Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
1) In any conflict between two men (or two groups) who hold the same basic principles, it is the more consistent one who wins.2) In any collaboration between two men (or two groups) who hold two different basic principles, it is the more evil or irrational who wins.3) When opposite basic principles are clearly and openly defined, it works to the advantage of the rational side; when they are not clearly defined, but are hidden or evaded, it works to the advantage of the irrational side.
For instance, consider the conflict between the Republicans and Democrats (and within each party, the same conflict between the"conservatives" and the "liberals"). Since both parties hold altruism as their basic moral principal, both advocate a welfare state or mixed economy as their ultimate goal.
“Well that wasn’t too bright.” Said someone who Natog was unable to focus on.
Sitting up, he tried to will his eyes to focus. His head didn’t feel attached, like his brain was sloshing around in his skull.
“Here is some water and a towel. It looks worse than it is, the blood isn’t yours. The paramedics got most of the brains and bits of skull off of you.”
“What happened? I blacked out when someone started to tapdance on my head.” Natog felt around until he could feel the offered water bottle and the towel.
“Here, I’ll get that for you. Stand up and put your face close to the bars.”
Natog felt like hell. His back was hurting and his knees were killing him. Standing while grasping the bars for support, the cop washed his face. Finally blinking his eyes open, he could see it was Roswell. “Thanks.”
“Well you had yourself an interesting night last night.”
“Yeah, I don’t know how I survived.”
“Well, you are up shit’s creek without a paddle. You killed five cops last night.”
“Five thugs, you mean.”
“Well they are, well were, cops. We have crime scene services down there now trying to put together what happened.”
Natog knew what Roswell was going to say next. “I’ll give you a statement in a bit, after I get some food in me and I can collect my thoughts a bit.”
“Alright.” Roswell collected the towel, but left the water bottle. Turning he asked, “Did you serve?”
“In the military? No. They wouldn’t take me because I was too fat.”
Roswell smirked, “Well I don’t know how you did it, but you took out five of them.”
Roswell headed upstairs, and Natog looked around. The only illumination was a camping lantern on a small table with a half-finished game of solitaire. A folding metal chair was next to it. He was the only prisoner. A bucket had been furnished with a lid that was labeled “toilet” in large letters.
Shortly, Roswell returned with another man in an unwashed suit. “This here is Murray, he’s an ADA. He will be sitting in while you make your statement.”
“Um, am I under arrest?”
“Yes, suspicion of murder.”
“Do I get a lawyer?”
Murray chimed in, “Sure, if you can find one. Look, you were booked in, but we are still investigating what happened. Your statement will go a long way towards clearing some things up.”
“I am not ready to give a statement yet, if I could have a pencil and some paper, and a couple hours I’ll be able to give a better one.”
Murray wasn’t pleased. “Look, I just want to get this over with so we can either cut you loose or send you to Hanscomm. Either way I get to go home to a freezing house and starve.”
“I’m going to have to get my thoughts straight on what happened – it was all such a blur.”
“Alright, alright.” Murry dug a pen out from inside his sport coat and took a piece of paper from a drawer in the desk.
They played Gin while Natog worked at trying to remember every step, every shot, and every kill from the night before. He didn’t mark anything on the paper except for odd mnemonic devices. After about 45 minutes, Natog had crafted a story to fit what he remembered of the night before.
Murray looked up, “You done? Lemme see it.” Glancing at the paper, he asked “What the hell is this?”
“I’m ready to give my statement. I will need a copy.
“Oh for Chris’akes, I thought you were writing it out.”
“I was just getting my thoughts together, I’m now ready to give my statement.”
It took a couple more hours. Natog wrote out by hand 10 pages of text, complete with diagrams, and a preface including what had happened a few days before. A copy was made by Natog by writing really hard with the ballpoint pen over two sheets of paper, and a coin rubbed on the copy to highlight the indentations. Photocopiers needed power, and no one knew if they even made carbon paper anymore.
Once complete, both copies were signed by everyone. Natog kept his copy, and Roswell and the ADA went upstairs to go over the statement with the crime scene services officer. After an hour, Natog was cuffed and brought upstairs into an interview room. The Lieutenant of the barracks interrogated him for an hour with the CSS officer and Murray.
