Knowing One’s Place in the Scheme of Things
I have come full circle. I was a boy born to a mother who died immediately, perhaps at the hands of my father but that is only a distant third-party allegation, who grew up to watch as a small group of sheltered and sheltering effete Eastern liberal snobs snickered sotto voce “they shot Jack”, and then I went off to college to watch them shoot Martin and Bobby too, and the leadership of the multi-phase awakening of Black identity, and to discover the deepest depths of their political depravity while I labored to try to help save lives one at a time, sometimes in glumps.
Fool that I was, I thought I could make a difference, but now at the end of my life, which has been ceded over in ownership of car, auto, house to my spouse and whose terminal point has been pre-decided to include the discreet turning off of the pacemaker-defibrillator in my chest along with the likely injection of increasing doses of morphine to shut down the instinct to breathe, I have come full circle. Most of society snickers sotto voce about Trump having been put in his place; now we can sit back and watch the sidewalks get rolled up.
At one point, I thought I’d likely had a bunk pre-assigned to me in the detention centers and death camps of the State but I am so far along that it is likely they will just let me ease away on my own dime, what two of them I can find to rub together on the meager Social Security pension they allow me. Even that is under their control and should I dare to speak up too loudly or out of turn, they can hasten the day. They can dim the lights of a person or a society so slowly you’ll barely notice. I maintain strongly, to this minute, this is not an ordinary cold.
The Valentine Day’s Massacre of 2017 went down with the requisite op-ed notices from numerous places but that is just panem et circensees, good entertaining read to give one’s sense of outrage a short outing, like wheeling the terminal nursing home patient out onto the deck bundled in a blanket for one last long look across the valley to the snow-covered peaks that used to be playgrounds in youth. I would suspect little if any notice is given to the import of the little mini-coup, despite efforts by many to spell it out in detail. People have been warned away from reading those kinds of things; the MSM will act like not much has happened, or it’s in fear of the evil Russian bear, and anyway the game shows are still on TV so life can’t be all bad. I’d like to buy a vowel, Pat. I’ll take covert ops for a thousand, Alex.
Anyway, the path is now cleared for lots of people to rake in lots of dough on their war dividends, the Prizker and Crown families, the Soros cavalcade and, most of all, of course, the Rothschild empire. Lots of people will be riding on those coat-tails without even a moment’s thought about the human costs when all those armaments are used, those brand-spanking-new F-whatevers with their pilot’s AI thinking caps, and the down-the-generations depleted uranium munitions, and the new drone Navy. There is, undoubtedly buried somewhere in the stock market algorithims, some cute game that takes wagers on which American city or cities are going to be sacrified in the forthcoming first-strike mini-nuclear wars against Russia and Iran. The cockroaches will be scurrying into their tunnels, their bunkers, light having been shown for a moment on their true nature. And, of course, the way has been cleared for continued fun and games involving pedophilia, snuff films, and all manner of rapine and pillage; there is nothing that can stand in the way of some good clean fun now. Bring on the dancing children.