“Well, your book is full of crap,” Shirley said, “because Helen is more of a lady than anyone in this entire city, and I say so.”
“Just one problem,” he said.
“What's that?”
“You're wearing handcuffs.”
“So?”
“So, you ain't no lady, honey.”
“Yes, I am. I'm a lady.”
“No. It don't work that way, honey. Take my word for it.”
“You are bad,” Helen said.
“Listen, honey. Work with me. We'll all come out all right, honey.”
“Maybe I don't want to work with me.”
“I don't believe that. I believe you are a good, gracious lady.”
She laughed at him.
“That's right,” he said. “Work with me. See how much easier that is.”
He led them down the hall and up the stairs to a large corridor with old time wooden legal couches and chairs where the court's doors opened to a legal sanctuary resembling a church, decked out with a corrupted judge, a pistol strapped bailiff, and an interior that once again was staged so that it falsely mimicked a church interior complete with pews, an altar where the judge sat, and ornately carved wooden fences about two feet high to show the people on the other side that they weren't quite as good as the judge and his evil retinue, because he could sit with them behind these little fences and the people on the other side needed permission just to open the little wooden gate and enter the divine area where justice was dealt out like a bad card game.
“I hate these fuckers,” Bob said.
“Who? The judges or the cops?” Ron asked him.
“There's any difference?” Bob asked.
Ron laughed. “None at all.”
So they sat in the pews like little wayward dweebs at the bidding of the cop who had man handled them all the way to the court house.
“We are nothing but trash to the system,” Bob said under his breath so no one could hear him but his fellow activists. “We just exist for them to have someone to beat on.”
The bailiff and the judge got up and disappeared through the back door. After a few moments during which the room had settled into absolute quiet, the bailiff reopened it, looked about the room with a glare of hideous suspicion in his eyes, and walked slowly to his perch.
The door then opened slowly, and the Bailiff stood and shouted, “The honorable William B. Nash, Presiding Judge of the Circuit Court! All stand and rise for the Judge!”
What bullshit.
Up they rose like robots, unwilling to get their heads beat over something so stupid as pissing off the stupid fucking judge.
You had to know what you could get by with.
Standing was all you got by with, so shut the hell up and stand.
Inside, Bob was thinking how nice this particular court house would look at ground level, dust flying up into the air, the smell of burnt judge and bailiff. He could smell their burning flesh in his mind. In his dream, he saw their burnt hair rising high above the street outside, once a huge bomb went off and took it from what it was now into the martyrdom that it might soon become, all cracked plaster, brains, bones, bricks, skulls, burnt organs, and shattered concrete walls, all resting slightly above the soil, all smoking and burning to high heaven, smelling of exploded thermite and nitrates.
If things got really ballsy and hot, it would start to happen.
I'm starting it, assholes...
Because paybacks, honey, are a bitch.
You think things are under control, but they aren't. Not necessarily.
In fact, a lot of times, you might think it's okay, but if you are putting people in jail and fining them, then it isn't ever going to be okay ever again.
At least, not after the shit hits the fan.
You can find out a lot about things right after everyone is pissed off enough to lead the first charge into the court room, drag the judge off his stool, and stomp his head into the ground until it opens like a perfectly cracked egg, so beautiful and all, and his brain-yoke spills across the wooden planks in strands.
Of course, that wouldn't be right, but then, this wouldn't ever be right either, would it?
No. It wouldn't be right. Never-ever. No, it wouldn't be right.
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Chapter Three
Homeland Security's Kiss of Death
The FBI building was gone. It was not a bad thing. Lots of loose ends were severed at once. This was good for security in the next phase of the coming conflagration that the FBI and Homeland Security Agency planned for the world at large. Agent Ronald Henderson had gotten a telephone call from the regional headquarters telling him to wait and be ready for a new assignment.
He looked out over Madison Lake. The ice cold waters were dancing about in the slight breeze.