Everyone wanted the keys to his gun safe. He was going to have to forfeit his weapons. Needless to say, Natog cried “bullshit” to that. They argued for an hour more, with the ADA demanding that the weapons were to be turned over. Natog held his position that since he was innocent, until proven guilty. The ADA produced a writ from the governor declaring a state of emergency. Natog finally relented and told them which key it was on his keychain.
It all added up though. He was escorted back down to his cell by Roswell.
“Well Natog, you are one lucky son of a bitch. Do you know who those guys were?”
“The only reason, and I do mean the ONLY reason they are even bothering to investigate this is because one of your neighbors watched the whole thing.”
“You shitting me?”
“Well why didn’t they help me?”
“C’mon, if you were watching a firefight with automatic weapons, even you are not dumb enough to try and help. You take cover and pray to God a stray bullet doesn’t catch you.
“Whoever it is, I’m going to owe them big time.”
The Lieutenant’s voice shouted down from above, “Ok cut him loose and bring him up here.”
With that Natog was released “pending further investigation”. He was free, but at what cost? Two troopers drove him to his house and escorted him to his locked gun safe.
Collecting the key from one of the officers, he swung open the door to an empty gun vault. Everyone asked the same question at the same time “Where are they?”
With an acting performance worthy of an Oscar, Natog demanded to know where his weapons were, and furthermore, to go back to the Lieutenant so he could explain why his house was robbed while the cops were in charge of it. In the end, Natog had to give another statement, and asked for a written statement on how his house got robbed while being watched by the cops.
The next time he got dropped off by the Troopers, he asked them to wait. Getting a note pad from the kitchen junk drawer, Natog wrote a permission slip for his home oil to be donated for use in hospital generators. Signing and dating it, he wrote, “P.S. don’t drip oil all over the carpets!”
After the troopers left, he checked the garage. To his utter amazement, it was still locked, and no new footprints were in there. With shaking hands he checked and his ammunition and rifles were still in the jeep. Taking off a pick and shovel from the roof rack, Natog moved on to the next chore.
He then got busy using a pick to dig a grave big enough for his two dogs. It was hard work, but he planted then in the back corner of the back yard, where they liked to stand and bark at everything going on. The ground was rocky and frozen, and Natog was still quite sore. In the end he buried them halfway, then piled rocks and bricks from the firepit on top. After a moment of silence, hoping that Thor and Loki were happily chewing bones under Odin’s table in Valhalla, Natog packed his tools up and locked the garage back up.
Checking his cache, he was relived to find his weapons. Checking the time, he had an hour before the next scheduled radio broadcast. Lighting a fire, he boiled some of his last water to rehydrate a spaghetti and meat sauce meal. Letting the fire burn itself out, he connected the VHF radio up to his jeep battery and waited.
Thankfully, Bill and Mum stuck to the schedule and he made contact. Mum was worried sick when Natog didn’t come early this morning as his last transmission promised. Natog was smart enough not to mention anything about last night to his Mum. She would have freaked out. “I’ll be leaving here as soon as it’s dusk… there is nothing here for me now.”
“You had better! I know you’re not telling me everything, but we will be here.”
“I love you guys, over and out.”
Collecting his weapons from his cache he suited up and waited for dusk to come.
With a start Natog woke up. It was dark out, and he had fallen asleep on the couch. Waiting, Natog was unable to hear what woke him up. It took a moment to place his bearings and remember what was going on.
Checking his watch, it was 7:23pm. Thankfully, he didn’t sleep the whole night away. Walking through his home, he checked to make sure everything was packed for the fifth time. Realizing the dogs would not be coming, he loaded a few additional items into the passenger seat, where the dogs would have ridden shotgun.
Opening the main door to the garage, he pulled the jeep out, and carefully backed it up to the trailer. Once the trailer was connected, he pulled the trailer from his garage, and locked the garage back up. Stopping at the end of the driveway, Natog got out once again, and gave a long forlorn look at his house before getting back in the jeep and making his way to Dartmouth.
