Angry Fiction? via the UK’s Truthseeker

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I Saw No Dead Bankers

By Mike James on January 4, 2011

By Mike James in Germany – January 4, 2011

When I awoke to a new day at the dawn of the year 2011 and gazed out of my window toward the coppice at the far end of a field, upon which the edifice of a building under construction was barely discernible under a frosty whiteness airbrushed by winter’s artistically icy hand, the strangest, most inexplicably surprising sight met my vacant expression of bewildered incomprehension.

Something was missing from the trees. The “missing” were not swinging gently, as they should have been, from the end of lovingly greased ropes in the breeze of the happier new year that the fiercely merry tax slaves had promised themselves.

I saw no dead bankers.

I gasped in disbelief, and then my heart fell in its despairing realisation that it had all been yet but a dream. An exquisitely beautiful dream. A pageant of glorious justice, all lit up by fireworks and sparklers and the bright and beaming smiles of ruddy-faced toddlers screaming with Yuletide joy as we tugged at the feet of Armani-suited criminals to ensure that all life had left their predatory limbs.

How we frolicked in the snow beneath the cadavers of the thieves and life-snatchers we had spontaneously arraigned in a whimsical fit of patriotic, national revolutionary high-spiritedness; and how we had laughed as they pleaded with us to leave their cocktail bars, their private parties, their cosy family gatherings.

At first, they had threatened us with the police. I shall never forget the look on the face of the infamous local property speculator, David Bronstein, when the tallest among us, Herr Becker, stepped forward and unsheathed his Sig-Sauer-P225 pistol.

“Herr Bronstein,” he had announced authoritatively. “I am the police.”

Bronstein chortled nervously and let slip the champagne glass he had been holding protectively against his chest and, if I remember correctly, two of his guests fainted in the spacious, marbled parlour room that had been graced with priceless renaissance treasures, which the parasite Bronstein had acquired following his hostile takeover and closure of the local food-processing factory that had once gainfully employed almost seven hundred men.

“I’ll take him,” said Jens, stepping forward.

Jens Reiner Hertling, a 56-year-old former line engineer whose wife had left him following the loss of his job and subsequent nervous breakdown, wore the look of a fellow haunted by five years of unemployment and his consignment to the paltry Grundsicherung, Germany’s “fuck off and die” hunger payment for those deemed surplus to requirement by the Zionist and financier-controlled Merkel government in Berlin.

“One moment, Herr Hertling. There are rules to which you must adhere,” said Becker. “Now, Herr Bronstein!”

Bronstein smartened and stiffened somewhat as the New Year’s Eve throng hushed itself to a respectful silence.

“Sergeant Becker, there must be some …..”

“David Bronstein, Managing Director of Kramer-Ingnatz-Pyramid Holdings, I arrest you in the name of the German People, a culturally distinct folk comprised of sovereign individuals to which such God-given Rights and Liberties accrue in accordance with Natural Law, and in the name of all Humanity, for economic crimes that manifest in the wholesale theft of property and monies from the Common Weal, resulting in the economic destabilization of small businesses and genuine free enterprise, the impoverishment and destitution of a large section of the local community, the destruction of the lives of human beings as evidenced in increased rates of malnutrition, depression, divorce, suicide, physical illness…..”

“But Sergeant …..”

“The People being sovereign not only in name but also in deed, I deliver you into their hands for judgment and any subsequent punishment commensurate to the aforementioned crimes.”

Katrina, a half-Irish girl with a pert, peculiarly upturned nose and an intriguing, suggestive smile behind which she concealed a certain unleashed femininity, tugged at my elbow and I heard a bustle at the window that overlooked the main street.

“They executed Ackermann!” she exclaimed, grinning.

“Josef Ackermann?” I whistled quizzically. “The Thief-in-Chief of Deutsche Bank?”

“A detachment of the army tried to grab him as he attempted a getaway in his private helicopter,” she continued, the intensity of her features coquettishly crimping into that of an awkward teenage lass. “But he failed to surrender. They shot him right between the eyes. The marksman was a deserter from the Afghanistan front.”

“They’ve arrested Angela Merkel too!” Briscoe, an Australian journalist on vacation, and purportedly with the Resistance, exclaimed. “Westerwelle committed suicide an hour ago. Anarchy in London, England. It‘s catching fire.”

