In the morning, the three of them packed their car, piled in, and headed for New York City.
The place they knew to be the center of absolute evil. So this very city was their intended destination.
Get ready, bitch.
Page 9
Chapter Six
Bilderberger, Rockefeller, Rothschild,
and other Rich Bitches
The President and CEO of one of the world's largest banks, Benjamin Chaim Goldstein, was having dinner with his wife and several important businessmen. They had just gotten their instructions from persons associated with AIPAC and other conspiratorial organizations who made their living from threatening Congressmen with monetary immolation lest they do anything to demonize or underfund their favorite conspiracies including Zionism first and foremost and the American banking swindles following closely behind. Goldstein's Jewish ancestors, who were also bankers, had been so good about this that they had even corrupted the Christians, paying Dr. Scofield into seeding his Scofield Bible with thousands of erroneous footnotes suggesting that the divine plan had mostly to do with creating a new state for the Jews in the end times so that Jesus Christ could return to the Earth, kick a lot of inattentive asses, and eventually exterminate the anti-Christ and set up a one-thousand-year religious USSR over the entire world with its sacred ball-crushing headquarters in Jerusalem where all of his miraculous and newly converted Jewish buddies would suddenly know the truth about Jesus Christ's divinity and greatness, would close their greedy banks, and come around to help him rule like the best Zionist despots in the cosmos.
As he left the building, Goldstein turned the corner with his wife Hannah, and walked into a plunging knife which entered his heart, turned him obliquely to the side, took away his breath, and caused him to stumble into his assassin's arms. Meanwhile, Hannah Goldstein, not understanding he had been mortally wounded and merely believing he had either stumbled or had a sudden heart attack, reached out to him, mumbling, “Bennie,” and suddenly felt cold steel entering her thorax and neatly disassembling some of her vital organs, causing enough pain and internal blood losses to keep her quiet for the rest of her life, which meant all of five seconds before she was good and dead. The two of them ended up in plastic bags and wrapped in old torn carpets in the alley. It took less than one minute to kill them, drag them away, and wrap them for their trip to the garbage dump.
“You see how easy it is to get things done,” Durango Wilson said. “When you get down to business, you can do it in less than one-fourth the time you had planned for it. How? Discipline, effort, and desire. That's it in a nutshell.”
“You were great,” Dotty told him.
“Me? You stabbed his wife. Brad pulled them around into the alley and wrapped them up in rugs and duct taped them forever shut. Listen, as I taught you from the beginning. It's all team work. Always will be. TEAMWORK. You are the best.”
The richest banker and speculator in the nation had been silenced, and no one would ever figure out what happened to him and his wife unless they were lucky enough to find them before the garbage truck accidentally dumped them out of the back on the way to the landfills, but that wasn't going to happen. The two victims were no more likely to ever be found than Jimmy Hoffa. It's a big world out there, and once lost, always lost. Hiding someone in the piles of crap that New York City discarded inside its phantasmagoria of garbage in only one hour was a discard that would most likely never be found. The changes in refuse weight on an average day even with scientific scale readings alone, if ever weighed, which wouldn’t happen in a million Saturdays, would be less than one-tenth-of-one-percent, and even then, they'd never know when or where it had happened or who did it.
So, what the fuck.
“The world is mysterious when it comes to murder,” Bradley said, “And what we are doing is certainly not that. It's purposeful and good for the country. These scumbags need to disappear and never be allowed back into the country, and every one of their relatives who tries to take over where they left off, gets the same treatment until they high-tail it overseas and never come back.”
Dotty kissed him.
“I love you.”
He kissed her back.
“I love you, too. Always have.”
They finished their coffee and headed for their next quarry. Time to take out other traitorous people who had misused their banks to corrupt the government of the ninety-nine-percent of the people, making it the government that only represented the greed-filled 1%, the rich, the powerful, the people who hated everyone else in the world and treated them like scum, because all they worshiped was money. These were the people that the powerful government leaders loved. They were the people who gave them the money to fund corrupt political advertising campaigns, i.e., election lies and thereby get themselves into government one corrupt election after the other. It was a time tested method, and even the founding fathers were on the take from these rich oligarchs, and, in fact, the founding fathers themselves were rich, land-owning capitalists who never shared a penny of their earnings with the people at large who were in constant poverty and whom they fenced out, away from their fields, factories, slaves, and houses. Most of the founders were, themselves, oligarchs of the worst type, and only the lies of the media oligarchy of which Benjamin Franklin was the biggest and most influential media propagandist, liar, and owner gave them a good name.
