whadmin

The Coming European Civil War

Part 15:  The Oath

     There were seven men in the room, and one woman.
One man stood up, and moved to stand behind a rostrum, on which several reports waited.
At the rostrum,he quietly looked over the group.
     “Electronic sweep complete?”
     “Complete – no bugs detected.”
The interrogation, reply and format was gruff, and created the impression of a well worn routine.
     “Comrades, first thing, as always, the Oath.”
Everybody stood, and placed their right hand over their heart.
     “I believe…”
The speaker led, and his small audience chimed in.

     “1.   I believe in the Sons of Wodan.
      2.   I believe in the sanctity of our cause, and that our ancient homeland should remain
           the abode of the peoples who have always lived here.
     3.    I believe in our own leaders. For the elected Political Masters have betrayed this
           country.
     4.    I pledge my complete loyalty to the Sons of Wodan. And, if required, my Life.
           So help me, God, and the spirits of our brave ancestors.
           I shall not flinch, or hesitate, not even in the face of the Descending Darkness,
           that threatens our loved ones. I shall never kneel to the 7th century, false,
           pedophile God from the blood stained desert.
           I turn to the man or woman beside me, and acknowledge him -or her- as my eternal
          comrade”.

Everybody turned, and shook hands with the person beside them. Some bumped fists.

The speaker continued briskly.

      “As Deputy Leader of Cell sixty-seven, with Gustav away on, emmm…, business, I call this meeting to order. First item on the agenda is the continued harassment of school children at the Primary School. Which has now inevitably ended in the rape of a six year old girl, and the attempted rape of two nine year olds. One of which was a little boy. Olaf has the latest…”
The speaker sat down, and a tall, gangly man stood up. He spoke haltingly for several minutes.
When he was finished, there were some questions. A cardboard map of the city was produced, and fingers traced access routes.
       “They are mostly from this refugee center here.. there are about two hundred and forty of them, and none of them work. They have nothing better to do than hang around. Now they have started coming to the schools, and loitering in front of the gates. They won't shift either. If the Police come, they take no notice, or they leave, and come back five minutes later…”
      “We will have Cell twenty-five available for immediate support, and at least one, maybe two more cells in reserve… I believe one is being brought in from out of town. I will know more later.”
      “Let's just go through the codes again. Make sure you remember to set to 'vibrate' only.  If you receive a 1-2-3 warning to break off immediately, don't query it…”

      *       *       *       *       *

       It was fun, watching the Swedish girls come out of school.
They were pretty. There was nothing to compare it with, back home in Eritrea. And Somalia. Niger. Or Chad. Or even Syria. With their uniforms, and their grey skirts. Their nervous smiles, or their blushes. Some giggled nervously, and some looked scared. But they all reacted, in their own way, to the ever growing press of foreign men, unashamedly ogling them. The girls did not understand the strange language, but on an intuitive, feminine level, they knew the dirty, mucky laughter was about them. The leering faces of hungry young men left little to the imagination. From ogling however, the stakes had been raised in recent months. It had started with ogling, leers, cat calls and crude come-ons. Via hands up skirts, tugging at clothing, or deliberately blocking the footpath, it had escalated to rape. It was no longer a game. Unless, a rape game.
      Often enough, teachers came out, and went through the motions of shooing the men away. Nobody took much notice. Certainly not of the women teachers, who had no authority. The male teachers were not much better. They too, dutifully, made the required hand gestures, facial and verbal invocations. Then, duty performed, they would quickly abscond to the illusory safety of the school building.  They were weak. Ineffective. Typical Swedish males. No balls.
      So the game continued. There was nothing else to do. Apart from eat, sleep, and think of sex, what else could you usefully do? Nothing. The Swedes were snobby. Condescending. Racist. Admittedly, there were the language classes. Free. Twenty-nine had started out. None had bothered to learn much. Only two remained still trying to learn how to say “There goes a cat.”
The teacher was still as enthusiastic as ever. But then he was probably getting paid for twenty-nine students. Not two dimwits.  
      There were more and more refugees hanging around the school every day now. The Police had been around a few times, but nobody took much notice. They never did anything. They never beat anybody, like back home. It was all talk. Meaningless. Who could respect that? There was no strength in words. Swedes were weak. Pussies.

       Ah, a new teacher? I haven't seen this one before. Oh. That's funny. This one thinks he is something. He is actually looking stern. He wants us to go. Well, we're not going. Fuck you. You want trouble? We give you fucking Swede trouble. Hey, you see? Now there are twenty of us. You like that? Run, Swedish pussy, run. You want to raise your voice and stand your ground? Fuck you. Fuck your wife. Fuck your daughter. You don't talk to us like that. Motherfucker. Hey!
      Oh. Now there's two of you. Big sons of bitches. No problem, we are twenty. Real men. We are from Somalia and Eritrea. And Niger and Chad. We know how to fight. You want to fight??? We show you how to fight.
      Oh. Where did they all come from? Shit. Ten of them. Big fuckers. Oh. Damn. OUCH! Shit! Run! Run! Fuck! Stop hitting me! Stop! Run! Okay, okay, I'm going! Okay, stop hitting me!                 

         *          *          *          *          *

The knock on his door was polite. He sighed. He already knew.
      “Come in!”
A young Police cadet stuck his face around the door.
     “Chief, the Mayor is here to see you.”
He sighed again. “Show her in.”
A minute later a regal presence swept in. Imperious and haughty, she wasted no time.
     “Well, and what do you have to say for yourself?”
He debated feigning ignorance. But it was no use. The liberal Mayor was here to chew his ass. And chew it she would. No matter what he said.
      “You mean that fracas at the school?”
She snorted contemptuously.
      “Of course I mean what happened at the school. Now you're allowing common street thugs to beat up refugees? Have you taken leave of your senses? Must I get somebody else who can do your job? The Imam has just come off the phone with me. He is most upset. He promises there will be consequences. I really don't need this. Broken noses and black eyes! I need you to immediately step up patrols to ensure this does not happen again! Do your job, or I will find somebody else who can! And stay off Facebook! You are in enough trouble already. Good day!”

      With that she swept out of his office. Leaving behind a tired man, contemplating a forty year career, and a once great and noble civilization.

       Both… in ruins.

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on February 11, 2017, 12:37 pm

The Coming European Civil War

Part 14:  Rogue Cops

       He had taken to staring out the window for long hours.
Silent, uncommunicative. Brooding. Worrying.
Staring into the distance. Seeing not the optical reflection of physical items within his range. Neat Swedish houses, white painted fences and neatly parked Volvo cars. Streetlamps, and the odd pedestrian. Seeing not the sky, the struggling pale blue and the dominant grey of a typical Swedish winter's day. But seeing far, nonetheless. Very far.
       She… observed him, and, loving him deeply, more than life itself, tiptoed around the house. She ached to not see him like this. She longed to be happy again, truly happy, as they had been when they had first been married, almost forty-six years earlier. For many years their lives had been blissful. They had raised children, made many friends, and he had achieved a very meritorious career in Law Enforcement. He had made promotions, and he would always come home bouncy. Serious crime had been rare in those days. Even then, he had absorbed the inevitable encounter with Great Ugliness with a stoic, career Police Officer's composure. He might come home quieter than normal, seemingly preoccupied, but always those rare excursions into the Twilight Zone of exposure to Man's inhumanity to Man, were rare events. Sunshine outweighed by far the Night. Their lives had been happy. His career, fulfilling. Their love, unquestioned.

And then…

Fifteen years earlier? No, more like twenty. He had started to come home more tired. His face drawn. Gaunt. His mouth hardened. His voice strained. He would sink into a chair, exhausted. She remembered it like a Great Shadow.  Creeping in, furtively, stealthily encroaching on their normally sunny meadows. At first he would talk about it. The immigrants. From Eritrea, from Somalia, from Niger, from Morocco, from Afghanistan. Welcomed by the Swedish Government. Welcomed by The Mass Media. Welcomed by Academia. Welcomed – at first – by most ordinary Swedes.

Then…

The uptick in crime. Violent crime. Especially, rapes. What was it about these immigrants that they were so eager and willing to viciously abuse the womenfolk of their unbelievably generous host country? He would come home, shocked, and angry, and describe, in hushed tones, as if the walls might have ears, some truly astonishing outrage. A young mother, dragged off the street into a car, amazingly in broad daylight, and taken away to be raped by a dozen men for days on end. It was, at first, so shocking that ordinary Swedes couldn't wrap their minds about it. Then there was that poor woman in a wheelchair, who gave a refugee a lift home. Back to the refugee reception center. Then asked to use the restroom. They had taken her wheel chair away, and a dozen men had viciously gangraped her in the restroom. Laughing. Joking. Three at a time. It was the stuff of nightmares, and it didn't make sense. How could flesh and blood men do this? He would come home angry, indignant, and tell her about it. He would be upset, indignant, shocked to his very core. And then, one day…

He had simply stopped talking about it.