I was suddenly beside myself with elation. Never in my wildest of imaginings did I believe that any of my local pamphleteering would make the slightest difference, yet I had persisted in the knowledge that others, unknown to me, and necessarily so, had also engaged in anti-federal, anti-Crown, anti-bankster activities, many resorting to assassination, to form an invincible Leaderless Resistance that had culminated in an unstoppable popular uprising.

The commotion below had excited my interest beyond the immediate and inevitable fate of Bronstein.

I hit the snow running, with Katrina, diminutive in her oversized red ski jacket, but yet ever so effortlessly nimble, leaping ahead of me like a Wagnerian sprite. There were no end of us: men, women and children of all ages, jogging shoulder-to-shoulder, some drunk, others intently and dispassionately sober, others quite clearly afraid, perhaps of themselves.

“Hamburg … we took Hamburg!” Katrina blustered. “But Munich’s under curfew.”

“How do you know?” I asked, almost out of breath. “I thought the Net was down.”

“No, it’s just very slow,” Briscoe rejoindered, close behind me. “They took down Vodaphone and the O2 networks though.”

“Who?” I demanded.

“Your buddies.”

“What do you mean, ‘My buddies’?”

“The Israelis, Zionists …. Call them what you want. You‘ve called them worse.”

I’d only known Briscoe for a few days. He’d arrived like loose flotsam on a windswept shore; and the undertow, I perceived, had a hold on him, forever teasing him back to ship. There was something in his voice that rang a distant line home.

The “shoreline”, though yonder by a great stretch of living waters, was mine. I had counted every pebble, every shell, every dimple in the sand. I’m a child of the sea. No matter how landlocked I am, and no matter how far removed from the British Isles, I can tell you straight by the thrust of my prominent Celtic nose from whence the wind doth tend and caress each wave that breaks upon the coasts that lie prostrate and malleable before the unfathomable designs of both the Irish and the North Seas.

Briscoe seemed to know a lot about me, for that was the assumptive tone in which he addressed me. He spoke on terms far too familiar for my liking.

I paused for breath by the Lutheran church at the top of the hill, and Briscoe sidled up to me with a knowing wink.

“Too many Sheilas, huh?”

“No,” I replied with some disdain. “Just one. And she’s English.”

“Just testing, Cobber,” Briscoe returned with a jocular grin.

“And you?” I asked, breaking code. “Do you dance with your lady by moonlight or in the mists of an autumnal morn?”

“I ….. er. I dance with her ….” Briscoe stuttered. “What the fucking hell, I’m drunk, mate. Forgotten, you know?”

I eyed him peevishly before waving off my doubts. “Too much excitement, Briscoe. I understand, pal. Einheit 26, Feldhausen-Nanchet-Elf. And you?”

Briscoe cheered quite immeasurably and, with his left hand, casually revealed the Glock ensconced in the holster beneath his Barbour jacket. “Struktur-Ostbach, A-92.”

I indicated my satisfaction with a broad chummy smile and gave him a hearty pat on the back. “Okay, you bastard of a roo-shagger, welcome to one almighty bugger of a revolution.”

“You … Englishman!”

An elderly man, almost toothless and with cane in hand, approached me tentatively, his face disfigured by hardship and hunger.

“Tell me, my friend,” he implored, his frail voice wracked by the urgency of the moment. “Shall we live in dignity once more? Shall we eat?”

I was unable to answer, but nonetheless took the old man in my arms and hugged him. I pulled away, yet he remained fastened upon me.

“My son killed himself,” he said in a whisper. “He couldn’t live on the Grundsicherung, Hartz IV. How can any human being feed himself and buy medicines on such peanuts? He needed painkillers, but the bastards raised the prices so that he had to choose between food or sleepless nights.”

“I’m still mainstream,” Briscoe said peremptorily, his cell-phone switched to interview mode. “I have to catch this.”

“I’m not a politician,” I told the wizened fellow, tears coursing down his cheeks. “I’m not a leader.”