“I guess it's time,” Ronald said to himself. Besides, the die was already cast and billions of people were about to die all because of what he did. Ronald Henderson had lived in Madison, Wisconsin, the home of the Badgers, all his life. He had joined the FBI several years before and was assigned to Homeland Security. He had spent his youthful winters, springs, summers, and falls next to Madison Lake. It was like ice water most of the time, but Ronald was still man enough to swim in it. On January 1st he jumped into the lake through an ice hole that his father and grandfather hacked open with their tools. This was a family tradition. He would jump from the dock into the icy waters. The bubbles would swim upward past his face, bubbles that came from breaking the icy cold water as he jumped. The faster he fell, the more air was tucked down under the water's surface, and the deeper he allowed himself to sink, the more the bubbles would trail down with him swirling like underwater tornadoes. Somewhere along the way there was an end-point where he would be so deep he'd never get back to the surface before his air gave out. It was even possible, whenever he jumped out over the hole that all of his air would be sucked out or that he'd choke on the water and not be able to breathe when he surfaced, because the water was causing his throat to close in response to the liquid that began to choke him the moment he jumped into the antarctic darkness during that fantastic second between living and dying when the water either disappeared overhead toward the whitening surface as he sank into that dank watery grave, or in the instant of choking, he coughed up all of his air and sank to the bottom either dead or dying and even his father couldn't get him out of there, because it was too deep, too cold, and too dark for anyone to ever find him again. This was his bad dream which he used to frighten himself, to make the act of jumping on January 1st even more scary than it would otherwise be.
I am going to die down there.
Is this not why we jump on New Year's Day?
To celebrate the death of our old life's end and the beginning of the new one?
He wondered about that as he reached into the knapsack. It was an old military bag that read DA NANG VIETNAM and MCDOUGAL, DAVID. Ronald Henderson had no idea who he was. Probably he was a fat old fuck with a gray beard like all the vets from that era, and he dressed in old Levis and tried to look like the Beach Boys whom they revered as music gods of their youth.
He reached into the canvas and extracted several vials of liquid marked HAZARDOUS. DO NOT OPEN. Ronald held it up. Inside was a mess of viruses and vaccines. The viruses were mixed together in suspension. The vial was cold, so the virus was stable. However, as soon as it reached the right temperature, it would spring to life, replicate, and find the human hosts in which to feed and replicate its cells, so rapidly that they wouldn't have any means to stop it in time. Ronald had majored in microbiology, and he had worked for several years at Wisconsin University in retrovirus development. Early on, Ronald had learned from his brother who was also in the same field and who was a whole five years older that he could develop almost any type of virus he wanted by splicing in pieces of living matter that contained just the right characteristics to do almost anything. He could splice in a piece of a duck's bill and see if the virus would begin pr
oducing the DNA for duck bills. Sometimes it would. Sometimes it wouldn't. That was why Homeland Security and the FBI wanted him on their team. They had been planning to reduce the Earth's population on account of climate change, and viruses were the easiest and surest means to reaching their goal.
Mixing viruses and injecting them with new DNA to see what he'd get was the fun of it. It was like fishing. You knew for sure you'd get something every time you tried it. Sometimes the original virus would just die off. That was something, also. It wasn't what Homeland Security Agent Henderson would want, but he'd seen it happen a lot.
His brother, Daniel, was pissed at his creativity, scolding him, saying, “Someday you are going to produce Pandora's Box, and you and everyone else in Madison is going to die from your bullshit games inside those little shitty cells you play with. You need to stop and consider the consequences. It just isn't worth playing these games, because your life and mine are involved as well as the lives of everyone in the world, Ronald. It's not worth the gamble, brother.” Daniel had no idea that his brother, Ron, was working for the FBI, Homeland Security, and Mossad. That was classified information on a need-to-know basis.
His big brother, Daniel, could be a real pisser to Ronald. Daniel liked to pretend that he was smarter than Ronald, which he really was, because Daniel was older, possessed his own PhD in Molecular Biology, and could stick any DNA he wanted into anything, even Swine Flu, because he had all these deadly engines in his freezer and could order more from the stupid National Institute of Health anytime he wanted more. The government was an eager proponent of dangerous gambling, especially if you were with Homeland Security. It even gave Anthrax to Saddam Hussein years ago, because it didn't really give a shit about anyone or any virus in the entire world. The NIH was an idea unto itself. It was stuffy, ego clustered, and self-driven. Fuck the world, if it didn't like it. The NIH was God and that was that, so just fuck off, bitches.