She loved him so much. It was hard to know what hurt her more. Hearing the terrible tales of violent crime, hearing about lives destroyed, women -and children- left with horrendous physical wounds, even worse mental scars, or… simply knowing that he was bottling all that horror up inside him.
It hurt her to know how he wrestled with all that terrible knowledge.

She thought about the many distinct factors that upset him so much, and on some level burned him. Before, when he still talked about it, he had frequently marvelled at how impossible his task had become. The introduction, so quickly, of so many tens of thousands of men of foreign extraction, of no fixed abode, unable to speak or understand the Swedish language, and often enough unwilling to even try, had upended the traditional job of Police work. Rendered the hard almost impossible. Wrapped each offender and law breaker in an almost impenetrable mantle of anonymity, with the additional benefit of poor documentation, easily forged, and even more easily 'lost'. No fixed abode. And the considerable fringe benefit of being able to speak together in a whispered language nobody else had the faintest hope of understanding.

“Name…!”
       “Mohommad!”
“Papers!”
       “No papers!”
“Where are you from?”
       “Somalia!”
“Where are you staying?”
       “No understand!”
“WHERE – YOU -STAY…?”
      “Oh… errr…. THERE.” (pointing vaguely)
“WHERE – YOU – LIVE…?”
       “Oh…errr….. REFUGEE CENTER.”

“Name…!”
      “Mohammad!”
“Papers!”
       “No have papers!”
“Where are you from?”
       “Sweden!”
“No, where are you from before?”
      “Errr…. Syria!”
“You speak Arabic?”
      “No!”
“How can you be from Syria and not speak Arabic?”
       “No understand!”
“Where you stay?”
       “Errr…. there!” (pointing vaguely)
“Where you live?”
       “Errr….. Refugee center!”
“Which one? There are FOUR.”
      “Errr…. no understand!”

He would come home, affecting nonchalance. But she who loved her husband knew his eyes. And she recognized pain there, and soul searing frustration.
When he started to write of his feelings on Social Media, they almost had an argument.
She had protested feebly:
      “Hjalmar, Sweetheart, you only have three years ago before your retirement. Why risk everything? Why speak up now? Why make waves? Maybe they will fire you, and what will happen to your pension? What will become of us? And you will make us a target. Our family will be in the crosshairs…”
      “I have been silenced for fifteen years. Bludgeoned by the higher ups into a fearful, cowed, non-commentary. On pain of disciplinary proceedings. What sort of country am I leaving our children? Our grandchildren? How long can this descent into darkness, this spiralling out-of-control go on before we suffer a complete collapse of Order? And still the fools in Government appease and placate, pontificate and judge, about things such as Law Enforcement about which they have simply not got the foggiest clue. The ideologues are running mad. The University professors with their PH.D.'s in bullcrap. The academics in their heavily guarded, safe Ivory Towers. The young, the naive, the Social Justice types, living in La-la Dreamland, flaunting their virtue for all to see and mutually admire, with NO FRICKIN' CLUE about REALITY, until it sneaks up behind them and robs or vicously rapes them. At knifepoint. And even THEN they are pressured into keeping silent, for fear of 'upsetting the refugees', and jeopardizing their chances of asylum. What kind of lunatic asylum are we living in, where we voters consistently return into power those who openly seek to dilute our heritage. Dilute? Submerge! Kill! Exterminate!”
His voice had risen -uncharacteristically-in both volume and indignation. She had been stunned into silence, and had felt, for the first time, his anger. She had also tasted, more disquieteningly, an emotion that tasted very much like fear.  

His Social Media posts had provoked -unsurprisingly- an immediate storm of condemnation.

“Here we go; this is what I've handled from Monday-Friday this week: rape, rape, robbery, aggravated assault, rape-assault and rape, extortion, blackmail, assault, violence against police, threats to police, drug crime, drugs, crime, felony, attempted murder, Rape again, extortion again and ill-treatment. “

“Countries representing all the crimes this week: Iraq, Iraq, Turkey, Syria, Afghanistan, Somalia, Somalia, Syria again, Somalia, unknown, unknown country, Sweden. Half of the suspects, we can't be sure because they don't have any valid papers. Which in itself usually means that they're lying about their nationality and identity. “

He had been accused of racism, dereliction of duty, bringing the Police Force into disrepute, and the Lady Mayoress had personally called, furious.

No surprise.

It wasn't even a surprise when he was notified to report to a Police tribunal.

She locked herself in the bedroom, and wept.

After more than four decades of dedicated Police Work.

They were instituting disciplinary proceedings.

References:   

Gatestone Institute:   Swedish-cop-tells-truth about Migrant crime, is vilified immediately

Gatestone Institute:   Second Swedish cop opens up about migrants destroying his country

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on February 3, 2018, 5:27 am

The Coming European Civil War

Part 13:  Are too many Americans gun-toting Maniacs?

     
       The Old Man's study was quiet again. It was dark outside. Late evening, and a log fire now crackled away in the fireplace. Eddies of smoke swirled busily up the chimney, and occasional sparks and hisses livened up the steady burning of old timbers. The Old Man sat staring quietly into the fire, his mind obviously many miles away. Gustav could only wonder what he saw. He debated maintaining the meditative silence. But questions were bubbling in his mind. Tearing at the ragged edge of a dim realization. It was as if loose threads of thought and impressions, previously unassociated with one another, were teaming up together to field an increasingly tougher garment.  To be worn, possibly, into battle. To be tested by fire and rain. Wind, and storms to come. He was changing, in so many ways. He could see why 'they' had sent him here. This was a boot camp of sorts. A training school, but as much in the ideological realm as in the material, defensive, practical realm.
     But something was odd. There were still so many unanswered questions. Part of the puzzle was the enigma presented by the Old Man. Gustav realized that he still knew very little about Victor. Where he stood in the Sons of Wodan. Where he stood on the question of violence as a legitimate weapon in the boiling pot of Europe of 2017. What he personally believed. What he advocated.
     The firearms side of things was run briskly and followed a clear course. From handling, firing, disassembling more and more complex weaponry. They had started with a simple single action Ruger Blackhawk revolver. A simple six shooter. He had cut his teeth on that weapon. Many hundreds of rounds had been expended on a bewildering variety of targets. Then promotion onto a Ruger GP 100. Double-action. Again, hundreds of rounds. Dozens of targets. Often, against the timer. Around and over obstacles. Then a whole range of semi-automatics. Glock 17, Glock 21, Glock 23. Then a whole day spent machining his own Compact 80 Polymer lower half. Drilling, filing, sanding. All under the watchful eye of the Old Man. Then, shooting the Polymer 80. That strange thrill. Firing a weapon he had built himself. Finding that not only did it work. It worked flawlessly. He had put hundreds of rounds through it…
     The Old Man had not moved. He sat, quietly, gazing into the flames. He probably would not speak, until spoken to. And maybe that was it. Maybe that was exactly the problem. The firearms side of things was run to a tight program. Not so the ideological, political side. Victor responded to questions that Gustav asked about History and Politics. He was a mine of information. He suggested articles to read. Websites to research on the Internet. Videos to contemplate. He had a unique way of gently forcing Gustav to re-think a position, or an opinion. But he rarely led the discussion. He followed. He seemed content to let Gustav bring up the issues, and then respond to that. It was in this way that Gustav, although he knew he had learned much, felt that he was still flying blind.

       Maybe it was time to talk turkey…

     Gustav shook himself. A sense of resolution, determination, empowered him. Victor picked up on the movement, and looked across. His eyes were smiling.

       “Well, young man?”
Gustav wondered, then plunged right in.
      “I've learned a lot about guns. And I'm learning every day. I've gone from a quiet dread of them, to quietly confident. Guns no longer scare me. A child can pull a trigger. We have also talked about History and Politics at great length. But always, I feel as if you are holding a lot back. I feel you guide me in my development, you help me understand things I bring up, you point me to interesting articles or web pages. But I still know almost nothing about you. I know you are American, but you have a strong accent. Where are you from? I also know hardly anything about your relationship with Sons of Wodan. You have also several times mentioned the Visegard. But you have told me nothing about your relationship. You also talk with V4? I can tell you have been around guns for a very long time. I can see in your eyes that you have known violence. I can hear it in your voice sometimes, that you have been tested. I sense an experience. A certain knowing. Even without reading Evocatus, I knew that. But what happened to you? Where did you fight? Why?”
The room fell silent. The Old Man didn't stir.

