Friday, December 14, 2012

The Brigade On Guns

[This is an excerpt from Chapter III of The Brigade. It says in fictional form what it probably would not be politic or legally safe for me to say openly about events in Connecticut. - HAC]

* * * * *

The next afternoon, back in Astoria, Zack ran down that part of the conversation for the other two members of his Trouble Trio. “Of course, we need something in our hands to get everyone’s attention with,” he concluded. “We need to start assembling more of an arsenal than we’ve got. Any ideas on that, quartermaster?” he asked Len.

“A good one,” said Ekstrom. “I think we need to go see old Bert Fields.”

“Astoria’s Mr. Second Amendment himself? Yeah, I remember Bert from when I used to go to gun shows, back when I still had some money to buy,” said Hatfield. “I believe he has quite a collection.”

“Yeah, he’s got every federal firearms license the BATFE can issue, including a couple of them he had to take the Bureau to court to get them to grant him,” said Len. “He’s rich enough to hire decent lawyers, and so he won. The NRA was always able to spread enough cash around Congress so that technically speaking, we do still have the right to keep and bear arms, it’s just that the federal government doesn’t want white people exercising that right, and so they put every conceivable stumbling block in our way, hoping to make it so expensive and so much trouble that we’ll just say to hell with it and give up our guns voluntarily. Bert never did, though. He’s fought the BATFE tooth and nail in court every time they tried to fuck with him over something in his collection.”

“Yeah, I remember some of his news coverage,” chipped in Washburn. “Like that time he demanded the right to keep a howitzer on his front lawn.”

“He lost that one, but he won most of the other cases,” Ekstrom reminded them. “I’ve been to his house to work on some of his pieces. You wouldn’t believe it, Zack. He has a prefab hangar in his back yard, and it looks like a combination museum and National Guard armory inside. Bert’s a genuine collector; he’s got everything in there from full-auto Kalashnikovs to a matchlock musket, and ammo for all of them. Must be two or three hundred weapons of various kinds, most of which we could use if only on a once-off basis and then throw away.”

“What’s his security like?” asked Hatfield.

“Everything the law and twenty thousand federal regulations require,” said Ekstrom. “Locked steel cabinets, every longarm chained to the rack through the trigger guard, trigger locks on all the handguns, a stack of documents a mile high filed with the BATFE for every weapon. The building itself has steel vault doors, sealed windows, motion detectors and an alarm connected with the cop shop downtown, all that blather.”

“Going to be a hard crib to crack,” said Washburn. “And will the three of us be able to transport all those guns once we get inside?”

“We may not have to crack it,” said Ekstrom. “I’ve gotten to know Bert fairly well down through the years as a fellow gun nut. He was always pretty conservative and right wing.”

“Maybe so, but the NVA isn’t right wing,” said Hatfield. “We’re revolutionary, and a lot of us are outright Nazis, including me. We’re out to save our race. Conservatives only want to save their money.”

“Mmmm, maybe,” conceded Len. “I don’t know, though. He’s let a few things slip that lead me to believe he might be approachable. The past few years have been a real eye-opener for Bert and a lot of people like him. They started out believing all that yay-hoo propaganda after 9/11, waving their Amurrican flags and stomping and cheering for Jug-Ears when he started this endless war in the Middle East, staring like brain-dead zombies at Fox News and swallowing whatever crap the neocons dished out. Of course for most folks, a lot of that was finally finding a group of people with dark skins whom white people were legally allowed to hate. They projected their real loathing for niggers and Mexicans onto poor old Apu down at the Quickie Mart. Then as the war ground on for year after year, some of the sharper right wingers like Bert started noticing the contradictions, the little things here and there that didn’t quite fit in with the official version of events.”

“Like the fact that every petroleum-grabbing invasion the United States has carried out has turned into a fiasco?” asked Hatfield.

