employed in the demolition of the buildings (which raises the interesting question, ‘How were Arab “terrorists” [sic] able to preposition explosives and thermite in the Towers before they rammed them?’).
Building 7. This part of the Trade Center Complex was a 47 story steel framed skyscraper that was not hit by any plane and yet it completely collapsed in on itself and was leveled to the ground in a free fall on 11/9 as well. A couple curious things to note with respect to Building 7: a BBC tv reporter from Brittan reported the collapse of Building 7 before it even occurred (Building 7 appeared over her shoulder, intact, as she described its collapse an hour before it actually fell down!!!), and, second, the owner of the Trade Center Complex, the Sem, Lawrence Silverstone, was heard to say to a colleague that Building 7 needed to be “pulled”—which in the demolition business is jargon for calling for a “controlled demolition.”
Speaking of Larry Silverstone, he doubled the insurance on the Towers a few months before the attack took place and profited handsomely from their destruction. Did someone or some intelligence agency (e.g., SUCCOCK) forewarn him of the attacks with insider information and he took advantage of this information to profit handsomely financially from it, or was he part of the conspiracy from the get-go? And then there is the fact that the FIB began an investigation into gold purchases and the short selling of airline stock just prior 11/9 in order to learn whether there was any insider trading in advance of the 11/9 attack. Reportedly some major Sem financial players took major stock positions on gold going up in value and airline stock plummeting in value shortly before 11/9. What became of the FIB investigation into this matter and all the implications following therefrom? Absolutely nothing. The Bushleague II administration shut down the investigation. Some very powerful members of the Bushleague II administration did not want the public to learn what such an investigation may have uncovered. Finally, it took President Bushleague II months and months before he would finally agree to testify before a congressional committee about what he knew concerning 11/9; he was only agreeable to do this if he could avoid testifying under oath and with his VP, Dick Cagey, holding his hand during the proceedings. Pathetic.
Phase Two: the demonization of Arabs (Islamists in particular), the invention of Al Kinder, and the invasion of Iraqistan.
With the success of the false flag attack on North Atlantica having been completed, Phase Two could now begin: the Sem Media drumbeat to punish the “Arabs” [sic] responsible. Al Kinder was now invented and rushed to the public as an international Mohammedean conspiracy bent on destroying the West; it was Al Kinder, we were told now, who were responsible for 11/9. Osama bin Baden was selected as the poster boy responsible for 11/9 (even though on the FIB’s own website of the 10 most wanted fugitives, responsibility for 11/9 is pointedly not listed as one of Bin Baden’s plots). Sem neo-Cons in the Bushleague II administration—Pearl, Faith, Sonofabraham—all pointed the finger of blame towards Al Kinder responsibility, and this was immediately echoed and amplified by Sems and their cadres and quislings in the Media. Not only do we need to punish the perpetrators of 11/9, we also need to free Mohammedean women from the tyranny of the headscarf. We would bring them freedom, and they would become like us, come to embrace us, come to love us—or so we were told.
At that time in the eastern Middle East there was a block of contiguous, anti-Eretz states—Syra, Iragistan, and Irun. Iraqistan surrounded the most powerful anti-Eretz state, Irun. Bin Baden was known to reside in the eastern wing of Iraqistan, and North Atlantica demanded his surrender. The ruling party in that part of Iraqistan, the Talibad, agreed to turn over Bin Baden but only on the condition that North Atlantica provide some—any—kind of proof that Bin Baden was involved in 11/9. President Bushleague II ignored their reasonable offer, refused to offer proof of Bin Badin’s culpability for 11/9, and instead set about to activate the pre-planned invasion of Iraqistan--which he then did. The international Sem-Eretz strategy worked perfectly: the contiguous block of Middle Eastern anti-Eretz states was now broken up and checkerboarded (with Syra and Irun now surrounded and isolated on all sides), North Atlantican soldiers were fighting and dying as proxies for Eretz, Sem war-profiteering mushroomed, anti-Arab sentiment was solidified in North Atlantica and anti-North Atlantica sentiment was solidified in Arab states, it was a win-win-win for Eretz and the international Sem community!!!
Of course Bushleague II played the war in Iraqistan from both sides. On the one hand he repeatedly made the claim to the sheeple public that this state in some sense was responsible for 11/9 (which was transparently untrue) but at other times (far less frequently) he would admit the truth and grant that there was absolutely no connection between 11/9 and Iraqistan. The Sem Media of course, well versed in the dictum that a lie, repeated often enough, becomes the truth, trumped the first Bushleague claim and all but ignored the second. Once the invasion was complete, and the occupation deliberately mis-managed, a new reason had to be given for the invasion, and that was oil. Bushleague II, a failed oilman, went into Iraqistan to secure the oil fields for North Atlantican big business. This too was a canard—one, because—as we have already noted—the real reason for the invasion was to have North Atlantica, as a proxy, carry out Eretz foreign policy military goals, and two because if the invasion was done to secure oil fields why—10 years after the invasion—are those oil fields still not producing as much oil as they did pre-invasion.
Phase Three: the War on ‘Terrorism,’ the War on Dissent.
Of course Sem interests were not limited to financially profiting off of 11/9 and the War on Terrorism, and advancing Eretz foreign policy interests, it was also necessary to intimidate, harass, and silence domestic critics who were on to them, under the guise of fighting ever-present “terrorists”--enter the Patriot Act. Dissent had to be criminalized. Within days of 11/9 the Patriot Act was presented to congress for ratification. Those congresspersons who bothered to read it were given two days to pour over 1000s of pages of legislation and consider the ramifications to civil liberties. When two crucial congressmen, Senate Majority Leader T. Daschel and the head of the Senate Judiciary Committee, P. Leyhy, indicated that they would hold up consideration of the Patriot Act because of civil liberties concerns, they each received mail that contained weaponized anthrax spores. Congress had to be shut down, and the death threats served their purpose: the two senators shortly thereafter caved and allowed passage of the Patriot Act. How Al Kinder got its hands on highly processed weaponized anthrax from a high tech military bio-weapons lab is a mystery. But it is no mystery who really sent those mailings, especially if one considers who benefited from the Patriot Act being passed—the Sem national security state within a state!
Besides Senators being intimidated after 11/9 there was also one noteworthy assassination of a senator at that time. Senator P. Stonewell, an AssimaSem, shortly before election night a couple of months later, declared that he would oppose the invasion of Iraqistan. This was a potentially grievous breaking of ranks. By not agreeing to approve the Iraqistan invasion Stonewell gave spineless Gens in congress the pretext for joining him, a Sem, in subverting the Eretz and OrthoSem grand strategy. The overarching Sem goal of getting North Atlantica to invade, divide, and conquer anti-Eretz states in the Middle East was in danger of falling apart. Something had to be done! That something was the assassination of Senator P. Stonewell and his family, purportedly in an ordinary plane crash just a week before the election. Stonewell was by far the most liberal senator in congress, he was leading in the polls against his Sem rival just a week before election day, and he was fully expected to have won re-election. How convenient for the ruling Sem elite and their grand strategy that he died when he did.
11/3, the Madrid Bombings. North Atlantica employed its military alliance to conscript allied nations to come to its assistance in invading and occupying Iraqistan. Hispania was one of those allies. However, the sheeple public in Hispania began to resent the lies and deceit surrounding the invasion of Iraqistan and began to demand that the government of Hispania pull out. An election was called to either ratify the present leadership and maintain the status quo or elect new leadership and pull out of Iraqistan. This put the international Sem elite and partisans of Eretz in a quandary. It appeared that the alliance was on the verge of breaking up. Something had to be done to stop the hemorrhaging or, at a minimum, punish the Hispanian public for reluctance to fight on behalf of Sems. SUCCOCK took the ball and decided on fashioning a dilemma for the Hispanian sheeple: three days before the general election, on 11/3 (so people would associate the attack with 11/9 three years earlier), SUCCOCK decided to blow up train stations in Madrid and blame the attack on Al Kinder. Manufactured reports would circulate that Al Kinder was angry at Hispania’s involvement in Iraqistan and that is why they attacked the Madrid train stations (forget the fact that the most likely outcome of such an attack—which SUCCOCK was banking on—was that there would be a backlash against Al Kinder and the status quo would be re-elected and thus continue their support of the Iraqistan occupation). But even if Hispanian sheeple saw through the SUCCOCK false flag operation, Eretz would have the satisfaction of punishing the Hispanian population (200 people killed, 1800 wounded in the Madrid bombings) and simultaneously sending a message to other would-be dissident nations and people-in-the-know what lay in store for them if they bucked Sem hegemony and control. The bottom line is that the Hispanian sheeple saw through the attacks, elected a new, anti-militant government, and eventually withdrew from Iraqistan altogether. Still, Hispania had to pay a terrible price for standing up to the Sems.