       Minutes went by. Gustav wondered if he had caused offense. He need not have worried.
The Old Man seemed, if anything, quite pleased. His reply surprised Gustav.
     “Keep going, my young friend…”
Gustav, momentarily confused, could only stare.
      “I know there is more, Gustav. Feel free. Spout. Get it all off your chest.”
The words were spoken quietly, with a great calm. After a moment's pause, Gustav plunged right on.
       “So, I want to know. Is the organisation going to arm us? Can I expect gun manufacturing equipment to be sent to us? Will I be training in my men, the way you are training me? What next? Bomb making equipment? What are our orders going to be? Are we going to fight? When? How?”
       Silence reigned again. A long silence. At length, the Old Man addressed him, looking him quietly in the eyes.
       “Those are all good and honest questions. Some I can answer. Some not. Some I can only hint at.”
Gustav opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and stayed silent.
       “Firstly, Gustav, my background does not matter. The only thing that needs concern us is your future. My background is History. Some knowledge is dangerous. Some hidden knowledge, if it saw the light of day, could expose other people alive today to needless risk. Some memories are long. And dangerous. They last a lifetime. As you will discover…”
A log spat out a flaming spark. It sailed through the air, through the crack in the fire curtain, and extinguished itself on the tired green carpet. Victor continued quietly.
      “What you must understand is that events are unfolding so rapidly, so furiously, that many people are still reeling. Nobody knows exactly how this is going to play out. What is clear though is that many young men are angry. Angry with what they see as an invasion. Angry about the attacks on their women. Angry with their leaders, who appear to desperately seek to appease the Muslims at every turn. The laws are barely enforced where Muslims are concerned. But ferociously, with an unheard of intensity, where the slightest alleged infraction of a native European is concerned. Now, let's talk about guns…”
   Victor spoke in a calm manner, but Gustav sensed a deep passion.
      “What, Gustav, do most Europeans think about the American gun culture?”
      “They see Americans as gun toting maniacs. Obsessed with guns. Everybody shooting everybody else. A never ending Wild West shoot-out.”
       “Precisely. What percentage of Europeans feel that their system, where guns are either very hard to acquire, or impossible to acquire, is far superior to the American way?”
       “Oh, probably ninety per cent.”
       “Even with the terrorist attacks that have taken place?”
       “Well, that's true. Maybe less now. But I'm thinking a good seventy per cent would hold the American system in contempt.”
       Victor nodded. “Probably. Now, a question, were you surprised at the election of Donald Trump?”
       “Yes. I was staggered. I still can't figure that one out.”
       “Why were you so surprised?”
       “Well, all the polls showed Hillary Clinton with a huge lead. No contest. A looming white wash. All the commentators promised it. The Media…”
       “Precisely. The MEDIA. The MASS media. Bought and paid for. With their AGENDA. Don't you think those same silent behind-the-scenes power brokers and manipulators, that tried their absolute damndest to swing the election for Hillary Clinton, are equally hard at work in Europe?”
       Gustav thought for a while. “I suppose so.”
  Victor smiled. “No suppose-so about it. You can bet on that. Now, where do you get your impression from that all Americans are gun-toting maniacs, running around killing one another? Therefore, guns are BAD, and European laws are far superior?”
       “Well, from… Television, the News, magazine articles, hell, even movies.”
       “Precisely. In other words: from the same BIASED Mass Media sources. Right?”
       “Errrr…. I guess so.”
       “So here is a question for you: where is it safer to live? America, or Britain? America, or Sweden? America, or Western Europe?”
       “No comparison. Western Europe is much safer. MUCH safer.”
       “Are you sure?”
       “Errr…. yes.”
Victor walked over to a filing cabinet, and produced a manila folder. Patiently, he walked Gustav through a long series of articles, blogs and statistics. One prominent social media blog, dated June 21st, 2013 had received a lot of attention. It stated:

“There are over 2,000 crimes recorded per 100,000 population in the U.K.,” compared to “466 violent crimes per 100,000” in the United States.

Gustav stared at the statement, open mouthed. “Really? Is that true? The US is actually SAFER than the UK??”
Victor smiled. “Beware statistics. They can be skewered anyway the statistician desires. It's a bit more complicated than that.Here's one good article that puts that statement to the test. It's on www.politifact.com and it makes for an interesting read.
Gustav was quiet for a few minutes, while he studied the report. At length he remarked:
      “I see. That's more balanced. Nonetheless, it does imply that US crime statistics, corrected for categorisation and terminology, are still lower than the UK. Maybe even quite a bit lower. I would never have thought that.”
Victor smiled. “No, and that's because you have been quietly Mass Media brainwashed all your life. That's why you think America is like an ongoing scene from the Mad Max movie. With crazy, half naked, painted, stud and chain wearing psychopaths, racing around trying to kill you. The truth is different. Also, take several other factors into consideration. Crime in the USA is heavily skewered by the appalling mostly black-on-black crime statistics in a handful of major cities. Baltimore, Chicago, Detroit, New orleans, Los Angeles, etc. Outside those crime hubs, the crime rate drops dramatically. If you take that into consideration, you will be able to research many Internet sources that suggest crime rates in the US are significantly lower than the UK. Never mind Sweden. The sole exception that stands out is gun crime. The rate of homicide by gun is significantly higher than Europe, for sure. But even there, you have to be careful what you are actually looking at. Here's an interesting statement:

Suicide is the second-most common cause of death for Americans between 15 and 34, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Across all ages, it is the 10th-most common cause of death, and caused 1.6 percent of all deaths in 2012. Not all of those suicides are by gun, but a majority are.Oct 8, 2015

Gustav nodded. “I see. So presumably, if you reasonably conclude that those suicidally inclined in Europe will find an alternative means than a gun…”
Victor completed the sentence: “… then it is not unreasonable to assume that even that apparently grim statistic has to be seen in context. So that might lead you to wonder what percentage of gun involved homicides in the USA are in fact not murders of third parties, but suicide. Right?”
Gustav nodded.
Victor produced another report: “Here's an article from the New York Times.  It addresses the issue.”
Gustav read through carefully. When he was finished, he sounded surprised:
     “More than sixty per cent of gun deaths are suicide… wow.”
     “Wow indeed”, Victor replied. “But now sit back and think the whole thing through. You came to the United States convinced that crime here was WAY higher than Europe, right?”
     “Yes.”
     “You came here believing that everybody is running around shooting everybody else, right?”
     “Errr… yes.”
     “So now you can see the relentless, non-stop assault on American values that takes place in the European Mass Media. The wilful ignoring of the many thousands of times that an armed home owner has stopped a home invasion. Or a carjacking. Or that a young woman has prevented her rape and possible murder. None of that gets into the Liberal Media, not even here in the USA, and certainly not in the European Mass Media. Only the worst excesses, putting America in the worst possible light, gets any airtime over there. Factor in also that longtime Democratic strongholds, so-called gun-free zones, with some of the strictest gun laws on the planet, ALSO have the highest rate of gun crime. And if that isn't good enough, I have a task for you. Google what happened to gun crime in Australia after the 1997 gun buy back. Here's one link you might like, Snopes.com, but there are many other sources.”

He paused, and eyed his young house guest thoughtfully. Then he continued, quietly:
      “Here's the rub, Gustav. Guns in the hands of the right people save lives. Even when the bad guys only suspect that the good guys MIGHT have a gun, they feel inhibited. Crime and assault goes down. In most parts of the USA, carjacking, robbery and burglary is a dangerous profession. Sooner or later, you're probably going to get shot. But in the United States, a gun owner is a respected member of the community. He has a gun at home, and he may have another in his car or truck. It's perfectly legal. He can apply for a concealed handgun license, a so-called CHL, and after a background check and a short course, he can now carry a concealed weapon in public…”
Gustav shook his head: “That's incredible.”
Victor continued: “And you'll find American cops encourage people to get the CHL. That's because they know that by and large, armed citizens work to help Law Enforcement. Some have even dramatically intervened and saved the lives of cops. Statistics are available that show that legally armed CHL holders have a very, very small rate of behaving criminally or recklessly. The Good they do far outweighs the occasional hothead. By contrast, in Europe, a gun owner is automatically a terrorist, who risks twenty years in prison. If he's caught, nobody has much sympathy for him. Guns are BAD. People have been indoctrinated that way all their lives. So you have two completely opposing systems and philosophies where guns are concerned. America. And Europe. Which is better? That depends on your upbringing, your pre-suppositions, and your overall ideology. It's fashionable in Europe to be anti-American. Universities and academia unite in revulsion against those stupid Yanks. And that situation I think could have gone on for a long time. And then…”
He smiled.
       “Enter the Wild Card…”
Gustav looked blank. “The wild card?”
Victor nodded.

       “The wild card. By the name of Angela Merkel”.

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on February 5, 2017, 7:26 pm

The Coming European Civil War (12)

Part 12:  Guns or Flowers

    Crash!
               Tingggg…!  
    Crash!
               Tinggg….!
    Crash!
               ZINGGGGGGGG…..!

The echoes of gunfire died slowly away. His last well aimed shot on the hardened steel target had ricocheted away with an oddly pleasing ZINGGGGG, and he felt that peculiar, quiet, savage satisfaction known only to the shooter, who is beginning to master his art. He liked those targets. They rang, when you hit them, like a gong. Even in a rapid fire exercise, you knew exactly how well -or not- you were doing. He would find himself counting. Ten rounds in the magazine. Seven hits, Three misses. Fast magazine change. Drop the mag. Load a new one. Continue firing.

