Above you see the face of the 21st century Quisling. Do you think he’ll be retaining legal counsel today? Or maybe he already took care of that yesterday. I wonder who is going to foot the bill? Georgia taxpayers? He probably believes that they should and I wouldn’t put it past him to try. Right now he should be the most nervous person in the state of Georgia and we will all soon see if he has taken out any additional “insurance”.
As a nation we have been beset by the machinations of idealogues. Idealogues are by their nature dangerous people. This ass hat is neither an idealogue, nor is he dangerous. He is not dangerous to us, but he is now a danger to his sponsors. In fact they should be really nervous about now, if they weren’t already. This is because our Quisling is likely the first guy to roll when heat is applied. Look at him! Would you enter a conspiracy with this putz? That is a face as good as a billboard screaming “Will snitch for immunity”. Either that or he pulls a Jeffrey Epstein. I won’t be at all surprised by either outcome. In fact I am predicting it. Now, right here, today.
I guess we will have to go through some kind of legal process, though I hardly think he is deserving of this courtesy. Actively conspiring to thwart the will of the electorate in a Republic is not tantamount to treason. It IS treason; thus, these people are not criminals. They have declared war on the Republic; thus, they are to be treated as enemy combatants. It is upon these grounds that I submit that Asshat Quisling, former Secretary of State for the state of Georgia, be sentenced to assifixion. This is an ingenious and wholly suitable sentence for a human stain.
Let me explain the assifixion. The subject is stripped of all clothing and forced to their hands and knees on an asphalt (preferably hot) surface. The subjects hands and feet are then nailed to the asphalt surface with ten inch spikes driven through their flesh and solidly anchored into the pavement. With their ass up in the air and head inclined toward the ground a nine foot long pike is inserted into their anus and driven through their body until the point exits their mouth and touches the ground. A banner printed with the word TRAITOR is then hung upon that part of the pike still sticking out from their ass and their body is left there to rot.
That is the ONLY fitting end for a Quisling. Will it happen? Maybe not, but you can bet one thing. This clown will sing like a lark. It may not happen today or next week. It could even be some months, but rest assured, it will happen. There was Benedict Arnold. Then there was Vidkun Quisling. Both names have become synonymous with treachery. I won’t sully this page with the name of our modern day Judas, but it is a name that will supplant Arnold and Quisling as a word signifying treason.
At about this time two years ago I introduced our audience to one Harry “Hack” Halloran, better known as the Marlboro Man. (https://ale81inn.com/2018/12/07/marlboro-man/) For those of you who are new, Hack Halloran’s story may most succinctly be summed up thus: here is a man who, after suffering the heavy boot of New York City’s regulatory regime, embarked upon a personal crusade on the marathon circuit. With the sponsorship of Phillip-Morris. There is a bit more nuance to the tale, but there is the meat of it. His is hardly the first enterprise to be born of the absurd and thuggish rules and regulations instituted by New York City. Why just ask Eric Garner…..oh, wait. You can’t. Because he is dead. That is, however, another story…
At the occasion of our initial meeting I had been dispatched to report on a marathon in Columbus, Ohio. It was a solicitation of the pre-fab horseshit that is in favor with the editors of so many publications these days. A chimpanzee with an old IBM Selectric could probably master the kind of pablum they are looking for, but thankfully there are not a lot of apes clamoring to enter the field of journalism. Even apes can see that this is a field already crowded with hairy, thick browed simpletons given to masturbation and playing with their own feces. With one notable exception of a recent opening at The New Yorker, there just isn’t room for any of them to break in. After my encounter with Hack I was resolved to indulge in some honest reporting on my own.
It is not my intent to lionize the man. Hack Halloran is not a role model. He is often rude, loud and by the standards of polite society, utterly uncouth. I can not say with certainty what Hack Halloran’s politics are, but given the caricature typically ascribed to the “Trump voter” by our legacy media it would be safe to at least say that Hack fits their profile. His devotion to four inch sticks of tobacco stuffed into a filtered tube as mass produced by the Phillip-Morris corporation is, in itself, nothing inspiring. Truth be told it is actually a little sad. Hack Halloran doesn’t want to be a role model and he certainly isn’t looking for anyone’s pity. Besides those beloved red and white packs emblazoned with the Marlboro logo there is only one other thing Hack is adamant about and it is this: freedom of choice.
In recent years it has become a common practice in the banking industry for preferred clients to be provided the services of a “private banker”. The benchmarks set as the qualifiers for this distinction vary from one institution to another, though we may rest assured that in every instance these are determined by a criteria that is mostly beneficial to the bank itself. Altruism is hardly a virtue one might assign to the field of banking. Some of you may be surprised to learn that this model has migrated into other market sectors, not the least of which is one Phillip-Morris Corporation.