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In sum, each nation-state in the world today is, in effect, a discrete and stand-alone animal farm with its own practices and institutions. This is true regardless whether the ruling governmental institutions are democratic, monarchical, totalitarian…what have you. The ruling elite in each of these nation-states view the common people in their own countries, not as human beings, but as animals to be exploited for personal and collective gain. On the other hand, this elite sees themselves as the Master Farmers, Master Butchers, and Master Harvesters—in short, the human beings--over the sub-human “animals” over which they have dominion. Each of the nation-states in existence today all shares this view of their minions, their sheeple. The main task of the ruling elite is to protect and defend the ruled masses only to the extent that they are not absorbed by adjacent Farms. The other task of the ruling elite is to avoid overt internal strife, civil unrest, while at the same time exploiting, and milking, the ruled masses of all their productivity and wealth. We can see this operative in the various manufactured financial and real estate “bubbles” that are inflated and then, once they reach a pre-determined size, imploded, so that profits can be skimmed and the process can begin anew in another area of the economy. This is the best way to conceive of the nation-states that comprise the world today—as patchworks of various sized animal farms, each ruled by an elite that harvests its own domestic human cattle and the wealth that they create. Of course above this all is the international Master Elite, the Sem crypto-ruling Establishment, that employs the national and international banking system to keep the Gen masses in thrall and uses its international propaganda network, the Media in its broadest sense (Hollywood, televlsion, radio, the internet…etc.) to paper over, misdirect attention, and shield the Semish Master Elite from scrutiny.
The Solution to Defeating Sem Oligarchic Collectivism
While, ideally, we would like to see rule by Philosopher-Kings, a la Plato, we are not so naïve as to recognize the unlikeliness of this happening. The sheeple, blind to their ignorance, would not stand for it. However, if not individual Philosopher-Kings to guide a nation, why not a nation of Philosopher-Kings!!! With this in mind, we propose the dissolution of democracy and its replacement with government by lottery. Every citizen’s name (or social security number) would be put in a hat, so to speak, and, say, 1000 names would be randomly selected from the hat to serve as our representatives. Secret societies would be prohibited, and those with dual citizenship would not be allowed to hold office; for example, all the de jure citizens of Eretz—all Sems--would thereby be prohibited from holding any political office. Instead of largely wealthy Sems and white male quislings comprising the governing class, we would have a truly demographically representative government. Half of the electors would be women, 10% homosexual, 20% Black, 75% without a post secondary degree, 30% poor…and so on. We could do away with expensive and insidious election campaigns, and quash once and for all the Sem good-old-boys-and-girls network that gets them into positions of power—both elected and unelected. No longer would Sem oligarchic collectivism work as a means of overtly and covertly reciprocally promoting its members into higher and higher positions of authority until the whole body politic is infected with its insidious, clandestine cancer. Oligarchic collectivism would be cut off at its knees, not allowed to take root or expand. Most importantly, the poor would have a seat at the table of a truly representative government. Today, under titular democracy, no such seat is set for them.
While we cannot say definitively what the policies of a lotteryist government would be, we can well imagine that far more money would be spent on social welfare programs (social security, national health care, employment re-training, education…etc.) then is spent now, and far fewer dollars would go to armaments and the machinery of death, i.e. the war department and on so-called “national security.” Since literally anyone could be selected for office, it would be in the interests of a lotteryist government to maximize critical thinking abilities and education for the nation as a whole (and not reserve higher education as merely the purview or birthright of the wealthy). Of course Sem and Masonfrei control of the economy, the Media, Hollywood, the education system, and the parochial ideological system on which it rests would have to be dismantled. Agencies that intimidate or are antithetical to open and honest governance—the FIB, the ICA, the ASN, Fatherland Security—would all have to be curtailed or dismantled as well. Captains of industry and business would have to be retired, and wealth capped at, say, 10 million. Income tax could be eliminated completely and a severely progressive wealth tax would support the full expense of government and government programs. Finally, the full time work week (since there would be no income tax) could—and should—be reduced to 30 hours per week.
Forget the Gen posterboys for wealth in this country—the Bill Gattes and the Warren Bufets of this world—the real power rests in oligarchic Sem financial and Media Kabals. These Kabals often function covertly with the complicity of Sem owned Media to be kept out of the spotlight of Media glare. We are talking about the Rothschilds, the Warburgs, the Kochs, the Waltons, the Murdochs, the Zuckermans, the Sulzbergers, the Bloombergs, the Bernankes, the Karmazins…etc. And don’t forget: we are not talking about independent actors that function separately and unilaterally but Sem men and Sem families who work in concert, most often covertly, united with one and other to subvert the institutions that would protect and promote an open society. We are dealing with an religio-ethno-racial oligarchy of power. Sems make up 2% of the population of North Atlantica and yet over 50% of all billionaires in North Atlantica are Sem—and this is only the ones we know of!!! These Sem men and their families are literally killionaires—by their self-centered, self-serving, and self-aggrandizing possession of mega-wealth these Sems literally acquiesce to the suffering and deaths of millions of North Atlantican Gens. Nay, by their policies they actively promote the misery and destitution of the Gen underclass the world over. They do this by subverting the political process through the legalized bribery, i.e., campaign contributions, that leads politicians to vote against the real interests of their Gen constituency--national health care, unemployment and retirement benefits, and affordable education; Sem killionaires do it through the economic process of first creating and them imploding investment and housing bubbles; and they do this through the propaganda process of mis-informing the public as to what their real interests are and, instead, conflate poverty stricken Gen interests as corresponding with wealthy Sem interests—when nothing could be further from the truth. On this score, one particular trick Sems employ is to associate themselves with poverty stricken Blacks and minorities when the fact of the matter is that, socio-economically, Blacks have more in common with Whites than they do with Sems!
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The time is now! We can refashion man and revolutionize this age. From a hell on earth we can make it a heaven. From a samsara we can make a nirvana. Like a purged and transformed Phoenix resurrecting itself from the ashes of Gehenna we can envision an Olam Ha-Ba-- a new age for Sem and Gen alike. The lamb can lay down with the lion and live in harmony, and the shy, retiring, supine, and coy sheeple can be taught to stand up and roar. We have nothing to lose, and a world to gain!!!
Part Two
But if there was hope, it lay in the proles. You had to cling on to that. When you put it in words it sounded reasonable: it was when you looked at the human beings passing you on the pavement that it became an act of faith. – George Orwell, 1984.
Rebellion
Chapter 17
”Yes, yes,” Victor thought, “a sheeple that roars. That’s what we need! If there is hope it lay in the sheeple! The time is now!!!”
But as Victor thought more about it he became less optimistic. “For the sheeple to rebel, they first need to discover class consciousness. But for them to discover class consciousness, they need first to rebel.” It was a Catch 22. The one thing Gens had going for themselves was raw numbers. They reproduced like rabbits. Using Gen women and men as canon-fodder could only obliterate so many. Much more needed to be done to keep the Gen population in line and under control. In sum, Gens needed to be regularly “harvested”—to use the phraseology of Semspeak.
Even more pressing for Victor, however, was the question of whether he should even try to get in contact with the Bruderschaft. Now that he was in it with both feet, he realized that he was in a double bind himself: on the one hand he wanted to connect up with, and help, the Bruderschaft by overthrowing Big Sam and all he stood for, but on the other hand he did not want to compromise the Bruderschaft and ‘out’ any of its operatives. What to do? He was now officially working for the Thought Police, so that provided him with some limited protection when he went fishing for true dissidents, but he also believed that, now that he was a double agent, the Thought Police would be monitoring him even more closely. If he did something, e.g., discover and expose a Bruderschaft agent, he would be sacrificing his original humanitarian principles and was screwed, but if he did nothing, e.g., refused to look for Bruderschaft agents, he was screwed as well. “What the fuck am I supposed to do?!” Victor murmured to himself.
____________________________
Victor was in Salome’s apartment. She was laying on a fat, upholstered couch, and appeared to be sleeping. He went over to lay his jacket over her but she awoke.
“Yes, Victor?” she said.
“Oh nothing.” Victor answered. “I was just wondering how I would connect up with the Bruderschaft.”
“Well, you could try websites, the Ethernet, blogging…” she yawned.
“All already monitored, manufactured, or patrolled by the Thought Police of course.” Victor interjected testily.
“…check your family and friends, colleagues at work…”
“I am uncomfortable with that, at least as a first move” Victor answered.
“..well, that would leave getting in touch with strangers who are aligned with the Bruderschaft, but even if you were able to do so, it would take time to solidify a relationship with a stranger, especially if they are connected with the Bruderschaft.” concluded Salome.
“I need some direction.” replied Victor, an idea beginning to take shape in his mind.
“Direction?” asked Salome.
“Yes, I need someone to vet me and open doors for me.”
“Who do you have in mind?” asked Salome.
“That’s just it—I don’t know. He would have to be someone involved in dissident politics, someone people trust to go to for advice, an academic perhaps, an author…”
“A Sem?” asked Salome.
“Sure, why not? More than half the members of the Bruderschaft are probably Sem anyway.” answered Victor.
“Why not go see Noam?” she asked.
Victor suddenly had that ‘Eurika!’ look on his face now. “That’s it! I will see Noam! If nothing else it will buy me some time and, who knows, I may learn something!”
“What?!” Salome responded.
“I’ve read most all of his books, especially his tome, Fabricating Consent. I think I can trust him. He is a mensch, all right. A mensch! Why didn’t I think of this sooner?”