    Crash!
               Tingggg…!  
    Crash!
               Tinggg….!
    Crash!
               ZINGGGGGGGG…..!

Eight hits, two misses.  Rinse, wash, repeat.

   Crash!
               Ting……!

Nine hits, one miss.  Better. Better. The afternoon wore on. These shooting sessions were a staple diet. Victor coached quietly but steadily. Weaver stance. Trigger squeeze. Double tap. Re-acquire target. Faster. Spin around, shoot left. Three targets. ZINGGGGG…. Stop. Spin right. Two targets. ZINGGGG….

Gustav was developing favorites among the wide variety of weapons that Victor brought to the table. Only ten days earlier, having never touched a gun in his life, he had gingerly held a Ruger Blackhawk .357 single-action. On some deep level, convinced that the gun would turn on him. Perhaps it would levitate, turn around mid-air, and shoot him in the face. Guns were evil. Guns killed. Guns were best left alone, and never seen. Never mind, fired.

Now…

It was strange, but there had been a seismic sea change in his attitude. Having now handled a dozen different guns, dis-assembled them, cleaned them, re-assembled them, and fired the living heck out of them… all under the watchful eyes of the Old Man… he realized he had gone from secretly horror stricken/ terrified, via the stages of slowly increasing confidence, and then moderate confidence, to an almost comfortable familiarity. A gun was just a tool. If you handled it with respect, as he had been taught, and never pointed it at anything that might bleed, it was an innocuous implement. It didn't self levitate. It didn't wait until your back was turned, to then seize the moment to sneakily aim between your shoulder blades. In fact, it didn't do a single damn thing until you deliberately finagled it to do something. In fact, his whole attention was now focussed far less on the gun. He was much more fixated on the targets. They routinely fired from five to twenty-five yards. Fast draw. Multiple targets. Run. Weave. Bob behind cover. Pop up. Shoot. Repeat. Over, and over again.

    Crash!
               ZINGGGGGGGG…..!

He had also developed senses he had never even realized were there to be developed. Distance, range. Squeezing off the trigger with minimal muzzle flip. Dry-firing. Hundreds of times. Just practicing that feeling squeeze. The finger lick. No pull. No jerk. Just a massage of the trigger finger.
The revolvers were fine, but the trigger actions did not gave the same amount of feedback. Reloading in a hurry was cumbersome and slow. The speedloaders for the Ruger GP100 reminded him of a parachute. The disc from which six bullets dangled had to be inserted – all together- just right. It was easy to fluff it up, when you were in a hurry.

And they were always in a hurry.  Victor almost invariably used a timer now. The pressure – succinctly- was being ratcheted up all the time.

The semi-automatics, especially the Glock family, represented a newer generation of firearms. Much smoother trigger pull, more rounds available, and the reload was a breeze. Hit the magazine eject button, drop the magazine, slam in another one… In terms of speed, there was no comparison.

  

Gustav, despite the pressure of the timer and Victor's critical eye, found himself smiling quietly one day. Amidst a cloud of gunsmoke, with empty rounds being ejected in a constant rain of brass, he knew that he had somehow found his feet. Now he knew why he had been sent to America. This learning was amazing. The echoes died away again, and he pondered the Glock 23. It was his favorite. The Glock 17 in nine millimeter was fine, and held more rounds at seventeen. But he now shared Victor's slight disdain for the smaller round. The rumors of the diminutive nine millimeter round failing to penetrate leather jackets and car windscreens made a larger round more appealing, notwithstanding the velocity versus mass arguments that raged incessantly on various Internet gun forums. Then again, jumping up to the Glock 21, with its impressive .45 auto lead nugget, meant a larger cannon. Gustav shot well with it, and liked it, but after a few hundred rounds, he started to feel it.  A compromise seemed to him was the Glock 23 in the middle-of-the-range .40 Smith & Wesson caliber. Between both the nine millimeter and the .45 Glock 21, Gustav was most comfortable with the 23. Smaller and lighter, it concealed better as well.

One of his learning tools was a home made gun. Or, perhaps more precisely, a home finished gun. That he himself had manufactured, under the watchful eye of the Old Man. It was called a Polymer 80, and Gustav was proud of his work.

Only in America, he thought. The Land of the Free, where you could buy home build gun kits. Assemble them, fire them, all legal, without any Government paper work or oversight or approval whatsoever. It worked. It was every bit as reliable as the factory built Glocks, and Gustav hated to admit it, but he enjoyed shooting it. Try that in Europe!

Why…

Why did he feel a pang of guilt?

Why did he somehow feel he was betraying his upbringing? Betraying his superior non-gun culture back home? Betraying decency, and civilisation, by not following along with most people back home, who regarded guns as fundamentally evil? Who saw guns as representative of a backward, American, Wild West primitivism? An unnecessary presence in the much healthier, wiser, more compassionate culture of Western Europe? What would his old school mates say, if they saw him now? What would his former University colleagues say, if THEY knew what he was up to? They would have a week of FITS. The condemnation and ridicule would be torrential.

Aaaaaargh…

Even the thought of it was all too much.  
He reloaded mechanically, on auto pilot. One per cent of his mind focussed on the routine, well practised task. The rest of his mind wondered. And wandered. He thought of Maria Ladenburger. And he thought of Elin Krantz. He thought of his gentle younger sister, Tuva. And felt sad. Homesick.

He raised the weapon he had slaved over in the workshop, that he had tendered to with drill press and micrometer, files and feeler gauges, sandpaper and sweat, and squeezed delicately on the trigger…

A series of booms rolled around the countryside, echoing and reverberating. Messengers of salvation, or harbingers of doom. Keepers of Liberty or the obsession of backward, ignorant fools.

Gawd…

What was he becoming? He tried hard to think of his gentle, ultra Liberal little sister picking up a gun. It was a jarring thought. Women didn't shoot. Maybe in America. But back home? They unanimously hated guns. A life time of anti-gun propaganda was not easily balanced by an opposing view.

The booming died away, as a round failed to feed. Expertly, he dealt with the snag, and continued destroying steel targets.

The Old Man watched attentively.

Sadly.

His memories revolved as well. They went back decades.

And hurt.

Still.

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on February 5, 2017, 9:39 am

The Coming European Civil War

Part 11:  Welcome, refugees

Dear people of the world,

I bring you greetings.
My name is Ephrem Yohannes.
I am from Ethiopia.

My life has been very hard. We have had a terrible war in my country. If I stayed there, I felt I would have been killed.  I decided I had no choice but to escape my country, and flee to Europe.  I am desperate for a new beginning, and a happy life.  Will you help me?  I am a human being too. Don't  I deserve a chance? Can you honestly look into my face and deny me an equal opportunity?  Now that I have arrived in Sweden, it's still not easy for me. I am very grateful to the beautiful country of Sweden, and the wonderful Swedish people, but I am hurt that many people say nasty things about immigrants. They call us 'rapefugees' and spongers, and they say we will always live off welfare. They say we turn to crime, don't have any job skills, and that we don't even want to work when we are offered opportunities.  This is totally untrue.  I am just glad that we have many friends in the Swedish Government, and Swedish newspapers, who don't listen to all these horrible stories. They know that we bring a great multi-cultural diversity to Sweden, and that we are assets who bring unique human gifts to our host country. They support us, and so far they have brought many of us in. Sweden has a large population, 9.5 million, and in 2015 they only brought 160,000 refugees from the Syrian war in.  That's nothing. In 2016 they are expecting to take in another 190,000. But Sweden can easily handle that.
Thank you, people of Sweden, Government ministers and kind newspaper editors, for your humanitarian assistance, and your great nobility. The way you have reached out to us will never, ever be forgotten. I can assure you of that.  Again, all you deniers and nay-sayers, I ask you just to look into my face, and see there a human being with warm feelings, a good heart, who needs your love and support, and who will repay you with eternal gratitude.
Yours Sincerely,
Ephrem Yohannes

*                 *                  *                *           *

Dear People of the World,

I bring you greetings.
My name is Elin Krantz, and I am a Swedish model.