Hack Halloran has been a member in good standing of Phillip-Morris’ esteemed Black Lung Club for over thirty years. The Black Lung Club is attended by a dedicated team of twelve tobacco acquisition specialists, assigned to provide top level, personalized services to it’s most prestigious members. Amidst this elite team Hack Halloran has attained a legendary status, akin to EF Hutton’s one time cred in personal finance: when Hack Halloran talks Phillip-Morris listens. Before converting to a digital platform Halloran’s folder at Phillip-Morris took up no less than two full sized file cabinets. There is no common toll free number for Black Lung members. They each have a dedicated line and Hack’s is preset on speed dial. When that caller ID lights up on the big screen in the Black Lung Club war room you should see those specialists scrambling to take that call. Calls like this recent one:
Phillip-Morris, Black Lung member services. How may we help you today, Mr. Halloran?
Jenna? Is that you? I talked with you the last time, didn’t I?
That’s right, Mr. Halloran. Last Friday, it says here on your file…
It was Friday! Yeah, I bet ya’ll got about ever’thing you’d ever need about me in there.
It is a fairly sizable file, Mr. Halloran. Dating all the way back to 1987…
Yeah, that sounds about right. Ya’ll were runnin’ that lighter promo back then. Remember that one?
I’m sorry, I don’t Mr. Halloran. I wasn’t even born yet.
Ya wasn’t? Hell, I probably still got some o’ them lighters down in the basement. Ya want one?
No, but thank you Mr. Halloran. How may we help you today?
Hey! How ’bout one o’ them sweet Marlboro racing jackets?
Heh-heh…..no, that’s alright Mr. Halloran. Was there something we could help you with today?
Help me? Ah, heck no. No, I was callin’ hopin’ that maybe I could help ya’ll. This whole covid thing has kinda fucked up that whole marathon thing, ya know?
Yes, it’s put the damper on a lot of things this year…
Yeah, boy ain’t that the truth! After that last thing we done up in Boston I was all ready to hit the ground runnin’ in 2020, but here we are. Ya know what I’m sayin’?
Yes Mr. Halloran, I do. So…you were going to help us somehow?
Right,right…..Jenna I don’t mean to be presumptive about this, but ya think ya might be able to get the boys on the board in on this? I mean, I’d hate to have to run through all this more’n once. Know what I’m sayin’?
Of course Mr. Halloran! Could you please hold the line for a few moments while I patch in to the board room?
Sure, sure sweetheart. Ya’ll do what ya gotta do. I’ll be right here.
As it turns out there was indeed a dedicated line reserved directly to the board room of Phillip-Morris. This was hardly the first time that Hack had an exclusive audience with the board. In the waning months of 1999, amid the Y2K panic, Hack had managed to deliver an impassioned plea before the board to secure a twelve semi truck load order. A personal order. His motivation was not profit. Hack was convinced that the Y2K threat was real, that it would be the end of the world as known to that point. Calculating roughly sixty years of life left it would require one semi load of Marlboros every five years to sustain his personal use. To be honest I can not say how that occasion was resolved, but it marked the first of a number of times that Hack has addressed the Phillip-Morris board. These occasions have come to be embraced by the board with great and sincere enthusiasm.
After Hack was placed on hold he was treated to a continuing loop of the old Marlboro television commercials, which stopped airing the year before he was born. Elmer Bernstein’s Theme from the Magnificent Seven, interspersed with the invitation to “come on up to Marlboro country”. Though he had not been alive to witness these in his own life he was still filled with a sense of nostalgia. His thoughts wandered to some modern day production. He could picture it easily. Marlboro: The Movie, with Hack himself on horseback in the starring role. While Hack entertained his western daydream the board room was suddenly abuzz with anticipation at the announcement that he was on the line.
Alright Mr. Halloran. I’ve patched you through to our board room, but before I go, shall we send you another book of 10$ off of a carton coupons?
Sure thing, Jenna. Thanks! I was gettin’ a little low on them coupons.
Very good Mr. Halloran. Talk again next week?
You bet. Thanks again!
Alright Mr. Halloran. The board is ready for you now. Buh-bye!
There was no audible click with the transfer. Suddenly he was just live with the board.
Hack! How the hell are ya? This here’s JB, along with JR,RJ,BJ,BB and Raytard…
Well heya fellas! Thanks for takin’ my call. It’s always an honor.
Likewise Hack! So whyncha tell us what’s on your mind today friend?