“Do you want me to go along?” Salome asked.
“No, I think it would be best if I spoke with him alone. He’ll be able to speak more candidly if it is just a personal conversation between him and me.” Victor reasoned.
“He usually speaks at the Kulturkampf Kafe downtown.” Salome helpfully volunteered.
“Right. The next time he speaks there, I’ll go see him.” His eyes darting back and forth in thoughtfulness.
“Come, sit beside me.” Salome coyly invited him. “’Yond Volk has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much: Such men are dangerous.’”
“You know Shake-speare as well!” Victor said gleefully as he sat down next to her. “When will the surprises end?”
“I like dangerous men.” she kissed him on the cheek.
“Les Liaisons dangereuses,” and Victor placed his hand between her thighs.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” She removed his hand, took out a handkerchief and said, “Here. Use this.” And smiled.
“What is it with you and handkerchiefs?” Victor asked.
“Call me your Iago--your ‘honest’ Iago.” Salome corrected herself.
Chapter 18
Victor got to the Kulturkampf Kafe just as Noam was finished speaking.
“Eretz Ysrael is an apartheid state, a Sem state, and as long as it remains a Sem state it will never function as a true democracy! Remember, the Devil does not trip you up with outright lies, but with half-truths!” Noam concluded.
Raucous applause filled the café.
“So far, so good.” Victor thought to himself as he waited for fawning fans to disperse. Victor got closer to Noam as the crowd lessened.
“We need more men like you to tell it like it is,” one devotee admonished.
“Yes, leave it to a Sem to have the balls to criticize Eretz Ysrael!” Ejaculated another.
“I would be called ‘anti-Sem’ if I had the guts to speak publicly like you. How do you do it? Aren’t you afraid?” gushed another.
Finally, the clapping and hooting done, Victor was able to approach Noam. “Hi, my name is Victor Volk, and I’ve read all—well, most—of your books.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Volk.” Noam kindly replied.
“I was wondering,” and here Victor spoke in a hushed voice, “I have some questions about the Bruderschaft,” and here Victor surreptitiously offered the Sign of Cohn, “Can you speak with me?”
Noam hesitated for a moment and then whispered, “Sure, I have a private table in back, but I’ve only got a few minutes.”
“That’s all I need.” Victor said thankfully.
Noam led Victor to a small alcove with a table and bench seating. They both sat down, and Victor drew the curtain across so no one could see them speak.
“I liked your speech, or at least what I heard of it…the last part.” Victor began.
“Yes, I guess a lot of people like to hear out loud what they are afraid to say in private,” Noam began, “but the feelings of anti-Semism are sometimes almost palpable. Still, the public needs to believe that someone out there is fighting for them—even if it is a Sem.”
“That’s sort of one reason I came to see you.” Victor began, “I’ve read your book, Fabricating Consent, and I was wondering if you agree with everything in the book?”
“Why not? I wrote it.” Noam replied quizzically.
“Well, in that book you argue that all we need to pay attention to are the formal economic relations of Media businesses in a capitalist society to understand Media bias. First of all, big corporations own the Media companies themselves that ‘inform’ the public and they pay substantial fees for advertising as well, so it is only natural that we have pro-capitalist, pro-big business, pro-Establishment agenda that is disseminated through the Media as news. In sum, because of the formal relations of wealth in our society pro-financial Establishment propaganda passes for news.” Victor expounded.
“In a nutshell, that is correct.” answered Noam.
“But what about material economic relations?” Victor interjected. “Your analysis only takes into consideration formal economic relations between corporations and by doing so it ignores and discounts the people who actually decide what is news--what their background is, their ethno-religious heritage, and their own parochial biases. For example, we both know that all three major networks, all three, were founded in the 1950s by Sems, and that today the majority of tv commentators and radio talk show hosts are Sems (even though Sems only make up about 2% of the population). Why isn’t that relevant in your analysis? Someone might even argue that Fabricating Consent is a tour de force to distract and misdirect the public away from the real, true power relations in Media and those relations are not formal but very personal indeed.” Victor asked.
“I thought you said you were Sem?” Noam replied testily.
“I am, but I am just wondering how far acceptable thinking goes.” Victor answered.
“Look, I stand by what I’ve written. Remember that old adage from ancient India. A young novice approached a wise man and asked upon what does the earth stand. The wise man replied, ‘The earth stands on the elephant that stands on a snake which stands on a turtle…’ When the novice asked on what does the turtle stand, he was told--wisely again I might add—‘Do not ask that.’”
“Is that your answer?” Victor asked.
“It is—now the question is, ‘Are you wise enough to heed it?’” Noam replied. “I thought you had some questions about the Bruderschaft?”
“Yes. I am doing some government research on the Bruderschaft, and I was wondering what you could tell me about them?” Victor inquired.
“Well, perhaps you could tell me what you know.” Noam retorted.
“I’ve read their Manifesto.” Answered Victor.
“And….” Noam began.
“He is trying to get me to talk first. To tell him what I know so he has the position of strength. Standard negotiating technique,” Victor thought to himself.
“I think there is some merit in their critique.” Victor said as he decided to play it close to the chest as well.
“Democracy is the final chapter in political development.” Noam asserted. I agree with Churchill, ‘democracy is the worst form of government, except for all the others…”
“…that have been tried.” Victor interjected.
“What?” Noam was caught off-guard.
“’Except for all the others that have been tried.’ That’s how his quote ends. Lotteryism has never been tried—well it has, in ancient Greece—but not since.”
“Look, I am the first to admit that democracy has its flaws, but what the Bruderschaft is proposing is the complete overthrow of North Atlantican society. Revolution. And from a practical point of view, I don’t see that happening—ever! The public would not accept that. It is too foreign. Too novel. Too strange. Too…revolutionary! We have to work through the existing forms of democratic governance and effect change from the bottom up. Grassroots change is what is needed and that is where we need to organize.” Noam stopped. “You disagree?”
“Look I am not one of your fawning sociology graduate students. That all sounds well and good in the abstract but, come on, we both know that democracy spawns, chews up, and spits out grass root movements like shit through a proctologist. ‘We have to work through the existing forms of democratic governance and effect change from the bottom up through grass roots organizing’, right!” Victor said sarcastically. “I wish that would fit that on a bumper sticker so I could put it on my car. Grass roots movements are simply a way to sidetrack and disperse dissident voices--get them to waste their efforts on time consuming and expensive organizing--so as to re-channel their efforts from potential real radical social change and instead get them to validate the system that enslaves them by working within it. Besides it gives the more idealistic of the masses a ‘feel-good’ experience and allows them to believe that they are doing something productive and worthwhile when they are just ‘dancing in the wings,’ so to speak. In fact, I would go so far as to say that, given our democratic system and how it really works, practically, that voting is not only bad—it’s immoral!!!”
“People have been prosecuted for treason on lesser ground.” Noam warned.
“Well, what does one do when the democratically elected government commits treason against its own citizenry? What court will hear that indictment? To whom does one bring that charge? To the government itself? Ha!” Victor was now flush and speaking freely, too freely.
“I think we need to end this conversation.” Noam interjected.
“Before we do, I need to ask you one more question: you have publicly argued that FJK was killed by a lone gunman and that since people die every day why should we pay any especial attention to the FJK assassination, and you have further argued that 11/9 is what it is—no conspiracy—just some crazy Arabs getting extremely lucky on a day when our defenses happened to be down. Why are you protecting the Sem establishment when we both know SUCCOCK has their semen all over FJK and 11/9? You bill yourself as the ‘honest’ Sem that Gens can turn to for the truth. You’re a hypocrite, a fuck’n Goldstein!”
“I don’t know you, good-bye.” And with that, Noam got up to leave.
“I’m not done.” Victor asserted.
“Au contraire, you are done. ‘A fool speaks his mind…’ Proverbs 29:11,” and Noam left.
The moment Noam left Victor immediately felt ashamed. He had said too much. Spoken his mind too freely. He assumed he was in like-minded company, but now he was afraid. “Damn it!” he said to himself, “I am going to pay dearly for this.” Feeling like he had ‘outed’ himself and like a confused child that clings lovingly to the angry parent that punishes him, he decided to seek the company of Salome for consolation.
Chapter 19
Victor decided to walk to the Victory Ghetto, apartment 69, via the back streets and alleys of St. Saul. He needed time to think. To ruminate on what he had just said. It didn’t go according to plan. He had intended to get helpful advice from Noam but instead he played the role of a prosecutor. “I am going to hear about this from Jacob,” Victor thought to himself. “God, what was I thinking?!”
Victor was ID’d at the gate to Victory Ghetto and he looked to see if he could sense any potential upcoming trouble from the guards, but they just waved him in.
When he got to Salome’s apartment, he hesitated outsider her door. It was late. Would she still be up, and did she even want to see him. He swallowed deeply, and knocked.
Immediately the door swung open and a happy faced Salome greeted him. “So how did it go? Did you get what you wanted?”
Victor entered and took off his hat and coat. “Well, that’s why came. I…I think I won’t be speaking with him again.” Victor confessed.
“It didn’t turn out well?” Salome asked.
“Let’s just say we won’t be sharing the Passover Seder this year.” And here Victor exhaled deeply.
