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▶  More from Harm City Crackpot Mailbox Dark Age
Chattering Meat-Puppets
Crackpot Mailbox: Shep and Nathaniel Bring on the Marionette News
"…pinned down under a hail of Jap fire. The barrel on my grease gun had melted from continuous fire. I looked over at Chesty Puller and Dan Daly, and I sez: “Gyrenes, we ain’t getting’ outta this one’. ‘No sweat, sir’, said Manila John Basilone. ‘I never wanted ta live forever’.
"We were all outta ammo, so we drew our K-bars and got ready to take it to those little slant-eyed bastards. ‘Folla me, you goldbrickers!” I said to Chesty, Dan, and Manila John – but just as we got ready to break cover, Pappy Boyington, Joe Foss, and Jimmy Doolittle led an air strike that took out the whole Jap regiment we were facing.
"I’ll never forget that day.”
I the ideological realm of the ideal world, presidential candidates have been telling blatant lies and misrepresenting themselves at such a rate that one wonders if they have been told to throw the election, that the Deep State Handlers of the Hood Ornament of the Cadillac of Sate have come to an understanding with the Orange Man?
Meanwhile, in the Real World
Nathaniel Lucas
2:26 AM (14 hours ago)
What do you make of this?
In the story above a "man" unidentified as being an ebon warrior by the cucked news site, brings a heavily modified pistol into a bar and everybody scatters, dives, cowers, etc—except for one cool customer who is named a "maniac" by the chattering press but did the only rational thing, which of course, takes some cool.
Anger and fear are differing expressions of weakness and predators know this. If you have the gun, the edge, the size, the numbers, than anger carries currency. But if you are looking down the barrel of a gun, expressing anger is stupid and makes you loose respect as an instinctual fear response in the lizard glands of the unthinking criminal and also marks you as a threat—unless, like my friend Quinn, you are obviously unhinged and earn the crazy label. I learned this the hard way in the late 1990s, bussing it to work at night in Baltimore. Some little shit made a demand of me—a real little shit, maybe 12—at the corner of Moravia and Harford and I grew angry, having no fear of him and stepped towards him whereupon he started frantically reaching for his gun which had slid into his underwear and his fat little belly and elastic strap of his little brother's shorts got in the way as he backed away trying to draw the gun, of which I could only see the hammer and it kept pinching out of his fingers and I having played my gambit, had to stay blustering with it in case he or others might detect any indecision.
A few years later—maybe two, maybe 1 maybe 4—I was approach by a polite gunman at the Corner of Broadway and Eastern by night and calmly talked him into letting me be his biographer instead of taking my last $18 and he took my Violence Guy Business card with phone number on back instead. This is related at the end of When You're Food. Then, a year or so later, a man threatened to shoot me, his hands in his hoody pockets, and instead of acting angry or fearful I calmly closed the distance, hand in trench coat pocket, convincing his friend to pin his wrists and prevent his draw, afraid he was in a crossfire situation. This was not my plan, I just advanced quietly so I could stab him. This is also related in When You're Food. It was my cool that kept me from getting shot.
The point is the chattering, nattering, pattering meat-puppets of the Body Polytoxic are not centered, are projecting, whether he is the douche Biden or the Identity Free bar robber, conducting a race war strike on enemy palefaces. This smoker, called a "maniac" was the only cool calculating head in the joint, doing exactly the thing that works with the melanin-rich man child of American Myth, acting like the daddy they never had and imposing his will against the odds.
Also note, that folks smoke cigarettes to calm their nerves and smoking away was a helpful aid to this man. It may be that he did have ice water for blood, because that is often how it feels to me, when I am in a extreme poor-odds encounter and I commit to the silent path of denial, like a bucket of ice water was dumped down inside my skin. If this guy was looking to kill, he would have lit them up, since he's looking to steal with a gun he, like the stickup artist in Fell's Point, was using the gun to limit violence and get what he wants. An entire bar could pull this off just by looking at the man, being calm and not complying. But there are not enough real men left for that on the meat-puppet stage.
The noise of the world is the chatter of idiots.
Let them chatter as the Uncivil War deepens and lengthens.
When You're Food: Raw:
A Fighter’s View of Predatory Aggression: The Forever Autumn Press Edition
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