Well, listen fellas….first of all I want to apologize again for not gettin’ out there this year. I know ya’ll put up one hell of a lot of money in all that merchandise…
No need of that Hack. It simply can’t be helped.
No, I reckon it can’t and that’s kinda what I got on my mind. Ya’ll got a few minutes?
Of course!! For you Hack? Always!
Ok. Well first off I just don’t see where any of this whole virus silliness is gonna end, so I think we can just cut bait on this whole marathon marketing deal. We gotta find some way, somehow, to capitalize on this whole Covid thing.
Do not let Hack’s apparent lack of sophistication fool you. The man knows how to play a room. He paused here, noting the low murmuring coming through on the speaker. He had their attention.
We got all these damn Mayors and Governors, health commissioners goin’ apeshit on civil liberties. You got one half of the country up in arms and the other half just shrugs. Well ya know what? It ain’t nothin’ new. For the past twenty-five years they been able to tell private establishments that they may not permit smoking on their premises. They been able to tell us again and again, “Ya’ll can’t smoke here, Ya’ll can’t smoke there” and now ya got some of these assholes think they can start tellin’ us we can’t smoke in our own homes. And all the while they keep rakin’ up all them tax dollars. If they been able to get away with all that horse shit then there ain’t nothin’ gonna stop ’em from carryin’ on with this mask nonsense.
This was just like fishing. You cast out your line, make a splash and then slowly tease it back towards the shore, waiting for the first nibble.
Erm,ahem….Hack? JR here. What ya’ll proposin’ here?
The Marlboro face mask: Prevent Covid, Smoke Marlboro. Huh? I tell ya fellas, it’s a can’t miss.
Hack? BB here…uh, listen…I just love the way ya’ll think, but I don’t think our legal department would wanna open us to those claims. Maybe we could do just a simple mask with the Marlboro logo on it. What ya’ll think about that?
Uh, Hack? This is Raytard. I work pretty closely with our legal department and I agree that the prevent Covid thing is a non starter. I do think the Marlboro logo would fly though…..
Mr. Halloran, this is BJ….would these masks have holes to insert our product?
Well BJ I hadn’t thought of that, but I think it could work. Good suggestion!
Hack? Raytard again….that hole thing wouldn’t go. They could say that it is not an approved mask. You know, what with the hole in it….
With all due respect,uh, Mr…..Raytard? Can I call ya Raytard?
I think the hole in the mask helps to drive the true point home. These masks are worthless anyway. It don’t matter whether they got a hole in ’em or not. Know what I’m sayin’?
JB, as well as the other board members, were liking what they had heard so far, but JB decided that he needed to corral this conference before Hack got back up on his soapbox.
Gentlemen, gentlemen…..please! Let’s have some order. Now what Hack here is telling us is all true. We all know it. We just can’t say it. Publicly. Now, with that in mind….I am officially tabling a motion before this board for the commencement of the Phillip-Morris Marlboro face mask promotion. JR? Can I get you to second this motion?
Gladly! I second the motion before the board.
Very well. A voice vote then: all in favor say Aye….
AYE! (x 6)
The motion passes unanimously! Hack we will get to work on this right away. We have a sweat sh……er, vendor in Vietnam that can get right on this. We should have 500,000 masks ready for shipment before Christmas!
That’s great fellas! It truly is. Geez I love workin’ with ya’ll.
Well Hack I think I can confidently speak for the other board members in saying that we love working with you too. Your persistence is an inspiration to us all!
Well there it is folks. Human butt plugs that occupy elected office all across this great country will continue to wipe their asses with the US Constitution for the foreseeable future, and they will do so with relative impunity. Keep an eye out at your favorite tobacco retailer in the coming weeks. Those Marlboro masks will start hitting those shelves. If you must wear a mask then there is no better mask than this. Phillip-Morris desperately needs this boost in advertising during these difficult times and, by extension, so do your local and state taxing authorities. It’s going to require a lot of sin tax to make up all the shortfalls in sales tax stemming from these lockdowns. Wear these masks with pride and in good conscience. You’re not setting a bad example. You’re doing your patriotic duty.
So you think Rudy and Sidney Powell are bluffing? Are you sure? Why are all of the media jackals closing ranks, circling the wagons?
Two points to that last question: 1) Rudy and Sidney must be nearing the target, and 2) they are circling the wagons because they know that they are COMPLICIT
Yes, there is proof. Volumes of it.
Did you see that temper tantrum the white house press corps threw yesterday when VP Pence walked away from the podium? A lot of flap about that incident today. This is mild compared to the total meltdown that is coming.