“That, of course, but other things as well,” replied Ekstrom. “I think one of the best unintended consequences to come out of this Middle East crusade of ours has been that it’s no longer possible to keep the central role of Israel in all this discreetly in the background, like the establishment used to do. The little man behind the curtain has finally been forced out into the open. I’ve actually heard Bert pass a few remarks questioning the official version of 9/11, and hinting that Israel might have had something to do with it in order to drag America into the Middle East, after that second intifada in the early 2000s, when it became apparent that the kikes were losing their military edge over the Arabs and wouldn’t be able to fend off the entire Muslim world forever.”

Hatfield whistled. “Questioning 9/11? That’s a dime in the federal pen for hatespeech right there,” he said. “What is that particular section called? ‘Propagating malicious and baseless conspiracy theory regarding the government of the United States or any of its allies?’”

“Yah, only of course we all know that only one United States ally is meant,” said Ekstrom. “Look, let me have a talk with Bert. No need for him to know about you two. He knows me from way back and I don’t think he’ll rat me out, but if he does, I’ll be the only one compromised. I think I can persuade him to give us some or all of his weapons, rather than us have to plan a complex and risky heist.”

“Okay, give it a shot,” agreed Hatfield somewhat reluctantly. “Just be careful, take it slow and easy, and the second you get any bad vibes off him, you back off. There’s still only three of us, remember, and I don’t want to have to go looking for another quartermaster.”

That evening Bert Fields was surprised to receive an unannounced visit from his old shooting buddy and gunsmith Lennart Ekstrom at his spacious sixteen-room Victorian mansion high on the beetling brow of the long ridge overlooking Astoria. “Come on in, Len,” said Fields, nothing loath, inviting Ekstrom into his den. “Take a load off. Mary Lou’s over at her sister’s place. Hannah’s health hasn’t been too good lately.” Fields and his wife were both well into their 70s. He was the retired director of an electronic circuit board manufacturing company in Portland that had been bought out and relocated to India, but they’d given him a generous golden parachute, and he had moved to Astoria and spent the last twenty years investing that golden parachute with skill and success in everything from real estate to gold coins to European securities. He was easily a millionaire. “Can I get you a drink?” Fields offered. “Cognac? Bourbon? Name your poison.”

“Ginger ale will be fine, if you’ve got it.” Ekstrom replied. “I don’t drink anymore.”

“No? You got better sense than I have, then,” chuckled the old man as he opened a small fridge under the wet bar in his den and pulled out a can of ginger ale and a plastic cup, into which he dropped some ice. He handed the soft drink to Ekstrom and poured a generous cognac for himself. “Want a cigar? Got some Macanudo Supremes.”

“You might not feel so hospitable when you know why I’ve come, Bert,” said Ekstrom.

“Oh?” Fields replied in surprise.

“I’ll get right to the point, although it may not sound like it at first,” said Ekstrom. “Just bear with me for a bit.” He pointed to a photograph on Fields’ mantel that showed several young naval officers on the flight deck of an old carrier. “You mentioned once that was taken when you were on the Kitty Hawk launching air attacks against North Vietnam?”

“Yep,” replied Fields nostalgically. “That’s me on the left, Al Vitelli on the right, and Bret Halsted in the center. Al died of cancer a few years ago, and Bret died in Atlanta federal penitentiary. He told a nigger joke and he got five years for hatespeech. Judge went light on him because of his age. He was 64. The first day the guards simply turned him into the yard and the black gang members beat him to death.” Fields’ voice was nonchalant and light, as if he were discussing the weather. Ekstrom hadn’t known about the death of Fields’ old navy buddy. It was an unexpected plus.

“That feeds right into what I want to talk to you about,” he said in a steady voice. “Bert, the America that we once knew, that we were born into, the America that you fought for in ‘Nam, that America is now gone. It doesn’t exist anymore. It's gone forever. It will never come back. I need to know if you understand this, if you accept it. Because if you don’t, then there’s no point in my continuing with what I have to say.”