Natog was careful, and followed the back roads down through Lakeville then Westport. No one else was on the road, and he encountered no roadblocks on his journey. It took him two hours for the normally 35 minute ride. As he wove his way through the backroads, it began to snow, lightly at first, then gradually the wind picked up. Soon, Natog was driving through a good, old-fashioned nor’easter.
When he finally backed onto the lawn so he could unload easily, Mum and Bill rushed out of the house, smothering Natog in the warm embrace of family.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
"I am determined to defend my rights and maintain my freedom or sell my life in the attempt." - Nathanael GreeneI've been trying to find a good slogan for a viral advertising campaign. So far, this is it. Nathanael Green was born outside Warwick, RI and became General Washington's most dependable Generals.
This is a great quote, perhaps I can sum it up...
“If ye love wealth better than liberty, the tranquility of servitude better than the animating contest of freedom, go home from us in peace. We ask not your counsels or your arms. Crouch down and lick the hands that feed you. May your chains set lightly upon you, and may posterity forget that you were our countrymen.” ~Samuel Adams, August 1, 1776I'm getting pretty pissy with how things are. Where I work now is surrounded by a organized team of mendicants that are pretty aggressive when it comes to getting money from strangers. That, and Amnesty International has a few college kids hired to accost people about "Human Rights." Coming back from lunch last week, One stepped in my path and said "Do you want to talk about human rights?" I replied "Humans have no rights." This befuddled him for a minute, so I managed to escape.
What rights do we have left? Let's have an accounting.
The right to free speech. We can have free speech in some places, usually chain link fenced areas where those who would do best to hear the peoples wrath are carefully segregated from.
"Chapter 264: Section 11 Promotion of anarchy; prohibition
Whoever by speech or by exhibition, distribution or promulgation of any written or printed document, paper or pictorial representation advocates, advises, counsels or incites assault upon any public official, or the killing of any person, or the unlawful destruction of real or personal property, or the overthrow by force or violence or other unlawful means of the government of the commonwealth or of the United States, shall be punished by imprisonment in the state prison for not more than three years, or in jail for not more than two and one half years, or by a fine of not more than one thousand dollars; provided, that this section shall not be construed as reducing the penalty now imposed for the violation of any law. [...]
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Friday, January 8, 2010
Natog just about jumped out of his skin when the door to the back started to be kicked in a few feet behind him. Natog lay there sweating and freaking out as they worked on the doors for a few minutes then stopped. He heard a whistle, then the crunch of people running on snow, then the roar of an engine with accompanying squealing tires. Cautiously, he made his way around the inside of the house. No one got in.
The door was smashed and had several holes blown through it near the doorknob. Natog gasped as he looked on the floor. Twisted in the braces holding the door up was Loki. Half of Loki’s head was missing. He evidently caught a slug as the attackers tried to blow open the door.
Hearing panting in the in-law apartment, Natog walked in to see Thor lying on his side in a pool of blood, his right leg dangling at an obscene angle from his wrecked shoulder. He was looking at Natog with sad eyes, and bubbles of blood were frothing from his mouth.
“My poor boy!” Natog collapsed onto his knees, pulling Thor close to him. Examining the wound revealed the slug had torn through Thor’s upper chest, his left lung was punctured, and most of the ribs on that side were shattered. Blood was everywhere. Thor’s shattered body would be unable to be healed, so all Natog could do for him was to provide the final mercy for him. Pulling his pistol from its holster Natog hugged Thor a final time, and then put a .45 caliber JHP through the back of his skull.
Returning to the top of the stairs, he recovered his shotgun and wondered what to do next. Squatting on top of the stairs, he began to cry, with heavy tears streaming down his face then dripping off his chin to spash on the threshold to his apartment.
He heard a car engine in the distance. Listening, he slung the M1A over his shoulder, and clutched the 12 gauge to his chest. As the car got closer, he wiped the tears away, and took cover. Natog could see car lights play across his yard and then shine intensely through the wrecked door. Raising the shotgun, he shouldered the weapon, with it’s barrel leveled at the ruined door. Something was punched through the glass, and the engine revved and tires squealed as the door exploded into kindling.