Does anyone honestly believe that it is only coincidence that Sidney Powell is also the attorney of record for one Michael Flynn? Michael Flynn knows a lot of things and has known them for quite a while. Otherwise why would SO MUCH of the deep state go to such great lengths to silence and remove him? He’s just one man, after all. Whatever it is he knows you can rest assured that the President ALSO knows. And Sidney Powell.
For those of you who believe and support this fraud; you are running out of places to hide. Your cover is as wide as an ocean, but it is as shallow as a tea saucer.
In recent weeks many have referred to Joe Biden’s candidacy as a Trojan Horse. Most of us understand this reference, whether or not we may happen to agree with the accuracy of this comparison. A more apt description might be a straw donkey; a sock puppet; an empty suit. Any or all of these will fit. Call him what you will, the mantle of standard bearer for his party does not rest upon Joe Biden’s slack shoulders. This honor falls upon a man who was never even a presidential candidate in this race. I am, of course, referring to one Jerrold “Jabba” Nadler.
Many of this audience will know to whom I refer, and will likewise arrive at a specific recent incident to know where I am headed with this train of thought. For others who may not hold this advantage, I submit the following:
When one is full of shit it is vital to maintain a tight sphincter. This is true not only because it is necessary to stem the release of the latent fecal eruption, but also because the consequent build up of noxious gases must occasionally be vented. Ever driven by a giant landfill? You know, those little posts dotting the mounds with the blue gas flame? Same principle: a controlled release of pressure to prevent the sudden and catastrophic expulsion of the toxic mass.
Some might wish to temper this story with some humanity, to evoke some sympathy for the man and not what he represents. I am not one of those people. This could hardly have happened to an individual more deserving. Jerrold Nadler has about as much place inhabiting a seat in the United States congress as Glen Quagmire from television’s Family Guy has working as an orderly in a comatose care facility for retired strippers. In this instance Nadler has, entirely without any forethought, encapsulated the entire democrat 2020 presidential campaign. They have shit their pants on live television and now attempt to side shuffle from the stage, all the while trying to act like nothing happened. All of their media shills play along and coo into their cameras: you did not just see and hear what you think you just saw and heard. It was something else….oh, and we’re pretty certain the Russians are involved.
The democrat party has been full of shit for decades. Like the aforementioned landfill regularly venting off excess pressure, the party has likewise expelled it’s most noxious content with just enough frequency to maintain the stability of the core. Howard Dean, Bernie, Pocahontas, they all serve as examples and there are countless others at the state and local level. Then, within a space of less than six months, the party experienced three events. Between September 2018 and January 2019 we witnessed the Kavanaugh hearings, the election of AOC +3 (the “squad”), and the re-seating of Mother Superior as Speaker of the House. Any one of these events might have occurred on their own and been absorbed into the political zeitgeist with little memory. Combined these events catalyzed to grow their septic core to critical mass in record time.
Mueller was a bust, so there was no relief there. There was the impeachment debacle and still, no relief. The pressure continued to build. There was the clown show of the democrat primaries, rich as it was with multiple venting ports available, but something went wrong in Iowa. That episode only provided temporary relief and still, the pressure built. Enter the pandemic: a distraction tailor made to permit squeezing off multiple farts with little or no scrutiny.
What they failed to realize is that it was already too late. Just like our pal Jabba Jerry, they waited too long. They relied upon an old, tired, overworked sphincter to hold back too much pressure for too long. They thought that even before the watchful eye of the cameras they would be able to squeeze off that discreet little toot that would allow them to exit the stage with some semblance of dignity intact. This was a tragic miscalculation on their part. We all heard it. We all saw it. No matter how gingerly you extricate yourselves from the camera lens; side shuffle from the stage while your media enablers lay smoke for your strategic withdrawal, that stink follows you. Everywhere you go.
This phenomenon has metastasized. The establishment’s ecosphere has entered the state of sepsis, all of it’s component parts infected. We all watch in wonder as the neocons, the pathetic never Trumpers, the Silicone Valley and Wall Street moguls, the near entirety of print and broadcast media, academia, the intel community, all of them….engaged in one massive, collective fecalnalia. Although they all still parade around, smiling as they congratulate themselves, they know they have been exposed. They can pretend it’s business as usual because for them it is. They no longer care that the flow of filth runs unabated, down their legs, out of their mouths and in extreme cases (think Chris Cuomo or Meet the Press’ Cuck Fraud) out of their ears. They’ve gone all in.