I love life and I love people.
I believe with a passion, that people like Ephrem Yohannes deserve every chance at human happiness.
I believe we should welcome them without preconditions. We may hope that they may assimilate, but it should never be an obligation. If they wish to keep their own cultural traditions, that is fine by me. We may even learn much from their way of Life.  I am very active on Facebook promoting the cause of these poor people. I sincerely believe we should always take into account that they have been through terrible times. To all those who oppose the arrival of these people, I emphatically say this:
1) Do you understand what many generations of such a hard life will do to ANY person? Imagine yourself going through such a hell – don't you think you would have a problem adjusting to Life in a free and stable country like Sweden is?  
2)  Our only difference is skin color. Pigmentation. Those who suggest that there are other differences, wide differences, are simply racist to the extreme. I am shocked how people will state that the refugees are frequently genetically disposed to much greater violence. They will also say these refuges have very low IQ's, frequently in the range of 75 to 85, which is borderline retarded.  This is simply so uncharitable. You have to give these people A CHANCE. Give them TIME to become acclimatized to Sweden. Give them TIME to heal from the terrors they have been through. SUPPORT them, feed them, cloth them. In TIME, they will come to fully appreciate our democracy, and our Swedish way of Life.
3) FAKE NEWS. I am so sick of fake news. It is only inevitable that there will be the very occasional crime committed by immigrants. So what? We Swedes also commit crimes. I truly believe that the accusations that these poor refugees are obsessed with raping Swedish women are totally exaggerated. I trust our Government. They would never lie to us.  They would never hide information from us. The reports that there is a crime wave are totally fabricated. That is the work of mean-spirited far right extremists.
So, please, good people, join me. Let us simply  love and support the refugees. Let us open our borders, without preconditions or quotas, and above all else, let us open our hearts.
Yours Sincerely,
Elin Krantz

*           *               *             *            *

FROM THE DESK OF THE EDITOR  –  URGENT

TO ALL JOURNALISTS – PLEASE NOTE – BY ORDER
Re:  Elin Krantz
This news item is not news worthy, and will under no circumstances be published or alluded to in any manner.  

*           *           *             *             *

FROM THE DESK of THE MINISTER – to THE EDITOR

The Minister wishes to thank your newspaper for heeding our caution, and refraining from indulging in sensationalism, or maligning our open-door policy of a warm Swedish welcome to the poor unfortunates of the world. We are very grateful for your understanding and support.

*         *             *             *            *

POLICE EVIDENCE:

FOOTNOTES:

1)  (click on this link) The Gentleman concerned LIVED IN THE USA for a while, and committed NUMEROUS CRIMES++++  
                Maybe, Liberals, Mr Donald Trump HAS A POINT with his travel ban??

2)  (click on this link)  If only Elin Krantz had used her super magic Jedi Force Field Powers

3)  (click on this link)     Swedish woman murdered by the Muslim refugees she supported

4)   (click on this link)    Man Guilty of ruthless Gothenburg killing – court

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on February 10, 2017, 10:38 pm

The Coming European Civil War

Part 10:  The Other Allah

     
       The presiding British Judge in his wig and gowns, spoke slowly and emphatically.
With as much ancient legal pomp and ceremony as he could muster. Secretly though, he was nervous. Whilst he talked, and feigned unruffled legal calm, he nervously scanned the tense audience in the hushed court room. He should have simply insisted on more Police Officers. They never sent him enough officers. The audience was packed by immigrants. Many were wild looking men, with bushy beards, rolling eyes, and the peculiar Pakistani dress that set them so apart from native Brits. They wore loose pants, that seemed a cross between a baby's pyjamas and a maternity gown, and over long shirts that hung down their front like the same baby's bib. Often down to or even below the knee. With their ever present dark scowls, and the frequent angry outbursts, the court room was hard to control. Disrespect hung heavily in the air. He was definitely not used to being jeered and heckled in his own court room. But today promised to be the worst.

He had to read the verdicts out. Sentencing. The end game.

Next time, he would just have to insist. That sallow-faced, mournful looking Police Superintendent would just have to listen up. The court needed more cops. And of course, there would be a next time. Many next times. He was just staring at the tip of the iceberg.

A few minutes later, he had read the verdicts. Interrupted by shouts, snarls, foot stomping and much muttering, that openly defied his practised glare. But the reactions of the defendants took the biscuit. Upon being sentenced to multiple years in prison for a stunning litany of child rapes, child molestations, child sexual grooming and assault, Amjad Ali, thirty-eight, formerly from some Muslim Pakistani village, now a British citizen from Muslim Worksop, proudly proclaimed his faith.

ALLAHU AKBAR…!

Tayab Dad, thirty-four, also formerly a Muslim Pakistani from a small, rural village, with limited electricity and dubious sanitation, now a proud British subject from St Lawrence Road, Tinsley, not to be outdone, greeted his multi-year sentence with an even louder celebration of… faith?

ALLAHU AKBAR…!

Their plentiful supporters in the crowd, seemingly quite unphased by the full glare of ancient, time honored (?) British Justice, chanted, cheered, and foot stomped.

ALLAHU AKBAR…!

The Judge sighed, behind the glare, and noticed the demoralized, weary, utterly fed up Police Officers move in to go through the motions of pretending to severely warn the rowdy protesters. Had an Englishman exhibited a fraction of such temerity in Court, he would have been forthwith arrested, cuffed, and been subject to the full wrath of British Law. An entirely different set of rules were applied to the defiant, wild looking Pakistani British, with their rolling eyes and their wild beards. It seemed almost everything was quietly accepted, with just a ritual adherence to tired, dispirited, and wholly ineffective British Legal Conventions. You weren't supposed to behave like that in a British Court of Law.

ALLAHU AKBAR…!

Would they ever shut the hell up? Reading the sentencing was going to take forever at this rate.

*              *               *              *           *

       Later that evening, the Judge, in the comfort of his home, sipped thoughtfully at a Gin and Tonic. He needed it. In the company of his wife, and some invited legal friends, they were discussing the amazing unfolding of the great Rotherham Child Rape scandal. It seemed everybody was aghast, and everyone was talking at once.
“They have NO respect in Court. Simply ZERO.”
“How long has this been going on for? This is February 2017. This started back in 1999! This is just ONE town! Seventeen years to bring these animals to Justice?”
“Professor Alexis Jay talks about 1,400 cases in the town of Rotherham alone. Population only about 250,000 souls. That's just the tip of the iceberg, in ROTHERHAM ALONE. What the hell is going on across the country?”
“When the Police Commissioner responsible for children's services, that Shaun Wright fellow, refused to resign, and had to be dragged before Parliament, what does that tell you about people in official power lacking any shame?”
“It cost a few people their jobs, the Chief Executive and Leader of the Council, and four Labour Party Town councillors, but the rot goes much deeper. Social workers, Police, all looking the other way.”
“No, they were just suspended for a while. They weren't sacked.”
“Really? You're kidding!”
“Really.”
“And what the hell has Allah got to do with it? Shouting Allahu Akbar in court? Do they see themselves as religious martyrs or something?”
“Yes, they do.”
“What, it's a RELIGIOUS THING?”
“Yes, for many of them. It's permitted and encouraged by many followers of Islam. Positively condoned by many radical hate preachers.”
“You're KIDDING.”
“I wish I was. Believe me. You haven't seen anything yet. Just wait until they breed their numbers up.”
“You can't say that. That's disrespectful.”
“Sorry, but it's also true.”
“Do you think Enoch Powell was right? Rivers of blood, and all that?”
“Yes.”
There was a chorus of dissent. Arguing. Back and forth.

The old Judge, sadly, sipped his Gin and Tonic. In the privacy of his mind, he was free to think that which could never be said in public. Multiculturalism had been and continued to be an unmitigated disaster for Britain. He sighed in his heart, and worried deeply.
And thought of his grand daughters, innocent, so young, so beautiful.

Facing a terrifying future.

(to be ctd)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on February 3, 2017, 9:12 pm

The Coming European Civil War

Part 9:  DREAMS to ALLAH

      Karim, the stonemason, paused in his step, panting a little.
There was no elevator in the building where they lived, just endless staircases to be climbed.
At least it was cool, he reflected patiently, living on the rooftops.
And it was quieter. The teeming noise of the Cairo slums was always present, but muted somehow. After the horrible, fume and grime wracked journey home from work, and the tiresome trudge up a dozen staircases, worrying about the cracked masonry and the rotten boards, it was a relief to be back at home. His young daughter would greet him with a squeal of delight, and rush to her papa's embrace. How he loved his daughter! He would hold her lovingly, caressing her soft hair, and musing quietly into her ear.
“There now, my little flower… have you been helping your mother today? And how is your little brother been behaving?”

Photo:  A gift from Allah

And she, proudly, all of eight years old, would tell him how she had been washing shirts, and helping her mother run their small laundry business. It brought in a much needed dollar-and-a-half a week, and together with his meager earnings as a laborer, they managed to make ends meet. Their four dollars a month rent was his chief worry, and once the first of the month had passed, and he had managed once again to pay the rent, it was with a feeling of relief that he could relax on that score for another four weeks.
      His little girl, his happiness, his beautiful gift from Allah, was bubbling on happily about her day's work, and about her little baby brother, whom she adored. He nodded and smiled, and winked at his wife. She smiled back, cradling their four year old son, who was asleep in her arms. His angelic face, peaceful and innocent in his dreams, radiated that quiet bliss, that simple trusting, that children have in their perceptions of the goodness and infinite love of their parents.
At night, after their simple meal, as the children would fall asleep, he would busy himself around their humble home. Arranging the corrugated iron sheets a little better, or propping cardboard in some cracks. It didn't rain very often, but when it did, the water poured in through a dozen small cracks, and they would have to frequently empty the plastic tubs and the old Coke cans they used to catch the incessant drops. He had found some old plastic sheeting, and that addition, weighted down with four worn out truck tires, had improved things a lot. Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate, was good to them. His wife and he were lucky, compared with many others. At least they had a home, and a roof over their heads. They had two beautiful children. His gaze would slide over to the two little bundles of loving huddled beside him, in the unsteady flickering light of the kerosene lamp, and his pride and delight as a father would overcome him. When the call to the faithful came, echoing and melodic, he would leap to the task, and roll out his prayer mat with joy in his heart. He would pray to Allah in gratitude, and thank his God for all his many blessings. He would pray for his children, and their future. He would pray for his people, and the nation of Egypt. And he would pray for the people of the world as he knew it. Even the Americans were included in his prayers. Those infidels, the strange ones, the aggressors against the Arab people. The providers of guns and tanks and missiles to the Jews. Even for them, he would pray.