I’d heard of many suicides since the treasonous Socialist-Green government, led by Gerhardt Schroeder, had slashed welfare payments to the unemployed, the elderly and the chronically ill just months before they spent two billion euros on fashioning new nuclear-powered Dolphin submarines for the state of Israel.

For years, those suicides had gone unreported, with only one national newspaper stating that the government had requested coroners to file the cause of death under such circumstances as the outcome, not of suicide, but of organic failure caused by such fatalities. Overdoses of lethal pharmaceuticals, handed out like free candy to the depressed and anxious, almost invariably led to kidney or respiratory failure. Subsequently, statistics had evidenced a dramatic increase in deaths by means of organic insufficiency since the introduction of the pro-Banking attacks on the poor and vulnerable.

“He didn’t take his own life,” I assured the old man. “They did. It was cold-blooded state murder. And now they shall pay for their crimes.”

“I got a Skype connection. This is going on the wire, Cobber,” Briscoe announced, his cell-phone close to my chin. “The American people equate revolution with communism. Are we seeing a socialist uprising this evening?”

I bristled.

“We’re neither Left nor Right, but for the People,” I snapped back. “The Left-Right paradigm is history. It was always a trick to con folks into believing in the scam of democracy: an illusion designed to create a false, wholly vacuous feel-good social atmosphere within which the usurious, debt-based fractional reserve banking system and its parasitic lobbies would hold sway over government.”

“So who’s leading the revolution?” Briscoe enquired officiously.

“The People,” I replied. “Only they have the right to lead themselves.”

“Seriously?” Briscoe returned. “Don’t people need leaders, political parties?”

“No!” I shot back. “Only children require psychopaths, for that is what all politicians are by nature, to lead them, and inevitably betray them.”

“So what are you? A libertarian?”

“Don’t label me. Call me a National Libertarian if you will, but remember that I am more than the composite aspects of my Weltanschauung,” I replied. “In the spirit of the American Revolution, now betrayed by the Zionists and the Wall Street money men who subverted the leadership of the Tea Party, I’m an egalitarian to the core, and one who believes that social justice is best achieved by means of minimum central government mandated only to regulate monopolies and mint a national currency backed by a resource-based economy.”

“You’re English,” Briscoe continued. “London, Birmingham and Manchester are in flames. The BNP and EDL are attacking Muslims.”

“Then they’re only doing what their Zionist overlords and the Parasitic Elites desire,” I replied angrily.

“You mean Miliband’s ‘Jew Labour’?”

“It’s a cornerstone of the anti-English Fifth Column, no doubt about it. But I’m specifically referring to the treasonous British Crown, a constitutionally illegal system of unitary government established to serve only the interests of the financial mafia state, the City of London. Under Admiralty Law, the United States remains a colony, not of the British people, but of the City of London.”

“May I quote you, using your name?”

“You may quote me. But names are for gravestones, buddy. I’m a Lone Wolf. You heard me howl.”

The sound of gunshot ahead of us punched holes through whatever it was Briscoe said next.

“I thought they were hanging them,” the old man wheezed. “In an orderly fashion.”

We made haste in the direction of the coppice close to the train station and the omnipresent Katrina was back at my side.

“I heard that Bronstein and four lawyers made a dash for it. Becker shot two of them,” she panted excitedly.

“A class action,” Briscoe quipped.

“It wouldn’t have hurt,” I retorted. “Lawyers feel no pain.”

We took a short-cut along an embankment that ran close to a gated community. Outside a small electronics store, a group of revellers had established an impromptu barbecue grill and my nostrils filled with the aroma of succulent Bratwurst. Across the way, the limp form of a de-trousered man hung from a lamppost at the end of a makeshift rope.

“Michael Klein,” Katrina told me. “Nice guy, but a speculator. Screwed thousands by betting against the district pension scheme and then shorting in some kind of weird insider trading scam.”

“Good,” I murmured.

“But the communists, not the army, are claiming Berlin.”

“The Resistance will cut a deal,” I assured her. “Berlin has always been different. If not, they’re listed. Every potential traitor has a profile neatly captured within the infrared imaging of an assault rifle. They would do well to bear that in mind.”

“We all kept lists,” interjected the old man. Much to my astonishment, the old codger had somehow managed to keep apace. “Everyone keeps lists.”

