Bringing Down Burger King
Turn, hell-hound!...I have no words.
My voice is in my sword, thou bloodier villain than terms can give thee out!
-Macbeth, Act V, Scene 8
No, that doesn’t mean the NVA held up a hamburger joint.
Back in the old days when we gave it to the bastards hot, us domestic terrorist-type dudes had our own rap just like any other self-respecting American subculture, from punk rockers to nigger gang-bangers to Trekkies to skateboarders. Most white kids of my generation were raised damned near from birth by the boob tube, instead of by our parents, so we got a lot of our spiel off TV and whatever mindless pollution of the soul the Hollywood dream machine chose to spoon into all the skulls of mush. That was why sometimes we sounded like movie gangsters when we talked about hits and whacking guys out and going strapped. Other words we picked up from the foreign Volunteers who flocked to the Northwest during the later stages of the revolution, a highly politically incorrect form of diversity. There was the Russian word stukach for informer, and the South African term kaffir to denote our fellow citizens ob de Affikin-Amurkin persuasion.
Did you know that the English language contains over a hundred words for nigger? ZOG tried to ban them all. Thought control. If you forbid people to speak certain words out loud for fear of persecution and prison, eventually they’ll self-censor themselves even in their own minds. They’ll refuse to think the forbidden thoughts lest they accidentally utter the forbidden word and destroy their lives. On more than one occasion, at the early Party meetings I went to when I was in high school, we’d get newbies who’d never been among racially aware white people before. Suddenly they’d burst out, cursing and shouting and screaming “Nigger! Nigger! Niggerniggerniggerniggernigger….” like they had Tourette’s syndrome. For the first time in years, first time ever for some of them, they were someplace where they could speak freely and without fear of retaliation from politically correct society, without looking over their shoulder to see who was listening. They were saying out loud what they had always felt in their hearts. Some of them wept while they hollered nigger. It was like the weight of a timber truck had been lifted off their soul. Freedom is being able to call a spade a spade. Literally.
NVA shop talk was unique to our situation, a kind of code we used due to the frequent need for us evildoers to conduct a conversation on our phones or computers without ZOG’s eavesdroppers figuring out whatever evening’s worth of anti-social activities we were contemplating. A lot of our terminology revolved around junk food. It was an obvious cover. The American consumer state stuffed its citizens full of grease, cholesterol, refined carbohydrates, white sugar, and chemicals at a two hundred percent profit until everybody over age twelve was at least thirty pounds overweight. You never see any fat people in the Northwest Republic today, since the Ministry of Health regulates things like refined sugar and refined carbs, and the government has banned that damned high fructose corn syrup American food processors used to dump into everything. The Japanese invented that crap. Yellow man’s revenge for Hiroshima. Might as well have been feeding people strychnine. But in those days every other person of any race you saw on the street was really gross and jiggling, men with bellies like hams hanging over their belt, women whose truly mighty butts had their own gravitational field. There was some kind of starch and cholesterol trough on every corner, and in between the corners, like brightly colored poisonous mushrooms, were all these damned little convenience stores run by wogs. Garish neon pimples on the face of the world, with racks full of nachos and sugar and pure grease. That toxic waste was what most people spent their lives stuffing into their gob. All the multifarious agencies of ZOG that monitored the phone lines and air waves and computer chat rooms in the name of freedom and democracy inevitably heard a lot of chatter from the peasantry about whatever putrid crap everyone had for lunch or was having for dinner. Us evildoers played to that when we were nattering to one another.
Guns were cheeseburgers, didn’t matter what brand name, but if they had onions they were full auto. Ammunition was French fries. When we needed to be more specific, a shotgun was a taco and a handgun was a chili dog. A proper military-manufactured hand grenade, whether American or Russian or a Chinese stick, was a beer of any brand. Grenades were just about our favorite toys. We paid top dollar and we were always interested in anyone who had any to sell, be they white or black or brown. I once bought a case of grenades from a Sikh master sergeant at Fort Lewis who knew damned well who I was and who I wanted them for. Hell, he didn’t care. Ten grand was ten grand. We had a lot of fun with those little darlings. On the phone and online at least, we must have sounded like real drunks, always talking about booze, even though Volunteers weren’t allowed to touch alcohol.
A Distant Thunder 6
How tight was that enforced, ma’am? Well, tight enough so The Beast knew about it and we took to keeping crushed empty beer cans in our back seats or on the beds of our pickups as a kind of camouflage. I once was able to get past a Fattie checkpoint by dousing myself with Miller High Life and pretending to be drunk. They knew the NVA didn’t tolerate drunks and so they figured I couldn’t be NVA. The nigger lieutenant just punched me in the face a couple of times on general principles and let me go.