Photo:  The Quran      by Amoor

       Perhaps, one day, they too would come to realize their need for Allah. Perhaps, one day, even the Americans, would come to know the depth, the magnificence, the infinite mercy…of Allah. He would frown in his prayers, as he thought back to the events that had transpired. The attack on America of September the eleventh. Their big buildings, proud and tall, tumbling down into the dust. He had seen the pictures on his rich cousin's black and white television set. His rich cousin, who had electric. And running water. He even had his own toilet. And the television. Propped up on the table, with the room overflowing with people, he had stared at the destruction with his jaw sagged open. Around him, his friends and neighbours had cheered and danced, and gone hysterical with delight. He too had tried to feel elated and exultant, swept along with the emotions of his companions. But later, whenever he had prayed, the pictures of burning people leaping to their deaths from the towers would come to his mind. It was hard… to hate those people. Who were dying, so horribly. And he would pray for them. Allah…was merciful. Allah… would forgive them. For being Americans. For being so proud.
He knew in his heart, with an utter certainty, that Allah…would receive them.

       And then there were the Jews. Everybody hated the Jews. They had stolen the land of the Arabs. They oppressed their neighbors, and they used American money to hold on to their ill gotten bounty. Yes, everybody hated the Jews. But he would frown again in his prayers. The concentration would be etched all over his face, his eyes shut tight, as he poured out his heart in silent praise to Allah…

“But you, Oh Great One, you have all powers…

Photo: the All Seeing One    

With your hand you could smite the Jews if you so wished! You could rain lightning and thunder on their heads! Yet you do not! Is it because they too are your people? Like all the people of this dark world?”
And his fingers, trembling with devotion, would search through his treasured Koran, for the verses he loved. He would recite them quietly to himself, and then be silent, letting the words trickle through his thirsting spirit. He knew, Allah was good. Allah was wise. Whatever Allah was doing, or waiting for, it was Good. Allah would deal with the Jews, in His own time. Maybe they too, for all their evil, for all their sins, for all their thievery, maybe they too.. were His people.
Maybe, one day… it was his dream. Maybe, one day, all the people on the earth would see Allah. Maybe, one day, all the people would come to realise they were brothers and sisters. Maybe, one day… there would be peace. Oh, these dreams… How he cherished them! To be friends with the Americans! To be friends with the hated Jews!

      His lips moving in silent prayer, he would gaze up into the heavens, and watch the contrails, high, high up in the sky. What were those long, shining white lines, that criss-crossed the dome above his head? Oh, he knew they were airplanes, with people on board, but what made those long white plumes? Sometimes, if he squinted his tired eyes, and looked very carefully, he could just see the tiny tip of the spear. The bright pin at the head of the plume. Tearing across the pale Egyptian sky.
How wonderful it must be to be up there! In his dreams, he too would go on a flight to America. Would he be able to see Allah from up there? How much would it cost? Thirty dollars? More? That was an impossible sum. He was lucky to make that in three months.
How long would it take? An hour? Two hours? A week? How wonderful it would be to spend an hour or a week so close to Allah!

He would sigh, knowing full well he would never leave this district in Cairo. Maybe his children would have the chance. Maybe they would fly in an airplane one day. If he could afford an education for them. How he loved his children. His gifts from the Compassionate One…

He would finish his prayers, and return to his humble abode. A quiet man, a modest man, a poor man by Western standards.
And a man wholly unaware… of the immense richness of his spiritual life.

* * * * *

At thirty five thousand feet, in the first class cabin, the sour faced man in the Saville Row suit in seat 1A was being whispered about by the cabin staff. He was demanding and surly, and complained about everything. He rejected the wine, and was snarly about the Caviar. His steak was tough, and the silverware stained.
Beside him, his beautiful companion, displaying immaculate make up and a gaggle of diamonds and glitter, pretended to be asleep. How she hated him! How her children hated him! How everybody hated him! She would bide her time, but when she did strike, she would go for the jugular. Her lawyer was already quietly compiling the case. Pre-nuptial agreement or not, she would have his financial guts before she was through….

Photo by a_kartha

He gave up on the steak, which was utterly inedible. The fools! The service was once again abysmal! That was it! At the next board meeting, he was making it an urgent priority for the company to bite the bullet and invest in their own private commuter jet. With their own staff. It was simply intolerable to expect him to travel under these tiresome conditions. It angered him to suffer such appalling cabin service. The fact that he couldn't just relief his frustrations and summarily fire somebody, as was his habit, annoyed him even more.
He looked out the window, and realized they were passing over Cairo. Cairo! How he hated that place! With its stinking, sprawling slums. With up to seventy thousand people per square mile. With no running water, totally inadequate sewerage, massive congestion and hopeless education system. Cairo! A nuclear strike would be the best thing that could happen there. It was full of stinking Muslims anyway. It would be doing the world a favor.

He continued to gaze out the window, morosely, and looked down, quite oblivious to the fact that another human soul was, at that precise moment, gazing up… at him.

From a kneeled position.

On a tired, well used prayer mat.

(to be ctd)

The Coming European Civil War

Part 8:   Maria Ladenburger

        “You asked me the other night if I could kill a man. I've been thinking about it.
I think I've reached a conclusion. ”  

       The Old Man stopped typing quietly away at the coffee stained keyboard. He turned around, his expression neutral, and observed his young house guest. His voice was gentle, and he spoke thoughtfully.
        “What have you decided? “
There was a pause. Gustav seemed to be studying the faded cream carpet carefully. He sighed.

        “I've decided that the system in Europe is breaking down, but very few people will admit it. Least of all Big Government, and Big Government supporters. We still seem to have this widespread, almost child-like faith in the basic goodness of Government. And indeed, the wisdom of Government. It's like there is this widespread assumption that if people are elected into power, they must know what they are doing. That's a dangerous fallacy. But an even more dangerous fallacy is one that elected politicians make. Namely that, simply because they are elected, they now suddenly, magically possess all the knowledge and skills required to make decisions on all sorts of matters. Maybe because they read a book or two, a white paper here and an internal memo there, NOW -hey, presto!- they are able to run the Banks better than the Bankers, Hospitals better than Doctors, build roads and bridges better than Engineers, and sit in supreme judgment of what is good for the country as a whole, better than the common, ordinary plebs who live there… It kind of makes me mad. “

The Old Man nodded sympathetically.

       Gustav plunged on. “Sweden in the early 1970's was a homogeneous, peaceful culture. Extremely low crime rates. All on their own, the elected fools decided to deliberately turn Sweden into a multi-cultural paradise. A New Utopia.  A triumph of self proclaimed wisdom and foresight. And the sheeple went meekly along with it. I don't think there was a voice raised in protest inside parliament. The decision was unanimous. There was no Enoch Powell, to stand up and warn of unseen dangers. Standing bravely against howls of outrage, with fools competing against one another, to see who could muster the worst indignation. And look what they've done to a once peaceful country… “

His voice trailed off, and his teeth clenched.   “What do you think, Victor? “

       The Old Man pondered. At length, his reply was soft:    “Gustav, it doesn't matter what I think. It's what you think that matters now. You, and your brothers-in-arms. I'm here as a sounding board. To help you develop your own thinking. In the final analysis, your leadership know only too well the range of furious, relentless forces aligned against you all. They recognize the ever present and extreme dangers of infiltration, electronic surveillance, micro recording devices, and DNA forensic techniques. They know that if the Sons of Wodan are to survive as a viable, effective and growing organization, that the many individual cells need to be given a lot of autonomy.  To be able to survive the State sponsored destruction of cells on steps above your own, as well as below. To be able to make tactical decisions locally, within a strategic General Plan. I'm not here to feed you doctrine. I'm here to make sure you see clearly into the Long Dark. Because… “

He sighed quietly. And a momentary look of intense reflection passed across his face.

        “Because, my young friend, that is exactly where you and your countrymen are now heading. “
It was Gustav's turn to nod in agreement. “I know it. Europe's politicians are crazy. Angela Merkel had already been in power way too long when she made that bullshit open-door commitment. She wasn't thinking. She certainly wasn't consulting with anybody. She believed her own hype. She suffers from massive delusions of her own wisdom and farsightedness. She has single handedly achieved the unthinkable: the coming destruction of Europe as we know it. And its native people. “

The Old Man interjected: “Are you sure she was single-handed? “

       Gustav was silent. There was anger in the set of his jaw. He was thinking of Maria Ladenburger.