I was delighted to hear that ordinary folks had heeded Rule No. 1, which states that, barring an inability to participate in any form of Lone Wolf activity, it was incumbent upon all resistors to list as many local politicians, bankers, speculators, establishment lawyers and corporate lobbyists as possible. Rule No. 2 was tougher to fulfill, but eminently doable with some creative thinking and a few pals in the right place: Keep a gun, preferably at least a six-shooter, and learn how to use it expeditiously prior to pulling that list out of your top drawer the moment the shit hits the fan.

I asked Katrina to put some extra mustard on my Bratwurst and gestured to Briscoe.

“We’ve got to talk,” I told him.

I took Briscoe to one side at the apex of the high street that ended sacrificially upon the cross-roads to a magnificent vista of the Taunus mountain range, and he instinctively reached for a cigarette. Katrina, now lost as a pixel of red within an expressionist array of revolutionary fervour, turned to me and waved. When she disappeared from sight, I faced Briscoe and made as if to study the inquisitive glint in his eye.

Then I punched him hard directly and with full lethal force in the throat. That’s all I knew. An old tramp, a one-time prison bird I’d once met in Scotland during a time when I hitchhiked the length and breadth of my native country at an age most youngsters would want to forget, and who had afforded me his last dry cracker before I ventured upon the eighty miles that would take me home, alone and angry, defeated by nature and the need to eat, once told me that a punch to the pharynx was a last resort.

“Aye, ’til kill, laddie.”

Briscoe went down gagging, his arms flailing, making swirly-birds in the snow. I yanked the Glock from his inside holster and pressed the nozzle close up against the nape of his neck.

He was still for a while, not choking. I rolled over his prostate form and onto my side, facing him squarely. He had blue-green Manchester eyes. I read the signposts in his reddened canthi.

“Why?” I asked him. “MI6?”

I knew that he wished, if only he could, to tell me one last Mancunian joke. I gripped him gently by the shoulder and said, “I know, mate. I’m telepathic. It was a good one, but I heard it before.”

Then he mumbled something. Perhaps he was attempting an apology for the fact that he had incorrectly named a semi-autonomous unit, which was, in any case, a well-known ‘honey pot’ created by the intelligence services working under the auspices of NATO.

And then he died.

I trudged back through the snow with my head hung low, hardly aware of the crowds pushing their way toward the coppice. It was the first time I’d killed anyone, and it had been a fellow Englishman, a northerner: my brother of sorts.

“Cameron’s under house arrest at Chequers,” Katrina managed to say while chomping on a hot dog, the ketchup adding colour to her lips.

“You’re suddenly looking quite erotic, Kat.”

“Fuck off.”

“And?”

“Well,” she continued, wiping ketchup from her jeans with a serviette, “some of your army people, the Lancashire Fusiliers, I think, occupied Westminster and ….”

“Uh, huh?”

“God, I hate ketchup. I asked for mayonnaise.”

“Well spit it out!”

“Some guy on the Beeb, Asian looking, said England may secede from the United Kingdom and Billy Windsor is in exile in Sydney. So you get your republic, no?”

“Well, I ….”

“And they lynched the war criminal Tony Blair in Chelsea. Cut his throat and turned him to pulp with baseball bats.”

“You’re giving me a stiffy, Kat,” I mused, feeling for the Glock I had removed from Briscoe’s holster.

“Where you going?” Katrina asked. “Don’t you want your Bratwurst?”

“I’ve got business to settle,” I replied, already at a brisk pace toward the railway tracks. “I think I know where Bronstein may be nesting.”

I put my face hard against the chill of the northerly breeze and stamped virgin snow along an alley that sidled, unmarked on the map, close to an industrial estate that had seen its best days some twenty years ago, long before the successively vicious spates of offshoring. I caught a glimpse of the tooling factory that had ‘gone China’ and wondered how it was that the German people had accepted, without question, the government’s official statistics that had downwardly and cynically revised the unemployment figure from almost ten million to just two million jobless human beings. I was working on a hunch and hoped I could reach my destination before temperatures dropped to minus fifteen Celsius.