Ronald kissed the vials.
He had prepared them himself. He had used his own pipettes to manufacture a hugely deadly virus that was already sweeping across the world without anyone yet even guessing what was about to happen to the seven billion stupid trusting people on the planet who were about to die but didn't know it. Ronald's own pipettes were so thin he could transverse the center of a mouse hair with one of them without even touching a single cell. Once the government ordered him to create a planet killer virus which they were convinced was for the total benefit of all mankind on a planet that was thought to be dying from overcrowding and carbon burning, Agent Henderson had gone to work. He was given his own private laboratory and an open-ended grant for all the funds he required. All of the checks he received were written on private banks in Tel Aviv, banks that existed only long enough for a single check to be cashed. Then, they disappeared into the darkness. Due to advances in cloning of viruses, the work had progressed far faster than he had promised, and, in less than 18 months the deadly virus was ready, tested, and a vaccine that worked perfectly had been produced.
Ronald had experimented with birds and mammals first, creating diseases that turned them into dripping blood blisters on the inside and caused them to suffocate from their own escaping fluids. The trick was finding just the right amount of materials to create a virus that was slow enough not to kill or even interact violently with its victims for several weeks or months. The longer the better was his motto. That way, a virus could spread all the way around the world before farmers or physicians even noticed their cattle and their patients were infected with something. They also wanted a virus that could be placed in birds, because birds could carry the virus over the poles to all parts of the world, with no one harming either the birds themselves or their contagions, and right now they were doing just that. Ron Henderson pictured the birds flying the poles in search of new victims. Life was good. Death was even better. The Bureau of Homeland Security was indeed the cat's ass, and Ron Henderson was the agent of God himself.
He kissed the vials of virus and vaccines again. These were going to change the entire world for the better and insure a raise in pay from Homeland Security and the FBI. He was also promised an even bigger lab for future viral studies, this time to reduce the ability of plants and animals, including humans, to breed properly. In this way, the food stuffs on the planet could never again be overworked.
Agent Henderson remembered, how he had tested the vaccine. First, he had opened a vial of antibodies and vaccines which would protect himself. Then he opened another to use on test subjects. He injected himself and the others and waited. This was not the first time. The test cases had already undergone five series of injections, all of them successful in boosting their protection from the virus. Several test “mules” in distant cities were also vaccinated to make certain that the disease was being held at bay correctly by the cure. He had determined that it was, and all of them were still alive. The test would come soon, when the disease broke out across the world, sending entire populations into panic and early graves, most likely dropping like decayed flies into the streets.
All had not gone totally smoothly. Agent Henderson's first Homeland Security experiments with the vaccine caused many deaths, and Ronald was very sorry for that, but science required that trial and error be the only guide to truthfulness, efficacy, and the means to save or kill millions of lives depending on a scientist's particular goals, viruses, and DNA particles. Ronald was right now very sure he had it right. He was ready to go even if the rest of the world was not.
Weeks ago, he injected his team with the vaccine and prepared to deliver the virus by infecting migratory birds, placing small canisters of virus on their feet to be worn off across the planet, and placing several hundred pounds of it into innocent 4 oz. aerosol canisters marked as jock itch fungicide. He had plenty of them. More than a thousand canisters to be exact. The real number, Agent Henderson reported to central, was 110,284 canisters, enough to place them in the locker rooms of every major university in the United States, Canada, Europe, and the rest of the developing world. He loved how they were each marked as fungal sprays for jock itch. The bottles were beautiful branded death modules and each one was all ready-to-go. He had gotten the canisters from the manufacturer before the fungicide was injected into them. They were pristine and perfectly suited for what he needed to do. Now they were filled like happy little babies who had been recently breast fed. They seemed very happy. In fact, they were already on their way to begin their life's work. They had flown across the nation and the world inside parcel delivery jets five weeks ago, addressed with the names of star quarterbacks, cricket players, basketball centers, and soccer stars for each major university team in English, German, Chinese, Russian, Hebrew, Farsi, Arabic, you name it. It was there. The entire world was going to be Victim One. Once these containers of sweet death were used in an enclosed locker room and walked across the gymnasium floor, thousands of athletes, fans, and custodial personnel would be exposed. It would be six weeks before the first victims became ill. After that, people would be pushing their way into hospitals by the thousands, if they didn't die in their beds before they woke up bleeding through eighty-seven percent of their internal organs.