Maria Ladenburger the idealist. The believer in people. Kind hearted, gentle, compassionate. Medical student, migrant home volunteer. Daughter of a prominent European Union official. Starting Life. Full of Hope and Promise.

      Raped and murdered.

By a recently-arrived, purportedly 17-year-old migrant from Afghanistan. With a criminal record.  What angered Gustav the most was the Media silence. The refusal by German State Media to air the story. The pitiful excuses offered. It was “too regional “.  They didn't “comment on individual stories “. The actual intent was crystal clear. As always, to keep from the unsuspecting German public the true scale of the rape and crime epidemic, since mass immigration began.  But the German people just kept on putting up with the unforgivable. The mass rapes in Cologne on New Year's Eve 2015, when over one thousand women had been assaulted, had been kept quiet for a week. The lack of news could have endangered many other women. Even after a week, the news had only come out because of pressure from Breitbart London, and other so-called alternative news sites. Who, Gustav wondered, were the REAL news sites? Certainly not the Government sanctioned media, or the office of the insane, Far Left, fervently pro-immigration Madam Mayor of Cologne. Henriette Reker. Who had initially raged indignantly against the suggestion that the perpetrators were North African refugees. Who had then put insane pressure on the Head of Police to keep quiet. Followed by an equally asinine victim blaming. In her deluded logic, the women should have just kept the men “at arm's length ” and all would have been well…

“Victor, did you read about the Mayor of Cologne? “

“Yes. Henriette Reker. The arm's length proponent. “

“Did you know there was an assassination attempt on her? Some guy chopped her neck with a knife in October 2015. Put her in intensive care. “

“I read about it. That's how she got narrowly elected. Sympathy vote, and her opponent withdrew like a gentleman. She shamelessly grabbed the opportunity. Mad woman. “

“To answer your question:  Firstly, Merkel had lots of help. There is a whole team of Henriette Rekers out there. All part of the Merkel Mutual Admiration Society basking in their own virtuous morality. In their deranged minds, because they think they are so morally superior, it's perfectly okay to lie and cheat, suppress news that their citizens have a right to know, and bluster and bully their way rough shod over dissenting opinion. Tout est permis aux heros. It's ridiculous, and I'm sick of it. “

He paused for breath. His teeth clenched momentarily.

“Deep down, I know I could kill the so-called teenager who dragged Maria Ladenburger off her bicycle, and raped and murdered her. And then threw her body in a river. “

He got up, walked over to the table, and selected a shiny black semi-automatic. He deftly checked there was no magazine. Then, expertly, he checked there was no round in the chamber. Weighing the weapon in his hands, he continued thoughtfully, aware of how much he had learned already in a mere ten days:

“The man who raped and killed Maria Ladenburger deserves to die.  If I got the chance, I would do it. In a heart beat. The fact that he is now shielded and his anonymity is protected, because he claims to be a teenager, is just a measure of how far the insane Left will go to inflict their warped vision on Europe. They even used that poor girl's funeral as a fundraising event to raise money for more immigrants. Their excuse was that she would have wished that, because she was pro- mass immigration… “

He walked over to the window, and aimed the empty weapon at a distant imaginary target. His finger moved slowly to the trigger.

“And as far as the assassination attempt goes on Henriette Reker, the mad and twisted, delusional Mayor of Cologne. Who doesn't give a flying fig about the safety of her own citizens, as long as her immigrant Utopia takes place, all I can say is, that it's a shame her attacker used a knife. He tried hard, but he obviously didn't have access to one of these … “

There was a dry 'click' as the firing pin closed on an empty chamber. The trigger, squeezed off carefully, never disturbed the rock steady, unwavering aim of the black muzzle.
He turned to the Old Man, who sat, silently watching and listening.

“And all I can say about that omission and lack of equipment is one thing. “

His eyes were hard.

“Pity. “

(to be ctd)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on February 8, 2017, 2:43 am

The Coming European Civil War

Part 7:  'Eric'

       The Old Man leaned back in his chair, and placed the tips of his fingers thoughtfully together.  His thumbs touched, and he closed his eyes.  An observer might perhaps have thought he was sunk in prayer. In fact, his mind was pondering an article he had just finished reading. He had come across it on a website named 'European Civil War.com'  which he followed regularly. Which in turn linked to 'the local.se'   A touchy-feely European publication, with some Left Wing editorial staff seemingly totally dedicated to enabling and facilitating the submersion and inevitable submission of the Swedish culture to the specter of Islam . Dressed up -predictably-  in the most idealistic gloss possible, positively serenading a Left Wing, Liberal, soaring virtuousness, the article was adorned with rainbow photos that triumphed hugs and love for all.
      It was about a young Swedish idealist named 'Eric'.  A poster child for those wishing to welcome unlimited amounts of refugees. Feeling, emotional, intense, almost Messianic in his zeal, a young  'reverse crusader' was pictured hugging refugee children, and smiling.

I completed high school at the start of the refugee influx. I'd been working and saving money but didn't have any real commitments. And I had always wanted to volunteer and help. So in September 2015 when I saw that refugees were suffering from the long journey across Europe, and agonizing in the very same spots where I used to go on holiday, I couldn't not react. I had to do something. The first thing I did is donate ‎500 Euros of my own savings; I started offering what I had on hand. Then a friend of mine who was volunteering with a Swedish humanitarian organization told me that people were in need for blankets in Hungary. I could mobilize people in our municipality to collect blankets for refugees – and so that's what we did. But that wasn't enough for me, I wanted to be more involved. It was obvious that many people were not doing anything to help. And then came calls for the borders to be closed. I and three friends of mine took a different stance. We managed to raise 3,000 Euros in donations from family, friends, and people in our hometown that allowed us fly to Hungary to aid refugees en route to Austria in September 2015. Trains carrying 1,500 people transported refugees closer to Austrian borders every hour. Nonetheless, refugees still had to walk for two to three hours to reach the closest Austrian customs checkpoint. It was a tough journey on foot. So, we decided to walk part of the way with the refugees and did our best to offer them what they needed along the way. We gave them information to guide them throughout their march to their final destinations.

The Old Man sighed.  Through the maelstrom of piercing memories, images spun, advanced and receded. Sound bytes echoed through his mind. He saw himself, as he often did, as a small child, running down a corridor, with the sound of children playing, and distant adults coldly giving orders. There was the old playground, with the rusty swing set, and here was the University library, peaceful, seemingly an endless oasis of knowledge and learning. Then there came, explosively, scenes from the Bogside Massacre -Bloody Sunday-, and Father Edward Daly, waving a bloody handkerchief, stooped, trying to clear a safe passage for a dying man.

And here, rushing through his psyche, came again that helpless feeling. That bewildered, stunned, impotent, utter loss of faith in an institution, that a man never forgets. In this case, the British Government, and their handling of the so-called 'investigation' into the extraordinary circumstances of  the violent deaths of fourteen people. The report from the Widgery Tribunal (http://cain.ulst.ac.uk/hmso/widgery.htm)   had left him shocked and saddened. Even the language used screamed 'Whitewash' from every carefully measured syllable.

The Army case is that each of these shots was an aimed shot fired at a civilian holding or using a bomb or firearm. On the other side it was argued that none of the deceased was using a bomb or firearm and that the soldiers fired without justification and either deliberately or recklessly.
11. There was no general breakdown in discipline. For the most part the soldiers acted as they did because they thought their orders required it. No order and no training can ensure that a soldier will always act wisely, as well as bravely and with initiative. The individual soldier ought not to have to bear the burden of deciding whether to open fire in confusion such as prevailed on 30 January. In the conditions prevailing in Northern Ireland, however, this is often inescapable.

1972…  It seemed like a life time ago. And yet, the memories were sharp. The loss of faith in the Government line was absolute. An abrupt loss of faith. Overnight. An embittering experience.

We offered water, food, and helped carry their kids or bags. Many of them were about to faint from the journey since they had already suffered through harsh conditions before arriving in Hungary. In October we were back in Sweden and found many refugees were arriving to our hometown of Ingarp, part of Eksjö municipality in Småland in southern Sweden.Here again, my friends and I created a small initiative called Medmänniskor Hjälper to prop up newcomers among us. Locals in our town donated clothes and other household items that we later distributed to newcomers. We organized more activities such as sports and movie nights. Refugees needed a warm welcome…

The Old Man smiled sadly.  The Government Line triumphant. That pure faith of the young. That shining belief that Government knows best. That Government can always be trusted. Oh, the joy of being firmly and nobly entrenched on the side of the chivalrous, the virtuous, the harbingers of a better future!