I clambered over the shoddy fencing on the south side of the railway tracks that took weary commuters to Frankfurt and allowed myself to descend effortlessly, ass-wards, down the embankment before striking out toward the temporary maintenance shed that lay close to the gulley adjoining the forest.

I hate hunches because I’m compelled to follow them. They’ve gotten me into no end of trouble because they invariably prove to be correct, and they always buddy-up with a huge neon sign that descends from the sky, emblazoned with an amber arrow, above which flashing red lettering reads: Act On It, Asshole!

I surprised myself by reaching the shed in less than ten minutes or so. The cold had numbed all of my extremities and I was half-hoping that Bronstein would make a no-show, but yet I removed my gloves and let loose one NATO-issue full metal-jacket round into the lattice framework, which shattered like crispbread under a hammer blow.

“Bronstein,” I yelled. “You’re surrounded. Surrender and you have a chance!”

My words hung in the air, frozen in time stood still. I spied no foot-tracks either to the left or right of the shed and I began to think of Katrina and the way she had sensually taken that Bratwurst into her mouth like an insatiably hungry gannet.

Then a figure, clad in black, phantom-like, scrambled from the shed and took the sharp, unforgiving incline of the northern embankment. I let loose another round, intended to miss, and the man crumpled and slid back, prostrate and half-hidden into a snowdrift piled high beyond the outer track. He let out a yelp, like an injured dog, and began to whimper.

I was fast upon him and saw before me a man torn and exhausted, his sullen, glassy eyes bespeaking resignation.

“Where are your friends?” I demanded.

“Gone,” he said promptly.

I believed him. He had no reason to lie. He wanted it over.

“You were meant to hang, you bastard,” I said.

“Do it.”

I kept my distance: just one metre. I raised the pistol and pointed it directly at his forehead. Bronstein closed his eyes and said something in a language I didn’t understand.

“You do realise why you must die?” I asked him. “You do realise that I have to tell you before I pull the trigger, and you do know that you must understand why this is not murder, but a morally correct and legitimately-mandated judicial execution?”

Bronstein fixed my gaze in a way that reminded me of a friend’s puppy dog that had to be put down on account of severe adrenal insufficiency.

“The world turns,” he said gently.

“The world you fucked,” I said. “The world you and your friends in the City and on Wall Street robbed a trillion times over for shits and giggles. The world you and your kind raped while her husband was stripped of his manhood and her children went to bed hungry, you fucking bastard.”

“I did not know,” Bronstein returned. “These things my broker deals with.”

“Your broker?”

“Yes, the one your people hung outside my home.”

“Have you no remorse for the deaths, the poverty and the sheer human misery you have caused by manipulating virtual money for personal gain you and your kindred created out of thin air?”

“I had responsibilities to my shareholders, my clients and my family. I am sorry if my discharge of those responsibilities meant loss to others.”

My finger tightened on the trigger.

“That’s a politician’s answer.”

“No,” Bronstein said calmly. “A politician would have feigned tears and he would have spoken about his humble background and spun a lie about the tragic loss of his father in a war or some misadventure in rescuing a stray cat from a tree.”

I leaned back into the freezing shroud that had enveloped my person and felt the bitter tang of winter’s strangely salted breeze against the back of my throat with each shallow breath of air.

“You hate me because I’m a Jew,” Bronstein tried.

“No,” I replied, now weary and growing ever more fatigued. “I dislike you intensely because you are a thief whose activities were acceptable in the eyes of the corporate-fascist state. I despise you for having robbed us not only of our livelihoods, but also our culture.”

“What culture?”

“I’m talking of the values that were perverted and subverted by you and those who represent your collective mindset. I’m talking of the times, now lost to us, when men were able to earn enough sufficient unto the needs of their wives and children, without the inflationary taxes attendant to the fiat money system that eventually drove women to work so that their children may eat.”

“To some extent,” Bronstein sighed, “we were culpable. But look not to us, but to your own naivety in trusting your leaders, many of whom were reared in the ways of the Roman Catholic System, whose empire never died and which spawned a multitude of culture change agencies.”

Bronstein had unnerved me and I wanted done. The son of a bitch was talking my language, and yet the mimic had touched something deep down inside of me. He was a trickster for sure.

“So go ahead and pull the trigger,” he said. “But first, ask yourself this question: Which informing principle commands me to do so, and does that principle accord to what I believe to be objective truth?”