This is not the behavior of a party poised for a sweep into power. This is a party, and by extension an establishment, that looks more like the UK from last fall. The first Brexit vote presaged a Trump win in 2016. It is a safe bet that the utter trouncing that Labour took at the ballot box last December foretells not only a Trump victory in 2020, but a bloodbath for democrat candidates down ballot.
They will tell you with a straight face that Texas is in play. That is a lot of electoral votes in one place. If this were actually true, wouldn’t Joe be campaigning there? Or, if as well may be the case, he is not up to the rigors of this level of campaigning, then surely Kamala would be all over that state. Never mind your side of the spectrum, that is just good old fashioned political savvy. And yet where are they? Ms. Harris shows up in Tucson for a six car rally. Six. In Tucson. They also tell us Arizona is in play.
Meanwhile the President barnstorms Pennsylvania, attracting crowds of 25,000 and more. This is not a campaign clawing from behind. This is a campaign stepping on the gas. There are a surprising number of democrats in those crowds and one other group worth noting. In Pennsylvania, in fact all across the country, Trump rallies are attracting from one quarter to upwards of one third of their audience from people who did not vote in 2016. Rest assured these people are voting this time, and not a one of them for Biden.
These are people who haven’t voted before because they’ve not been offered anything to vote for. A vote for Trump does not equal a vote for the republican party. It is only an affirmative vote for Trump. The fact that this affirmative vote is at the same time a giant fuck you to the establishment is simply a happy accident.
Another solid bellwether for the coming democrat bloodbath has gone ignored. In every election cycle that trends toward republican victory there are a bevy of celebrity emigres. Barbara Streisand, Cher, Madonna…..these are the usual suspects; the charter members of the American expatriate society. Incidentally ladies: we’re all still awaiting your exit from the last time. Now we add John Legend. And Tommy Lee. There are others I am missing, no doubt. It really doesn’t matter who they are. The fact that these banners have been unfurled is a reliable indicator that they are in fact a feeble substitute for the white flag of surrender. Check back in with any one of these people a year from now and I guarantee they’ll still be here.
There is going to be a lot of fraud. There is going to be a lot of turmoil. There is going to be an attempt on election night on the part of the networks to convince the nation that this is all too close to call. They have their harvested ballots and lawyers all at the ready to steal it away. Except that the margins are going to be too large. This won’t stop them from trying. At this point they only have everything to lose. They will fight this battle on as many fronts as they can and drag it out for as long as they can. Because that is all they have left. The weight of victory will be such that they would need to run the entire table on every legal challenge they will throw up to enable fraud. They might win one. Maybe two at the outside. And no more. It simply wont be enough to turn the tide.
In the end, after all of the crying and shouting, the wailing and gnashing of teeth, the 2020 race will end thus:
In the electoral college count Trump 333 Biden 205
The President will win by a substantial margin in PA, MI, WI and MN
I believe that CO will remain blue on no other merit than the popularity of John Hickenlooper
I would not go so far as to predict this as a likely outcome, but would not entirely rule out the possibility that the President also flips the states of IL,VA and NJ. Should these occur I would attribute such an extraordinary outcome to lockdown fatigue being suffered at such an inordinate level by the citizens of these states.
It is likely that Joe Biden may still win in the overall national popular vote, but that margin will be reduced substantially from the 2016 total. Heavy turn out for the President in states that still go blue, and the surge of new voters will cut that margin in half if not more.
Republicans will retake the House, gaining at minimum 20 seats. Republicans will expand their lead in the Senate with a minimum net gain of 2 seats in that body.
Joe Biden has warned us that we are heading for a dark winter. We, as a nation, are not headed for a dark winter. The democrat party is heading for a very dark and very long winter. Election day is only the first snow. They know the long and cruel blizzard that will follow.
A Doom and Reprisal report from Ale 81 Inn field correspondent Ford Wenty
Dust and chunks of plaster rained from the low ceiling with each succeeding concussion from above. The guns had rumbled almost incessantly for weeks now. Despite the relentless assault upon the capitol the Reichsbunker had remained adequately supplied through a subterranean network of tunnels. Out of devotion to their Fuehrer, suffering all deprivations and at constant risk of their own lives, the subjects of the Reich had insured that the Fuehrer had all that she needed to carry on the fight. She had rightly warned her subjects that they all faced an enemy so insidious as to inhabit garden seed packets, gymnasiums and barber shops; and yet still the vital stocks continued to arrive. Sometimes on pallets, often only by one box at a time, but daily it came. Hairspray and cosmetic products, AA batteries, cheap white wine, SaraLee chocolate cakes, prescription painkillers and gallon ziploc bags of crystal meth. This catacomb grid had been abuzz with activity while only a handful, the innermost of the Fuehrer’s circle, were aware of those dark passages that connected to the Windsor Tunnel and beyond to a neutral Canada, should the worst occur.