Refugees needed a warm welcome…

Somewhere, was there a voice crying in the wilderness? Even in young Erik's obviously highly self satisfied mind?  Whoever said that most were fighting age young males? Lies, obviously.  Unworthy of comment by noble Erik. Whoever commented on the stunning lack of women and children amongst these 'refugees'…? Lies, obviously. Unworthy of comment by noble Erik. Whoever complained that the Swedish rape statistics were through the roof? Lies, obviously. Unworthy of comment by noble Erik. Whoever wrote that Islam trampled on the rights of women and minorities, and had 1400 years' worth of experience of infiltrating, breeding, overtaking, conquering, subjugating and annihilating? Genocide on steroids? Lies, obviously. Unworthy of comment by noble Erik.  Whoever suggested that Erik was a dupe, easily spoon fed a national, voluntary, self- suicidal party line for innocents and sheep? Lies, obviously. Unworthy of comment by noble Erik.

Refugees needed a warm welcome…

Next stop: Greece   The scenes from Lesbos in Greece saddened me indeed. I still can't get the terrible images out of my head showing hundreds of people sleeping on the ground without a roof. It was December 2015 when I saw countless refugees shivering in despair in the freezing winter on that island. There weren't enough places in camps to shelter everyone. I joined a group of volunteers at the notorious camp Moria on Lesbos. A few months later, in March 2016, I joined volunteers with another Greek NGO called Emergency Response Centre International (ERCI). It was very frustrating as we wanted to share the burden with others, but it felt like we really weren't able to help much at all.However, we helped as many families as we could among those suffering most from the freezing temperatures. They were cold, wet, and soaked to their bones. We gave them clothes and hot food, and a small taste of relief.
Heart-breaking moments In 2016, hundreds of refugees were still arriving to the Greek shores. In March I moved to Lesbos and joined ERCI there also to patrol the coastline and help refugees who might struggle to make it ashore in the rough and unpredictable seas. We basically worked as lifeguards, spotting boats and helping prevent people from drowning.Throughout the time of my volunteering I came across both hopeful and heart-breaking moments. Some boats arrived with everyone healthy and alive and smiles on their faces; others arrived with people crying and moaning out of fear, or from losing their loved ones.
One time a boat arrived with two corpses aboard. That shocked me. However, there wasn't time to think much; only to act, and that's what usually happens in such moments. My colleagues and I pushed the bodies off the boat and continued to help the other lucky ones who survived.
Emotional recovery usually came during rare moments of rest, and talking to each other helped us volunteers 'heal' and get over the trauma. Spending the day aiding people and making sure I could stand by every refugee that needed my help was actually the best medicine against emotional deterioration.
A message to Swedes and other Europeans I'm always ready to go anywhere; wherever there are people on the run in need of help. I think it's a shame most European countries have shut their borders in the faces of refugees. Just ask yourselves how you would react if you were in these refugees' situation! How would you like to be treated? Would you favour being shunned and rejected by other capable societies? I don't think so. European states are using resources to deploy soldiers, tighten borders, install walls and fences, and use tear gas, rather than using those resources to help vulnerable fellow humans.   
A message to refugees of the Syrian war You need to know that despite all the misery in your lives, there are lots of great people out there doing their best to help.We hear you and feel your pain. I know it feels like the whole world has failed to end your suffering, but I hope that you hear me and know that I'm standing by you, and that you are not alone.

The Old Man smiled, sadly. It was strange to sense an element of deja-vue. It was strange to be torn between different emotions on the subject of young Erik, and the young fellow's hectoring-lecturing, supremely moralizing, ringing call for opening the borders, helping all those 'vulnerable fellow humans', without seemingly any other boring consideration impinging on the simple purity of his morally (far) superior stance. If the adults in the room wouldn't help, then he, Erik, would step gloriously up to the plate. Roll the credits! Emotional music! Tears! Hugs! Erik is here!

The Old Man chuckled. His own conflict in emotions dryly amused him. The urge to slap the shit out of Erik was very strong. But Victor knew if he ever met the young man, he would probably hug him.

And THEN…

Slap the shit out of him.

(to be ctd)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on January 27, 2017, 11:17 pm

The coming European Civil Wars

Part 6:  Fists and pickaxe handles

       It was the following evening, and once again Gustav was sitting thoughtfully in the Old Man's study. Another full glass of wine reflected a dull Burgundy, and implied the arrival of another quiet, but thoughtful conversation.
The Old Man was reading emails, and occasionally typing replies. His expression was thoughtful, but unflustered. When at length he turned to face Gustav, he recognized in the young man's earnest face a query.
“Well, Gustav, you have a question…?”
The eyes seemed to hint at amusement.  Gustav gathered his thoughts. Then he plunged right on in.
“I'm not the first one to come here, am I?”
The Old Man smiled.
“No, you're not.”
Gustav continued: “How many have been here?”
“Does it matter?”
Gustav nodded. “Yes, it matters.”
“Why?”
The question came softly, without a trace of hostility.
“Because… because I feel I'm on the verge of a very important decision. That will affect the entire rest of my life. I want to know how many are in it with me. To this degree of… commitment.”
There was a long silence. At length, Victor spoke. When he did so, he was looking out the window, into the middle distance. He spoke softly, in an almost dream-like tone, as if he was looking somewhere in the far-off distance.
“Gustav, you are right to wonder. But I warn you: you will always wonder. The road you are on is long and lonely, and it takes you to an even lonelier place. It's the price you are being asked to pay. For your people, for your country, for your culture. For your children, and your grandchildren. But there is an even greater price you might pay one day, when it is too late, if you do nothing now. That is the price of watching tragedy unfold, unimaginable horrors occur, whilst you know that in your life, you chose to do nothing.”
Gustav found himself nodding in agreement.
After a pause, Victor continued, in the same half-talking, half-musing style.
“Gustav, face reality. It's harsh. I know, I've been where you are at now. But you are too intelligent, too far seeing, to comfort yourself with the lies and one-quarter truths that are so persistently barfed out by a spineless, bought-and-paid for Mass Media establishment.  Call it for what it is. It's a Muslim invasion. This time they are not galloping in on horses, wielding swords and spears, but it's still just a continuance of an old obsession. Islamic imperialist invasions resulted in at least 548 battles on European soil between the 8th and 19th centuries; over 200 battles were fought in Spain alone. Muslims would attack coastal towns, kill, rob, rape and enslave. More than one million European slaves were taken out of Europe and sold into the Islamic world. This was Jihad. This time around, once again, the old, 7th century enemy makes no secret of its intent to wholly subjugate the continent of Europe. And STILL, the elected politicians refuse to face the facts. Despite the rabid, vocal hate preachers, despite their hate filled Qu'ran, despite History, despite the open actions of dedicated Islamists, despite terrorist attacks, despite brutal rape crimes sky rocketing,  despite overwhelming statistics that these people consist overwhelmingly of low I.Q. borderline retards, mostly illiterate and unskilled, destined to never work, and live only off massive welfare, whilst raising extended families, all on the taxpayer's dime, despite all that, Europe's senile Elite, like Hure Merkel,  wish only to ACCOMMODATE and APPEASE these invaders in any way they can manage. EVEN, at the expense of their own people…”
Gustav, listening intently, noticed that the Old Man was calm, and soft spoken, despite the quiet passion of his words.
There was a certain sadness in the eyes.
“Gustav, you have to find your own road. You, and many others like you, have arrived at a set of crossroads. You already know that a furious Leftist and Defeatist, Quisling Government has turned its back on its own people. European Governments and their agents have abdicated their duty to protect their citizens. Not only have they abdicated their sacred, centuries old responsibilities, they are now actively collaborating with the Enemy, and furiously covering up hate crimes, rape statistics and grooming scandals. For far too many defenseless women and children, there is no-one else to turn to.  There is only you, the true Patriot. But know this: The Government and its agents, the corrupt Police, the Social Workers looking the other way – for years- and the petty local politicians Virtue Signalling and strutting for the cameras, they will UNITE in their hatred for YOU. They will fall over themselves to heap condemnation on your head. They will slavishly follow orders to indulge in the most one-sided reporting possible. And why? because YOU -if you fight- EXPOSE their weakness. You EXPOSE their HYPOCRISY. You EXPOSE their craven cowardice and impotence in the face of marauding, invading Islam. They will HATE YOU, and throw the full weight of the oppressive Government apparatus at you.”
There was a long silence.
“So far, Gustav, you have wielded fists and pickaxe handles and you have busted heads and kneecaps. You have fought a defensive scrimmage. But the deluge continues. The battle awaits. Like we said before, it's time to take the fight to the enemy.  Make no mistake. They are armed, and they are arming every day. We have seen their murderous gun rampages. You can't face that with fists and pickax handles…”
Gustav found himself nodding. The logic was unassailable.
“Gustav, many people still would dearly like to trust their Governments. But the faithful believers are steadily falling away. Even the Mass Media working overtime can no longer cover up the scale of the crimes of the invaders. You are the last hope. Young men like you. Which leads me on to the next question I need your reasoned answer to:

“What constitute legitimate targets?”

Gustav sighed deeply. And tried to wrap his tired mind around the last question he would have willingly requested.

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on January 27, 2017, 10:51 pm