Where was I? Right, funny names we had for hardware and operational matters. A black powder pipe bomb was a Twinkie. A home-made satchel charge was a pizza; pepperoni was high explosive plastic and anchovies meant the bomb was packed with roofing nails or other shrapnel for maximum splatter effect. Some of these NVA terms, I’ve no idea where they came from, although a few of them showed a definite warped sense of humor. Any attack our guys made on an enemy target was called a tickle. When you shot somebody in the gut and watched him kick and scramble you tickled his liver. Whacking out a television reporter or a newscaster whose reportage was especially hostile towards the revolution was called dropping anchor. When we whacked a politician, he was recalled. Machine-gunning the CEO of a major multi-national corporation, usually outside the apartment of the secretary he was screwing, was referred to as downsizing. Six sticks of dynamite wired to somebody’s ignition was called the Rapture, because he flew up in the sky to be with Jesus. A home invasion in the wee hours of the morning was called the five o’clock knock. Putting a ladder up against a target’s bedroom window, creeping up it and then shooting them in bed was called a window-washing job. Executing a racially mixed black and white couple was giving them their jungle fever shots, and whacking some white degenerate like my brother with his Asian sunshine girl was a Chinese take-out. ZOG had terms like that on their side as well, of course. They called us goots, which sounds like some kind of holdover from Vietnam when the enemy were gooks, but in this case was their term of contempt and meant Daryl and his other brother Daryl, in other words guys like me who were born here. At one stage the Federals developed a habit of hurling NVA people, real or suspected, out of a tenth floor window at the Federal building in Seattle. They called these victims “paratroopers.” One humorist from the FBI put up a sign on the street below that said “Watch for falling bodies.”
Anyway, you asked me about Burger King. Burger King was our slang term for what the Germans used to call a Hofjüde, a major-league, powerful Jewish politician or millionaire, someone high in the American media, the intelligentsia, the political or social or economic establishment.
Burger King. B. K. Big Kike. Get it?
Yeah, I know I’m rambling. For the information of whoever is listening, the little girl from the university says she just wants me to sit here and babble into the microphone and try not to pick my nose while I’m on video. No disrespect, honey, I know you’ve got kids of your own, but I’m ninety-one years old and to me your mother is a little girl. I am exercising the timeless prerogative of geezers who are no longer merely old but downright ancient to irritate the young, since we can’t do jack shit of anything else. Anyway, the little girl here says she wants to record “history as stream of consciousness.” Well, she’s going to find out that my stream of consciousness has a lot of dead fish in it, floating belly up. The reason why I mentioned that particular term is that I figure I’ll start my stream of consciousness flowing by telling you the story of the heaviest tickle I was ever on back in my Volunteer days. The biggest, juiciest Burger King our crew ever took out. That would be the Right Honorable Samuel L. Rothstein, Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court and one of the most blood-soaked monsters in human history. The man who in one bang of his gavel swept away the last remaining state and Federal restrictions against abortion on demand, so that to this day in the Jewnited States of Amurrica women of all races, creeds, and colors can drop by the corner clinic and flush their rainbow-colored babies down the toilet with no more thought or hindrance than if they were having their nails done. I hear they call that getting a scrape.
I’m sorry, ma’am. I know that’s a terrible thing to say and I didn’t mean to upset you, but you do know that’s what they called it back then, don’t you? And still do in the United States? That it’s their term, not mine? You’re asking me how could any human woman on earth murder her own child and not go mad? They did go mad, ma’am. Mad as March hares. They just didn’t realize it, because all the world around them was mad and they had no point of reference by which to discern sanity. There ain’t nothing wrong with being judgmental when judgment is called for. If human beings aren’t supposed to make moral judgments then what the hell is the difference between a man and an animal? That’s what happened in the Garden when Adam and Eve chomped down on the forbidden fruit. They came to know sin when they saw it. I mentioned that scrape thing in case anyone who watches this is inclined to bitch at me and the NVA for our colorful use of the language. I always thought those media reptiles had a hell of a gall to call us murderers while every day those people were literally throwing baby parts into dumpsters. Jesus Christ on a raft! Still makes me killing mad every time I think of it. I exult in every one of those sons of bitches whose head I busted open with a bullet. You want brutality, ma’am? You’ll get plenty of it if you want to keep on with this project. We Jerry Rebs were plain mad dog mean, but it was the righteous brutality of God against those unspeakably evil people and their wicked government, who broke asunder the very temple of life, and I glory in every minute of it I can remember. At least I never killed babies. I waited until they were grown-up people and in the full flower of their evil before sending them to hell.
No, ma’am, I’m not a Christian. Not sure why not. I lived around them most of my life, but for some reason it never took. That was Rooney and China and Ma Wingfield talking through me, but theology aside, they were right. There was evil abroad in the world in them days, and you didn’t have to be a Christian to understand that. Our battle against the United States was a battle against Satan, against the principle of evil that is hateful and destructive of all human life, in a time when it sat enthroned and triumphant over all the world. We had Christians and Odinists and National Socialists and atheists and agnostics and Wiccans and neo-Druids, all of whom understood that. Yeah, we were cruel. We had to be to survive, never mind win. But the empire we fought against was cruel on a scale never before known in human history. ZOG didn’t just kill