Like everything in America and the world, their good name was as good a lie as it can get. Franklin saw to that, and, as years passed on, others rose up to take his filthy place in line. After all, if you pay the writers, you get the histories written your way. If you have that much money, like they did and do, it's all very easy to pull off, which is why they knew and discussed how America will never be free until all of them are dead. Bradley, Dotty, and Durango were only three out of thousands of lone wolf plotters and fighters who were readying themselves to take down the most corrupt and deceitful nation in the world.
They weren't attacking it directly.
They were killing off its corrupters.
That was a completely different type of rebellion. It was all quiet, under dark cover, and ever so effective. Oh, yes, and no one got caught, because they never discussed it, never went to meetings in which they talked or showed their faces, always wore masks, never joined militias, never went to rebellious Internet websites tracked by these miniscule hacker gods of the Washington DC hegemony with their too tiny cocks who were paid to check these things and focus in on persons expressing just such an interest.
Only, these three were different.
They were invisible and could not be found, and, if they were, since they knew no one else doing the same things they were doing, they couldn't rat them out anyway. That was the beauty of the lone wolf system. No one knew anyone else.
There was no one to frame. They were impervious to the corrupt DA system of plea bargains and turning on your buddies, because they knew nothing about it. They acted on their own. What did they know about the others? Absolutely nothing. They all had done their own thing, making it up on the fly. It was perfect revolutionary entrepreneurial creativity. It was the individual as god. Not the government.
The rebellion was an infection that spread because everyone could see the pretty shit that America had been placed in, and in the midst of their extermination through plagues that were about to begin, they were ready to respond in whatever brief time was left to them.
Down the street from where they were, thousands of rich conspirators against majority Americans were going about their business, unaware that the nation had had enough, that people all over the states were preparing to exterminate everyone, person by person, until the entire society lay in total decapitation, and fear among the carefully targeted rich was spreading faster than anything they'd ever studied in history. Only the French revolution could have been more effective than what had happened when the common people, especially those who could read between the lines of the news stories were independe
ntly purchasing weapons, testing them out with their families, and getting ready for the time when the gendarmes would come to arrest, question, torture, and kill them without a trial as the new laws now ordained to be the way of the nation's criminal justice system.
What these new revolutionaries knew was that an armed citizen is a knight and a noble, silently armed, adorned with the armor of absolute secrecy and stealth, and brave to the core, unafraid of death, and willing to snatch victory through action, then slide back into the swift and eternal protection of darkness.
One of the people at the meeting where Rockefeller himself was in attendance was associated with one of the top three Wall Street companies. He was used to earning $80 million per year, but that was only on top of the table. Under it, he got over a billion. He got that for doing absolutely nothing that was productive. He didn't work in a factory, pay his taxes, or have to be at work on time. Instead, he simply hired others to do the things necessary to insure that he could live his life Scot free, except for the karma of destroying the economies of the world, and ruining the lives of millions of people whom he would never meet. His fingers were soft and pink, and they had certainly never done anything that would help anyone in the world, but had spent their time designing things that were more destructive than atomic bombs, because the slower burn of bankrupting people and companies and sending jobs overseas was far worse than murdering by nuclear bomb the lives of 100,000 citizens of Hiroshima, Japan.
Of course these criminal bankers never suffered for what they were doing to destroy not only their own national interest but that of thousands of other people, companies, cities, states, and nations where they weren't even citizens through the IMF and other international banking operations which these rich goons controlled either entirely or in part. They were each and every one of them selfish dudes who truly believed in their rottenness that they were born into a lawless land where they could get by with whatever they wanted. After all, the leaders were Pavlov trained from birth to tolerate assholes like themselves and to pass laws to help them become even bigger assholes. They had placed permanently invisible banker manacles upon all of their Congressional subjects. These bankers didn't care. They knew that, since each Congressman had 640,000 constituents, there was no way they could ever represent these people in any manner whatsoever. They didn't even know these people. After all, they would never shake all of their hands in a life time, much less meet them even once during a two-year term of office.
The nation's important businessmen were prime targets for offing, and the trio was positioned atop the office building across the street. Their rifles were loaded and at the ready. Suddenly, the door opened and all 200 bankers began slowly waddling forth and filling the portico of the building, flowing out into its sidewalks, and off into the street, perfectly assured of their safety.