“That bad. Huh?” Salome said empathetically.
“Yeah.” Victor conceded. “Why the fuck do I have such a big mouth. Why can’t I learn to keep things in?! It’ll be the death of me—the fuck’n death of me!” Victor cried.
“Here. Let me pour you a drink. Gin—as usual?” She asked.
“Yeah. Straight up.” Replied Victor.
“Two fingers?” Salome asked rhetorically. She poured him a tumblerful and Victor drank it down in one swallow.
“Can I have another?” He asked.
“Of course.” Salone replied.
Victor took the glass from Salome’s hand and they touched. Victor felt a spark of passion. He then held up the tumbler to the light and looked at the clear liquid that filled the glass. “Do you know the etymology of ‘gin’?” Victor asked, and he swallowed his second glass of spirits.
“’Gin’? No. A strong alcohol made with some kind of berry I assume.” She replied.
Victor ignored her. His head was full of facts. Fascinating, obscure facts, and he felt that, even when compared with most Sems, he more than held his own. “I don’t think I am made for police work.” Victor confessed. “I think I should go back to my desk job in Archives.”
“’In for a penny, in for a pound’” Salome rebutted. “I’ve never heard of anyone quitting the Thought Police, but—if you are really set on this—perhaps they will make an exception for you.”
“Ha! Right!” Victor thought to himself. “The Thought Police will just let me go. Like quitting a job that you don’t like: you just put in your notice and, puff, two weeks later you’re free.”
“Oh God! What have I done!” and he began to cry, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Vic., Vic., it will be alright! I’m your friend. Look, you can sleep here tonight if you wish. Mama will make it all right.” And here she took out a tissue and began to wipe his tear-swept face.
“I’m in over my head. I never wanted to catch anyone. That’s not me.” He paused for a moment to catch his breath. “I’m just so god-damn sick of the lies, the rules, the hypocrisy. It’s not normal. A natural man rebels. It’s human nature, god-damn it!!! Yes, it’s human nature!”
“It’s not just the lies, however, it’s the lies that masquerade as truth.” Victor continued. “How does that saying go, ‘Hypocrisy is the tribute vice pays to virtue.’ We are meant to be honest. To help each other—or at least not hurt each other. Why is something so easy made so difficult and complicated?”
“Why does the Devil use half-truths? Because outright lies would be transparent.” Salome added, then stopped.
“It’s funny, Noam said something like that tonight. Déjà vu!” Victor continued, “I want to get serious for a moment Salome, and then I will go to bed.” Here Victor began to remove his shoes. “Tell me: I know you are a Sem like myself, but do you really believe in all that crap about being a “Chosen People,” God’s favorites? If the story of Noah and the flood is true, and only Noah and his family survived, then aren’t we all Sems, including the Gens?”
“Victor, I am not a philosopher or theologian like yourself. I dance!” and with that she disappeared into the bathroom. “Get yourself ready for sleep!” Victor heard Salome’s muffled voice command from behind the door.
The alcohol was now taking its effect. Victor felt very tired, as though the world had been placed on his shoulders, and then removed. He needed some sleep—good sleep. He also needed to forget. He entered Salome’s bedroom, drew the blankets down, and undressed. “Is there, is there balm in Gelead” a voice in his head kept repeating, like a song one couldn’t quite remember but also couldn’t quite forget. He crawled into bed. Eventually, merciful sleep came upon him.
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As he lay there he thought he felt a tug at his groin. In that netherworld of sleep however he wasn’t quite sure what was happening—whether he was awake or dreaming. Finally, he felt a definite presence over his stomach. Salome was straddling him. Like some Egyptian snake charmer who conjured with her rhythmic body the body of another, he was magically erect and yet felt nothing but the tightness of his muscle. Slowly she began to rock back and forth, her rhythm picking up tempo as she ground her pussy into his groin. Back and forth, back and forth, up and down. He could hear her now. The “Ah, ah, ahing” with every thrust. Finally, as she was approaching climax, she removed a bandana from somewhere and knotted it around his throat. With a final heave she pumped her groin into his like a sheath swallowing a glistening broadsword, then gasped, and collapsed on his chest. “I’m dead.” She whispered. “Le petit mort.”
Suddenly, from behind the mirror on the wall came a commanding voice: “You’re dead! (a pause) You are the dead! You will remain where you are!,” and suddenly the lights came on. “You are now in the custody of the Thought Police! Do not attempt to resist!” The door opened and a half a dozen of gorilla shaped men in black commando garb entered. Victor raised himself, pushed Salome aside, and threw some blankets over her naked body. Immediately Victor heard the ‘whack’ of a truncheon and everything went dark once again.
Part Three
“You are under the [mistaken] impression that hatred is more exhausting than love. Why should it be?...
But always -- do not forget this, Winston -- always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a [Semish] [jack]boot stamping on a [Genish] human face -- for ever.” -- 1984, George Orwel
l.
Omnia vincit abomino
Chapter 20
When the two burly guards removed the bag from Victor Volk’s head he found himself in a glistening white room with a light bulb overhead, a faulty air conditioner working haltingly and occasionally blasted in a cold rush of chilled air. There was no apparent door. “So this must be the interior of the Ministry of Love,” Victor thought to himself. The room itself was pyramid in shape and it was impossible to stand upright in the suffocatingly claustrophobic room. One of the guards pressed a tile, words were said, a door opened, and the guards left. He was alone.
“This can’t be happening to me—Victor Volk—I am a Sem, a member of the Outer Temple, a double agent for the State. Sem does not kill Sem—that is a prime directive. This must be a dream. All a very very bad dream!” Victor rationalized to himself.
“Well, fuck them! Fuck them!,” Victor shouted. “Let them do what they want—I’m not talking!!! To think I spent my whole life in the service of the Tribe, and what do I have to show for it? Slander and abuse! I was set up. I’m a patsy! If I could put a bullet in their heads I would shoot the whole fuck’n collective lot! Damn them!!!”
Victor had only heard rumors of what was done inside the walls of the Ministry of Love. “Of course they would break me,” Victor thought to himself, “But how?” Crude tactics like water-boarding, electro-shocks to the genitalia, and the brutal whack of a truncheon across the jaw all seemed too crass for cracking an intellectual—and Victor, like it or not, was an intellectual. The root strategy and goal of torture was turning a subject into an object and then destroying the object or having the object destroy himself. “That works with Gens, but with intellectuals, it was different,” he told himself. “They will want information. Or at least what caused me to turn away from the lies, hypocrisy, and deceit that passed itself off as truth in this god-forsaken world.”
And then there was Room 101. Victor had heard about it only vaguely. Supposedly the Thought Police had a way of discovering your Achilles heal, your most vulnerable spot—the more you repressed it the more easily it was revealed--and exploit that and make you crack, turn you into a blubbering, confessing idiot. With some people it was a fear of spiders, so one’s head would be placed in a cage filled with sand spiders and they would slowly eat away the skin from one’s face, only to finish with one’s eyes. To others it was castration—especially effective on young women--with the result that one would never be able to have children. “What would it be for me?!” Victor thought to himself.
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It was impossible for Victor to sleep what with the constant illumination and the irregular shifting gears of the air conditioner motor. Not only that, it was impossible for Victor to stretch and fully extend his body. Victor stood about 6 feet tall but the room was about 5 feet across at the peak and 5 feet across at the base. He would kneel down and stretch his torso and then lie on his back and stretch his legs upward, but he still felt confined, limited.
Of course Victor soon lost all sense of time as well. He seemed to recall that he was arrested on a Wednesday (after partying the day before with Judith—or was it Salome—his memory was beginning to get all jumbled up), and that it was still very early spring, before the trees had budded or the muddy earth had been aerated, solidified, and ready for new life. Victor was in a constant state of both hunger and thirst. Occasionally, a guard would open a small, floor-level, seamless door and deposit a tumbler of water, some cold, tasteless gruel, and a medium-sized basin in which Victor was to relieve himself. When he was done he pushed the utensils to the door and, at some point, they all disappeared.
While Victor’s disbelief had passed to anger, even that was beginning to wane. The constant lighting, irregular motor noises, cold air, cramped quarters, and glistening white surroundings was beginning to play on Victor’s mind. At first he tried to meditate to avoid having his mind latch onto the annoying particulars of his cell and the dire situation he was in, but then he would notice himself mumbling and humming to himself and rocking back and forth. It was not a good sign.
Sleeping was a problem. He never felt as though he got a full “nights” rest. Involuntarily his body would want to stretch as he slept, but this would only result in his head bumping against one of the walls and waking him up. Not having a blanket also exacerbated his sleeplessness. Victor was constantly shivering, even when the air conditioner was not running. It was a hopeless situation. And yet time marched on. Had he been there for a week? Two weeks? A month? Did they forget about him? Did they place him in this cell just to have him rot? Maybe they weren’t even going to bother interrogating him, but just have him waste away, slowly, both physically and mentally, in a forgotten cell, in a prison warehouse, isolated, abandoned, and alone. Victor began to long for human contact—even the contact of an interrogator. He wanted to be acknowledged, and with that thought, a heavy sleep slowly engulfed him. His eyes shut, and—haltingly--he fell asleep once again.