Bronstein had me stumped. They use philosophy and ‘ethics’ against us, just as their traumatically circumcisional psychiatry had imprisoned millions of my people within the straight-jacketed confines of their own minds. I wasn’t having it.

“You’re going to pull the trigger because you’ve learned nothing.”

“I’m very cold, Bronstein, and just wish to go home,” I said in near exasperation. “I don’t need to hear your lame psychopathic excuses, nor do I buy your Jewish victim yarn. If you were German, American or English, the gun I hold in my hand would still be pointing in your direction. You lied and people died.”

“The entire world within which you live is a lie,” Bronstein countered.

“As if I didn’t know.”

“As if you didn’t know better as to who created and disseminated those lies.”

“I have a fairly good idea,” I said. “Bronstein, I’m not a kid. You really think I’ve spent my entire life asleep at the wheel?”

“No,” he retorted, a certain professorial yet almost unspoken calm penetrating his voice. “The car you’ve been driving has integrity as its driving engine and you more or less drove it in the right direction. Then someone, perhaps a misinformed stranger, advised you to take a short cut, and you ended up in a place you believe to be home, but which is, in fact, a million miles removed from what you know to be where your heart belongs.”

“Tell me about it,” I demanded, now growing somewhat uncertain as to what course of action I should take.

“I am, as you assert within your own frame of reference, a thief,” Bronstein admitted coolly. “But you, in your stupidity, allowed men and women such as myself to manipulate the money markets, not at the behest of your so-called democratically elected leaders, whom we have always owned, but on account of a financial system which your Vatican forefathers established in order to control the world by means of usury.”

“The European Union,” Bronstein continued, “is, as you have stated in one of your pamphlets, a Soviet project, but one which is premised upon Charlemagne’s Vatican strategy of furtively exploiting the financial genius of diaspora Jews to secure the long-term objectives of a New World Order. They failed, but never gave up. They always found new stooges to replace their proxies.”

“You’re lying, Bronstein,” I said, my finger on the trigger numbing more rapidly than my ability to engage in discourse.

“Dead men don’t lie,” he snapped back. “The world believes the lie that six million so-called Jews died in ecologically-friendly gas chambers, although no official figures can account for the deaths of more than around 174,000 who expired by means of starvation and disease, but will not, cannot, ever comprehend the truth of the holocaust of over 62 million human beings slaughtered by the Vatican in its reign of terror because you hold that institution to be the civilising bastion of all western progress, which was, in all respects, absolute regression, representing the greatest singular handicap to the intellectual development of European Man.”

“Listen to me, Bronstein …”

“No, listen to me, you arrogant fool,” Bronstein snarled, his tone that of a man unafraid of death. “You have already appointed yourself my judge, jury and executioner, yet I have the right to tell you what I think, as a man, before you blow my brains out. I have the right to tell you that you Europeans were gullible enough to swallow wholesale the lies of an imperial entity that never died and which has debauched your thinking, by design, for centuries. An institution that invested over eight hundred years worth of sequestered gold into private bank accounts ostensibly managed by Jews and used to leverage political chaos in nation states that refused to follow central directives.”

I never wanted this. I’m not a born killer. I despise guns. I thought I should throw this piece of crap into the snow, pray to God, and let him decide who’s right by means of the outcome of an ordinary fist-fight: yet Bronstein was smaller than I, and, under no circumstances may any man take on another weaker than he. I had grown cold and hungry and I knew that Bronstein was hungry too. I fell back deep inside of myself and longed to taste the crumpets my grandmother had allowed me, as a toddler, to warm over a coal fire, fascinated by the way in which Irish butter disappeared much more quickly into medium-warm muffins than those burnt almost to a cinder.

“I ask only that you and your people do not harm my wife and children,” Bronstein continued.

“It’s not an issue,” I managed. “This isn’t France. We’re not animals.”

Bronstein chortled, at first quite imperceptibly, and then with a degree of abandon. “God could not have sent me such a delightful executioner.”

“You have no god,” I replied, angry, yet drained of emotion, my words imploding within the outward thrust of their enunciation.