“Of course I understand!” growled Fields, knocking back his cognac and heading to the bar for another. “I thank God every day that I’m old enough and rich enough so Mary Lou and I will be able to die in some comfort before this monstrosity comes crashing down around everyone’s ears. I thank God that our children are all decent and loving men and women, and if their mother and I have to go into the hospital they won’t connive with some Jew doctor to slip us the hot shot under the Put The Old Folks Down Like Dogs Act, sorry, the Senior Citizens’ Quality of Life Act, so they can get this house and get our money. That’s happened to some of our friends, you know, since those carrion-eaters in Congress passed that goddamned law. I turn on CNN every morning, and it’s all I can do to restrain myself from vomiting up my breakfast. Yes, Len, I understand that the United States of America has turned into a stinking latrine pit piled high with corpses and blood and shit. So why the hell do you ask?”

“Because I want a favor from you,” returned Len, going for broke. “I want you to take Mary Lou and maybe Hannah on a short little vacation somewhere for a few days. A Christmas shopping trip would be a good cover. Before you go, I want you to give me the security codes to the driveway gate into this house, and to the doors to your outbuilding in the back. When you come back, you will be shocked and upset to learn that you have been the victim of a burglary. Some person or persons unknown will have broken into your annex, and all of your guns and ammo will be gone.”

“My God,” said Fields in a low voice. “You’re one of them now, Len?”


“There are others? Here in Astoria?” asked Fields.

“Yes, and no, I won’t tell you who they are.”

“I had no intention of asking,” Fields told him. He walked to his window and looked out into the winter darkness outside. “Do you believe in the hand of God, Len? I mean something of God that manifests itself in the affairs of men at just the right time?”

“I seem to perceive something of the kind in operation recently, yes,” Ekstrom answered.

“This morning I got a call from Pat Franklin, my attorney in Portland,” Fields told him. “Pat’s pretty well connected down at the federal courthouse, and he learned something he felt he should pass on to me. Within the next week or so, the BATFE is going to rock up on my doorstep here with a large truck and a piece of paper, all nice and legal and signed by a federal judge in Portland, ordering the confiscation of all my firearms under some obscure Homeland Security legislation I never heard of, some secret clause those yea-saying leeches in Congress snuck into an appropriations bill or something. We’ve had total gun control in this country for many years, it’s just the BATFE hasn’t bothered to exercise it up until now. The fact that this act of theirs is in direct violation of the Second Amendment of the Constitution of the United States apparently doesn’t enter into the proceedings anywhere. The Second Amendment no longer exists except as a few meaningless lines on an old yellowed parchment behind a glass case in some museum. None of the Bill of Rights exists anymore. I’m surprised it’s taken them this long to get around to me, after what happened in Coeur d’Alene.

"They’ve been after my collection for a long time. After I heard from Pat this morning, and before you arrived here tonight, I had already resigned myself to spending most of the remaining years of my life and most of my personal fortune paying attorneys astronomical legal fees to try and fight this monstrous violation of my rights in court, and try to get my guns back before I die. That was to be my last remaining goal in life. I was already wrestling in my mind with the virtual certainty that I would never see any of them again. Now you come along tonight, and you tell me you want a favor from me. I have loved firearms all my life. Don’t know why. Some people are just born to certain things, I guess. I spent my whole adult life building up that collection, Len. Starting with the old single-barreled shotgun my father gave me on my 16th birthday. In all this time, I have never fired a single shot in anger at another human being. Not even in the Navy when I was in a war zone. I know in my heart that I wouldn’t do it even when those sons of bitches in their silk suits come to take my guns away. I’m just too old a dog to teach new tricks.”

“They’re gone, Bert,” said Lennart. “One way or the other, you can’t keep them anymore. That’s just the way it’s played out. You have two choices. Let the federal goons steal your property and ruin yourself and Mary Lou bleating about it in court, begging and pleading for these tyrants to be so kind as to grant you a right that you were born with. Or you can give them to us freely, and know that at long last they won’t be just sitting on a shelf or in a display case somewhere, but they will be doing what they were made to do, firing bullets at evildoers in defense of freedom and justice.”

“How do you know I won’t agree with everything you’re saying, and then pick up the phone and call the FBI as soon as you’ve left tonight?” asked Fields.