________________________________________________________
He dreamed that he was back in Spain in the Middle Ages, in Seville, where the night before 1000 heretics were burned at the stake ad majorem civitas gloriam. On that breathless night in Seville a short, squat, aged man appeared in a red satin yarmulke, white waist sash, and flowing black robes, surrounded by the chiefs of state and the militia. He gave a sign to the cowering crowd that filled the square, and on cue they began to pile logs and brambles underneath the victims who were tied to the stakes. With a second sign from the high priest they began to rip pages from books--ancient, classical, heretical books--and lit them on fire. The heaving, massing crowd then placed the burning pages underneath the pyres, and fire began to envelop the victims. The odd thing was that while the men and women, the heretics, all soon went up in a tongue of fire, not a single word was heard from them—all the noise came from the eager-to-please, docile crowd with their shouts of vituperation and joy, and from the ruling ecclesiastical and secular authorities with their profane curses and invectives directed at the now dead or, soon to be dead, charred and unconscious victims.
Victor found himself next walking the backstreets of Seville. People began to touch his clothing and his person, and a small, growing crowd was assembling. Cries went up: the blind were beginning to see, and cripples were abandoning their braces. In a manner of speaking, it seemed as though the dead were coming back to life. The crowd was multiplying. Victor wanted to run, but he was jostled and surrounded by a now teeming mob. There was no place to go, no place to run. He wanted to get out of there. Now.
Suddenly, a man appeared: it was the high priest official who led the auto da fe the night before, along with some guards. With a sign the crowd parted, those in front kissed the prelate’s shoes, and Victor was escorted away. Everything was silent.
Victor found himself in a dungeon, alone. He waited. Then a click was heard, and the high priest entered. The door closed behind him. He was not in his magnificent robes from the night before, but was dressed in a common cassock. He removed his yarmulke.
“So you have returned?” the prelate asked, let his words sink in for a moment, then continued, “You don’t need to say anything—nor, I assume, will you.” Then, looking out the dungeon window, added, “Give them bread, allow them to sin, establish the perimeters of right and wrong, decide who will live and who will die, and take from them the burden of thinking, and they will give you the world, lay it at your feet, and beg—yes, beg—to be shackled in chains. They, in fact, will eagerly hand you the key to their chains.” He paused, “At my faintest gesture they will crucify you again.” He paused again, this time a little longer, “But I am not telling you anything you don’t already know.” Then, pointing to the door of the dungeon, the aged rabbi muttered, “Go!”
________________________________________________________
Suddenly Victor awoke. He was kneeling and rocking back and forth. Blood was on the sloping wall and spattered on the front of his shirt, just below his chest. He felt his forehead—more blood.
Abruptly, the door opened, and Jacob appeared with two guards. “What the hell!” Victor gasped. Jacob said nothing but placed his forefinger next to his lips and led him away in silence…
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Victor was led down a narrow hallway with glistening white walls while two guards held him up and dragged him by each of his shoulders. After several turns Victor felt as though he was in the very center of the building. Two large doors opened up, and what appeared to be an operating room loomed before him. The guards set him in a chair in the middle of the room, fastened some electrical monitoring cords to his head and his heart, strapped him down so he couldn’t move, and left.
Victor and Jacob were alone in the room.
After a few moments, Jacob spoke, “So you think you can save them…the sheeple? Perhaps a half century earlier this may—may--have been true, but we have long since set ourselves up as their Masters, as their ‘shepherds,’ if you will. You probably still believe in objective good and evil—that is your weakness—something you share with our sheeple. But even that can be cured.”
Jacob took out a cigarette and lit it. After a long inhale he slowly blew a puff towards Victor. Jacob continued, “You see, the sheeple have been raised in an ethos in which good is returned for “evil”—whatever that word means.” He took a second puff. “They simply do not have the mental category, the imagination, to conceive of the evil we have already done to them nor what we have in store for them. We hurt them and they either, through cognitive dissonance, discount or dismiss the evil that was done to them, or they believe that they in some way deserved to treated in such a fashion by us--that they deserved to be punished and hurt. The sheeple are our human cattle, our de facto slaves with no right to exist outside of our grudging willing acquiescence, and we will not rest until they are totally prostrate and underfoot. We are very stern fathers.”
“But you need the sheeple. They helped you defeat the Nasis.” Victor shot back. “They liberated our people from the camps. They saved us!!! How can you do this to them? Surely not all of them are bad, some of them are good! Why are you doing this? Why?!!!” Victor plaintively asked.
“Come now, Victor, you know the answer to that—or have I misjudged your intelligence?” replied Jacob. “The Shoahcaust never happened, or at least didn’t happen in the way it is commonly portrayed in our Media. The Nasis didn’t want the Shoahcaust—it was a tremendous drain on the Germanian war machine and war economy, searching for, arresting, transporting, housing, and guarding millions of anti-Nasi Sem dissidents—no, the Nazis didn’t want the Shoahcaust, but we—yes, we!--did!!! It was a brilliant False Flag operation committed by OrthoSems against AssimaSems to justify and popularize the founding of the Semish state of Ysrael. Itler fought Global War II in order to reclaim land and people that were taken from Germania after Global War I. We fought Itler to justify and claim land for ourselves in the Middle East. If a few score million Gens gave their lives for us to achieve our goal—‘I am willing to pay that price.’ Besides, Global War I am II were both immensely profitable and helped us to consolidate power. The Shoahcaust was our crowning achievement. Now no one dares criticize us. No one!!!”
Victor was troubled by some oddities to the Shoahcaust—the fact that he could never get the Shoahcaust Museum in Semrusalem to do the math and provide him with a simple arithmetical basis for the widely reported and believed (but in fact unsubstantiated) 6 million Sem dead, the fact that RDF in 1938 called for the Naïve Conference in France to relocate European Sems and then did absolutely nothing to ease Sem emigration from Nasi Germany (Sems which the Nasis were most eager to unload on other countries)--in truth just the opposite resulted from that conference with virtually all carefully selected invitees refusing to accept new Semish immigration--the fact that 400 Sem rabbis marched on the Blanco House in Washington DC in 1943 to bring attention to the Shoahcost only to have President DRF literally sneak away out the back door of Blanco House so he did not have to meet them, the fact that reportedly no one knew of the Shoahcaust during the war, only to discover after the war that millions upon millions of prisoners had been incarcerated by the Nasis after was over and the camps were liberated. It just didn’t make sense.
Jacob continued. “I see you thinking. Let me ask you this, because I don’t get to interrogate intellectuals very often, why is there a Ministry of Shoahcaust Propaganda? Here, let me put this another way, more simple and direct: if the Shoahcaust is true, then why do so many Sems feel the need to fabricate Shoahcaust documentation? The Diary of Anne Ernest is a fraud of course—written in ball point pen when ball points were not even invented (they were invented after the war), and then there was the lawsuit by the ghostwriter of The Diary of Anne Earnest, Meyer Levin, in NYC (in which the ghostwriter, Levin, won). Or take the Wannsee Protocal—everyone knows the phrase “The Final Solution” from the Protocal, but how many people know that it has absolutely nothing to do with exterminating European Semry but instead has to do with transporting Sems, alive, to the then Union Soviet? But you know about that. Or what about Jerzy Kosinski’s book, The Painted Budgie, a heart rendering account of the Shoahcaust only later discovered to be fabricated (Kosinski committed suicide as a result). The list could go on. Finally, there is the fact that after pouring over millions of pages of Nazi documents, not a single Sem scholar has found any link whatsoever between Adolf Itler and the Shoahcaust—reported claims of Nazis regularly employing the ‘Nuremburg Defense’ at trial their notwithstanding. One more aside, why is it that when a Sem or the nation of Eretz commits some great heinous crime against Gens, and is caught, the Media often segueways to a story on Shoahcaust survivors? Duh! The notion that history is interested in the Truth is something you also need to disabuse yourself of. All history is propaganda—pure and simple. It was in the past; it is now, and it will be in the future!!!”
“But even most Sems believe in the Shoahcaust—forget about history per se for the moment.” Victor interjected. “And what about the gas chambers—surely they existed!”