The noose was steadily tightening. The Reich was beset at all sides and despite the abiding love of the folk for their leader there were now traitors in their midst. The Fuehrer still held an array of new and terrifying weapons in her arsenal, though their potential efficacy in this battle waned with each passing hour. Some decisive strike would have to come and soon, otherwise the Reich would face collapse in a few short months. Perhaps in as little as weeks. Pickelschwanz, her former Gestapo Chief, had tried to diminish the significance of the Owosso incident. All of this started because of some god damned, geriatric barber! In retrospect she now regretted old Pickledick’s execution. She was discovering that dead scapegoats pay diminishing returns.
Just days earlier Madame Reichsfuehrer had consulted with her war council. The situation on the ground was extremely fluid, reporting was varied, often sketchy and sometimes contradictory. The reality was that no one individual anywhere in the regime had a complete picture of what was actually happening. The only clear conclusion was that things were bad and not getting better. As in any repressive regime founded upon a cult of personality, fueled by methamphetamine, paranoia and hubris, these were conditions ripe for treachery. There remained, however, at least one of her ministers in whom she placed her implicit trust: Reichsminister of Wellness, Dr. Moe F. Ucker. In a brief one on one conversation after the council a critical decision was reached.
Madame Reichsfuehrer I believe we have reached that critical juncture. You know what must be done. You know that you are the only one who can. You must transmute the Water of Flint!
In the recesses of her addled mind she had always known that it could come down to this. Now, as the critical hour approached, she ruefully considered that perhaps she should have committed to this sooner. And… was it already too late? Either way it was now the point of no return.
This ancient ritual was ideally performed beneath a full moon, following the sacrifice of newborn babies and attended by blood robed acolytes. There was no time for this now. They needed to forego the traditional rites, instead substituting with hasty improvisations. Within the deepest sub-levels of the bunker an environmentally friendly LED globe was mounted to approximate the lunar orb. For the acolytes, a half dozen female employees from a local branch of the DMV were pressed into service. (You may have always suspected that the DMV was populated with nazis. Now you know.) With an adequate supply of newborns’ blood wanting, they instead strung up a couple of live wolverines, severed their heads and then bathed in the shower of blood spray that followed. Some soiled, yellow traffic vests were donned in lieu of the robes. It wasn’t authentic, but it would have to do. The most critical ingredient, the deadly Water of Flint, was. If she was able to successfully transmute it’s deadly toxins that was all that really mattered.
There has long been documentation of nazis dabbling in the occult, but seldom has there been an accurate accounting as to what extent this is true. The foundations of Reichsfuehrer Eva Goering-Hitler’s Fourth Reich are cemented in an epoxy designed in a precision ratio of neofacism and ancient witchery, perfectly balanced to insure maximum bond and permanency. Just like her own Aryan formulated genetics: two parts paranoid, murderous sociopath; one part vapid bimbo. Of all the arcane potions of the dark arts The Water of Flint is the most revered and the most feared. Few have been possessed of the necessary brain chemistry to successfully transmute it’s toxins in the quest for omniscience.
Madame Reichsfuehrer had assumed the position, reclined in a child’s blow up pool emblazoned with the Hillary 2016 logo. The pool was one of a dwindling number of campaign paraphernalia items which she had been reluctant to part with. She had never imagined it would become a prop in what was now the most crucial point in her reign. For the occasion she had selected a black mesh body suit. She’d have been better off to go with body paints, as the racy piece fell short of the desired effect. She’d been going for that retro-chic SS look, but came off more as a bloated sow wrapped in a roll of pet screen. Mentally she was prepared, though very much on edge. It had been essential that her system be purged of competing psychoactive agents for seventy-two hours prior to ingestion.
As ceremonial bells tolled to announce the arrival of the deadly elixir there were two of the faux acolytes who dared to whisper between themselves.
“Daaamn! What this crazy bitch doin’ now? Why we gotta be here for this shit?”
“Shhh! You crazy? She trying to save this train wreck! It’s the Water of Flint! It s’posed to like upload all her ancestral memories or some shit.”
“I ain’t never heard of that.”
“There been few who tried.”
“They tried and failed?”
“They tried and died.”
“Daaamn! This some serious shit!”
A beaded curtain parted and none other than Robert Reich entered, more than ever resembling another infamous deformed dwarf of nazi legend. He bore the fetid liquid in a supersized styrofoam Hardees cup, moving forward in very measured steps and taking great care not to spill a drop. As the fume filled the room her nostrils flared, her pulse quickened. As Reich finally arrived at her side she momentarily closed her eyes, drew a deep breath and awaited the words.