“We share the same divinity,” Bronstein whispered, his voice trailing in the bluster of a new flurry of snow.

“We share nothing.”

“We share everything, as ordained,” scolded Bronstein. “For you, in your anger and your ignorance, denied the one living voice that spoke to you on the day you were born; evenly, long before you came into this world.”

“I wish to hear nothing of your Semitic God, Bronstein,” I bristled, at last finding it within myself to close the exchange, deliver justice and return to the warmth of Katty and perhaps the promise of intimacy and a fried breakfast.

“He was neither a Semite nor a Greek. He was, and remains, the very same Creator who resides deep within your innermost: talking to you silently in the shallow edges of your dimensional being and within the deepest recesses of your ueber-dimensional heart.”

“You speak of Jesus,” I responded in irritation. “And you do so hoping to soften my rage, tricking me into sparing your life because, after all, I’m just another gullible Goy, putty in your hands, though, truth be told, I despise you not for what you believe or disbelieve, but for the given that you have participated in the economic genocide of millions of men and women.”

“If I hadn’t done what I did, had I not been who I am,” Bronstein sighed, his voice that of a man whose fatigue spoke abjectly of a fate more welcoming than death itself, “you and I would not be having this conversation. And you would never have heard me say that he who gave meaning to all things was known by your kind thousands of years before his deeds were recorded in a book compiled by the agencies of imperial Rome, which forces, as I stated, are very much with us today, shaping our lives, turning one against the other, the one part against the whole and the whole against the one part.”

“I’m tired, Bronstein,” I let out, unsure, confused, deeply vexed. “I wish to hear nothing of your sophistry, your anti-Catholicism.”

“Nothing and nobody despises Catholics more than the Vatican. Ask yourself why they will never throw open the gates to their vast collection of confiscated literature that predates even the dawn of Celtic civilization. Ask yourself where all that money, stolen from the people for almost a millennium and more, went, and then look into my eyes and tell me that all of it was spent on providing relief for the afflicted, helping the light to overcome the darkness that stole even the shadows from those who wrote the truth by candle-light, and yet were murdered for their courage.”

“Where will you go?” I asked, the Glock falling to rest upon my lap.

“I have friends beyond the forest.”

“You won’t survive the cold,” I told him with certainty.

“Not without your coat,” Bronstein observed matter-of-factly.

The cold had penetrated me so deeply, I could no longer think of anything but the warmth of a love emanating from a flame deep inside, a flame kindled by the same spark that had always fired my tortured, broken heart. I wanted to go home, but was unsure as to whether or not I had ever known a place called home.

“I’ll freeze,” I said.

“I know,” Bronstein said. “But you’ll live.”

I removed my jacket and, raising him to his feet, I drew upon Bronstein the full outline and weight of a garment lined and waxed against the elements. His hands, chilled, blue, and dead of nerve, felt awkwardly for the reach of the sleeves.

“My gloves,” I told him quickly, now anxious to extricate myself from the presence of death. “Go!”

Bronstein, now at full height, cut a drab figure against the backdrop of ice that filled the ether and he stumbled. I held out my hand and grabbed him, steadying his gait. I handed him the Glock.

“You’ll need this,” I said.

Bronstein took the pistol gingerly into his right hand and examined it sullenly like a child who had drawn a losing ticket in the raffle of life. Then he hurled it into the snow.

“Now you must really learn to fight,” he said, chokingly, his voice cutting quick into the stillness and the dark. “And I fear they will take your life, for those who loved you will hate you with a vengeance.”

“Go!” I repeated.

Bronstein climbed the embankment, enfeebled, the form of his being fading to a blurred and forlorn blotch of grey within the silent fury of the maelstrom. He stood aloft at the rails and I think I saw him turn to me and wave, but my eyes were dimly lit.

http://www.thetruthseeker.co.uk/?p=17222
Michael James, an English republican patriot, is a blacklisted former freelance journalist resident in Zionist-occupied Germany since 1992 with additional long-haul stays in East Africa, Poland and Switzerland. He advocates a Leaderless Resistance to destroy the Soviet European Union and prays for a free and independent England, shorn of all alliances with the EU, UK, NATO, the UN, WTO, IMF, Israel and any other treacherous international cabal or entity.

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