“Yes, of course they did,” Jacob continued, “but even here, there is some ambiguity. Were the gas chambers used for murdering millions of Sems or were they in fact used to disinfect newly arrived Sem prisoners and protect them from typhus? If the Nasis were so hell-bent on quickly murdering Sems, why would they take the time to shave the heads of all newly arrived internees unless they were trying to remove the lice that spread the typhus that ravaged the camps especially later in the war?!!! You see in the last year and a half of the war there was a famine in Nazi Germany, and who would be fed last in a famine—soldiers, civilians, or prisoners? Undernourished prisoners are much more likely to die of disease, right? You don’t have to answer that. And with respect to the gas chambers, even if you believe they were used to murder Sems, one could easily make the argument that the Nazis were trying to save as many Sems as possible, not kill them. Yes indeed. Triage! According to some dubious testimony, when Sems got off of the trains arriving at the camps they had to run across a field and those who were too old, sick, or enfeebled were immediately sent to the gas chambers. But even if you accept this questionable testimony as true (no one of the so-called ‘witnesses’ who saw this transpiring actually witnessed the gassing taking place), one could put a positive spin on it if one chose. You see the Nazi commanders did not necessarily want to kill prisoners out of some unspeakable anti-Sem bloodlust, but there was a shortage of food for the camps and the Nazi camp administrators were performing triage and determining who would likely survive the camps and who would not. Those who would likely survive in the midst of a famine got food—albeit meager—and those who would not likely survive were mercifully put to death. But of course we are not interested in a balanced account of history—especially with respect to the ‘hated’ Nasis—we are interested in furthering our goal of world domination and the Nasis perform the absolutely essential function of being our public “whipping boy,” the ‘dark’ angel to we—the ‘good’—angels. Imagine the most heinous and sadistic crime conceivable, and we ascribe it to the Nasis. We have been so successful in this ideological construct that now the sheeple do not even ask for proof. They simply assume that if something was done by a Nasi, it must therefore have been evil, and if it is absolute evil, it must have been done, or wished for, by a Nasi. Ignore, of course, that according to a published report (now suppressed of course) 95% of the Zyklon B used at the Nasi concentration camps was employed to disinfect newly arriving Sems to protect them—and the German soldiers guarding them—from an outbreak of typhus! It certainly was not mainly used to gas Sems to death!!! In fact, don’t you find it interesting that there is not a single scientific study confirming that the Nasis gassed 100s—let alone millions—of Sems in the gas chambers of Nasi-occupied Europe?!!! Even today, decades after the Shoahcoaust, we could exhume and demonstrate that Sem victims of the Nasis had lethal traces of Zyklon B in their lungs, but this is one study that will never be pursued. Why? Because the outcome would prove that what we have fed to our people as Truth was in fact a lie. The whole myth of the gassing of millions of Sems is just that—a fable. Of course you won’t hear this from any of our Shoahcaust scholars—they know the perimeters of what is permitted, ‘stop-think’ I believe you call it, but were our Shoahcaust scholars actually interested in a balanced and true account of history then these alternative accounts of the Shoahcaust are certainly logical, plausible, valid, and dare I say “true” interpretations as well—and ones that should certainly be entertained were we interested in the Truth, but we are not!” Jacob paused.
“And don’t forget that if the Allies really wanted to save the Sems—who they knew were dying in the camps—they could have invaded Festung Europa a year earlier and saved hundreds of thousands of Sems—in fact U.S. General Marshall called for that, but he was over-ruled by President RDF—besides, having Sems removed from German cities and put in concentration camps allowed us to carpet-bomb and slaughter hundreds of thousands of German women and children. That weakened the Nasi will to resist. And of course you need to look at this from the other side as well. We needed to stamp out Semish assimilation and anti-Sionism once and for all. We needed to have Sems—“Little Sems” we call them—suffer and die in the camps so as to decisively destroy the Semish anti-Sionist movement and prepare the ground for immigration to a new Sionist state in the Middle East where refugees from the Shoahcaust could find sanctuary. Global War II and the Shoahcaust was a win-win situation for us all the way around. We manufactured and demonized our arch-enemy, the Nasis, set them up as the apotheosis of evil, and simultaneously we set ourselves up as innocent, perpetual, and relentless victims of latent Gen hate while being the apotheosis of good and we got a neo-colonialist, racially pure, Semish nation-state out of it as well!!!
“Why are you telling me this?” Victor interjected.
“Why didn’t we bomb the camps?” Jacob continued unabated. “Because we knew exactly what the Nasis were doing and we approved! Yes, we approved!!! You see, even within Semism there are conspiracies. Conspiracies within conspiracies within conspiracies. Orders within orders within orders. Imperium in imperio. OrthoSems and AssimaSems. “Big Sems” and “Little Sems.” And sometimes—if it suits us or is to our advantage—the left hand does not know what the right hand is doing. The whole point of enabling, insuring, manufacturing, and inventing the Shoahcaust—i.e., making certain the Nasis were successful in holding and starving millions our people--was to get European Semry, “Little Sems,” so to speak, to follow the lead of “Big Sem” Sionists (most all of whom themselves, interestingly enough, chose not to emigrate) and emigrate to Eretz Ysrael. Eretz needed to be peopled, and the Shoahcaust provided the perfect pretext and catalyst to get ‘Little Sems’ to emigrate there. After Global War I anti-Semism was rife in the 1920s and 30s; gargantuan Semish war profiteering chaffed Gens, so we needed to manufacture and invent, to coin a phrase, “the crime to end all crimes,” the Shoahcost, in order to silence once and for all Gen criticism of the Sem community. If a few million Little Sems had to die in the process—well, we consider that “collateral damage.” After the Shoahcast, no longer was AssimaSem anti-Sionism a viable position to hold or express. Even better—today all Sems now are Sionists! That was certainly not true before Global War II. Let me repeat, all Sems are now Sionists, regardless where they happen to live. We are victorious on that count. You see,” Jacob said with a wry smile, ”even within the category of human beings—with respect to the Elect, the Sems—some, OrthoSem Sionists, are even more human than others (AssimaSems)!!!”
“You see, Victor, the Gens paid us their gold and in exchange we provided them with the means to slaughter each other in the millions. We financed both sides. Yes, we authored the deaths of millions upon millions of dead Gen solidiers and civilians, but what of that. They are not Sems. What do we care?! What did Rothschild admit: “I have made more money in one day of war than in a year of peace!!!” We, the Semish community, in particular, the “Big,” OrthoSems, needed a ‘Shoahcoust’ to silence—once and for all—the claim that we (forget about the “Little” AssimaSems) have not suffering in time of war. Not only that, we decided to employ our orchestrated slaughter of our own people to found a Semish Zionist state: Eritz Ysrael. Did it have to be in Palestine? Of course not, but we did have some specious religious claim to that land—the so-called “Promised Land” of our forefathers, and it did give us the territory we needed to have a political and economic sanctuary in times of trouble and having it there allows us to wear the cloak of it being a geographical religious sanctuary free from ubiquitous, hateful Gen discrimination.
Victor Volks mind was beginning to lose its bearings. He was in the midst of a nervous breakdown. It was an odd combination of racing thoughts combined with profound depression. All that he held as bedrock, Semish truths was collapsing, and the twilight of nihilism was unwillingly invading his mind. Victor was finding it impossible to maintain “Double-think”—the well-versed Semish practice of maintaining, as both true, two contradictory propositions in one’s mind. “So the Brudershaft Manifesto was true. The Shoahcaust is a fraud!” Victor muttered weakly.
“Of course it was true. With this bait of truth we tease from you your carping complaints.” Jacob, delirious, continued, “Look. The bottom line is that Nazis were amateurs. Itler and the Nasis believed that they were on a mission to save Gendom from inexorable slavery and butchery at the hands of Sems—and they were right! So we needed to demonize these self-proclaimed “saviours of the Gen race” and ascribe to them the embodiment, the epitome, of evil. We ascribed to the Nasis our agenda and goals—global conquest, a Master Race ideology, a genocidal mission—indoctrinated our Gens into believing this, and got hundreds of thousands of them to lay down their lives, Gens murdering Gens, to achieve our Semish goals. Now, with Global War II over half a century behind us we still loudly and incessantly beat the drumbeat of the Nasi s being the apotheosis of evil so as to instill the proper indoctrinated mindset in our vapid, thoughtless, minions. We have manufactured and created the moral vocabulary of North Atlantica to buttress and serve our interests. Even those who might wish to criticize us are reduced to using the very vocabulary, the superlative pejorative moral vocabulary, we ourselves have invented!!! By calling us—if they dare—a Itler, a Nasi, a fascist, or a racist, they are wittingly or unwittingly reinforcing the moral vocabulary we have foisted upon them. The crucial importance of demonizing the Nasis cannot be underestimated. It is vital that Gens do not recognize the real mission of the Nasis for that would completely undermine our decades old construction of the ideological moral ethos of North Atlantica. Hence, anything that even remotely can be associated with evil is ascribed to the Nasis and their anti-Sem agenda. It is all grand social engineering after all, isn’t it?—and we are damn good at it. The best!!!”
Moreover, like old-time, conventional strategists, the Nasis believed in invading and conquering a country from the outside. Uprooting Semdom via inter-nation warfare. Effective? Sometimes, but crude. We, instead, believe in eviscerating our opponents from the inside. Just as I am doing to you. Our method may be compared to an insidious and lethal cancer. We attack our host, and host nation, or—in your case—a host person, from within. Yes, I daresay the most ardent and uncritical believers in the Shoahcaust are our fellow Sems, and if they have a grossly and utterly biased account of the Shoahcaust, that is all the better! Some things are better not known. For us to maintain control and flourish, it is required that Truth be suppressed!!! How does that saying go?—‘a little knowledge is a terrible thing’? In this case, complete knowledge is counter-productive and creates doubt where unself-critical certitude is what is demanded even in our Semish minions. The Shoahcaust was unique, sui generis, we tell our Semish cadres, and they believe us. But try telling that to a Christian who survived the Holodomor—our genocidal Semish attempt at exterminating Gens from the Ukraine!” Jacob went on, “Stupid self-pitying pawns—that’s what our cadres, our Little Jews, are. We trumpet our sufferings and belittle the sufferings of others. But we were talking about religion.”