They say there are three kinds of anger. You can be “everyday” angry, anger in the heat of passion, and then there was angry enough to be enraged, a mindless slave to your psychotic anger.
There is actually a fourth level of anger, the Berserker. You gain the strength of the adrenaline, the pain resistance of the endorphins, but you mind is that of a predator. You become a killing machine. Natog became a Berserker this night.
The headlights were left on, providing a perfect backlight to see targets by. A large form filled the doorway and Natog put the bead of the shotgun on his chest and squeezed the trigger. He then quickly pumped the shotgun, tracking at waist height putting a slug or buckshot every eight inches along the wall where the next thug would be waiting. Six rounds later Natog dropped the shotgun and ducked behind the wall. Unslinging the rifle, he belly crawled towards the bedrooms, his mind a white fury.
As he crawled, automatic gunfire ripped through the house, as several assault rifles were emptied through the house. Natog could see the muzzle flash of two of them, one from the hallway, the other from outside the home by the door he just shot through. Natog crawled into the hallway beside the bathroom, and then turned around. He could hear several voices screaming and weapons being reloaded. It seemed like an eternity, but finally he could see the tactical lights shine as men entered his house. Counting to five, Natog fired several shots at waist height along the wall separating the kitchen from the outer hallway. Pulling the weapon down to ankle height, he fired about 10 more at ankle level across where the hallway would be. He shimmied back as he emptied the rifle randomly. Once empty he twisted and flopped into the guest bedroom, landing on his back. Bursts of gunfire erupted again through the house.
While the thugs were putting holes in his wallpaper, he popped out the empty mag, and slapped in a new one. He wouldn’t have much time as the house was small. Rolling up into a crouch, Natog quietly clicked in the stops that prevented the window from going up more than a few inches, and slid the window open, then tried to dive through it. He got most of the way out. He carried his mags on his belly, and they got hung up trying to get out. Twisting, he made it out the window, but landed on his head, flopping over to his side. He was wedged with his back to the foundation, and his belly into a bush he had for landscaping.
Thankfully, he didn’t break his fool neck and his rifle was still gripped by his right hand, lying along his body. Lifting it, he placed the muzzle along the sash between the two windows.
A tactial light lit up the night as someone yelled “Fuck! He’s getting away!
Like a praying mantis, Natog waited. Waited like cancer. Natog was a glacier, grinding the world with his slow will. In what seemed like minutes a muzzle, then a hand, then a head stuck out the window, as the figure swung left to search for Natog he swung the muzzle from where it was hidden, and put it under the thug’s chin. Squeezing the trigger the .308 kicked down hard, right into Natog’s neck, but the reward was a headless torso slumping down in the window.
Gunfire erupted from the room, and Natog was showered in debris as the bullets popped through the house wall. Natog coolly noted that the thug was panicking. Since Natog was below the interior floor, and had a cement wall at his back, he was quite safe for the moment. Looking around, he could see two figures walking towards a pickup truck on his front yard. One was leaning on the other heavily, and was obviously wounded in the leg. The truck was half on his lawn, with a thick rope trailing from the bumper to the remnants of his front door.
He could hear a racket going on inside the house still, but no gunfire. Disentangling himself from the shrub, he skirted the edge of the house, ducking around the far corner from the pickup. Using the shade provided from the corner of the house, he circled the huge forsythia bush separating his yard from his neighbors. Once around the bush, he had a clear arc of fire around his yard, but no cover. Quickly, felt around for a rock on the edge of the road. Grabbing a chunk of asphalt, he chucked it as hard as he could through the bedroom window 50 feet away.
The man with the wounded leg was allowed to slump unceremoniously behind the truck’s door as the other released him and spun bringing up his carbine. Another burst of gunfire echoed from the house, the muzzle flash visible from the living room. The thug by the truck started firing into the bedroom, as he could see where his buddy was firing. Natog calmly put the front post on the driver’s side window where the man’s chest would be and squeezed off two rounds. The effect was immediate, his carbine began to drop from his hands, as he slumped against the door. A third shot from Natog caught him in the top of the forehead.