“If thou be a reverend mother….The Water of Flint!” Reich bowed (no need for him to kneel) and handed the cup to Madame Reichsfuehrer’s trembling hands. Keeping his eyes downcast he reverently backed away to disappear behind the curtain from whence he had come. A breathless hush fell upon the room.
The physical properties and composition of the Water of Flint are not fully known or understood. There are, of course, the critical base elements of hydrogen and oxygen, but any similarity to what you and I call water ends there. The consistency falls somewhere between quicksand and common pond scum. It’s bouquet is possessed of the full bodied swell of the Flint River in springtime, carrying as that does the heady blend of high sodium, nitrogen run-off and waste products. Upon crossing the palate it evokes subtle hints of diesel fuel and ball sweat. It was like a shit sandwich in a 32 oz. cup; an apt symbol for any choice one must make when no other options remain.
Despite the assault upon the olfactory organ she eagerly brought the cup to her crimson painted lips. This exercise was not about sating any sensory appetite. For Reichsfuehrer Eva Goering-Hitler this was a spiritual endeavor; a quest to unlock all of the genetic memory of her ancestry; a gateway to the golden path forward. She managed three solid gulps before gagging briefly, but stopped short of falling into a full blown retch. The muscle memory of her collegiate semen gargling exploits kicked in and she powered down the rest of the foul contents without pause. The foam cup, emptied and oozing residue from the brim, fell to her side. To those present she appeared to be paralyzed, pupils fully dilated and eyes glazed, unblinking.
She had not known for certain what to expect. From the little she had been told of the ritual she would have expected a more violent physical reaction. It’s poison churned inside her gut, raising her heart rate and temperature, but there was no sudden rush of memories; no sudden sense of heightened awareness. She was indeed temporarily paralyzed and after a minute she grew fearful that she had failed, that this was death. Very slowly, nearly imperceptible at first, the light began to fade from her periphery. The small cadre of DMV clerks were still visible, but as the seconds drew on to minutes they had begun to fade into vague shadows behind a shimmering veil. At one point she heard the voice of one of them, the speech distinguishable yet sounding as though heard from the bottom of a pool. “Shee-itt! Dat crazy bitch done gone ‘n died!”
The light faded further and further until she was left looking upward from the bottom of a hole. All was white and sterile, cold, clinical. She had been thrust back to her first moment of existence, the instant of her genetic fusion in the clone tank. She was looking at the very laboratory, the very moment in time at which she had been spawned. She saw it with her own eyes and her mind’s eye simultaneously, but also with the eyes, knowledge and memory of each of her three cellular donors. As all minds assumed a synchrony within her view her entire existence flashed forward to the present. She was left with the sense that no time had passed at all as her field of vision within the room cleared again. There was still a general paralysis, but as the combined psyches within her mind coalesced about the current temporal realm a peculiar internal dialogue began.
The Eva Braun within her perceived that the physical being she now inhabited was seated within a pool of some sort. Drawing upon her own memories and experience this triggered a sexual arousal in anticipation of that time honored Germanic fetish for water sports.
The Herman Goering within her perceived that there were narcotics present. Combined with her body’s seventy-two hour deprivation this threw her into a full blown morphine jones. She heard her own voice offering assurances to Goering not to worry. We’ve got a lot better shit today, Papa Herman. We’ll get you hooked up with some oxys.
Finally, the voice she had sought above all others emerged. Papa Hitler’s words came in a soothing voice. Yes, my child. I hear your pleas…You must burn down the Reichstag and blame the Russians. Burn the Reichstag….blame the Russians….burn…blame….the Russians….The voice subsided to the recesses of her own mind. They were all one mind now, but the other voices were sublimated to the background until needed again.
Madame Reichsfuehrer blinked, worked her jaws and then suffered a violent shudder. Thus delivered from her trance like state she awkwardly raised herself to her still somewhat wobbly legs.
“Whoop! Whoa! Holy shit, that was some rush, huh? Somebody better clean this shit up! I think I spooged all over. Ha! There’s your fucking Water of Flint, right? Where’s my doctor?!”
The DMV acolytes were disturbed by Madame Reichsfuehrer’s apparent drunken behavior. None were certain what was supposed to have happened here, but the consensus was that something must have gone awry. One of their party was dispatched to go and retrieve Dr. Ucker while the others remained to keep her from running off. Or worse. They were treated to a bizarre and nonsensical rant as they waited, watching their Fuehrer wading in circles through the goo at the bottom of the inflatable pool.