“Is this part of breaking me? Are you softening me up? What is this? It’s not true!!!” cried Victor, tears beginning to well up in his eyes.
“Immanuel Cant,” Jacob went on, ecstatically, “described religion as comprising three component parts: a belief in a universal God, a belief in freedom and morality, and a belief in immortality. Semism of course denies all three—our God is a parochial God, a God of the Sems alone. Our morality is a morality of double-standards—one for fellow Sems, and one, if you can call it that, towards the subhuman Gen sheeple. And of course we don’t believe in immortality at all—we believe in this world, period, full stop--not the next. Our God is not a God of love but a God of hate. We worship vengeance, not forgiveness. The more we can humiliate and debase our opponents, the more we want to, need to, thrill to. We desire absolute power and all the corruption it engenders. It feeds on itself like an unending, accelerating sadistic orgy.
“Why?!” Victor murmured, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Victor, you made the observation that, if the story of the Flood is true, then we are all Sems because only Sems survived the Flood, and all the Gens were drowned.” Jacob said.
“How did you know that?!” Victor asked, surprised.
“We make it our practice to know everything.” Jacob retorted. “And, in a sense, you are correct. But as you know, the Torah not only tells us what was, but what will be, and I choose to believe that Yahweh has enjoined us to ‘drown,’ to asphyxiate, the Gen race. Genocide, of course, is not new to Semdom; in fact it is enshrined in our Torah. The Canaanites, the Amonites, the Midianites—all were ordered exterminated by our God and His elite Semish representatives—it is in our holy book! We were up to the task back then, and we are up to the task now! The only difference was that back then we could only obliterate individual tribes. Now, we can obliterate whole races and nations if need be!!! We not longer deal in hundreds or thousands—now, with the help of modern technology and biotechnology we can exterminate billions!!!”
“But you could even take it a step further,” Jacob continued. “We claim that the land of Eretz is ours because it was promised to us in the Torah—the Bible, if you will. But if you are Christian and really believe in the New Testament, then the man-God, Jesus, formed a new covenant with the world that supersedes the covenant God had with us in the Old Testament. That was the point of the rending of the curtain in the Temple—God’s covenant with the Sems was now broken. But we have Christians so twisted around our little finger today that they have surrendered the Holy Land to us, and to us alone. Hell, we don’t even allow Christians to emigrate to, or become full citizens of, Eretz, and yet the stupid and cowed Christians acquiesce to being our second class, subhuman, contemptuously tolerated denizens. They are alright with that. They see us as their ‘brothers and sisters in faith’ when we see them as illegitimate and bastard Sem wanna-bees. The cretins! ”
“You see, our religion is a religion of victimization and hatred.” Jacob changed topics. “We tell ourselves (and the stupid Gens) that we have been the perpetual and unremitting victim of majoritarian Christian or Mohammadean society. We are innocent. They are guilty. We have taught ourselves to hate remorselessly. We do not celebrate the universal brotherhood of humankind, believe in forgiveness, the ultimate victory of good over evil, or the resurrection of a wrongly condemned and innocent man-god. Instead, with our Hanukkah we celebrate the deaths of assimilating Sems (at the hands of fellow Orthodox Sems, no less!) who would compromise and befriend Gens. At Passover we go through the pretense of commemorating our bondage in Egypt (forget for a moment that, historically, it never happened) and the concomitant deaths of myriad Egyptian Gen children. If 1000 Gen children have to die in order that one Sem may live well, we will pay that price… and more!!! No, from an objectivist perspective, the Sems are responsible for more evil than the Nazis ever performed. Ever!!! Ney, we are responsible for more evil than the Nazis could ever even have imagined, let alone have committed!!! But, then again, all this talk presumes you believe in good and evil, and we do not. We believe in ourselves. We are beyond good and evil! We are Sems. The Master Race. The Chosen People. And this world is our God’s gift to us and us alone! We, alone, are the stewards of nature and this includes stewardship over all the beasts of the fields—including Gens—our sub-human cattle. Gens butcher pigs, and we butcher the Gens who butcher the pigs. There is a certain circular poetry to that.
“Nation states with their stupid parochial nationalism are like animal farms, and we are the human beings that cultivate and render the human animals on those farms—be they North Atlantican, Hispanian, Germanian, Anglican, Russian…etc. In the hierarchical society we have created, we are at the top of the pyramid--the pinnacle, the apex—and nothing else matters. The New World Order is our Order. Dixi!”
Jacob was exhausted, paused for a moment, and then went on, “Tell me, Victor Volk, what is Truth?” And Jacob turned his back to Victor. “I will teach you. When I am done with you, if I say 2 + 2 = 3, you will affirm it, and honestly believe that 2 + 2 = 3 is correct. If I say that in a Euclidian universe the shortest distance between two points is an elliptical line, you will agree with me also. And finally if I tell you that you love Big Sam, your heart will well up in deepest joy and profoundest passion, and you will weep for the love Big Sam has for you. You will joyfully embrace what he requires of you….” (Victor did not like the turn the conversation was taking.)
“And what does Big Sam require of me?” Victor asked reluctantly, his tearful voice quivering.
“All in due course.” And with that, Jacob left.
Victor, his brain overwrought, closed his eyes and, try as he might to stop them, tears rained down his face. His mind was a shambles.
Chapter 21
“Phase Two,” Jacob said as he led Victor and the silent, attending guards down the white hallways. This time, Victor was taken back to the interrogation room what with its dials, and monitors, syringes, and electrical equipment, but instead of being placed in the chair and strapped down, the party halted before an adjoining annex: Room 101.
“So this is it.” Victor thought to himself. Crazy thoughts raced through his head: perhaps he should confess to everything now and be spared the humiliation of being broken, but then he would regain himself and come to think that he would be the exception—he would be the one the Thought Police would not be able to break, kill him if they must!!!
The door opened. It was a white, padded room, but without any kind of monitoring equipment at all. A padded chair with braces for the wrists and ankles stood in the middle of the room, and that was it. Victor was strapped to the chair, and once again the guards left, shutting the door behind them.
“You are thinking what is going to happen next? Yes?” Jacob whispered. “You think you are unique—that you will beat us. Sometimes I half-wish that were true. This has all become a bit boring, especially with idealistic intellectuals.”
“You want me to confess?” Victor asked shyly.
“Oh, that would be up to you. Of course it’s not required. You have already been found guilty. That’s a mere formality. And if you didn’t know much before coming here, you know too much now.” And here Jacob waived his hand to silence Victor’s plaintive rebuttal.
After a moment, Jacob continued, “And what have you heard about Room 101?”
“That it is where enemies of the state are broken and confess?” Victor replied.
“And how might we break you?” Jacob asked, and winked.
Victor said nothing.
“You see, Victor, every man, and woman, has their ‘price,’ so to speak, or their weakness. It may be money, it may be prestige, it may be a life of hedonistic pleasure, it may be the avoidance of pain, and it may be something quite different. You fall into this last category.” Jacob almost seemed bored with his observation.
“My diagnosis of your mental illness is that you are suffering from love—love for your fellow man. Something went terribly wrong and you have come to see sheeple as human beings—dare I say, as our potential equals. You would be willing to sacrifice all that Big Sam has given you—a beautiful apartment, a chauffer-driven limousine, money, the best in food and drink, freedom of movement (with some restrictions), top security clearance, an interesting job (given your tastes)—in short, everything an ordinary cultivated man could want, and yet you rebel. You are an idealist. You are willing to sacrifice everything in order to alleviate the general suffering of man. But just as love is your strength, it is also your weakness, your Achilles heal. The way to destroy a moral man is to employ his own morality against him.” Jacob concluded, paused, and then said, “Choose!”
Immediately the door swung open and in walked a clearly distraught and brutalized Salome accompanied by the two broad shouldered guards. They brought with them a plastic tarp, and spread it out on the floor in front of Victor. Salome was made to kneel down in the middle of the tarp. Her hands were tied behind her. She was sobbing.
“What!” Victor screamed.
“I love you, Victor.” Salome interjected between her sobs.
“Don’t!” Victor demanded.
Jacob removed a revolver from his holster, and pointed the barrel at Salome’s temple.
“I love you…” Salome whimpered.
Jacob cocked the trigger.
Victor’s mind raced. While he felt an abstract love for the downtrodden sheeple, he felt a personal love for Salome. He hadn’t loved a woman until he met her, and he couldn’t just let her die. “Kill me! Kill me!” Victor demanded. “Salome had nothing to do with anything. It was I who wanted to connect up with the Bruderschaft. It was I. She is innocent….Fuck the sheeple!!!...Fuck the Bruderschaft!!!...Kill me…please….” Victor’s voice trailed off as tears filled his eyes.
Jacob smiled at Victor, looked back towards Salome, aimed the revolver, pressed it against the side of her head, and released the firing pin. “Click.” And then silence. It was a silence that seemed to last forever. It was as though time stood still.