They were delivered five weeks ago, so the bloom was ready to emerge. In addition, the birds with their infected feet had flown in the cross-winds from Madison Lake on the shores of the University of Wisconsin and had landed in England, Germany Austria, Turkey, Israel, India, and Ethiopia. Some of the birds died along the way. The infection killed them causing them to bleed out, their organs turning into liquids. These unlucky ones fell from the sky in terrible pain slamming into the shores and oceans. But others survived. Soon, millions would be dying, and the world would become a totally different place and a lot safer. Homeland Security was doing its job for all mankind, because no one else would dare. If anything went wrong, the FBI had the guns to make it count, so there would be no rebellion, no investigations, no lose ends to give him or Homeland Security away.
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Chapter Four
The Lake of Fire
Back at Chesapeake Bay, the team was busy poking holes in the petroleum tanks up and down the giant estuary which had become Philadelphia's secret sewer. Using special tools as well as silenced rifles with bullets to penetrate oil tanks, they were sailing around, shooting, and even boarding both working and abandoned ships. Some of these ships were brutally rusted but still useful as storage tanks filled with oil, but when shot through they instantly became deadly and dangerous petroleum leakers spewing the surrounding bay with volatile fluids. Soon, the members of this group were even crawling forward, entering factories, and turning on facets to allow petroleum, insecticides, and other flammable chemicals to enter the bay itself with the goal of creating a volatile bloom ready to explode up and down the huge expanse of the Chesapeake's outrageously beautiful coasts, frightening the citizenry and causing them to doubt the veracity of their government's promise to protect them from terrorism if they just gave away more and more of their guaranteed constitutional rights.
Their rights were already totally destroyed as planned by the elites, but the nation's safety was as yet uncertain. Sure, not much had happened yet, except that the internal government coup was complete. Even so, teams of terrorists had lit up malls, libraries, movie theaters, and factories with huge bombs which killed thousands of people all of it planned and black flag approved by the criminal government. Most terrorists were agents of the FBI who had been goaded into bombing crowded places just to cower the citizens and keep them docile and afraid. Every time this happened, another huge book of laws against the people, already authored by the banksters and ready to go was placed upon the President's desk. The President rushed each book of new draconian laws to Congress as his hidden shadow government had ordered. The President by now was nothing more than the bankers' puppet. He did whatever they ordered. It was easier that way. By now, their silent strings were fully attached to his hands, head, and feet, so that he danced to their every tune almost perfectly without even thinking about it. These newly authored books were perfectly filled with new anti-Constitutional laws designed to strip America of all of its most sacred rights and freedoms, so that people were beginning to grumble that the nation was nothing more now than another USSR and run by the same little tribe of bankers who had overthrown the tzar, murdered his children, and taken over Russia. The bankers of New York City had sailed to Petrograd, Russia and transformed a fledgling democratic nation in 1917 into a dictator's killing field for Christians. Once their minions had stormed the Russian parliament building and taken it over, those unfortunate followers of the prince of peace were summarily rounded up, shot, and buried, time and again, street by street, town by town, province by province, until everyone across all of Russia was so frightened of authority that they said virtually nothing at all about the bolshevik government other than how wonderful it was, and all of this while they were still being lined up and shot. What else were the people to do? If they said anything, the long Jewish hand of the Chekha, the secret police under Trotsky, arrived in vans, found them, took them out to the edge of town, and according to Solzhenitsyn, there they bent the people down on their knees with their hands tied behind their backs, placed a bullet into the base of their brains, and let them fall over onto the ground. Then, they buried these Russian victims night-by-night outside of town where absolutely no one would ever find them. After that, the higher ups in government picked up the assassins themselves, tied them up, covered their heads with black cloth hoods, took them somewhere and did the same thing. That way there was no one left alive to tell anyone what had been done in the name of USSR policy.
My Dead America Page 3