“The Reichstag, tag line…..line item….fire….Fire….FIRE!!!! Ha-ha-ha-haaah! Yes, I see it. We’ll burn it, yes! Burn it all down! The Russians did it, yes. They’ll all believe it too. They all love me. Except for that barber! Aaaaauggh! That fucking barber!…… Where’s my fucking doctor!?” This mantra and variations of it were repeated through several tense minutes until Dr. Ucker arrived and dismissed everyone else from the room. He draped a robe about her shoulders and tried to walk her back from such an agitated state.
“I knew I should have remained in attendence! Madame Reichsfuehrer I….”
“No Fucker…no man may be present…”
“It’s alright now. You’re alive! You’ve succeeded, Madame Reichsfuehrer! Can you see the Golden Path?”
“I see everything now, Fucker…”
“It’s Ucker, actually.”
“I know it is. Fucker. Burn the Reichstag. Blame the Russians. Do you know what that means?”
“Uhh….no? Should I?
“I know what it means, Fucker.”
“Yeah, whatever. Ucker, Fucker, Sucker….you’ll answer to pretty much whatever I call you, won’t you? Because I am the Fuehrer, Fucker. Me. Only me. I know what is best for the Fourth Reich. I am the Fourth Reich. Not some god damn judges, not some pis ant rednecks thumping their chests, not some decrepit old man who cuts hair!”
“Of course Madame Reichsfuehrer! What are your orders?”
“My orders are already being carried out. As we speak a band of treasonous conspirators are being rounded up. Ordinarily I would just have them capped on site, but these are the villainous agents of Trump and Putin. They are fifth columnists, Fucker, plotting the overthrow of the Reich, doing the bidding of reactionary forces. If I can’t have that damned barber’s head on a plate I will make an example of these miscreants and hang it about the neck of our enemies. It is not enough that my people love me, which they most certainly do I assure you. I am to be loved and feared. It is only through fear that all may love me!”
Dr. Ucker observed the manic glare in her eyes. It seemed that she was indeed someone else now. He had no idea what she was referring to and was beginning to have doubts. Perhaps this had been a mistake. He began to wonder if any of this was true. When she spoke again an icy chill shot through his spine.
“Of course it’s all true, Fucker. It’s true if I say it’s true.” Dr. Ucker’s mouth fell agape at the sudden understanding that she was inside his head. “Don’t look so surprised, Fucker. This whole thing was your idea, remember? I should have done this from the beginning. This whole omniscience thing is going to come in very handy.”
When last we visited with Governor Gretchen Whitmer of Michigan (The Barber of Owosso: a tragic opera in one act, Ale 81 Inn Doom and Reprisal report 11 May 2020), I familiarized our readers with her startling and little known back story. We provided a glimpse into the workings of the modern fascist state and the unhinged mental state of it’s so called leader. Now, fast approaching six months from our initial report, we see her glorious Reich teetering on the brink. Nevertheless, she still clutches the reins ever tighter; still clings to her delusions. The delusion that she is still beloved by the good volk of the Reich. The delusion that the science is on her side. The delusion that just because she says so, whatever “it” may be, that it is therefore true and not to be questioned. Like that famous Louis’ mocking sing-song: L’etat, c’est moi!
The hubris, arrogance and insecurity manifest in this shrieking harridan’s rule is rivaled only by that of another renowned witch, one Hillary Rodham Clinton. The only true difference between them, besides the age difference, is that Gretchen has a better hairdresser. Any criticism, any challenge to her authority is to be dispatched by denial and deflection, the facts be damned. Why ever accept any responsibility for one’s actions when this may easily be replaced with some narrative concocted to place that onus upon one’s political enemies? “Do you want to believe me or your lying eyes?”, the default rhetorical question for petty tyrants the world over. When one navigates life with a train of sycophantic lips permanently affixed to one’s posterior, is it any wonder that they should believe this? It becomes pathological.
This past Sunday Eva was the esteemed guest on Meet the Repressive, hosted by Cuck Fraud. In a rare moment of weakness she actually revealed what most of us have known from the start:
Rrriiiiiight….now it all makes sense. It really is about science after all. Political science, and poorly practiced at that. I believe that most of us have known this from the start, yet it is still stunning to hear the admission (purposeful or not) to spill from those slut-red painted lips. Now, after the risky and daring transmutation of the deadly Water of Flint, she is indeed the Kwisatz Haderach, der Fuehrer, the supreme ruler all rolled into one benign and omniscient being. She is Queen Shit of Turd Island, all alone at the top of the heap where she hopes to remain: intact and rejected by maggots.