“Kill him.” Salome said, breaking the silence. Then she wiped her tears, smiled, got off her knees, slipped off her handcuffs, took out a white handkerchief and placed it over Victor’s face. Without further ado she left the room.
The guards collected the tarp and followed her out.
Silence, befuddlement, and then welling anger: “That fucking bitch! Kill her. Slit the cunt’s throat.” Victor tried to reach for Jacob’s revolver. “Give it to me!” he demanded. “I hate her!!! Let me go!!! Kill her!!! Let me wash my hands in her blood!!!”
As Victor continued to rant deliriously, Jacob withdrew a small leather bag from his waist pocked, unzipped it, removed a small syringe filled with a silvery liquid.
“Et tu, Victor?” and he injected the syringe into Victor’s neck. Darkness.
Chapter 22
When Victor awoke he was back in his apartment. A letter on the bed stand said that he had been granted a leave of absence from work. Next to the letter was a white handkerchief, neatly folded. He needed a drink.
The Renaissance Café was now where Victor spent all of his time. He often got there before 9 a.m. when it opened. Milling about outside he would smoke a cigarette and keep to himself.
A special table was set up for Victor at the side of the bar. One chair, his chair, was placed next to the table. He never ate much and had trouble sleeping. Curiously, he lost the ability to dream. He attributed all this to gin—Victory Gin.
Sheeple would occasionally enter the bar and order their Victory Beer and cocktails. Victor ignored them. He no longer felt the tug of compassion for their sorry lot. “The sheeple get exactly what they deserved,” was his new mantra. Social Darwinism was his new philosophy of life.
Victor often sat with two other broken and defeated men, Ford and Berglind. They never spoke to one another but simply drank their gin in silence. No one ever bothered them either. All they did was drink and wait, drink and wait. One day, Ford no longer appeared. A week later, Berglind was gone. And yet Victor Volk waited--for what, he did not know.
__________________________
And then the time came. Over the bar loudspeaker the radio was interrupted by an announcement: because of the threat of terrorism the ration of food staples and fuel would have to be reduced, but shoelaces and razorblades were still in strong supply. Then, in an aside, the radio announced that this coming Sunday, Easter Sunday morning, Day 2, the heretical Universalist Christian Priesthood would finally be burned at the stake in a gigantic auto da fe on the steps of the old Cathedral. The few nuns that still existed—mostly old women in their 80’s—would also be available for sexual violation as well; this would be as an “aperitif,” so to speak, a little something before the main course, before they, in turn, are torched as well. “Be sure to dress warmly,” the radio broadcaster admonished, “and bring your own popcorn and soda. Matches and kindling will be provided.”
Victor vaguely seemed to recall having some empathy for the condemned clerics, but it all quickly passed. “They got what they deserve. Fuck ‘em!,” he said to himself, and swallowed another shot of gin.
Chapter 23
Victor got up early, before dawn. He dimly saw crowds beginning to leave their Strategic Settlements and progress towards the cathedral. Some were laughing, while others, voyeurs and curiosity-seekers, were wiping the sleep out of their eyes in order to witness the novelty of groups of men dying before their very eyes.
He knew that the immolation would not take place until the red sky of dawn began to peek from the clouds. Symbolism was everything in North Atlantica.
Victor turned on the tv in his room. A news flash appeared. Apparently some terrorists, in a bold attack of arson, had torched a huge complex of grain elevators by the river. Not only would this result in the ration of food being further reduced for Gens, the news anchor continued, but Sems might have to reduce their caloric intake as well. A sheet was handed to the anchor, and he continued: “Due to the dastardly attack by terrorists on our food infrastructure, Big Sam is asking that brave, altruistic, and self-less souls assemble by the train depot for special transportation to camps in the nearby countryside. The national security of North Atlantica is in jeopardy! You will be doing yourself, your family, your community, and your country a service. Big Sam needs you now! Greater love than this hath no man…”
Victor knew immediately what he had to do. Throwing on his coat, and grapping his hat, he ran out the door. “Big Sam needs me!” Victor thought to himself. He arrived just as a tram approached to take him to the train depot. While the tram to the railroad yard was going in the opposite direction of the auto da fe, it too was filling up with patriotic husbands, wives, sons, and daughters.
The trip to the railroad yard was short, but he couldn’t get the smell of sheeple out of his nostrils. “Don’t they ever bathe,” he said to himself. In the corner a young man, drunk from the night before, urinated. Still, an air of eager anticipation filled the car, something one only gets when one feels one is sacrificing oneself for cause greater that oneself. Victor noticed that he was the only Sem on the tram.
When the tram arrived at the train depot, hundreds of people were milling about. Cattle cars from the countryside disgorged families at the train depot as well. Since Victor did not see anyone Semish with whom to talk, he continued to keep to himself. Finally, an announcement came. What looked like a fellow Sem stood up, bullhorn in hand, and addressed the crowd of Gens, “North Atlantica is in a dire situation. Food and fuel is in short supply, and there are some calls for Sems to give up their privileges!”
“No, no!” The crowd shouted back.
“The Sems are our saviors,” the man exclaimed as he continued. “They have protected us from invasion, defended us from terrorism, and secured the national security state. It is because of them that we have the North Atlantican way of life that we all now cherish! But how have we shown our gratitude to the Sems? Have we shed their tears, have we washed their feet, have we felt their pain, have we kissed their…(and he the microphone malfunctioned for a moment)? No, we want to bring them down to our level! Well I say we will have none of it! We owe them our lives and it is now time to pay up. Now you can leave and go home—turn your back on the Sems—but what kind of message will that send to your spouse, to your children, to your friends, to Big Sam? Or you can do the honorable thing and you can sacrifice your life for the greater glory of North Atlantica. Come, walk with me. You will die so they may live. Once and for all appease your personal guilt and the collective guilt of all Gendom for treating the Sems so abominably over the centuries. Remember the Shoahcaust, a sin for which we can never be forgiven—remember the Shoahcaust…”
“Look!” someone cried, and pointed to the eastern horizon. Miniature tongues of flames were beginning to light the rose colored sky off to the horizon.
“The priests are being immolated!” Someone else exclaimed.
Returning the focus back to the assembled crowd, the speaker interrupted, “Let our deaths expiate the sins of our fathers!!! Run with me to the gas chambers whose inviting mouth stands open, ready to receive us. Its jaws beckon! Do not think, re-act, and do what is right! Come with me. I am running…”
And the great mass of men, women and children began to heave towards the massive doors of the gas chambers.
“Don’t worry, there is room for everyone. Come…come. You are all saints and we love you for that…” Here, the speaker, stepped aside from the crowd and allowed it to pass by him. He wiped his brow and a wry smile could be seen on his lips.
Victor looked around him. Families in altruistic ecstasy were crying tears of joy as they raced to the gas chambers—parents pushing their children ahead of them so they would have the honor of asphyxiating first.
Victor began to run. He passed the speaker (who appeared now to be walking away from the gas chambers), and elbowed his way past a breathless Gen woman, hunched over with an infant in a carrier on her back.
Finally, he reached the door to the gas chamber and entered. Bodies were crammed together. From some corners there was singing, from others there was joyful prayer, from still others there was laughter. Everyone was happy. Tear of joy stained the faces of parents as their wide-eyed children looked up in wonderment not comprehending what was about to transpire.
“Me first! Me first!” someone cried, and then the chant was picked up by the packed crowd. Soon everyone in the chamber was shouting this chorus.
Finally, as the doors to the gas chamber closed and the lock clicked shut, Victor saw—once again—a neatly tiled white room but this time with glistening silver shower heads. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a neatly folded white handkerchief and tied it around his neck. He then played with the handkerchief so that his head appeared centered on a plate-like ruff. And as gas shot out of the spigot heads, Victor approached the gushing jet of mist. He pushed a small blond-headed boy out of the way. Then, with tears welling up in his eyes, Victor smiled and took a deep breath. Victor Volk loved B.S.
Epilogue
(“Someday, somehow” lyrics, by Nickelback.)
How the hell did we wind up like this
Why weren't we able
To see the signs that we missed
And try to turn the tables
I wish you'd unclench your fists
And unpack your suitcase
Lately there's been too much of this
Don’t think its too late
Nothin's wrong
just as long as
you know that someday I will
Someday, somehow
gonna make it alright but not right now
I know you're wondering when
(You're the only one who knows that)
Someday, somehow
gonna make it alright but not right now
I know you're wondering when
Well I hoped that since we're here anyway
We could end up saying
Things we've always needed to say
So we could end up singing
Now the story's played out like this
Just like a paperback novel
Lets rewrite an ending that fits
Instead of a hollywood horror
[Chorus]
[Solo]
How the hell did we wind up like this
Why weren't we able
To see the signs that we missed
And try to turn the tables
Now the story's played out like this
Just like a paperback novel
Lets rewrite an ending that fits
Instead of a hollywood horror
Nothin's wrong
just as long as
you know that someday I will
Someday, somehow
gonna make it alright but not right now
I know you're wondering when
(You're the only one who knows that)
Someday, somehow
gonna make it alright but not right now
I know you're wondering when
(You're the only one who knows that)
I know you're wondering when
(You're the only one who knows that)