“I don’t,” said Ekstrom. “We’re going to change the world, Bert, and that can’t be done without risk. I drew the short straw, and if I’ve judged you wrongly then I pay the price.”
Fields stared out into the dark night beyond the window. “Dear God, I am so sickened and ashamed by what this country has become!” 

He walked over to his desk and tore out a sheet of paper from a notepad, and picking up a pen he scribbled something on it. He handed it to Ekstrom. “The first one is the code to open the automatic gate to the driveway. The second one is the code for the main door to the hangar, and the third is for the safe inside which has a few toys in it that you and your friends will find useful. Try to make it look like you broke in, smash the keypads or something. The BATFE will suspect I connived with you, but fuck ‘em. They’ve pushed me once too often. I’ll leave all the padlocks on the cases and the racks open.”

“No, we’ll cut those off with bolt cutters to make it look good,” said Ekstrom. “I know the layout inside there, and I know where we can get a panel truck. It will take us a couple of hours to get everything loaded, but no one can see the hangar from the street. If we’re fast and quiet there shouldn’t be any problem.”

“If I can’t have them, I know you’ll give them a good home and use them well, Len,” said Fields with a sigh. “Len, if I was even twenty years younger, I think I might beg to join you. But I can’t. I’m just too old and weary, and I can’t risk leaving Mary Lou alone at our time of life, at least no sooner than nature intends. But this much I can do. You’re right. It’s time those guns did something besides sit on a shelf and gather dust. You’d better act fast. I don’t know for sure when those BATFE goons are going to show up here. I’ll make sure Mary Lou and I are in Portland tomorrow night. Make your move then. 

"Now you’d better leave, Len. I don’t want Mary Lou to come home and see you here. What she doesn’t know, she can’t spill. Besides, after you leave I’m going to take this bottle of cognac and a glass out back for a while. I’m going to say goodbye to my babies.” Ekstrom saw there was a tear glistening in one of the old man’s eyes.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

HAC your novels may turn out to be more fact than fiction. They need to be read and the message needs to be taken to heart by these whites who are sick and tired of living in zogs pigstye. May God grant me the blessing of seeing the day of Sunset Beach come.

6:20 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Yeah, the One-Party State is already beating the god damned drums over this Connecticut business.

9:21 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

0b0ng0 has already gotten 2 appointments to the Supremes, and has a good shot at getting as many as 3 more appointments to the Supremes over the next 4 years, putting a total of 5 0b0ng0 appointees on the Court making the Supremes a 5-4 0b0ng0 appointed majority, and when adding the already sitting liberal Justice Stephen G. Breyer giving the Supremes a whopping 6 vote slid liberal majority, with 1 "swing" voter Chief Justice Roberts and only 2 "conservative" Justices, one of which is the nigger Clarence Thomas. So there would be only one conservative White man on the Supremes for the first time in history.

Here's the break down of the possible 3 coming appointees.

The liberal jewess Ruth Bader Ginsburg is 79 and has cancer, and will certainly either die or retire soon. This will mean 0b0ng0 will have succeeded in at the very least getting the 3 elderly liberal Justices replaced so that the status quo make up of the Court is preserved.

One of the 2 current "swing votes" who sometimes sides with the libs and other times with the cons, Anthony Kennedy, is 76 and may retire or die in the next 4 years.

Antonin Scalia one of the con Justices is also 76 and could retire or die in the next 4 years.

If 0b0ng0 gets to replaces either of those men, then the Court will shift to a 5 vote solid liberal majority, with either 1 or 2 "swing" votes and 1 or 2 "conservative" votes.

Of course, how this relates to this blog post is that you can kiss the 2nd Amendment goodbye if the Supremes shift to a lib majority.

Hell, since the Supremes can do whatever they want to, they could even twist the law and Constitution around to somehow allow 0b0ng0 to remain Prez longer than 2 terms.

We seriously could be looking at a 0b0ng0 dem party dictatorship.

8:33 AM  

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