The illusion was wrong. It lasted only 30 seconds. This time, their assured safety was being answered with delicately placed bullets in semi-rapid fire. Durango's, Brad's, and Debbie's sniper rifles were so high up on the rooftop across the street no one could make them out down below. The din of traffic in New York was so loud that no one heard any rifle fire. Besides, the rifles were silenced and made very little noise. They continued shooting one millionaire after the other. They dropped rapidly. From above, it looked like they were tripping over stones in the streets. Even the police who are trained for situations like this which never happen in New York City despite its plethora of rich targets had no idea that patriots high up and out of sight on a building roof were right now methodically murdering one millionaire right after the other right in plain sight. These influential banksters who had so far gotten everything their way in life were falling dead asleep right in front of them. Their silent wounds emitted little volcanoes of fresh blood gushing out of them like red water erupting in tiny slow-motion tornadoes of strawberry kool aid being pelted by a relentless storm of wildly invisible hail stones. At first, all the police and body guards saw were these men in suit coats hitting the pavement along with cops and body guards, but it was so noisy on the busy sidewalk, that they heard not a single gunshot. They were almost all down on the pavement before the blood began to spill in tiny rivers across the concrete where the hundreds of victims lay as quiet as church mice, giving up their fluids slowly, creating a new puzzle minute by minute as the situation developed like a slow photographic studio which takes forever to make true prints of whatever photos had been taken hours ago.
By the time, fresh living cops started appearing and rummaging through the various rooms, halls, stairs, and roof tops, Durango, Brad, and Dotty were hurling through town in another stolen vehicle and preparing to shoot up another meeting of rich bankers over by Rockefeller Plaza.
Their cross hairs were spooking millionaires coming out of the NBC building as well as Saint Pat's Cathedral. Here and there, a meeting of executives ended, and they'd emerge like little rich fools scampering out into the open air. On whatever corner they appeared and fell in their own blood, they were hoping they could get to their personal call girls, fuck them, and be home all washed and perfumed to have a nice night out with their wives at the fanciest $200 a plate restaurants on the Upper and Middle East Side.
Only, for some strange reason they were not going to make it this time, and they didn't even know it, because they were suddenly dead, seeing nothing but blackness, their minds neatly silenced, and their pockets picked by hundreds of loud, multicultural, and ever nasty, unwashed school children whose institutions had just let out and who came upon these rich dudes dead and dying out there with diamond rings, expensive watches, gold fobs, and fat wallets ready to be picked clean by New York's finest little wallet snipers, each urchin in search of some serious crack funds for their evening highs. The police were doing their best to stop them from picking the pockets of the dying, but they were no match for these absolute little professionals who were young, fast, and had fists like bumble bees when cornered.
“Give me that wallet, son!” a cop shouted.
“Fuck off, cop! It's mine.”
“It's stealing, and you're under arrest.”
The boy squirmed away, evading his grasp.
“You can't catch me. I'm too fast.”
“I will, too.”
“Hey, bitch. Fuck off. Its on the street.”
“That doesn't mean it's not stealing,” the policeman said. He knew it was like speaking into dumb stones. They wouldn't listen.
“I told you, pig. That ain't stealing. It's finders keepers.”
Then again, the snipers were gone.
A few blocks away and within minutes, the dead were dying, and the snipers were moving on to more fertile acres. Scene by scene followed with equal horror and ferocity. In three days, they were nearly out of ammunition, fed up with New York City's rudeness, and ready to head back to Mizzou for rest and relaxation. On the way out, they had already disposed of their ammunition and firearms, which were lying at the bottom of the East River where God knows shit about how to ever find them. In addition, the rifles had been reamed out with long drill bits and burned until they were so warped they could never be used again for gun tests to compare their bullets with those used on the streets this week.
The televisions were blaring stories about terrorist attacks against New York's finest leader, but the people in bars were clapping and whistling. They were glad someone was avenging America, and the banksters who had been freely raping the entire world for hundreds of years were suddenly facing execution at the hands of real heroes who had decided to take action against the enemies of mankind.
In Washington, the Senate Banking Committee was in open session on the news. They were busy interviewing FBI, Homeland Security, SEC, and other enemies of the American people, demanding answers to the loss of security for the greedy 1% who were supposed to be ruling all of America and for its own good. The Heartland watched and enjoyed the show. They were no friends of the goons in Washington nor of the criminal bankers whose irresponsi
ble greed bespoke of their need for justice at the hands of these hero gunmen whoever they were.
“More power to them! Kill them all!” yelled those celebrating at the country bars.
“Protect them, Lord,” a priest prayed in his rectory at a dinner party. “I don't condone killing, but I can't condone what these criminal banks have done to my parishioners either. To hell with all of their foreclosures. This is exactly where brutal heartlessness brings them. Eventually, even the Lord will punish them at the court of street justice. Amen for them and for us.”
The shooters had disappeared without incident.
They kept their mouths shut, covered their tracks, and continued their lives as though this had never happened. As a result there were no loose ends for the feds or the states or cities to look at and say, “Hey, these might be those terrorists who took out some of those millionaires in New York City. So, maybe we should hassle them and see if they will talk.”
It never happened.
Life's a bitch when criminals don't join crooked families and take murder orders from the mafia godfather, the army, or the CIA. In the minds of the typical gendarmes, behavior that is untraceable is completely unconscionable. The blue bloods were stymied. They were all unsure and without clues.
My Dead America Page 5