Running as fast as he could, he rushed to the left, circling across the street. The thug with the wounded leg was screaming, not for anyone in particular, just a primal scream of rage and fear. He was on the other side of the pickup truck from Natog, so for the moment, he wasn’t a threat. Natog crouched across the street, at the base of a tree, using it for cover. Gulping air, but trying to do it quietly, Natog tried to steady himself. He was still filled with the while fury, and a cold thought entered his mind. He had to have no survivors, no witnesses. Natog did a quick tactical reload, dropping the half empty mag into a drop pouch on his vest. Sighting down the barrel of the M1A, he put the post on the chest of the wounded man trying to climb into the cab of the truck.
Before he pulled the trigger, he realized all shots would need to be through the front of the thugs, preferably with brass around them to show they were active participants. Without conscious thought he had assembled a profile on these thugs. Although they were trained, they were not combat veterans or SWAT. Likewise, other than the initial assault squad, they haven’t worked or trained together. These were all advantages for Natog.
Although he never received official training with firearms, the training to overcome the flight or fight reflexes and move under fire were honed across dozens of paintball fields. The proper use of cover was extremely important in paintball, and “slicing the pie” was second nature to him.
Illuminated perfectly by the trucks headlights, a thug in all black web gear bolted from his home, and crouch-walked to the front of the truck swinging his weapon wildly from side to side. Natog grabbed the quickest thing to throw, a loaded mag from his vest, and tossed it into the woods to the right. The thug walking from the house swung the weapon to where the mag landed and triggered the tactical light and a few rounds from his weapon. The front post was already on his chest, so Natog squeezed the trigger, pulled the post back onto his chest and fired again. The form crumpled face first before Natog could put a round into his head.
Rushing the truck, the man with the wounded leg by the truck was trying to pull a sidearm from his vest. Slowing his pace, he waited until the weapon was fully from the holster before firing two rounds into the thug’s chest followed by a third round into his left eye.
Using the door of the pickup for cover he did another tactical reload, dropping that mag into the drop pouch. Surveying the situation, there was another thug laid out by the entrance to his house. Keeping his rifle trained on the body he reached down with his left hand and verified the thug he just shot had no pulse. Picking up the weapon by the barrel, he tossed it in the back of the truck. He then did the same for the other thug by the pickup, tossing both his pistol and carbine in the back of the truck.
He then covered the thug by the door, and approached cautiously, keeping his weapon trained on the body. He quickly pulled the carbine off of the form and tossed it into a shrub on the side of the house. This one was still alive. Rolling him onto his back, Natog got his first clear look at the thug. The face was covered with a ski mask, but blood was bubbling from the mouth and nose holes. Roughly pulling the ski mask off, he saw it was one of the two officers from the other day. He coughed violently, with fresh blood coming from both his nose and mouth.
He was trying to say something, mouthing some words. “Who are you?” finally came out with a grimace of pain.
Looking down at the officer, Natog replied “For I am Shiva, the Destroyer of Worlds.”
Checking quickly, he saw that the rifle plate stopped both shotgun slugs, but at the expense of breaking almost all of the officer’s ribs. The blood and coughing meant at least one lung was punctured, and he was bleeding internally. He couldn’t last long, and wouldn’t be a threat. Getting up, Natog cleared his house quickly and efficiently.
He collected the empty magazine from the bedroom and dropped it into his pouch. He gathered the headless thug’s weapons and tossed them into the back of the truck. As he walked back into the house by the thug the man gave a shudder and wheezed his last breath into the January night.
Retrieving the shotgun, he stashed them it in his hidden cache along with his pistol, M1A and combat vest. His cache was a space between the sheetrock of the back of the laundry chute and the chimney that was impossible to find.
He was beginning to shake violently. The hormone cocktail of massive amounts of adrenaline and endorphins exacted a heavy toll when the high wore off. Feeling lightheaded, Natog went out front to get some air, and walked straight into a face full of muzzles for .01 seconds before being thrown violently to the ground and handcuffed. Shortly thereafter with cops screaming in his ear he puked his guts out.